denim hunting

sing me a summertime scare. drive-in movie massacre, chocolate sauce blood on the screen. bloody nose ice cream sundaes. summer camp runaways. ufo sightings in the playground at dusk.

let’s find what was lost in the woods (bones and gold and unspoken curses). truth or dare ourselves into the spaces where reality splits at the seams like last year’s denim shorts. bored kids hunting urban legends, hiding big brother pocket knives in their socks just like the movies.

i want tree forts and stolen sips of beer in the backyard. jittery hide-and-seek heartbeats. upside down fairy tales carved in tree bark, in heat-exhausted fever dreams flying toward the sun like grocery store balloons. watch the plastic burst. watch an egg fry on the sidewalk. nothing is real, but let’s pretend it is.

Strictly Professional

Dean imagine requested by anon! Because this was edited for reposting, I no longer have the original request. Fortunately, I can supply a summary instead: “When the reader must dress the part during a hunt for sirens in a strip club, Dean becomes a bit… slack-jawed, to say the least.” This imagine also features Team Free Will members Castiel and Sam Winchester. Hope you like it!

Staring into the motel’s chemical-smudged and cigarette-burned bathroom mirror proved enough of a task to make you forget the danger of the night’s prospective hunt. You were a mass of glimmering plastic and too-tight fabric, your eyes were shellacked in some sticky substance you’d selected blindly from a drugstore makeup counter, and your eyelids were weighed down beneath fiber extensions of your natural eyelashes. You were most definitely not looking forward to this hunt. You rolled your eyes just as much internally as you did externally, grumbling in hot-headed irritation about the efficiency of running in stilettos. You weren’t even going to think about walking in the death traps you had strapped to your ankles and welded to your feet. At the very least, they made for quick daggers… if you could disentangle yourself. If only your prey would be so easily vanquished, a simple heel to the heart. No, tonight would be extremely difficult for you especially, considering the boys had yet to don any kind of costume to blend as you were with the crowd you were sure to find at the hunt’s… venue. You assumed they only mentioned renting suits to convince you to change out of your grease-stained denim and heavy leather hunting jacket, a more practical approach than your current garment (if you could even call the scrap of form-fitting fabric a garment, that it).

Your luck had just about run out. The dress-u scheme was tolerable when you were a federal agent, a wife, a college student, a barista… odd jobs and the norm were never a problem, and made easier when you could pair yourself with one of the boys. It was the uglier cases, the less-than-apple-pie scenarios that really boiled your blood. Your worst nightmare was coming to life, and the impossibility escape while… well, dipped in your outfit made your face burn hotter. You had to be careful about your temperature, you reminded yourself, or you would sweat off your new face. You’d carved out your cheekbones with another sticky tube from the convenient store, and your face had all but been sanded with heavy machinery by the time you deemed yourself appropriate to play the part of an entertainer. The situation was less than ideal, of course, but you were obliged b the nature of your occupation to place yourself in uncomfortable atmospheres every now and then… for example, a knife to the throat, playing bait, or tonight’s role: walking about impersonating a siren. You shifted as you stood before the mirror, turning this way and that, yanking the cloth lower on your thighs in an attempt to cover more of your skin, the sequins scratching against your body like tiny teeth grazing against your body. No matter how you turned or twisted, you still looked ready to spill out of your dress, which you supposed was the goal, but felt so very vulnerable for a hunting trip. Low cut was never ideal, what with all the running you imagined you’d be doing. The high hemline was, again, hindering when running down the street. There were, after all, laws against nudity. The last thing you wanted was to be taken into custody on suspected prostitution with a cluster of sirens preying on the Winchesters and Castiel. You sighed, feeling the built-in corset constrict against your expanding rib cage. With one wrong turn, you were a danger to every child’s innocence. You’d just have to be mindful of your audiences.

