DWBB Entry: Still Me
Author's Note: It was my absolute pleasure to fill sillie82's prompt. Please check out her amazing art and give her some love. Thank you to jdl71 for her beta and feedback! Set after As Time Goes By
Sam shuts his laptop, too bleary eyed to do anything more. He feels as if he’s been researching for days not hours. He stretches, his back cracking loudly as he reaches his full extension. He takes note of the eerie quiet and wonders where Dean might be. Things between them are still strained, overburdened with all that’s been said and has been left unsaid between them. Sam might know Dean better than anyone, but it’s understanding and being understood by him that Sam is finding difficult to do these days. He glances at his watch, noting just how late it really is.
Sam considers whether he should hunt his brother down. Wonders if maybe Dean has gone off on another “personal day” while Sam was consumed with his research. He ignores the flash of hurt at the thought of being left behind again. He’s making a big deal out of nothing. Dean is probably in the garage. He grabs his empty tumbler and bottle of whiskey off the table and heads for the kitchen. Just one more to take the edge off before bed. The silence is making his skin crawl. Suddenly, he’s thinking back to the long, bleak months he spent alone in the Impala and pondering the more recent and too frequently tension filled rides with Dean.
Sam flicks the kitchen lights on, sets the tumbler on the table and starts rummaging in the pantry. Sam is well aware that the tub of Quaker Oats Dean keeps shoved in the back of the top most shelf contains a bottle of Blanton’s. He doesn’t know why Dean bothers to try and hide it. Sam pulls the bottle out; it’s more than half empty. He chooses to focus on the fact there is still plenty left, not wanting to think too much about how much drinking they do these days.
“That’s mine.”
Sam whirls around at the sound of a deep, but distinctly feminine voice. Dean leans on the door jamb, arms crossed against his chest and one leg crossed over the other. Except this Dean is all wrong.
“Don’t know how many times I have to tell you to not touch my stuff.” Not Dean crosses to where Sam stands frozen and takes the bottle from him. He snatches Sam’s tumbler off the table, pours himself a drink and downs it all in one go.
Not Dean glances over his shoulder. “Take a picture. It’ll last longer, dude.” He smirks at Sam, who can do nothing but stare mutely at the woman wearing his brother’s face.
Not Dean chuckles. “I’m going to bed.” He sets the glass down and exits the kitchen before Sam’s brain can finish processing what he’s just seen.
“What the fuck, Dean?” Sam shoves Dean’s door open, not caring one bit about his brother’s privacy. But Dean is not there, only the woman from the kitchen, standing in the middle of his brother’s room wearing boxers and a close fitting, ribbed, sleeveless, white cotton undershirt. Sam nearly stumbles back at the sight of her.
“What happened to knocking?” Not Dean asks, turning to face him. Her long dirty blond hair, ample chest and impossibly long legs are all woman, but the fearsome glare and threatening stance, that’s all Dean.
Sam does stumble back then. He hadn’t been wrong. His eyes hadn’t deceived him. “Dean?”
“Yeah?” Dean asks, his annoyance clear.
“You.” Sam stops, not really knowing what to say. Shouldn’t Dean be the one explaining? “You’re.” He gestures at Dean’s body.
“A woman?” Dean replies slowly as if talking to someone he considers particularly dumb.
Sam closes and opens his mouth, like a fish gasping for water.
“Close your mouth, Sam. You’ll catch flies.” Dean steps up to Sam, presses a hand against Sam’s chest and pushes until he effectively shoves Sam back into the hallway. “Now, how about you give a girl some privacy?” Dean smirks as he slams the door in Sam’s face.
Sam paralysis lasts only seconds this time. He wasn’t wrong; he wasn’t seeing things. His brother is now, somehow-and so help him, Dean better have a really good explanation for this-a woman.
“Dean!” Sam pounds on the door, the sound ringing like cannon fodder throughout the cavernous bunker. “Open the goddamn door! Dean!”
Sam pounds on the door until even he is sick of hearing of his voice. Sam presses his forehead to Dean’s door. His hand and forearm hurt and he’s tired. Sam slams his open hand on the door. He winces as pain shoots through it down his wrist and up his arm. “Come on, Dean.”
“What?” Dean yells as he yanks the door open. Sam pitches forward, just barely managing to avoid tumbling right into a very pissed off looking Dean.
Dean glares at him, waiting for a response. His shitty attitude burns right through Sam’s concern.
“What?” Sam asks in disbelief. “That’s all you got?”
Dean’s cheeks flush. His eyes-her eyes...shit, Sam shakes his head. “What the fuck, Dean? What the hell happened?”
“Nothing,” Dean crosses his arms across his chest, as if daring Sam to contradict him. Sam glares at his brother, waiting for Dean to explain himself. He’s not really going to leave it at that, Sam thinks, even Dean isn’t this much of an asshole, but Dean remains tight-lipped. Suddenly, Sam is very, very tired.
“Fuck you, Dean.” There isn’t any heat in it, only disappointment and resignation. If Dean wants to avoid the elephant in the room, be a secretive asshole, then let him. Why should this be any different than any of the other crap Dean does without thinking of how it will affect him? Or all other shit Dean keeps to himself? Dean seems unhurt and is clearly not too worried about the fact he no longer has a dick. The thought derails his focus. Sam ponders that for a moment, considering that maybe Dean does still have a dick, but now also has breasts then scrubs the thought out of his mind. Screw this. Sam grabs the knob of Dean’s door, forcing Dean to step back and slams the door shut on his brother.
Not his most mature moment, but whatever.
~~~
The smell of fresh coffee pulls Sam from a fitful sleep. Sam snorfles and turns further into his pillow. Screw Dean. As if some coffee is going to make up for the bullshit Dean pulled yesterday, disappearing for hours and then...Sam sits up, looking to the right side of his bed where Dean, still in only the same revealing undershirt and a pair of boxers is standing. Sam stares at Dean’s breasts. He’s still a girl. Dean sips from one mug while clutching a second mug in his other hand.
“About time,” Dean says offering him the mug. “Quit staring at my boobs and takes this.”
Sam takes the mug, scooting up into a better sitting position as he does so. Dean takes advantage of the newly created space and sits down on the side of his bed.
“Sorry about last night,” Dean says, looking only slightly pained. It’s not much of an apology, but at this point Sam would rather find out what’s happened than argue about what a shitty communicator Dean is or try to get his brother to understand how hurtful and thoughtless it is when he pulls this kind of shit. It’s not like they haven’t had that argument a million times already. Not like that even matters, the outcome is always the same. Which is to say, there isn’t ever truly an outcome. Sam takes a sip of his coffee to keep from saying anything that will turn this into an argument.
Dean takes a deep breath and sighs. His breasts heave and Sam’s can’t help but gaze at Dean’s chest. Dean’s undershirt is tight. It leaves nothing to the imagination. Dean punches his shoulder, causing the lip of the cup to clatter against Sam’s teeth and coffee to spill onto his own t-shirt.
“Damn it, Dean!”
“Stop staring at my fucking boobs. Jesus Christ, you’d think you’d never seen a pair of tits before. Hold this.” Dean orders and shoves his coffee cup at Sam. Dean’s hands aren’t any smaller than they were when Dean was himself. In fact none of him is, Sam notes as Dean leans back and grabs last night’s discarded flannel shirt from where Sam had left it at the foot of the bed. Dean is still Dean: just as tall, only leaner and softer and as beautiful as he was formerly handsome.
Dean slips on the shirt and buttons it enough to ensure his chest is fully covered. He sweeps his long, dirty blonde hair out from underneath the shirt with natural grace, as if Dean has spent a lifetime dealing with too-long hair. What.The.Hell?
“There. Maybe now you can focus,” he says.
“Screw you,” Sam grouses into his coffee. “It’s not every day your brother shows up with boobs.”
“They are nice, aren’t they?” Dean waggles his eyebrows.
“Dude.” Sam admonishes.
“What? I can say whatever I want about my own breasts.” Dean laughs, squeezing and jiggling them to prove his point.
Sam rolls his eyes but must concede they are in fact really nice. Sam feels himself blush and curses his stupid brother.
Dean bursts into lovely, throaty laughter. “Such a fucking prude, Sammy.”
Sam shakes his head but doesn’t argue. It’s been a long time since he’s heard his brother’s laughter.
“So?” Sam hands Dean's mug back.
“Well, the thing is I found this hidden archive over by the armory.”
Sam nods, not liking the sound of where this is going. They’ve investigated the bunker and know from blueprints they’ve found that there are many “archives” housed within it. He can well imagine the appeal exploring a secret archive would have for Dean.
“Place is a nerd’s paradise. You’d be right at home there,” Dean grins, the same teasing smile as always. It almost makes Sam forget about whole ‘my brother is a girl’ thing.
“Dean,” Sam warns tired of his stalling. “Why don’t you just skip to the why you’re a girl part?”
“There’s a whole collection of grimoires in there.”
“You didn’t?” Sam bolts upright.
“Aren’t you tired of these fucking witches using their magic against us?” Dean presses on, before Sam can chastise him. “Don’t you think things would be a lot easier if we knew how to use our own magic? I mean, we should know how to counter spells, break curses. Angels, demons, everything out there has more juice than we do. What if there’s something we can use against Abbadon? We have all this knowledge here. We have to figure out how to use it to our advantage. You heard Henry; we’re legacies.”
Sam stares at his brother, not knowing how to interpret his sudden thirst for knowledge and immediately feels badly for it. His brother’s not stupid. Just because he plays the role of the brute, doesn’t mean that’s who Dean is. Sam knows that. But more than that, Sam’s angered and troubled by the idea that Dean would suddenly be on board with tapping into the same powers he’s always railed against. He certainly wasn’t interested in learning more about Sam’s powers or helping Sam develop them.
“Well?” Dean asks, glancing up at him through his ridiculously long lashes.
There is so much wrong with the situation that Sam doesn’t know where to start.
‘What the hell were you thinking? Why would you do this to yourself? What if you’d translated the spell wrong? Anything could have happened and I would have had no way of knowing where the hell you were.”
“Don’t get your panties in a wad, Sam.”
Sam’s throat burns with the memory of finding himself in the Sucrocorp lab alone after they managed to kill Dick Roman. The memory of Cas and Dean exploding into nothingness right in front of him still haunts him, as do Dean’s accusations. “You’re such a fucking hypocrite.” He spits.
Dean’s eyes flash with anger and for a moment Sam thinks they may not be able to avoid an argument after all. But then Dean sighs, his body sagging a bit. “I’m sorry, Sammy.”
