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Dean’s hesitant to call anything in his room contraband, because it’s not like Sam or Cas or Charlie or anyone else who may spend time in the bunker would actually judge him for it, but it’s not like he wants to put it all on display either. He’s also aware that he was steeped in John Winchester’s Bullshit™ for so long that any guilty gut-punches are solely the fault of his upbringing, rather than the item or activity in question actually being shameful. He’s talked through that much with Sam, even if it took a bit to come to terms with.
But if he and Cas are gonna try and do the whole couple thing for real, Dean figures he’s got to address some of the stuff he’s hidden away in his head (and his sock drawer). He’s not naïve enough to think that Cas doesn’t know some of it already. The dude was an angel, for Chrissake. There’s a part of Dean that’s been gaining strength over the past few weeks, a part of himself he kept on lockdown for most of his life. That part likes to tell him he’d benefit from talking about things, even if Cas already knows. He’s inclined to believe it.
The old dresser drawer sticks a little as he pulls it open, but he digs everything out with quiet determination. Everything breakable is on his bed now, so he hip checks the drawer to close it, maybe a little more roughly than he needs to. He’s trying to be more gentle with himself and his possessions, but the action took the edge off the treacherous lump of shame building up in his stomach.
Listen, he’ll freely admit he may never get past some of his hangups about his hidden desires, but Dean’s working on it. He is.
The precise line of items on his newly-washed comforter is more a line of memories than anything else. A gift from a girl when he was nineteen, little bottles and tubes he grabbed from the drugstore on impulse, an empty CD case (the disc is in the player in the corner, even if the player isn’t plugged in), and a battered DVD case he’s been carrying around for years. Its age may visible from the exterior, but the movie inside is in mint condition. Not a scratch.
Dean brushes his fingers over pink satin, cautious at first, until the slide against his skin becomes more pronounced and remembers how they dragged against his thighs and –
“You can try them on if you want.”
“I.” Dean blinks. He’s been staring at the floor for too long. More specifically, he’s been staring at the exact spot of hardwood covered by Rhonda Hurley’s discarded panties. “What?”
She unhooks her leg from around his hips and elegantly reaches down to grab the lingerie from the floor. “These.” They swing from her fingers, almost a pink blur, and Dean can’t help but be mesmerized. “Do you want to wear them?”
“I don’t –“ He cuts himself off, biting his lip instinctually. “Am I allowed?”
“Dean.” Rhonda drops the panties on the bed, and the fabric brushes against Dean’s leg. She cups his face with her other hand, brushes her thumb over his cheekbone. He doesn’t understand why his breaths are coming out so funny. “You’re allowed to ask for the things you want.”
He kisses her then, partially to stave off his welling tears, but more because to feel this level of acceptance in his life is so fucking rare, he doesn’t have any other way to articulate his gratitude.
His hand slips from the satin and the rough pull of the bedspread yanks him back to the present unceremoniously. The pink panties are a mainly a souvenir. A point of reference for Dean, a direct connection to a time in his life he actually felt comfortable with himself. He has other pairs now, still hidden in the drawer. Ones to wear under his jeans on Particularly Bad Days to help himself make it through.
They can be hidden, so they’re safe. Objectively, he knows this is a crock of his own brand of bullshit, but excuse the fuck out of him if he’s not quite well-adjusted enough to wear nail polish in public yet. But the bunker isn’t exactly public, it’s actually pretty far removed.
The nail polish he has is dark blue, picked up in a podunk town after a rougarou hunt years back. The crinkly plastic is still sealed around the top of the bottle, but the color is close enough to summon memories of the smell of pine trees and newly paved roads in small town Colorado.
Ryan’s house is stereotypical suburbia – blue and barely differentiated from the surrounding homes. The only thing missing from the slope-ceilinged rooms is a dog, but Ryan assures him his dad and sister have been looking at puppies. It’s all so wholesome. Dean doesn’t belong, but damn if he’s going to leave just as it’s getting good.
Ryan is tangling his fingers in the hair at the nape of Dean’s neck, and Dean feels a pang of resentment knowing his dad will make him buzz it soon. It’s a bad train of thought to pursue when he’s got another guy’s tongue in his mouth, and soon enough Ryan’s pulling back.
“You okay?” He pants, “You seem a little stiff.”
