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Cas’s hands are soft and undemanding as they measure him, but the touch makes Dean blush all the same.
“Hmm,” he says, as he pulls the piece of rope he’d been using away from Dean’s scar-torn body.
He doesn’t look happy, and Dean wonders if he did something wrong.
“You’re still so thin,” the other boy mumbles, and Dean feels himself hunch over.
Oh.
Well. There’s nothing he can do about that.
“Sorry,” he says back, and Cas looks at him in surprise.
“It’s not your fault,” he says earnestly. “It’s alright, Dean, you’ll grow. I was just thinking we should leave some space when we take in your clothing. You won’t be staying this skinny, if I have anything to say about it.”
From anyone else, Dean would have taken it as a threat, though not one he could make heads or tails of.
From Cas…
From Cas, Dean takes it as a warm promise. Of safety, of security, of food every day.
It’s a promise he hadn’t really needed to hear. Against his better judgement, he’s been finding himself believing in safety, believing in Cas, without thought.
It’s hard to remember to be afraid, now. It’s hard to remember why he would be, in moments like these, where the boy is caring for Dean so tenderly.
No one has ever bothered fitting clothes for him, before.
At John’s inn, he only ever wore rags. Rags that were filthy, stained with blood and semen. They hadn’t done much to cover his thin body, as that was sort of the opposite of the point. They had done even less to warm him, and Dean usually had spent the day shivering, even when he was inside.
The clothes Cas has been dressing him in are nothing like the flimsy things he used to wear, which, as more than one amused or derisive client had pointed out, could barely even be called clothing.
No, Cas hasn’t dressed him in anything like that. He’s been wearing Cas’s own clothing, a fact he’d discovered two days ago and had almost burst into tears over.
He likes wearing Cas’s clothes. They were made with a real person in mind. They make Dean feel like a real person too.
They’re warm and soft and substantial. They cover his body like he isn’t a whore, make him look like just a boy. Just a boy like Cas, who runs an inn.
Cas tells him that’s what he is. Not a whore. Just a boy running an inn.
Dean knows it isn’t that simple.
Still.
He likes the clothes he gets to wear now.
Even if they do make him feel like he’s playing dress up, like he’s pretending to be someone he’s not.
He likes the person he’s pretending to be better than the person he is.
So. He likes the clothes that go with that person too.
Even now, in just his leggings and socks, he’s dressed more modestly than he ever was back at John’s.
“Here, jump down for me, Dean, I’m finished,” Cas orders, and Dean obeys, as he always does, hopping down from the box he’d been perched on as Cas measured him.
He lands lightly, and turns to face the other boy.
Cas is smiling at him, and Dean smiles back.
He likes it when Cas smiles at him even more than he likes the warm clothes he gets to wear. Being smiled at makes him feel like a real person, too.
“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says. “Now that I have your measurements, I should be able to adjust some of these clothes to fit you better. I’m sure you’re sick of having to roll up your sleeves.”
“I don’t mind,” Dean says truthfully.
He couldn’t care less what size his clothes are, and whether the cloth hangs over his hands or not. He’s always grateful to be given clothes at all, and doesn’t take any of them for granted.
To be given Cas’s clothes, so thick and comfortable… Well. He can’t think too long about what it might mean, about how Cas thinks of him, about his role here, about whether he’s really going to be allowed to stay for good. About what it says about how much Cas likes him.
He can’t think about it for too long. Or he won’t be able to keep himself from flinging himself into Cas’s arms and kissing him on the mouth.
Dean curls his toes inside of his warm socks, feels the woolen softness against his feet.
I’m so lucky, he thinks, as Cas turns away from him. I’m the luckiest whore in the whole wide world.
As if to prove his thought correct, Cas turns back to him a second later, and tosses him the yellow tunic he’d grabbed off the stool. Thoughtlessly, gently. Like it is a matter of course that Dean gets to put his clothes back on.
Before, Dean would have stood, frozen, holding the tunic uncertainly, unsure what he was supposed to do with it. At John’s, he never would have assumed it was for him, and never would have dared to get re-dressed in front of a client without direct orders.
But Cas isn’t John, and he isn’t a client either.
He’s-
He’s…
Well, he’s something. Dean’s master, now?