Sam glares at him; Dean holds his stares, pleading for understanding. Sam huffs in irritation.
Dean takes Sam’s silence for the olive branch it mostly is. “If it makes you feel any better, the spell was in English. The book belonged to some coven out of Wichita the Men of Letters collaborated with. There’s nothing malicious in the grimoire, even this spell was only meant to teach the accursed a lesson about appreciating women. The thing was practically stamped rated G! So, yeah. It was dumb, but I was curious and this seemed innocuous enough.”
Sam tamps down the urge to yell at Dean some more. “You thought turning yourself into a girl would be harmless?” Sam ignores Dean’s comment about aptitude and about being curious, though he desperately wants to ask what exactly Dean was curious about. Transmutation? Or something altogether different?
Dean shrugs. “It’s not permanent. Hell, it didn’t even hurt. A little blood, a few words and badabing-badaboom, boobs.” Dean squeezes his breasts again for effect.
“Dude, stop it. I’m being serious here.”
“You’re always serious,” Dean says flatly, his attention now focused on the floor. They sit in silence until Dean glances up at Sam. Dean smiles sadly, leveling another pleading look at him. A look which is infinitely more effective now that Dean is a woman.
Sam shakes his head, “I’m letting it go for now, but we will be discussing this further.”
Dean perks up immediately, “Ok, Mom. Personally, I think you’re just jealous you don’t get to play with them,” he leers.
Sam quirks an eyebrow. Dean looks confused for a second then seems to realize what he’s just implied. Dean smirks and smacks Sam on the leg. Sam smothers a laugh. He’s still annoyed, still unsettled by all that could have gone horribly wrong but is willing to ignore it if it means getting some of their easy camaraderie back.
“Screw you, dude.” Dean says lightly as he stands up. “I am sorry, you know. I was stupid and fucked around with shit I probably shouldn’t have, but it all worked out just fine. I’m a girl for the immediate future. In a few days, I’ll turn back and you’ll have something to lord over my head forever and ever. Now get the fuck up. I’m hungry and there’s not a damn thing to eat in this place.”
~~~
Dean emerges from his bedroom, looking slightly ridiculous in his too large for him jeans and oversized flannel shirt. He’s pulled his hair into a sloppy braid. It should look ridiculous, but instead manages to come off something like hobo chic. Dean makes it look good. Not that Sam is going to say so. As the younger brother, he’s obligated to say something snide and picks the low hanging fruit to comment on.
“Is that a braid?” Sam teases.
“Let me tell you something, Sammy. Nothing gets a woman hotter than a man playing with her hair. Can’t tell you how many blow jobs braiding a girl’s hair has got me.”
“You’re gross.”
Dean shrugs, “Whatever, man. I’m just trying to help you out, little brother.”
He swaggers past Sam and heads to the garage.
~~~
They avoid the nearest diner. Lebanon is Small Town. With a population of less than 300 people, it’s the kind of place where everybody knows everyone and although Sam and Dean have managed to maintain a certain distance from the locals, they aren’t strangers in town anymore. Sam parading around a new sister would definitely raise eyebrows. So instead, they opt to make the twenty-seven minute drive to Cawker City, which is only slightly less Small Town than Lebanon, but has the benefit of still affording them an anonymity they no longer have in the latter.
By the time they get to breakfast, Sam is through being startled by the sight of the female version of his brother. His voice may be different, but every word out of his mouth is as annoying as ever, as is Dean’s determination to avoid providing a straight answer as to what happened.
“I’m not going to drop it, Dean.” Sam warns him.
“I’m fine.”
“That’s not damn point and you know it.”
Dean puts the car in park, turns off the ignition and turns to Sam. “Look, I already told you everything there is to tell you. I’ll show you the room when we get back to the bunker. You can look through the grimoire yourself. It’s harmless and so is this spell, which by the way, I did a fucking fantastic job with.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “You got lucky.”
“No, I didn’t.” Dean says, looking offended. He shoves his door open and gets out before Sam can respond.
Sam follows Dean into the diner and into a corner booth, sliding into the bench facing the door before Dean has a chance to do so. Dean’s brows crinkle together in displeasure, but Sam ignores it. Dean may still be mostly himself, but Sam has no idea how being in this new body will impact Dean’s ability to defend himself. Not that girls can’t kick ass, god knows he’s had his ass handed to him by several women. He’s just not certain how this particular woman would do. He tells himself it’s not about Dean’s sex, just the unknown effect of the spell.
The hostess sets down their menus, assuring them their server will be right with them then returns to her post. Sam avoids Dean’s questioning stare and inspects his menu instead.
A few moments later their server arrives with two coffee mugs in one hand and a carafe in another. The guy is young, probably early twenties. Sam is grateful he’s going to be spared Dean’s usual flirtation with the staff, except instead, he has to witness the server’s truly awkward attempts to get Dean’s attention. He’s mortified on the poor kid’s behalf. Dean seems oblivious to it all, or at least pretends to be, which only annoys Sam further. When Steve comes back to ask if they need a refill for the 3rd time in ten minutes, Sam grabs Dean’s right hand and lets Steve know they’re all good. The kid’s eyes are nearly as wide as Dean’s. The server scampers away and Dean yanks his hand of Sam’s hold.
“Dude,” Dean demands.
Sam shrugs and goes back to eating his pancakes.
“What the hell was that about?” Dean asks as they walk up to the Impala. Dean climbs in then leans over to unlock Sam’s door.
“What?” Sam asks as slides into his seat, ready to pretend the whole hand holding thing in the diner never happened. He doesn’t fully understand why the kid’s fawning bothered him so much. It’s not as if he hasn’t spent a lifetime watching people fawn over his brother.
Dean shoots him a glare of disbelief as he jams the key in the ignition. “Are you shitting me? Taking the seat facing the door? Grabbing my hand? I’m still me in here. I could kick that kid’s ass six ways to Sunday. Yours too if you start treating me like I’m some fragile girl.”
“Well, you are in fact a girl, so.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be never be as girly as you, Sammy.” Dean cranks the ignition and the car roars to life. He reaches over and turns on the radio. AC/DC’s Back in Black blares over the speakers. Dean grins and smacks Sam’s thigh then begins to sign obnoxiously off-key.
They don’t head back to the bunker as expected. Dean heads out of town, past the World’s Largest Ball of Twine and heads east.
“Where are we going?” Sam shouts over the music.
“To get me some clothes,” Dean shouts back.
Sam snaps the radio off. “What?”
“That’s like your favorite question, isn’t it?”
Sam scowls. “Why are we getting new clothes?”
“Me, not we. I’m not spending however long I’m going to be a woman dressed like this. Everything’s too big and nothing looks good on me. You know what I always say: if you’ve got, flaunt it.”
“You’ve never said that.” Sam points out.
“I just did.”
“How long did you say this was going to last?”
Dean shrugs. “The spell wasn’t clear.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “So you could turn back tomorrow and then we’ll be stuck with a bunch of women’s clothes we’ll never need again.”
Dean glances at Sam and smirks. “Aww, come on, Sammy. It’ll be fun.”
“Are you sure that spell didn’t break your brain?”
Dean laughs, but Sam is only half kidding. He wonders about the full scope of the spells’ impact. Is it just Dean’s outward physical appearance that’s changed? Or is it also his internal organs? His brain chemistry?
“I need clothes that fit; I can’t be tripping over my damn jeans in the middle of a hunt.”
Dean turns the radio on and the volume up, effectively ending their conversation. Sam scrunches down into his seat and tries not to think about the spell or Dean wearing women’s clothing.
~~~
An hour and a half later, Sam is parked outside the women’s fitting room of the Super Walmart in Concordia. He hovers as far from the fitting room entry area as he can and ponders the many ways he can kill his brother. An old man stands a few feet away, clutching a large, blue bag and waiting patiently for, Sam guesses, his wife.
“Get used it, friend.” The old man tells him when he catches Sam looking his way.
Sam smiles and nods, not knowing what else to do. The old man laughs.
“Been together long?” The man asks just as Dean steps out of the fitting room in a pair of skinny jeans and black, scoop neck t-shirt. Both are tight and accentuate every part of Dean’s body that is now significantly different than before.
“I think I need smaller size shirt.” Dean announces. His shirt seems plenty small already as far as Sam’s concerned. “Can you grab me another shirt?” Dean asks, ignoring Sam’s glowering. Dean shoots the old man a small smile then adds in a sickly sweet tone that makes Sam want to punch his brother’s light out, “Do you mind, sweetheart? Thanks.” Dean winks and disappears back into the fitting room.
Sam’s face heats with embarrassment, but also with a disturbing amount of pride and self-satisfaction. He finds both emotions deeply worrying: a) this is his brother he’s talking about and b) he’s never considered himself to be that type of guy.
The old man chuckles and shakes his head. “Man, your goose is cooked.”
“I guess I better.” Sam mutters, gesturing toward the clothing area behind him.
“Yes, you better, son.” The man smiles broadly, “Never keep a woman waiting.”
~~~
Dean pops the trunk and gathers up his purchases. He mutters something about doing laundry and then rushes off, leaving Sam to follow like some lost puppy. At the library, they part ways with Dean heading to his bedroom. Sam watches him go wondering what happened to sour his brother’s previously, if not exactly playful at least less troubled mood.
The ride back to the bunker had been a quiet one. Not the easy silence they normally share or even the tense, angry silence they’ve endured more recently, but a strained, unpleasant one that had Sam biting his tongue to keep from asking what exactly happened in the twenty minutes Dean was out of his sight. After he’d finished trying on all his new clothes, Dean had asked Sam to wait for him in the car while he checked out. Sam hadn’t seen any harm in leaving him alone and left him to it. Now he’s left wondering if someone said or did something, or if maybe the reality of what Dean’s done to himself has finally hit him. Sam looks in the direction of Dean’s room, considers his options for a moment and decides that drinking is a better option that speaking with his brother about his woman troubles.
Sam digs the bottle of Blanton’s out from the pantry, pours himself a double then thinks better of it and adds another long pour on top of it. No matter how worried he is about Dean, the only thing he can really do right now is give Dean the space he needs to work through whatever he’s feeling. Dean is still Dean after all. Sam doesn’t foresee any chick-flick moments in their near future. He grabs the tumbler and the bottle (there isn’t enough worth saving) and decides to kill time reviewing the bunker blueprints. He’d like to have some idea of where this secret archive might be. He’ll ask Dean to show him but will find it himself if Dean won’t share the location. He’s curious about the grimoire Dean discovered, but also worried about what else might be stored there. Dean was wrong about a lot of things, but not the fact that they’ve got to start using the information left to them by the Men of Letters to their advantage.
