Morning came in the Fitzgeralt manor the way big days always did: too bright, too organized, and full of quiet footsteps that sounded like staff were trying not to disturb the air itself.
Dean stood still while three different people adjusted him like he was an artifact that had to survive the next twelve hours.
Gold and black.
The fabric caught the light when he moved, sharp at the shoulders, clean through the waist, tailored so precisely it felt like the suit knew his posture better than he did.
He should have hated it. He didn't. Not entirely.
Because the collar sat against his throat.
It didn't fight his skin. It didn't bite. It didn't feel like a shackle. It felt like a boundary drawn by his own consent and not another thing forced on him. It was conspicuous in the way Palatine understood: beautiful enough to be admired, meaningful enough to shut people up.
And Dean, annoyingly, liked how quiet the world became around it.