It doesn’t feel right to call him that. He’s too nice for Dean to think of him that way.
Friend, Dean’s mind supplies unhelpfully, and Dean pushes that thought aside right away.
No, not his friend. Whores don’t get to have friends.
But he’s something, he’s someone to Dean. Someone good, and safe, who he can get dressed around without worrying he’s doing something wrong.
With Cas, Dean doesn’t hesitate. He tugs the tunic back over his head without having to be told.
Cas always dresses him well, after all.
He likes Dean to be warm. He likes Dean to be covered.
He likes Dean, above all, to be comfortable and safe.
Dean likes to be all those things too. That’s why they get along well, Dean thinks.
“I’ll start taking in your clothes tonight,” Cas says to him, once Dean has popped his head through the collar and rolled up the admittedly too-long sleeves again. “You should have at least one or two outfits that fit by tomorrow.”
Dean looks up in surprise.
He hadn’t realized Cas was planning on taking in his clothes.
For what feels like the millionth time in the past few days, his heart swells several sizes bigger in his chest.
“Sir, you don’t…Cas, you don’t have to do that. I can do it. I can do it, Sir.”
Now it’s Cas’s turn to look surprised.
“Do you know how?” he asks.
“Of course, Sir. I did all the work at John’s inn.”
He regrets saying this almost immediately, as Cas’s face falls to one of sadness.
Right.
Cas is sweet to Dean. He treats him kindly, for some reason Dean can’t begin to fathom. He doesn’t like it when Dean is unhappy or hurt. He doesn’t like hearing about Dean’s life at John’s inn, where he was almost always unhappy or hurt.
Stupid, Dean berates himself. But Cas doesn’t let him stay angry at himself for long.
“Well, you don’t have to do all the work at this inn.” He says the words firmly, as if something has been decided. “Don’t worry about the sewing. You help out enough as it is.”
“No, Cas. I don’t want you staying up late because of me.”
The words are out of his mouth before he has a chance to think about them.
It’s only after they’ve been spoken, after he has no chance to change them, that he realizes what he just said.
He freezes, and his eyes snap to the other boy’s face, fear coursing through his veins.
Cas looks as shocked as he feels.
Stupid stupid stupid stupid disobedient brat.
It had been such a nice moment, too. Cas had been being so nice to him. Why did he have to go and ruin it? Why couldn’t he just keep his mouth shut for once?
Your mouth isn’t made for talking, slut, is this not proof enough? Shut your mouth before someone finds a better use for it.
But the only person here is Cas.
And Cas isn’t looking at him like he wants him to shut up.
He’s looking at him…strangely.
Or. Maybe not strangely.
Just gratefully.
And it feels strange, to Dean, because no one has ever looked at him that way before.
Dean shifts his weight, and hugs his middle, as he waits for Cas’s judgement.
“Alright,” the other boy says eventually, and Dean’s shoulders drop in relief.
“Alright, Dean, we can do it together. Would that…be…would that please you?”
Dean blinks at the ground, then gathers his courage and looks up, only to blink again, now at Cas.
Would that please him?
What an odd thing to ask.
That’s not what people ask Dean.
Dean is supposed to worry about pleasing Cas. Not the other way around.
But he likes you to be happy, Dean remembers, and the thought makes him blush.
Cas is blushing too.
Dean can’t imagine why.
But.
But.
Would that please you?
But.
It…pleases Cas. To please Dean.
He doesn’t know why. But it does.
And it pleases Dean for Cas to be safe and happy too.
So the answer to his question is yes.
It’s yes. Taking in the clothes together would please Dean. Working with Cas would allow him to make sure Cas doesn’t stay up too late, and make sure he doesn’t keep trying to work if he starts getting frustrated with the fine details of the sewing in the low lighting. It would allow him to be next to Cas, and make sure he’s…make sure….
Make sure he’s alright.
It would allow him to take care of Cas, like Cas takes care of him.
The answer to Cas’s question is yes.
Could it really be that simple?
The shy way Cas is looking at him convinces him to risk it.
“I would like that, Sir,” he mumbles in answer.
Cas nods seriously at him, like they had just made a pact.
Dean nods seriously back.
He’s not mad. He’s not mad. He let you help.
His pulse picks up like something exciting has happened.
Dean thinks that maybe something exciting has.