~~~
Sam returns to the library from his bathroom break to find Dean standing beside his seat holding the empty Blanton’s bottle in his hand. The sight of him stops Sam in his tracks. Dean’s dressed in one of the old Men of Letters robes. (Sam’s got to hand it to whomever designed and warded the bunker. Everything they’ve found so far is in mint condition.) It’s cinched tightly around his small waist, accentuating his curves. Dean’s hair is wrapped up in a towel. His cheeks are rosy, highlighting his freckles. His full lips are a shade of pink Sam thought only came in a tube. For the first time, Sam’s not seeing his brother at all, just an incredibly beautiful woman, standing nearly naked and barefoot before him. Sam gasps and is immediately mortified by his reaction. Thankfully Dean seems to interpret it as shame for being caught red-handed drinking Dean’s stash of “The Good Stuff”.
“Damn it, Sam. You didn’t even leave me any.” He pouts, his face scrunching adorably in irritation.
Sam apologizes, not daring to look at Dean while he does so. He walks past Dean to the far bookshelf, moves a sexton to the side and pulls his own bottle of Good Stuff (Troy and Sons) out.
“You can have some of mine,” Sam offers. He doesn’t linger on the fact that liquor is the olive branch they extend to each other most these days.
Dean accepts it, pretends to inspect the bottle then hands it back. “I guess, this will do. I actually came out here for something else though.”
Sam looks up at Dean expectantly, taking his attention away from the drink Sam’s pouring him.
“Umm…Sam?”
“Hmm?” Liquid spills over Sam’s fingers. He curses, sets the bottle down and begins wipe the excess with tip of his shirt.
“Maybe you’ve had enough.” Dean warns and bursts into raucous laughter, tipping his head back and causing the towel on his head to unravel. Dean pulls the towel off, his wet hair spilling down onto his shoulders. Sam is assaulted with the memory of Jess, standing at the sink, one towel wrapped tightly around her and another in her hair. Sam shuts his eyes, willing the memory away. He doesn’t want to think about Jess. Not now. The situation is fucked up enough without having to wonder why his brother suddenly reminds him of the one woman he truly loved.
“Hey, you okay?” Dean touches his forearm bringing Sam back to the present.
“Yeah, sorry. Uh, what did you need?”
Dean eyes him suspiciously, but lets it go. He carefully picks up Sam’s drink and sips from it. He sips just enough to avert any further spillage.
“Shame on you for wasting this stuff.” Dean takes a long gulp, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, looks Sam in the eyes and says, “I need you to help me dry this hair.”
~~~
Dean sits cross legged on the right side of Sam’s bed. He cradles the tumbler in one hand, drinking out of it then lifting it above his head for Sam to drink. He’s leaned the bottle against his inner thigh and has been refilling the glass as needed. Sam’s lost count of the number of refills so far, but at this point he doesn’t much care either. He’s comfortably numb and grateful for it. It allows him to ignore the reality of how awkward and concerning this all is. For all Dean insists nothing has changed, Sam is certain that there are no circumstances under which male Dean would have ever asked Sam to blow dry his hair.
“It’s so damn hot. I don’t know how you put up with this bullshit,” Dean grouses as he loosens the robe enough to pull it down past his shoulders, which Sam notes are covered in pale freckles.
“Your hair is a lot longer than mine.” Sam’s not sure he’s making any sense, but Dean seems to understand. Sam gathers Dean’s hair up and blows cold air on his neck and his shoulders then lets his hair down. Sam combs his fingers through it, trying to give it some shape. Dean’s hair is a mass of frizzy waves (Sam’s apparently only good at doing his own hair) but feels silky to the touch. He smooths down Dean’s hair then gently scratches his scalp.
Dean leans immediately into the touch. “Ooh, do that again.”
Sam does as he’s told, eventually giving up on the pretense of drying Dean’s hair. Sam loses himself in it, not thinking about anything but the feel of a woman’s hair in his hands. It’s been a long time since he’s shared such a simple, intimate thing with a woman. He thinks about Amelia, as wrapped up in her own grief as he was in his. The intimacy they shared was complicated. Their time together wasn’t so much about building something together as it was keeping each other from falling apart.
Dean leans into him, making little mmm noises when the pressure is just right. Sam feels him relax, Dean’s body heavy against his own.
“Dean?”
Dean tips his head back slightly, glances up at Sam and give him a sleepy smile. His are glassy and unfocused.
“You’re drunk,” Sam tells him.
He grins. “Not the same.”
Sam guesses Dean means this body doesn’t process alcohol the way his old one did, which makes completes sense. Of course it doesn’t. Sam should have considered that.
“I think we’ve both had enough.” Sam says as he takes the tumbler and the bottle from Dean. Dean doesn’t resist, laying down the moment he’s unencumbered.
“Tired.” Dean mutters, burying his face in one of his pillow.
Sam sets the bottle and glass down, puts away his hair dryer and ponders what to do. Carry him back to his room? Leave Dean to sleep it off? Dean snuggles further into the bed.
“Why’s your bed so damn hard, Sammy?” He asks, the question barely intelligible.
Sam wonders just how intoxicated Dean is. Dangerously so? They’ve never worried about alcohol poisoning. It’s never even been a consideration. There’s a hundred other ways they’re likely to die. Sam hesitates then assures himself. This is Dean. Dean stretches, grabbing blindly for his other pillow. Dean can handle it, which would be very convincing, but for the fact that this body clearly can’t handle their normal level of consumption. What if he gets sick in the middle of night? Chokes on his own vomit? Or falls off the bed and smacks his head? Breaks something? What if he accidentally suffocates himself with Sam’s pillow? Sam can’t leave Dean, not in this state.
Sam retrieves his laptop, resigned to spending the night watching over Dean.
~~~
“Oh god,” Dean groans. He raises a hand to his eyes and covers them.
Sam saves his notes, closes his laptop and sets it down at the foot of the bed.
“Sammy?” Dean’s free hand lands hard on his thigh.
“Hey, Dean.”
“Am I still a girl?”
“Yeah, why?”
Dean doesn’t answer, leaving Sam wondering if Dean’s transformation had been as painless as he’d claimed. Dean lowers his hand and opens one eye.
“What is that smell?”
Sam has no idea what he could be talking about it. He’d finished his coffee ten minutes before. The only other thing Sam had eaten was oatmeal, but that was long gone. Dean sits up, his hand flying to his mouth.
Sam sighs. It’s going to be a long morning.
“Say it.”
Dean rolls his eyes so hard Sam is afraid he’ll tear an eye muscle. Dean mumbles around the cracker he’s nibbling.
“What?”
“You’re the best little brother ever.” Dean glowers at him and takes a sip of his ginger tea.
After Dean had vomited everything there was to vomit out of his system into Sam’s trash can- with Sam holding his hair like the amazing brother he is- Sam had dragged him into the shower, standing outside the stall to make sure he didn’t fall or drown himself and then stood guard again outside Dean’s bedroom door as he dressed. Dean had emerged, looking only slightly less ill, but smelling infinitely better.
“Why’d you let me drink so much?” Dean complains, pressing his palms to the side of his head.
“Let you?” Sam scoffs.
“You’re a shitty brother,” he whines and lays his head on the kitchen table.
“You just said I was the best little brother in the world.” Sam teases.
“I lied.” He responds pitifully, and Sam can’t help but laugh.
Dean looks up and manages a smile. Sam is overwhelmed by the enormity of what he feels for his brother and how happy, despite everything that’s happened since Dean’s return, he is to be back together.
“Am tired,” Dean grumbles, gathering his crackers. “Am going to watch some TV in my room.”
“I’ll come with,” Sam offers and grabs the discarded tea from the table and a bottle of water from the fridge.
Dean’s already booting up the laptop when Sam arrives.
“Why isn’t there a goddamn couch in this place?” Dean complains, scooting over to make room for Sam. He shoves the laptop at Sam as soon as he’s settled. “You pick. Whatever you choose is sure to put me to sleep.”
Sam ignores the dig, accepts the laptop and pulls up a documentary he’d been watching earlier in the week.
Dean glances at the screen. “So predictable.”
Dean makes himself comfortable -Sam had no idea his brother was hoarding so many pillows-and closes his eyes.
Sam keeps one eye on the laptop and another on Dean, waiting until he looks totally relaxed to revisit his inquiry about the archive.
“Hey, Dean?”
“Hmm.”
“How big is the archive?”
“Don’t know,” he responds sleepily. Dean doesn’t open his eyes, but does roll onto his side so he is facing Sam. He’s silent long enough to make Sam wonder if he’s fallen asleep but eventually adds, “Big.”
“How’d you manage to find the grimoire if it’s so big?” Sam asks innocently.
Dean cracks one eye open then seems to think better of it. “Am tired, Sam.”
“I’m not going to drop it, Dean.”
Dean sighs and rolls over so he’s facing away from Sam. “I know you’re not.”
“How can you be so calm about this?”
“I’m still me, Sammy.” He says softly then falls silent and soon is snoring lightly.
Sam stares at the screen. “How many times did I say the same thing? How many times did you tell me it wasn’t the truth?” Sam asks his sleeping brother. He’d said it over and over, through addiction, possession, even soullessness and it had never been true or maybe it had been too true. Sam shoves the memories away, not wanting to be reminded of how many times his personal autonomy has been violated, of how foreign his own body sometimes feels to him. “How can you be okay with this?” He whispers, not knowing if he’s asking Dean or himself.
Sam swallows the ball of emotion lodged in his throat. You’re okay. It’s fine. You’re both fine.
~~
“You sure you’re up to this?”
“Quit fucking asking me that.” Dean loads his shotgun, snapping the break closed then shutting the trunk of the Impala.
“It’s not an unreasonable question, Dean.”
“It is after the hundredth time.”
“Don’t make me out to be the bad guy here. This is your doing not mine.”
“Yeah and I’m telling you, it’s fine so drop it.” Dean sweeps his hair into a tight ponytail. “Soon as we get back to the bunker, I’m chopping this fucking hair off.”
It’s not fine.
The spirit they thought was a nuisance ghost turns out to be a poltergeist. It goes after Dean as soon as they step into the abandoned house, sending him flying into the stairs opposite the entry way then throwing him back down the stairs before Sam can even do anything. From where Sam’s pinned, he can see Dean’s bleeding. His hair is dark and matted to the side of his head. Sam peppers the general area above Dean with salt, giving him enough time to grab Dean and drag him to his side. The house groans and glass shatters somewhere further into the house.