You wobbled from the bathroom, your inconvenient footwear transforming your shared bedrooms into a war-zone as you crutched your way outside, to where the boys were likely to be waiting for your arrival. You were grateful for the lack of company as you hobbled about in search of a coat; you wanted to postpone the inevitable reveal for as long as was humanely possible. It was best to hide the monstrosity that was your poor excuse of a dress from the curious eyes of your hunting party. You cringed internally, pondering what Castiel’s lack of a filter would supply to the subject of your dress. It wasn’t that he was rude or vulgar, only honest. Like a child. Again, you had to be mindful of your audiences. Your eyes scanned the motel room, your gaze falling on one of Dean’s fed trench coats, laying sprawled across his bedding where he’d discarded it after the day’s investigations. You threw the coat over your shoulders, watching the hem fall to your calves, a good foot or so below your scrap of a dress’ hem. You ground your teeth as you stumbled towards the door, buttoning your cloth barrier as you went.

You found yourself holding the coat in place with rigid fingers whenever the slightest breeze threatened to leave you exposed on your long walk to Dean’s waiting Impala. The boys barely acknowledged your presence, occupied as they were with tucking their weapons into various holsters, checking bullet counts, wiping at their bronze blades. You didn’t want to think about the whole dip-the-bronze-in-the-blood-of-a-victim bit, but that was the job. You opened your door and slid in, keeping your eyes off the angel in the seat beside you, working to tuck the borrowed coat around your ankles, desperate to hide the nightmare beneath, the soles of your feet already pin-pricking from the strain of your journey. These heels would, and could, quite literally be the death of you. At least you wouldn’t be a danger to your party, if you were infected. Dean’s emerald eyes locked on yours in his rearview mirror, his skin crinkling at the edges of his eyes as he smiled, his grin out of sight. The engine roared to life, the road claiming Dean’s attention, his voice carrying over the purr of his Baby to reach your ears.

“Nice coat,” he chuckled, watching your eyelashes brush against your brows as your eyes rolled. “Hey, try not to get any monster gunk on that. I’m going to need that for Birmingham. We’re headed out to deal with a vetala case in the morning,” he explained, but something in the tone of his voice made your brain prickle with affection. Your silence drove him to turn to face you, if briefly, his eyes sparkling with humour. You thanked whatever gods were listening that he didn’t have the time to assess your garish appearance. “Y/n, I’m kidding. Keep it. It looks…” he stumbled off, his exhale blowing from between his lips as his eyes skimmed along the asphalt before him. You grinned to yourself, ducking your head. This was, after all, the desired effect. You hadn’t expected to phase the mighty Dean Winchester, though. That was a bonus.

Maybe this wasn’t so bad a hunt. It definitely had it’s advantages.

Sam perked up in the passenger seat, his eyes glued to his cell phone, reading another article about the killings, you presumed. You caught a glimpse of his furrowed brow in the side mirror, though your view was obscured by the back of his headrest. He cleared his throat before speaking, his voice gravelly from lack of use.

“It looks like one of Maurey’s girls convinced another client to off their spouse. Police just found another body five miles from Cobana Strip,” he flashed Dean his screen, the brothers mirroring each other’s concerned expressions, Dean’s eyes flashing from street to screen as he eyed the headlines. “They’re picking up the pace. We might get a live one tonight. Don’t drink anything,” he warned, his voice low. The dangers of siren saliva were well-known by your companions, and if tonight would produce another victim, they would go out of their way to ensure it wasn’t them.

“Those seem like very impractical shoes,” Castiel whispered, the deep tenor of his voice amplifying his secretive statement. Dean turned at the sound of Castiel’s assessment, his eyes dropping to the cages wrapped around your feet, the laces winding up your shins like leather vines. He nodded once, chuckling at the sight of the highly impractical footwear.

“Jesus, Y/n, you went all out. How fast can you run in those?” He inquired, eyes on the road, his voice bordering on appreciation, falling back on masked concern. You snorted, watching Sam survey your aching feet.

“I can manage a steady hobble,” you replied, your voice leaking disgruntlement like a busted garden hose. Dean winced in the rear-view. At least he was on the same page with the danger level you faced in your costume.

“Minor setback. Other than that… this should be easy,” Sam mumbled. You felt a swell of pride at his judgement. At least you’d pulled it off. You only hoped you could pull the shoes off when it came time to book it out of the Cabana Strip.

