“Uh, Cas?” he says, voice stilted and awkward and definitely grabbing Dean’s attention. He looks over towards the dining table, temporarily ignoring the pancakes.
“Yes, Sam?” Cas asks. His hair is a mess of bedhead, his pajama pants and shirt are borrowed from Dean and a little too big on him, but nothing seems out of the ordinary.
“What are you wearing?” Sam asks. He sounds like he knows but needs confirmation before he books a first-class ticket to Weirded-Out-ville. Cas frowns. So does Dean. Cas tilts his head, thinking, then realization crosses his face.
That makes one of them, at least.
“You mean these?” Cas lifts the hem of his T-shirt just a little, enough so that both Sam and Dean can see the pink satin and lace peeking above his low-slung drawstring pants. “I found them in the clean laundry and they seemed soft.”
All of the blood in Dean’s body does two things in quick succession; it drains from his face and rushes straight south. There’s a roaring in his ears and for a moment, there are only two thoughts in his head;