“Come on,” Sam insists, gathering Dean up. They’re not prepared for this.
Dean wipes his bloodied face with the sleeve of his flannel over shirt then pushes slowly onto his feet, leaning heavily on the wall for support. Dean shifts his weight carefully onto his right foot, grimaces and immediately eases it off the ground. Sam watches him, waiting for Dean to ask for help. Of course, Dean doesn’t. Instead he hops awkwardly toward the front door, swallowing little grunts of pain.
The house quakes, as wind whips through it. The whole structure wobbles like it might fall apart.
“We don’t have time for this!” Sam yells.
“I can walk,” Dean insists, but Sam is done humoring his brother. Dean grimaces as Sam scoops him off his feet, ignoring Dean’s continued protests. Sam had known this was a bad idea.
Sam helps Dean into the passenger seat. Sam puts his hand out and Dean digs the keys out of his pocket, dropping them into Sam’s open palm. Sam slams the passenger side door closed and walks around to the driver’s seat.
“Hey, easy on the car.” Dean tells Sam as he slips into the driver’s seat. Dean huffs and crosses his arms across his chest. Sam cranks the ignition, slams the car into reverse, eases out, puts the car in drive and punches the gas.
~~~
Sam eases Dean into one of the library chairs, mindful of his injuries.
“I’ll go get the kit.”
The cut along the crown of Dean’s head had stopped oozing during the drive back, but still needs to be cleaned and Dean’s ankle needs to be wrapped.
Dean nods and slumps into the chair. “I feel like a poltergeist used me for a ragdoll. Oh wait, it did.”
“You should have listened to me.”
Dean glowers at him and mumbles something unintelligible under his breath as Sam sets their first aid kit, a bowl of warm water and towel down on the table. Sam gestures for Dean to remove his over shirt and Dean, for once, complies without complaint.
“You hurt anywhere else?” Sam would normally have no qualms about doing his own first-hand inspection, but doesn’t think that’d be appropriate, not in Dean’s current state any way. He draws the line at feeling up his brother/sister.
Dean shakes his head. “I hurt everywhere, dude.”
Sam smooths Dean’s hair away from his face, tucking it behind his ear, dips the towel into the warm and proceeds to clean Dean’s wound.
“Don’t think it’ll need stitches.” Sam says as he dips the towel, gives it a squeeze and wipes at the wound again. He puts antibiotic ointment on it and then begins wiping the dirt from Dean’s face, surprised that Dean hasn’t already snatched the towel out of his hand to do it himself.
“All done.” He announces, dropping the dirty towel into the bowl.
Dean stands, using the chair for support. “Everything hurts so fucking much.” He groans. “It didn’t hurt this much in my other meat suit.”
“You know, studies have shown that estrogen affects the way our bodies process pain and you’re chock full of it right now.” Sam teases.
Dean gives him the middle finger. “You’ve always been full of it. I’m going to grab a shower. The ankle’s not too bad; I’ll wrap it when I’m done.”
Sam busies himself gathering up the trash. “You need any help?”
“’S okay, Sam. I got it.”
Dean squeezes Sam’s shoulder then hobbles off towards his room.
Sam stops outside Dean’s door, telling himself he’s not worrying unnecessarily about Dean’s injuries. He’s not. It’s been hours. He just needs to know Dean is okay. Sam knocks on Dean’s door, tries the knob and finding the door unlocked, pokes his head into the room.
“Can I come in?”
Dean is propped against a mountain of pillows, his laptop resting beside him on the bed. He’s in the sleeveless tank he’d worn previously but isn’t wearing boxers this time. Instead, he’s wearing a pair of light pink bikini underwear. Sam’s mouth goes dry. What the hell?
“You’ve already let yourself in. May as well come in all the way.” Dean responds, never taking his eyes off the laptop. “And quit staring, it’s fucking creepy. You’ve seen me in my underwear a million times.”
Not that underwear, Sam thinks, his face burning with embarrassment. Sam thought he was sincerely over being taken aback by the changes in Dean. One can forgive his reaction, he thinks. Between the dark bra showing through Dean’s white shirt and the panties, the only thing more surprising would be finding a male Dean in pink panties. Sam chuckles at the thought, as if.
Sam steps into the room, grabs a chair from the desk, turning it so he can lean on the back of it and sets it beside the bed. “Just wanted to check-in on you.”
From his seat, Sam inspects the cut and the surrounding bruising. It seems okay.
“I figured.” Dean says to the laptop. “As you can see, I’m fine.”
Sam notes several bruises, but doesn’t see anything pressing. Sam asks if Dean iced the ankle and took an anti-inflammatory. Dean answers that he did. Dean’s wrapped his ankle and has elevated it by shoving two pillows beneath it.
“You got enough pillows there, Dean?”
“A man can never have enough pillows.” Dean says, smacking Sam with one of them.
Sam makes a show of protecting himself from Dean’s assault. “You hit like a girl.”
“Anything you can do, I can do better.” Dean shoots back. Instantly losing ground when he winces as returns his weapon to its pile.
Dean adjusts the remaining pillows so they provide better support and then leans back into them. He pulls his long ponytail out from where its trapped between the pillows and his back and drapes it over his shoulder.
“This fucking hair,” Dean mutters and resumes watching what looks like a car restoration show.
“You still want to cut it?”
Dean regards Sam suspiciously.
“I could cut it for you.” Sam offers. “I’m pretty good at it.” He does his best imitation of the standard shampoo commercial head swivel.
Dean smirks and huffs out an amused grunt. “You do have the princess hair thing going on.”
“You’re just jealous.”
Dean smiles softly. “Yeah, well you don’t have to worry. You’re still the prettiest girl in the bunker.”
Sam chuckles, happy to go along. “I don’t know, Dean. I’d say you’re giving me a pretty good run for my money.”
Dean puffs out his chest and bats his eyes at Sam. “Of course, I am. I mean look at me.”
The brothers dissolve into laughter.
“You’re sure about this?” Sam asks Dean’s reflection.
“Let’s Sinead O’Connor this bitch.” Dean responds as he adjusts the towels wrapped around his shoulders.
Sam gathers Dean’s hair into a ponytail, holding it at the base of Dean’s skull and holds his free hand out for the scissors which Dean hands him. Sam slowly cuts it off and dumps it into the trash can beside him. He quickly snips off Dean’s remaining hair, cutting it as short as possible in order to make things easier when he runs the clippers.
He feels strange doing this for Dean; it’s inordinately intimate, like he’s been afforded tremendous trust. Maybe it’s because Dean is a woman or at least woman shaped. If Sam knows anything about women, it’s that their hair matters. In truth, it’s the same for Dean. They don’t allow themselves a lot of luxuries, but they’re both particular when it comes to their hair.
Sam pauses for moment, taking in his handiwork. He glances into the mirror, eager but afraid to see how Dean will react to the splotchy mess Sam’s left behind. Dean’s eyes are closed.
“You okay?” Sam rests his hand on Dean’s shoulder. Sam’s hand seems enormous against Dean’s thin shoulder.
“I’m fine. My head just hurts.” Dean rests his hand on Sam’s briefly then lets it slip back into his lap. Sam doesn’t know what to do with the disconcerting feelings welling up inside him. Sam wishes he knew what Dean was thinking.
“All right then let’s do this.” Sam removes the towel, shakes it out, drapes it back around Dean’s shoulders, but thinks better of it. There is hair everywhere. They’re both going to need a shower after this. Sam grabs the clippers, takes a deep breath and slowly sheers off Dean’s remaining hair.
Dean stands, moving closer to mirror and stares at his reflection. Dean may be trying his best to appear unaffected, but Sam knows better. Dean runs his hand over his scalp. Dean’s buzz cuts have never been induction cut short, not even when their dad was the one cutting their hair. Dean isn’t exactly vain, but he cares about his looks. Looks matter. It helps them “pass”; helps them play their roles. Sam’s often wondered how much difficult their lives would be if they didn’t look the way they do.
Dean turns his head, looking at his right side then left then catches Sam’s eye in the mirror.
“Fuck,” Dean whispers, his eyes shiny with ready to fall tears. “Fuck.”
Dean closes his eyes then slowly opens them again. Dean touches his hair line, looking a little awed or maybe distraught. It’s hard for Sam to tell.
Sam hesitates, not sure what to do or how to act. This is still Dean, no chick-flick moments, stow your emotions Dean. It may seem stupid to get upset over something like a bad haircut, but whether it is or not doesn’t really matter. Sam can tell Dean is in fact upset. Sam would be too if he’s honest with himself. Sam’s hair has always been his way of rebelling, of having his own identity outside of their unit, outside of hunting, a way to have some semblance of control.
Dean gives Sam’s reflection a watery smile and Sam decides he doesn’t care about Dean’s rules. It’s been a long fucking day. One that could have gone horribly wrong. Sam doesn’t particularly feel the need to hide how glad he is to still have his brother. Sam leans over Dean, wrapping him up from behind in a tight, one armed hug. Dean responds immediately, clutching Sam’s forearm.
“It suits you,” Sam tells Dean and it does. “It’s badass; you look like Ripley.”
Dean nods slowly, seeming to collect himself. “You know what I always say…”
“If you’ve it got it, flaunt it?”
Dean chuckles softly and wipes at his eyes. “Stupid girl body.”
“You’ve been pretty Zen about it so far.”
Dean looks at Sam in the reflection of the mirror. “I’m trying. Did this to myself after all.”
“Shouldn’t be too much longer, right?”
Dean nods. “I hope not. I’m definitely appreciating the fuck out of what a pain in the ass this being a woman business is.”
Sam releases Dean as Dean turns to face him.
“Thanks, Sammy,” Dean taps Sam’s chest. “Come on, I’ll help you clean up.”
~~~
“This is the place.” Dean announces standing in front of a foot and a half wide panel of wood.
It looks like one of the many decorative panels throughout the bunker.
“How’d you even find this place?” Sam asks, running his hand over the wood as he tries to figure out how the door might open.
Dean points to faint light visible in the small gap between the panel and the floor.
“All right, show me what you found.” Sam beams.
“Dude, you’re going to lose your shit.” Dean grins at Sam.
Sam rolls his eyes, but smiles. He never thought they’d get this back. Maybe Dean hasn’t fully come to appreciate women’s plight, but Sam is certain they’ve at least come to appreciate each other. He doesn’t think there’s a bigger magic trick than that.
