Title: Fashion Statement
Characters: Sam & Dean
Word Count: 421
Disclaimer: I don't own the boys, I just borrow them for fun. No money is made, though if you'd like to make a donation to the cause mentioned, I doubt even the SPN Powers that Be would protest!
Dean did an about-face. Stared.
Sam waited. "What?"
"Sammy, what the hell?" Dean gestured to Sam's chest.
Sam glanced down. "It's a t-shirt."
"I know it's a t-shirt. What is that?" Dean poked the navy-blue shirt's sole decoration.
"That is a greyhound." Sam was proud of himself for saying that without rolling his eyes. Or rubbing his sternum. Dean poked hard.
"Thank you for clearing that up, Captain Obvious." Dean grabbed up the coffee pot and poured a cup of the rank, cheap brew that only crappy motels stocked. "Why are you wearing a chick's shirt?"
"T-shirts are gender-neutral." Sam shouldered his way in beside his brother and claimed his own cup of liquid adrenaline.
"Not when they have a frou-frou puppy on the front, dude." Dean spoke around a bite of one of the stiffening doughnuts from the box they'd bought the day before.
Sam pulled one of them out, squeezed it, sniffed and tossed it back. He'd wait for better options at lunch. "I needed a shirt. We were at the track."
Dean's exclamation was wordless, but still managed to disparage Sam's testosterone level. "At the track, a straight man bets on the mutts. He drinks. He maybe picks up a hooker. He does not buy t-shirts with dogs on 'em."
"No, that's what you do at the track. The more socially aware straight guys buy a t-shirt to help fund rescue groups that keep 'the mutts' from being shot in the head and tossed in a dumpster when they're too slow or too old to be money-making machines."
Dean's eyebrows rose with what looked like genuine shock. "Seriously? That's what happens to the dogs?"
Sam cocked his head and glared.
"Ok. Did not know that." Dean drained his cup and tossed it into the trash. "But next time, give 'em a donation and skip the gay pride t-shirt."
"It's a plain blue Hanes with a dog on it," Sam sighed. "It's not a declaration of sexual preference."
"It's butt-ugly, man." Dean grabbed up his duffels and headed for the door.
Sam shouldered his own load and followed. "So, you're going to start making snarky comments on my clothes now? My very own personal queer eye for the straight guy?"
"Bite me, bitch."
"I'll let my dog do it, jerk." Sam closed the motel room door behind him with a smirk. And a private sigh of disaster averted. If he'd bought the one he really liked, with the black and white graphic of a greyhound in a Fed suit….
Stand tall, Sammy-- personally, I like your dog-shirt!
Sammy really, really likes his dog-shirt. Or he likes that Dean doesn't like the dog-shirt. Tomatoes, tomahtoes.
Nobody would have let him wear this one in peace!