You hadn’t expected the ride to be so short-lived. Dean parked the car, and the death of the engine’s growl stabbed a pang of stage fright through your stomach, your veins freezing as ice spread outwards from your heart. You took a deep breath, hoping to calm your nerves, as you stepped out of the car. You inhaled once more before exposing yourself to the night’s chilled air, ditching your trench coat in the back seat and quickly pulling the bandage dress as low on your thighs as it would go without snapping back up like an elastic band or revealing your breasts. You pivoted, turning to face the Winchesters and your angel companion. Just as you feared, they were staring at you as if you’d just doused yourself in gasoline and lit yourself on fire. You were a blaring neon sign, you knew, but was it that bad? Or was the word you were avoiding… believable?

“Y/n…” Sam trailed off, leaving your name to season the air, his lips spreading over an astounded smile. He was pleased with the outcome, you knew, merely because it would advance the progress of the hunt. You’d received a gold star, it seemed, from the younger Winchester brother. Dean, on the other hand, reacted rather differently. He shuffled over to you, reaching beside you to slam the Impala’s door. While his body was bent, his eyes bore into yours, his finger pointing at your abdomen.

Keep that dress,” He whispered, his smile born of shameless flirting and humour. You found yourself rolling your eyes once more, scoffing at his comment, though your cheeks flared beneath your heavy application of foundation. Castiel had approached while your head was ducked (an attempt to hide your blazing face), his arm outstretched in a warm, if rigid, welcoming gesture.

“I was instructed to portray your “pimp,” as they’re called. I was advised to remain c lose to your throughout the night, especially considering your inability to run,” Castiel explained, a hysterical laugh bubbling from between your lips. Dean let out an exasperated sigh, his jaw clenching at the angel’s blunt address. You snaked your arm around Castiel’s, moving in to his side, casually leaning against him for support. You doubted he would notice the shift in weight, but you were thankful nonetheless if he did, as he didn’t mention the change. He’d be doing to walking for the both of you tonight.

“I wonder who could have told you that one,” You laughed, shuffling past Dean, his eyes glued to your arm on Castiel’s. Perhaps you had imagined the look of… no, you wouldn’t think on it. The angel grinned, nodding his head in agreement.

“Yes, but I’m sure he would much rather be the one escorting you,” Cas said breathed, confirming your unspoken thoughts. Dean inched to your side, just as you were thinking of turning back to call for him as you approached the club, his arm taking your unoccupied elbow, linking you together.

“Thank you, Cas, but I think I can manage,” he growled, his voice tainted by a desire to save ship. You found your skin tingling with electricity, the concentration in your cheeks spreading warmth over your face. The angel released his gentle hold on you, surrendering you to the equally steady hold of the eldest Winchester. The angel’s sapphire eyes fumed with warnings against disobedience, taking on the part of Heavenly Father (though not in the way one normally imagined) in the course of a minute.

“Just remember that we are in a professional environment,” Castiel warned, shadows of a future reprimanding leaking into his tone. Dean waved his hand, dismissing the angel, his eyes meeting yours as Castiel strode forward to walk with Sam. Dean sighed, grinning, just barely reigning in his laughter at the strict vibrato of his friend’s voice.

“Seems like he’ll be watching you like a hawk,” you noted, Dean’s face ducking as he smiled.

“Yeah, he’s got nothing to worry about. This isn’t exactly what I had in mind for a first date. There is a restaurant in Birmingham, though…” he trailed off, his eyes flashing to meet yours, burning from within, igniting the gemstones beneath his thick lashes. You stumbled to a stop, leaning against his side to steady yourself as your shoes threatened to topple you. “That is, if you’d want to go.” Sam called back to you, his hand on the door, holding the entrance open for you, the angel waiting impatiently at his side. Dean was waiting for your answer.

“If I walk out of this alive and without broken ankles, I would love to go,” you grinned, watching Dean’s smile widen. He leaned back against you, prompting you to walk in step with him.

“Looks like you’ll be stuck with me all night, then.”