Sam shuts his laptop, too bleary eyed to do anything more. He feels as if he’s been researching for days not hours. He stretches, his back cracking loudly as he reaches his full extension. He takes note of the eerie quiet and wonders where Dean might be. Things between them are still strained, overburdened with all that’s been said and has been left unsaid between them. Sam might know Dean better than anyone, but it’s understanding and being understood by him that Sam is finding difficult to do these days. He glances at his watch, noting just how late it really is.
Sam considers whether he should hunt his brother down. Wonders if maybe Dean has gone off on another “personal day” while Sam was consumed with his research. He ignores the flash of hurt at the thought of being left behind again. He’s making a big deal out of nothing. Dean is probably in the garage. He grabs his empty tumbler and bottle of whiskey off the table and heads for the kitchen. Just one more to take the edge off before bed. The silence is making his skin crawl. Suddenly, he’s thinking back to the long, bleak months he spent alone in the Impala and pondering the more recent and too frequently tension filled rides with Dean.
Sam flicks the kitchen lights on, sets the tumbler on the table and starts rummaging in the pantry. Sam is well aware that the tub of Quaker Oats Dean keeps shoved in the back of the top most shelf contains a bottle of Blanton’s. He doesn’t know why Dean bothers to try and hide it. Sam pulls the bottle out; it’s more than half empty. He chooses to focus on the fact there is still plenty left, not wanting to think too much about how much drinking they do these days.
“That’s mine.”
Sam whirls around at the sound of a deep, but distinctly feminine voice. Dean leans on the door jamb, arms crossed against his chest and one leg crossed over the other. Except this Dean is all wrong.
“Don’t know how many times I have to tell you to not touch my stuff.” Not Dean crosses to where Sam stands frozen and takes the bottle from him. He snatches Sam’s tumbler off the table, pours himself a drink and downs it all in one go.
Not Dean glances over his shoulder. “Take a picture. It’ll last longer, dude.” He smirks at Sam, who can do nothing but stare mutely at the woman wearing his brother’s face.
Not Dean chuckles. “I’m going to bed.” He sets the glass down and exits the kitchen before Sam’s brain can finish processing what he’s just seen.
“What the fuck, Dean?” Sam shoves Dean’s door open, not caring one bit about his brother’s privacy. But Dean is not there, only the woman from the kitchen, standing in the middle of his brother’s room wearing boxers and a close fitting, ribbed, sleeveless, white cotton undershirt. Sam nearly stumbles back at the sight of her.
“What happened to knocking?” Not Dean asks, turning to face him. Her long dirty blond hair, ample chest and impossibly long legs are all woman, but the fearsome glare and threatening stance, that’s all Dean.
Sam does stumble back then. He hadn’t been wrong. His eyes hadn’t deceived him. “Dean?”
“Yeah?” Dean asks, his annoyance clear.
“You.” Sam stops, not really knowing what to say. Shouldn’t Dean be the one explaining? “You’re.” He gestures at Dean’s body.
“A woman?” Dean replies slowly as if talking to someone he considers particularly dumb.
Sam closes and opens his mouth, like a fish gasping for water.
“Close your mouth, Sam. You’ll catch flies.” Dean steps up to Sam, presses a hand against Sam’s chest and pushes until he effectively shoves Sam back into the hallway. “Now, how about you give a girl some privacy?” Dean smirks as he slams the door in Sam’s face.
Sam paralysis lasts only seconds this time. He wasn’t wrong; he wasn’t seeing things. His brother is now, somehow-and so help him, Dean better have a really good explanation for this-a woman.
“Dean!” Sam pounds on the door, the sound ringing like cannon fodder throughout the cavernous bunker. “Open the goddamn door! Dean!”
Sam pounds on the door until even he is sick of hearing of his voice. Sam presses his forehead to Dean’s door. His hand and forearm hurt and he’s tired. Sam slams his open hand on the door. He winces as pain shoots through it down his wrist and up his arm. “Come on, Dean.”
“What?” Dean yells as he yanks the door open. Sam pitches forward, just barely managing to avoid tumbling right into a very pissed off looking Dean.
Dean glares at him, waiting for a response. His shitty attitude burns right through Sam’s concern.
“What?” Sam asks in disbelief. “That’s all you got?”
Dean’s cheeks flush. His eyes-her eyes...shit, Sam shakes his head. “What the fuck, Dean? What the hell happened?”
“Nothing,” Dean crosses his arms across his chest, as if daring Sam to contradict him. Sam glares at his brother, waiting for Dean to explain himself. He’s not really going to leave it at that, Sam thinks, even Dean isn’t this much of an asshole, but Dean remains tight-lipped. Suddenly, Sam is very, very tired.
“Fuck you, Dean.” There isn’t any heat in it, only disappointment and resignation. If Dean wants to avoid the elephant in the room, be a secretive asshole, then let him. Why should this be any different than any of the other crap Dean does without thinking of how it will affect him? Or all other shit Dean keeps to himself? Dean seems unhurt and is clearly not too worried about the fact he no longer has a dick. The thought derails his focus. Sam ponders that for a moment, considering that maybe Dean does still have a dick, but now also has breasts then scrubs the thought out of his mind. Screw this. Sam grabs the knob of Dean’s door, forcing Dean to step back and slams the door shut on his brother.
Not his most mature moment, but whatever.
~~~
The smell of fresh coffee pulls Sam from a fitful sleep. Sam snorfles and turns further into his pillow. Screw Dean. As if some coffee is going to make up for the bullshit Dean pulled yesterday, disappearing for hours and then...Sam sits up, looking to the right side of his bed where Dean, still in only the same revealing undershirt and a pair of boxers is standing. Sam stares at Dean’s breasts. He’s still a girl. Dean sips from one mug while clutching a second mug in his other hand.
“About time,” Dean says offering him the mug. “Quit staring at my boobs and takes this.”
Sam takes the mug, scooting up into a better sitting position as he does so. Dean takes advantage of the newly created space and sits down on the side of his bed.
“Sorry about last night,” Dean says, looking only slightly pained. It’s not much of an apology, but at this point Sam would rather find out what’s happened than argue about what a shitty communicator Dean is or try to get his brother to understand how hurtful and thoughtless it is when he pulls this kind of shit. It’s not like they haven’t had that argument a million times already. Not like that even matters, the outcome is always the same. Which is to say, there isn’t ever truly an outcome. Sam takes a sip of his coffee to keep from saying anything that will turn this into an argument.
Dean takes a deep breath and sighs. His breasts heave and Sam’s can’t help but gaze at Dean’s chest. Dean’s undershirt is tight. It leaves nothing to the imagination. Dean punches his shoulder, causing the lip of the cup to clatter against Sam’s teeth and coffee to spill onto his own t-shirt.
“Damn it, Dean!”
“Stop staring at my fucking boobs. Jesus Christ, you’d think you’d never seen a pair of tits before. Hold this.” Dean orders and shoves his coffee cup at Sam. Dean’s hands aren’t any smaller than they were when Dean was himself. In fact none of him is, Sam notes as Dean leans back and grabs last night’s discarded flannel shirt from where Sam had left it at the foot of the bed. Dean is still Dean: just as tall, only leaner and softer and as beautiful as he was formerly handsome.
Dean slips on the shirt and buttons it enough to ensure his chest is fully covered. He sweeps his long, dirty blonde hair out from underneath the shirt with natural grace, as if Dean has spent a lifetime dealing with too-long hair. What.The.Hell?
“There. Maybe now you can focus,” he says.
“Screw you,” Sam grouses into his coffee. “It’s not every day your brother shows up with boobs.”
“They are nice, aren’t they?” Dean waggles his eyebrows.
“Dude.” Sam admonishes.
“What? I can say whatever I want about my own breasts.” Dean laughs, squeezing and jiggling them to prove his point.
Sam rolls his eyes but must concede they are in fact really nice. Sam feels himself blush and curses his stupid brother.
Dean bursts into lovely, throaty laughter. “Such a fucking prude, Sammy.”
Sam shakes his head but doesn’t argue. It’s been a long time since he’s heard his brother’s laughter.
“So?” Sam hands Dean's mug back.
“Well, the thing is I found this hidden archive over by the armory.”
Sam nods, not liking the sound of where this is going. They’ve investigated the bunker and know from blueprints they’ve found that there are many “archives” housed within it. He can well imagine the appeal exploring a secret archive would have for Dean.
“Place is a nerd’s paradise. You’d be right at home there,” Dean grins, the same teasing smile as always. It almost makes Sam forget about whole ‘my brother is a girl’ thing.
“Dean,” Sam warns tired of his stalling. “Why don’t you just skip to the why you’re a girl part?”
“There’s a whole collection of grimoires in there.”
“You didn’t?” Sam bolts upright.
“Aren’t you tired of these fucking witches using their magic against us?” Dean presses on, before Sam can chastise him. “Don’t you think things would be a lot easier if we knew how to use our own magic? I mean, we should know how to counter spells, break curses. Angels, demons, everything out there has more juice than we do. What if there’s something we can use against Abbadon? We have all this knowledge here. We have to figure out how to use it to our advantage. You heard Henry; we’re legacies.”
Sam stares at his brother, not knowing how to interpret his sudden thirst for knowledge and immediately feels badly for it. His brother’s not stupid. Just because he plays the role of the brute, doesn’t mean that’s who Dean is. Sam knows that. But more than that, Sam’s angered and troubled by the idea that Dean would suddenly be on board with tapping into the same powers he’s always railed against. He certainly wasn’t interested in learning more about Sam’s powers or helping Sam develop them.
“Well?” Dean asks, glancing up at him through his ridiculously long lashes.
There is so much wrong with the situation that Sam doesn’t know where to start.
‘What the hell were you thinking? Why would you do this to yourself? What if you’d translated the spell wrong? Anything could have happened and I would have had no way of knowing where the hell you were.”
“Don’t get your panties in a wad, Sam.”
Sam’s throat burns with the memory of finding himself in the Sucrocorp lab alone after they managed to kill Dick Roman. The memory of Cas and Dean exploding into nothingness right in front of him still haunts him, as do Dean’s accusations. “You’re such a fucking hypocrite.” He spits.
Dean’s eyes flash with anger and for a moment Sam thinks they may not be able to avoid an argument after all. But then Dean sighs, his body sagging a bit. “I’m sorry, Sammy.”