Dean lets his head fall against the wall and his eyes rest on the poster of some football player he doesn’t know. He’s supposed to be some grown up monster hunter, but Ryan’s room makes him feel incredibly young. Ryan is holding his hand, running his thumb over Dean’s knuckles and, shit, Dean’s taking so long to answer the other boy actually looks worried.
“My dad would kill me if he knew I was here.” Dean lets himself be proud he kept the waver out of his voice. “We’d be out of here so fucking fast.”
“Your dad sounds like an ass.” Ryan rolls over to the side so they’re both leaning against the wall, fingers still twined together.
“Yeah.” And they’ve been here three months already and Ryan’s a good kid, so Dean continues. “One time he pulled me out of a store just to cuss me out in the car for looking at nail polish for too long. Can’t have his kid being a fucking queer, you know?” And there’s the voice crack.
Ryan sits up a little. “How long is your dad gone this time?”
Dean frowns. “He said at least a week. Why?”
“I’ll be right back.” He jets out of the room.
Dean doesn’t blame him for changing the subject. It’s an awkward subject. Alone, Dean uncomfortably tugs at the sleeve of his t-shirt. Just as he’s starting to wonder if he was supposed to make his way out of the house, Ryan comes back with a roll of paper towels tucked under one arm, dangling a tiny blue bottle.
“Sorry it took so long, Lindsey’s room is a mess.”
“Is that…?” Dean trails off, not one hundred percent sure this isn’t a dream.
“Yeah, man. I thought I could do your nails?” Ryan shakes the bottle, then pauses. “Unless I misunderstood and you don’t-“
“No!” Dean catches himself at the desperate note in his voice. Stop, slow down, take a breath, now speak. “No, I want you to.”
“Okay.” Ryan kneels on the bed and rips off a paper towel to lay over his knees. “Give me your hand.”
+
Dad doesn’t come back for two weeks, but Dean still has to anxiously chip off a new coat of the dark blue polish as soon as he hears the rumble of the Impala.
Right next to the nail polish is a tube of lipstick, only opened once or twice, but the color of the plastic still faded from age. The tube is light green and –
It clicks lightly as Mary sets it on the bathroom counter. The actual lipstick is pale pink and kind of shimmery and Dean loves it.
“How do I look?”
Dean thinks his mom is probably the prettiest mom in the entire world, so he just nods as empathetically as he can.
“You’re too good for me, baby.”
She kisses him on the cheek right before she leaves the house, and it leaves a little smear of pink shimmer on Dean’s freckled cheek. He uses his thumb to messily spread it on his own lips, using his reflection in the smudgy bathroom mirror as a guide.
He beams at his reflection, with a shine on his lips just like his mom. Maybe, he thinks, maybe he’ll be as pretty as her someday.
+
A few months after the fire, Dean spots a familiar light green tube in the drugstore. His dad has already made sure he knows that boys are supposed to be tough and not pretty, but it still slides into his pocket easily.
The thought of his mom burns a little, like Dean’s the fire that started in their house and if he thinks about her for too long he’ll singe away at the edges of the memory until it’s gone forever. He lets the lipstick container slide against his calloused palm for another minute or so, idly wonders if there are any other shades he’d like to try.
He drops it on the comforter and slides his hand over to the CD case.
“Just promise me you’ll try and listen.” Charlie’s pressing a hard plastic case into his hands.
He glances at the cover – a woman with wild hair yelling and the words ‘BORN THIS WAY’ stamped in the corner. “I don’t know-“
“Please, Dean.” Contrary to her soft words, her tone is determined as hell and Dean is once again struck by the thought that this is a fucking weird conversation to have with someone wearing light-up sneakers. Charlie’s still talking. “Based on what you told me, I think this could help.”
+
She grins when she catches him humming in the kitchen two days later.
The Gaga CD was more recent than the other memories. He has the album on his phone now. It’s good soundtrack music for working out and Charlie was right – it makes him feel better. About life, about himself, about how he kind of wants to paint his nails right fucking now.
In the bathroom a few minutes later, Dean discovers painting his own nails is definitely an acquired skill – one he does not have.
He washes his hands as well as he can (and makes a mental note to get some of that remover stuff) and goes to find Cas.
Cas is predictably in the upper greenhouse level. He’s reading, trying to keep hold of his angelic memories now that he’s practically human. All the plants in the room still turn to face him, he’s still radiant.
Dean smiles from the entryway for a minute before knocking on the doorframe. “Hey, Cas?” When Cas lifts his head from his book, Dean waves the little bottle. “Can I get your help with something?”