Sam glares at him; Dean holds his stares, pleading for understanding. Sam huffs in irritation.
Dean takes Sam’s silence for the olive branch it mostly is. “If it makes you feel any better, the spell was in English. The book belonged to some coven out of Wichita the Men of Letters collaborated with. There’s nothing malicious in the grimoire, even this spell was only meant to teach the accursed a lesson about appreciating women. The thing was practically stamped rated G! So, yeah. It was dumb, but I was curious and this seemed innocuous enough.”
Sam tamps down the urge to yell at Dean some more. “You thought turning yourself into a girl would be harmless?” Sam ignores Dean’s comment about aptitude and about being curious, though he desperately wants to ask what exactly Dean was curious about. Transmutation? Or something altogether different?
Dean shrugs. “It’s not permanent. Hell, it didn’t even hurt. A little blood, a few words and badabing-badaboom, boobs.” Dean squeezes his breasts again for effect.
“Dude, stop it. I’m being serious here.”
“You’re always serious,” Dean says flatly, his attention now focused on the floor. They sit in silence until Dean glances up at Sam. Dean smiles sadly, leveling another pleading look at him. A look which is infinitely more effective now that Dean is a woman.
Sam shakes his head, “I’m letting it go for now, but we will be discussing this further.”
Dean perks up immediately, “Ok, Mom. Personally, I think you’re just jealous you don’t get to play with them,” he leers.
Sam quirks an eyebrow. Dean looks confused for a second then seems to realize what he’s just implied. Dean smirks and smacks Sam on the leg. Sam smothers a laugh. He’s still annoyed, still unsettled by all that could have gone horribly wrong but is willing to ignore it if it means getting some of their easy camaraderie back.
“Screw you, dude.” Dean says lightly as he stands up. “I am sorry, you know. I was stupid and fucked around with shit I probably shouldn’t have, but it all worked out just fine. I’m a girl for the immediate future. In a few days, I’ll turn back and you’ll have something to lord over my head forever and ever. Now get the fuck up. I’m hungry and there’s not a damn thing to eat in this place.”
~~~
Dean emerges from his bedroom, looking slightly ridiculous in his too large for him jeans and oversized flannel shirt. He’s pulled his hair into a sloppy braid. It should look ridiculous, but instead manages to come off something like hobo chic. Dean makes it look good. Not that Sam is going to say so. As the younger brother, he’s obligated to say something snide and picks the low hanging fruit to comment on.
“Is that a braid?” Sam teases.
“Let me tell you something, Sammy. Nothing gets a woman hotter than a man playing with her hair. Can’t tell you how many blow jobs braiding a girl’s hair has got me.”
“You’re gross.”
Dean shrugs, “Whatever, man. I’m just trying to help you out, little brother.”
He swaggers past Sam and heads to the garage.
~~~
They avoid the nearest diner. Lebanon is Small Town. With a population of less than 300 people, it’s the kind of place where everybody knows everyone and although Sam and Dean have managed to maintain a certain distance from the locals, they aren’t strangers in town anymore. Sam parading around a new sister would definitely raise eyebrows. So instead, they opt to make the twenty-seven minute drive to Cawker City, which is only slightly less Small Town than Lebanon, but has the benefit of still affording them an anonymity they no longer have in the latter.
By the time they get to breakfast, Sam is through being startled by the sight of the female version of his brother. His voice may be different, but every word out of his mouth is as annoying as ever, as is Dean’s determination to avoid providing a straight answer as to what happened.
“I’m not going to drop it, Dean.” Sam warns him.
“I’m fine.”
“That’s not damn point and you know it.”
Dean puts the car in park, turns off the ignition and turns to Sam. “Look, I already told you everything there is to tell you. I’ll show you the room when we get back to the bunker. You can look through the grimoire yourself. It’s harmless and so is this spell, which by the way, I did a fucking fantastic job with.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “You got lucky.”
“No, I didn’t.” Dean says, looking offended. He shoves his door open and gets out before Sam can respond.
Sam follows Dean into the diner and into a corner booth, sliding into the bench facing the door before Dean has a chance to do so. Dean’s brows crinkle together in displeasure, but Sam ignores it. Dean may still be mostly himself, but Sam has no idea how being in this new body will impact Dean’s ability to defend himself. Not that girls can’t kick ass, god knows he’s had his ass handed to him by several women. He’s just not certain how this particular woman would do. He tells himself it’s not about Dean’s sex, just the unknown effect of the spell.
The hostess sets down their menus, assuring them their server will be right with them then returns to her post. Sam avoids Dean’s questioning stare and inspects his menu instead.
A few moments later their server arrives with two coffee mugs in one hand and a carafe in another. The guy is young, probably early twenties. Sam is grateful he’s going to be spared Dean’s usual flirtation with the staff, except instead, he has to witness the server’s truly awkward attempts to get Dean’s attention. He’s mortified on the poor kid’s behalf. Dean seems oblivious to it all, or at least pretends to be, which only annoys Sam further. When Steve comes back to ask if they need a refill for the 3rd time in ten minutes, Sam grabs Dean’s right hand and lets Steve know they’re all good. The kid’s eyes are nearly as wide as Dean’s. The server scampers away and Dean yanks his hand of Sam’s hold.
“Dude,” Dean demands.
Sam shrugs and goes back to eating his pancakes.
“What the hell was that about?” Dean asks as they walk up to the Impala. Dean climbs in then leans over to unlock Sam’s door.
“What?” Sam asks as slides into his seat, ready to pretend the whole hand holding thing in the diner never happened. He doesn’t fully understand why the kid’s fawning bothered him so much. It’s not as if he hasn’t spent a lifetime watching people fawn over his brother.
Dean shoots him a glare of disbelief as he jams the key in the ignition. “Are you shitting me? Taking the seat facing the door? Grabbing my hand? I’m still me in here. I could kick that kid’s ass six ways to Sunday. Yours too if you start treating me like I’m some fragile girl.”
“Well, you are in fact a girl, so.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be never be as girly as you, Sammy.” Dean cranks the ignition and the car roars to life. He reaches over and turns on the radio. AC/DC’s Back in Black blares over the speakers. Dean grins and smacks Sam’s thigh then begins to sign obnoxiously off-key.
They don’t head back to the bunker as expected. Dean heads out of town, past the World’s Largest Ball of Twine and heads east.
“Where are we going?” Sam shouts over the music.
“To get me some clothes,” Dean shouts back.
Sam snaps the radio off. “What?”
“That’s like your favorite question, isn’t it?”
Sam scowls. “Why are we getting new clothes?”
“Me, not we. I’m not spending however long I’m going to be a woman dressed like this. Everything’s too big and nothing looks good on me. You know what I always say: if you’ve got, flaunt it.”
“You’ve never said that.” Sam points out.
“I just did.”
“How long did you say this was going to last?”
Dean shrugs. “The spell wasn’t clear.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “So you could turn back tomorrow and then we’ll be stuck with a bunch of women’s clothes we’ll never need again.”
Dean glances at Sam and smirks. “Aww, come on, Sammy. It’ll be fun.”
“Are you sure that spell didn’t break your brain?”
Dean laughs, but Sam is only half kidding. He wonders about the full scope of the spells’ impact. Is it just Dean’s outward physical appearance that’s changed? Or is it also his internal organs? His brain chemistry?
“I need clothes that fit; I can’t be tripping over my damn jeans in the middle of a hunt.”
Dean turns the radio on and the volume up, effectively ending their conversation. Sam scrunches down into his seat and tries not to think about the spell or Dean wearing women’s clothing.
~~~
An hour and a half later, Sam is parked outside the women’s fitting room of the Super Walmart in Concordia. He hovers as far from the fitting room entry area as he can and ponders the many ways he can kill his brother. An old man stands a few feet away, clutching a large, blue bag and waiting patiently for, Sam guesses, his wife.
“Get used it, friend.” The old man tells him when he catches Sam looking his way.
Sam smiles and nods, not knowing what else to do. The old man laughs.
“Been together long?” The man asks just as Dean steps out of the fitting room in a pair of skinny jeans and black, scoop neck t-shirt. Both are tight and accentuate every part of Dean’s body that is now significantly different than before.
“I think I need smaller size shirt.” Dean announces. His shirt seems plenty small already as far as Sam’s concerned. “Can you grab me another shirt?” Dean asks, ignoring Sam’s glowering. Dean shoots the old man a small smile then adds in a sickly sweet tone that makes Sam want to punch his brother’s light out, “Do you mind, sweetheart? Thanks.” Dean winks and disappears back into the fitting room.
Sam’s face heats with embarrassment, but also with a disturbing amount of pride and self-satisfaction. He finds both emotions deeply worrying: a) this is his brother he’s talking about and b) he’s never considered himself to be that type of guy.
The old man chuckles and shakes his head. “Man, your goose is cooked.”
“I guess I better.” Sam mutters, gesturing toward the clothing area behind him.
“Yes, you better, son.” The man smiles broadly, “Never keep a woman waiting.”
~~~
Dean pops the trunk and gathers up his purchases. He mutters something about doing laundry and then rushes off, leaving Sam to follow like some lost puppy. At the library, they part ways with Dean heading to his bedroom. Sam watches him go wondering what happened to sour his brother’s previously, if not exactly playful at least less troubled mood.
The ride back to the bunker had been a quiet one. Not the easy silence they normally share or even the tense, angry silence they’ve endured more recently, but a strained, unpleasant one that had Sam biting his tongue to keep from asking what exactly happened in the twenty minutes Dean was out of his sight. After he’d finished trying on all his new clothes, Dean had asked Sam to wait for him in the car while he checked out. Sam hadn’t seen any harm in leaving him alone and left him to it. Now he’s left wondering if someone said or did something, or if maybe the reality of what Dean’s done to himself has finally hit him. Sam looks in the direction of Dean’s room, considers his options for a moment and decides that drinking is a better option that speaking with his brother about his woman troubles.
Sam digs the bottle of Blanton’s out from the pantry, pours himself a double then thinks better of it and adds another long pour on top of it. No matter how worried he is about Dean, the only thing he can really do right now is give Dean the space he needs to work through whatever he’s feeling. Dean is still Dean after all. Sam doesn’t foresee any chick-flick moments in their near future. He grabs the tumbler and the bottle (there isn’t enough worth saving) and decides to kill time reviewing the bunker blueprints. He’d like to have some idea of where this secret archive might be. He’ll ask Dean to show him but will find it himself if Dean won’t share the location. He’s curious about the grimoire Dean discovered, but also worried about what else might be stored there. Dean was wrong about a lot of things, but not the fact that they’ve got to start using the information left to them by the Men of Letters to their advantage.
~~~
Sam returns to the library from his bathroom break to find Dean standing beside his seat holding the empty Blanton’s bottle in his hand. The sight of him stops Sam in his tracks. Dean’s dressed in one of the old Men of Letters robes. (Sam’s got to hand it to whomever designed and warded the bunker. Everything they’ve found so far is in mint condition.) It’s cinched tightly around his small waist, accentuating his curves. Dean’s hair is wrapped up in a towel. His cheeks are rosy, highlighting his freckles. His full lips are a shade of pink Sam thought only came in a tube. For the first time, Sam’s not seeing his brother at all, just an incredibly beautiful woman, standing nearly naked and barefoot before him. Sam gasps and is immediately mortified by his reaction. Thankfully Dean seems to interpret it as shame for being caught red-handed drinking Dean’s stash of “The Good Stuff”.
“Damn it, Sam. You didn’t even leave me any.” He pouts, his face scrunching adorably in irritation.
Sam apologizes, not daring to look at Dean while he does so. He walks past Dean to the far bookshelf, moves a sexton to the side and pulls his own bottle of Good Stuff (Troy and Sons) out.
“You can have some of mine,” Sam offers. He doesn’t linger on the fact that liquor is the olive branch they extend to each other most these days.
Dean accepts it, pretends to inspect the bottle then hands it back. “I guess, this will do. I actually came out here for something else though.”
Sam looks up at Dean expectantly, taking his attention away from the drink Sam’s pouring him.
“Umm…Sam?”
“Hmm?” Liquid spills over Sam’s fingers. He curses, sets the bottle down and begins wipe the excess with tip of his shirt.
“Maybe you’ve had enough.” Dean warns and bursts into raucous laughter, tipping his head back and causing the towel on his head to unravel. Dean pulls the towel off, his wet hair spilling down onto his shoulders. Sam is assaulted with the memory of Jess, standing at the sink, one towel wrapped tightly around her and another in her hair. Sam shuts his eyes, willing the memory away. He doesn’t want to think about Jess. Not now. The situation is fucked up enough without having to wonder why his brother suddenly reminds him of the one woman he truly loved.
“Hey, you okay?” Dean touches his forearm bringing Sam back to the present.
“Yeah, sorry. Uh, what did you need?”
Dean eyes him suspiciously, but lets it go. He carefully picks up Sam’s drink and sips from it. He sips just enough to avert any further spillage.
“Shame on you for wasting this stuff.” Dean takes a long gulp, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, looks Sam in the eyes and says, “I need you to help me dry this hair.”
~~~
Dean sits cross legged on the right side of Sam’s bed. He cradles the tumbler in one hand, drinking out of it then lifting it above his head for Sam to drink. He’s leaned the bottle against his inner thigh and has been refilling the glass as needed. Sam’s lost count of the number of refills so far, but at this point he doesn’t much care either. He’s comfortably numb and grateful for it. It allows him to ignore the reality of how awkward and concerning this all is. For all Dean insists nothing has changed, Sam is certain that there are no circumstances under which male Dean would have ever asked Sam to blow dry his hair.
“It’s so damn hot. I don’t know how you put up with this bullshit,” Dean grouses as he loosens the robe enough to pull it down past his shoulders, which Sam notes are covered in pale freckles.
“Your hair is a lot longer than mine.” Sam’s not sure he’s making any sense, but Dean seems to understand. Sam gathers Dean’s hair up and blows cold air on his neck and his shoulders then lets his hair down. Sam combs his fingers through it, trying to give it some shape. Dean’s hair is a mass of frizzy waves (Sam’s apparently only good at doing his own hair) but feels silky to the touch. He smooths down Dean’s hair then gently scratches his scalp.
Dean leans immediately into the touch. “Ooh, do that again.”
Sam does as he’s told, eventually giving up on the pretense of drying Dean’s hair. Sam loses himself in it, not thinking about anything but the feel of a woman’s hair in his hands. It’s been a long time since he’s shared such a simple, intimate thing with a woman. He thinks about Amelia, as wrapped up in her own grief as he was in his. The intimacy they shared was complicated. Their time together wasn’t so much about building something together as it was keeping each other from falling apart.
Dean leans into him, making little mmm noises when the pressure is just right. Sam feels him relax, Dean’s body heavy against his own.
“Dean?”
Dean tips his head back slightly, glances up at Sam and give him a sleepy smile. His are glassy and unfocused.
“You’re drunk,” Sam tells him.
He grins. “Not the same.”
Sam guesses Dean means this body doesn’t process alcohol the way his old one did, which makes completes sense. Of course it doesn’t. Sam should have considered that.
“I think we’ve both had enough.” Sam says as he takes the tumbler and the bottle from Dean. Dean doesn’t resist, laying down the moment he’s unencumbered.
“Tired.” Dean mutters, burying his face in one of his pillow.
Sam sets the bottle and glass down, puts away his hair dryer and ponders what to do. Carry him back to his room? Leave Dean to sleep it off? Dean snuggles further into the bed.
“Why’s your bed so damn hard, Sammy?” He asks, the question barely intelligible.
Sam wonders just how intoxicated Dean is. Dangerously so? They’ve never worried about alcohol poisoning. It’s never even been a consideration. There’s a hundred other ways they’re likely to die. Sam hesitates then assures himself. This is Dean. Dean stretches, grabbing blindly for his other pillow. Dean can handle it, which would be very convincing, but for the fact that this body clearly can’t handle their normal level of consumption. What if he gets sick in the middle of night? Chokes on his own vomit? Or falls off the bed and smacks his head? Breaks something? What if he accidentally suffocates himself with Sam’s pillow? Sam can’t leave Dean, not in this state.
Sam retrieves his laptop, resigned to spending the night watching over Dean.
~~~
“Oh god,” Dean groans. He raises a hand to his eyes and covers them.
Sam saves his notes, closes his laptop and sets it down at the foot of the bed.
“Sammy?” Dean’s free hand lands hard on his thigh.
“Hey, Dean.”
“Am I still a girl?”
“Yeah, why?”
Dean doesn’t answer, leaving Sam wondering if Dean’s transformation had been as painless as he’d claimed. Dean lowers his hand and opens one eye.
“What is that smell?”
Sam has no idea what he could be talking about it. He’d finished his coffee ten minutes before. The only other thing Sam had eaten was oatmeal, but that was long gone. Dean sits up, his hand flying to his mouth.
Sam sighs. It’s going to be a long morning.
“Say it.”
Dean rolls his eyes so hard Sam is afraid he’ll tear an eye muscle. Dean mumbles around the cracker he’s nibbling.
“What?”
“You’re the best little brother ever.” Dean glowers at him and takes a sip of his ginger tea.
After Dean had vomited everything there was to vomit out of his system into Sam’s trash can- with Sam holding his hair like the amazing brother he is- Sam had dragged him into the shower, standing outside the stall to make sure he didn’t fall or drown himself and then stood guard again outside Dean’s bedroom door as he dressed. Dean had emerged, looking only slightly less ill, but smelling infinitely better.
“Why’d you let me drink so much?” Dean complains, pressing his palms to the side of his head.
“Let you?” Sam scoffs.
“You’re a shitty brother,” he whines and lays his head on the kitchen table.
“You just said I was the best little brother in the world.” Sam teases.
“I lied.” He responds pitifully, and Sam can’t help but laugh.
Dean looks up and manages a smile. Sam is overwhelmed by the enormity of what he feels for his brother and how happy, despite everything that’s happened since Dean’s return, he is to be back together.
“Am tired,” Dean grumbles, gathering his crackers. “Am going to watch some TV in my room.”
“I’ll come with,” Sam offers and grabs the discarded tea from the table and a bottle of water from the fridge.
Dean’s already booting up the laptop when Sam arrives.
“Why isn’t there a goddamn couch in this place?” Dean complains, scooting over to make room for Sam. He shoves the laptop at Sam as soon as he’s settled. “You pick. Whatever you choose is sure to put me to sleep.”
Sam ignores the dig, accepts the laptop and pulls up a documentary he’d been watching earlier in the week.
Dean glances at the screen. “So predictable.”
Dean makes himself comfortable -Sam had no idea his brother was hoarding so many pillows-and closes his eyes.
Sam keeps one eye on the laptop and another on Dean, waiting until he looks totally relaxed to revisit his inquiry about the archive.
“Hey, Dean?”
“Hmm.”
“How big is the archive?”
“Don’t know,” he responds sleepily. Dean doesn’t open his eyes, but does roll onto his side so he is facing Sam. He’s silent long enough to make Sam wonder if he’s fallen asleep but eventually adds, “Big.”
“How’d you manage to find the grimoire if it’s so big?” Sam asks innocently.
Dean cracks one eye open then seems to think better of it. “Am tired, Sam.”
“I’m not going to drop it, Dean.”
Dean sighs and rolls over so he’s facing away from Sam. “I know you’re not.”
“How can you be so calm about this?”
“I’m still me, Sammy.” He says softly then falls silent and soon is snoring lightly.
Sam stares at the screen. “How many times did I say the same thing? How many times did you tell me it wasn’t the truth?” Sam asks his sleeping brother. He’d said it over and over, through addiction, possession, even soullessness and it had never been true or maybe it had been too true. Sam shoves the memories away, not wanting to be reminded of how many times his personal autonomy has been violated, of how foreign his own body sometimes feels to him. “How can you be okay with this?” He whispers, not knowing if he’s asking Dean or himself.
Sam swallows the ball of emotion lodged in his throat. You’re okay. It’s fine. You’re both fine.
~~
“You sure you’re up to this?”
“Quit fucking asking me that.” Dean loads his shotgun, snapping the break closed then shutting the trunk of the Impala.
“It’s not an unreasonable question, Dean.”
“It is after the hundredth time.”
“Don’t make me out to be the bad guy here. This is your doing not mine.”
“Yeah and I’m telling you, it’s fine so drop it.” Dean sweeps his hair into a tight ponytail. “Soon as we get back to the bunker, I’m chopping this fucking hair off.”
It’s not fine.
The spirit they thought was a nuisance ghost turns out to be a poltergeist. It goes after Dean as soon as they step into the abandoned house, sending him flying into the stairs opposite the entry way then throwing him back down the stairs before Sam can even do anything. From where Sam’s pinned, he can see Dean’s bleeding. His hair is dark and matted to the side of his head. Sam peppers the general area above Dean with salt, giving him enough time to grab Dean and drag him to his side. The house groans and glass shatters somewhere further into the house.
“Come on,” Sam insists, gathering Dean up. They’re not prepared for this.
Dean wipes his bloodied face with the sleeve of his flannel over shirt then pushes slowly onto his feet, leaning heavily on the wall for support. Dean shifts his weight carefully onto his right foot, grimaces and immediately eases it off the ground. Sam watches him, waiting for Dean to ask for help. Of course, Dean doesn’t. Instead he hops awkwardly toward the front door, swallowing little grunts of pain.
The house quakes, as wind whips through it. The whole structure wobbles like it might fall apart.
“We don’t have time for this!” Sam yells.
“I can walk,” Dean insists, but Sam is done humoring his brother. Dean grimaces as Sam scoops him off his feet, ignoring Dean’s continued protests. Sam had known this was a bad idea.
Sam helps Dean into the passenger seat. Sam puts his hand out and Dean digs the keys out of his pocket, dropping them into Sam’s open palm. Sam slams the passenger side door closed and walks around to the driver’s seat.
“Hey, easy on the car.” Dean tells Sam as he slips into the driver’s seat. Dean huffs and crosses his arms across his chest. Sam cranks the ignition, slams the car into reverse, eases out, puts the car in drive and punches the gas.
~~~
Sam eases Dean into one of the library chairs, mindful of his injuries.
“I’ll go get the kit.”
The cut along the crown of Dean’s head had stopped oozing during the drive back, but still needs to be cleaned and Dean’s ankle needs to be wrapped.
Dean nods and slumps into the chair. “I feel like a poltergeist used me for a ragdoll. Oh wait, it did.”
“You should have listened to me.”
Dean glowers at him and mumbles something unintelligible under his breath as Sam sets their first aid kit, a bowl of warm water and towel down on the table. Sam gestures for Dean to remove his over shirt and Dean, for once, complies without complaint.
“You hurt anywhere else?” Sam would normally have no qualms about doing his own first-hand inspection, but doesn’t think that’d be appropriate, not in Dean’s current state any way. He draws the line at feeling up his brother/sister.
Dean shakes his head. “I hurt everywhere, dude.”
Sam smooths Dean’s hair away from his face, tucking it behind his ear, dips the towel into the warm and proceeds to clean Dean’s wound.
“Don’t think it’ll need stitches.” Sam says as he dips the towel, gives it a squeeze and wipes at the wound again. He puts antibiotic ointment on it and then begins wiping the dirt from Dean’s face, surprised that Dean hasn’t already snatched the towel out of his hand to do it himself.
“All done.” He announces, dropping the dirty towel into the bowl.
Dean stands, using the chair for support. “Everything hurts so fucking much.” He groans. “It didn’t hurt this much in my other meat suit.”
“You know, studies have shown that estrogen affects the way our bodies process pain and you’re chock full of it right now.” Sam teases.
Dean gives him the middle finger. “You’ve always been full of it. I’m going to grab a shower. The ankle’s not too bad; I’ll wrap it when I’m done.”
Sam busies himself gathering up the trash. “You need any help?”
“’S okay, Sam. I got it.”
Dean squeezes Sam’s shoulder then hobbles off towards his room.
Sam stops outside Dean’s door, telling himself he’s not worrying unnecessarily about Dean’s injuries. He’s not. It’s been hours. He just needs to know Dean is okay. Sam knocks on Dean’s door, tries the knob and finding the door unlocked, pokes his head into the room.
“Can I come in?”
Dean is propped against a mountain of pillows, his laptop resting beside him on the bed. He’s in the sleeveless tank he’d worn previously but isn’t wearing boxers this time. Instead, he’s wearing a pair of light pink bikini underwear. Sam’s mouth goes dry. What the hell?
“You’ve already let yourself in. May as well come in all the way.” Dean responds, never taking his eyes off the laptop. “And quit staring, it’s fucking creepy. You’ve seen me in my underwear a million times.”
Not that underwear, Sam thinks, his face burning with embarrassment. Sam thought he was sincerely over being taken aback by the changes in Dean. One can forgive his reaction, he thinks. Between the dark bra showing through Dean’s white shirt and the panties, the only thing more surprising would be finding a male Dean in pink panties. Sam chuckles at the thought, as if.
Sam steps into the room, grabs a chair from the desk, turning it so he can lean on the back of it and sets it beside the bed. “Just wanted to check-in on you.”
From his seat, Sam inspects the cut and the surrounding bruising. It seems okay.
“I figured.” Dean says to the laptop. “As you can see, I’m fine.”
Sam notes several bruises, but doesn’t see anything pressing. Sam asks if Dean iced the ankle and took an anti-inflammatory. Dean answers that he did. Dean’s wrapped his ankle and has elevated it by shoving two pillows beneath it.
“You got enough pillows there, Dean?”
“A man can never have enough pillows.” Dean says, smacking Sam with one of them.
Sam makes a show of protecting himself from Dean’s assault. “You hit like a girl.”
“Anything you can do, I can do better.” Dean shoots back. Instantly losing ground when he winces as returns his weapon to its pile.
Dean adjusts the remaining pillows so they provide better support and then leans back into them. He pulls his long ponytail out from where its trapped between the pillows and his back and drapes it over his shoulder.
“This fucking hair,” Dean mutters and resumes watching what looks like a car restoration show.
“You still want to cut it?”
Dean regards Sam suspiciously.
“I could cut it for you.” Sam offers. “I’m pretty good at it.” He does his best imitation of the standard shampoo commercial head swivel.
Dean smirks and huffs out an amused grunt. “You do have the princess hair thing going on.”
“You’re just jealous.”
Dean smiles softly. “Yeah, well you don’t have to worry. You’re still the prettiest girl in the bunker.”
Sam chuckles, happy to go along. “I don’t know, Dean. I’d say you’re giving me a pretty good run for my money.”
Dean puffs out his chest and bats his eyes at Sam. “Of course, I am. I mean look at me.”
The brothers dissolve into laughter.
“You’re sure about this?” Sam asks Dean’s reflection.
“Let’s Sinead O’Connor this bitch.” Dean responds as he adjusts the towels wrapped around his shoulders.
Sam gathers Dean’s hair into a ponytail, holding it at the base of Dean’s skull and holds his free hand out for the scissors which Dean hands him. Sam slowly cuts it off and dumps it into the trash can beside him. He quickly snips off Dean’s remaining hair, cutting it as short as possible in order to make things easier when he runs the clippers.
He feels strange doing this for Dean; it’s inordinately intimate, like he’s been afforded tremendous trust. Maybe it’s because Dean is a woman or at least woman shaped. If Sam knows anything about women, it’s that their hair matters. In truth, it’s the same for Dean. They don’t allow themselves a lot of luxuries, but they’re both particular when it comes to their hair.
Sam pauses for moment, taking in his handiwork. He glances into the mirror, eager but afraid to see how Dean will react to the splotchy mess Sam’s left behind. Dean’s eyes are closed.
“You okay?” Sam rests his hand on Dean’s shoulder. Sam’s hand seems enormous against Dean’s thin shoulder.
“I’m fine. My head just hurts.” Dean rests his hand on Sam’s briefly then lets it slip back into his lap. Sam doesn’t know what to do with the disconcerting feelings welling up inside him. Sam wishes he knew what Dean was thinking.
“All right then let’s do this.” Sam removes the towel, shakes it out, drapes it back around Dean’s shoulders, but thinks better of it. There is hair everywhere. They’re both going to need a shower after this. Sam grabs the clippers, takes a deep breath and slowly sheers off Dean’s remaining hair.
Dean stands, moving closer to mirror and stares at his reflection. Dean may be trying his best to appear unaffected, but Sam knows better. Dean runs his hand over his scalp. Dean’s buzz cuts have never been induction cut short, not even when their dad was the one cutting their hair. Dean isn’t exactly vain, but he cares about his looks. Looks matter. It helps them “pass”; helps them play their roles. Sam’s often wondered how much difficult their lives would be if they didn’t look the way they do.
Dean turns his head, looking at his right side then left then catches Sam’s eye in the mirror.
“Fuck,” Dean whispers, his eyes shiny with ready to fall tears. “Fuck.”
Dean closes his eyes then slowly opens them again. Dean touches his hair line, looking a little awed or maybe distraught. It’s hard for Sam to tell.
Sam hesitates, not sure what to do or how to act. This is still Dean, no chick-flick moments, stow your emotions Dean. It may seem stupid to get upset over something like a bad haircut, but whether it is or not doesn’t really matter. Sam can tell Dean is in fact upset. Sam would be too if he’s honest with himself. Sam’s hair has always been his way of rebelling, of having his own identity outside of their unit, outside of hunting, a way to have some semblance of control.
Dean gives Sam’s reflection a watery smile and Sam decides he doesn’t care about Dean’s rules. It’s been a long fucking day. One that could have gone horribly wrong. Sam doesn’t particularly feel the need to hide how glad he is to still have his brother. Sam leans over Dean, wrapping him up from behind in a tight, one armed hug. Dean responds immediately, clutching Sam’s forearm.
“It suits you,” Sam tells Dean and it does. “It’s badass; you look like Ripley.”
Dean nods slowly, seeming to collect himself. “You know what I always say…”
“If you’ve it got it, flaunt it?”
Dean chuckles softly and wipes at his eyes. “Stupid girl body.”
“You’ve been pretty Zen about it so far.”
Dean looks at Sam in the reflection of the mirror. “I’m trying. Did this to myself after all.”
“Shouldn’t be too much longer, right?”
Dean nods. “I hope not. I’m definitely appreciating the fuck out of what a pain in the ass this being a woman business is.”
Sam releases Dean as Dean turns to face him.
“Thanks, Sammy,” Dean taps Sam’s chest. “Come on, I’ll help you clean up.”
~~~
“This is the place.” Dean announces standing in front of a foot and a half wide panel of wood.
It looks like one of the many decorative panels throughout the bunker.
“How’d you even find this place?” Sam asks, running his hand over the wood as he tries to figure out how the door might open.
Dean points to faint light visible in the small gap between the panel and the floor.
“All right, show me what you found.” Sam beams.
“Dude, you’re going to lose your shit.” Dean grins at Sam.
Sam rolls his eyes, but smiles. He never thought they’d get this back. Maybe Dean hasn’t fully come to appreciate women’s plight, but Sam is certain they’ve at least come to appreciate each other. He doesn’t think there’s a bigger magic trick than that.