Fic: 'in disguises no one knows' (Sam/Dean; NC-17) 1/5
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Master Post | Artwork | Soundtrack
Get them out of the way.
*
Sam wakes up, laid out on an empty stretch of road, unfamiliar straining of well-worn, too-washed material on skin.
Thing is, body and mind’s off center. Everything is off and where are they?-
*
There’s a lot of breathing, heavy, strong stink of vomit and blood and urine that assaults the nose. Shadows work their way downward. Pulling at hair, flesh. Sharp edges and ends that break skin and dig in, sift easily through.
There are voices that Dean hears through the haze of pain. She feels hot wet spilling overhead and if it’s blood or water, there’s no way to tell.
Melting, comes the thought, doesn’t feel like a good way to die.
*
This is the kicker as the world lurches into focus, blurriness that gives way to blue-black sky and the red glow of a car’s tail lights. No sound or sight, and then everything all at once, too many sensations flooding in.
Differently.
Because Sam Winchester is a girl, always has been, near six feet of gangly limbs and messy hair, and just like that-horrible new welcome to the world-she isn’t.
Her body feels thick and sluggish as it rises up, dizziness making her brace herself on her hands, rough scrape of gravel under her palms. It’s an all over bad feeling besides the dizziness, knowing something is wrong. For one thing, Sam’s cold, for another, it’s an empty road at God knows whatever hour of the night, or morning, no way to really tell with her sense of time off-kilter.
Sam takes a deep breath, trying not to freak out. But it’s ridiculously easy to do so; she sticks her hands out, turning them over, back and forth. Sam expects to see long and slender fingers, the calluses from guns and knives, the blunt, short nails that look rough and delicate at once, kept short on purpose. But these hands aren’t hers.
They’re long and rough. They’re masculine, and so are her arms, torso, legs, weight and thickness that extends forever, splayed out on the rain slick pavement.
She’s patting herself down when she gets to her jeans, the fly’s open and there’s an opening in the underwear. Men’s underwear.
She’s turned into a man.
It’s a little hard to think clearly, like the dull rumble of lightheadedness threatening to send her back into unconsciousness. Looks like a curse; she pinches herself in the shoulder and she doesn’t wake up. There is only the road beneath her and her shaky legs.
Sam grabs her chest and feels firm and flat muscle under a tattered t-shirt, a dirt-streaked flannel shirt on top, sleeves rolled up. Even though she’s disoriented, she manages to register the fact that these pectoral muscles are larger than her breasts. Actually she’s kind of big all over.
She stands and the ground seems to fall away, further at this impossible height. Everything’s struggling to come into focus as she touches herself gingerly, checking for wounds, and blinking away the fuzziness in her eyes. Sam takes a deep breath and looks at her surroundings. Last time she checked they were outside of Big Spring, Texas, on a road surrounded by darkness and the rare tree on either side, low rolling banks covered in dead grass and dirt before they’d dip into the stretch of forever, blurring into the horizon. A few yards away, the Impala’s parked on the shoulder of the road, empty, the radio playing low.
Nausea threatens to overtake her as she swallows, advances in large, wobbly steps to the car. It’s like walking on stilts at this new height. Combined with that, there’s this shitty feeling, an out-of-body experience without the psychedelic high. Not like Sam’s ever experienced a high unless she counts the trip courtesy of the African Dream Root.
And there’s a new problem because when Sam reaches for the memory of that exploit, of having to walk around in Dean’s mind, it comes hazy and indistinct. She runs her hand over the back of her now giant head, seeking to see if there’s any damage or a sign of concussion.
Sam checks the car when she reaches it, bracing an arm against the roof. Her whole body aches, feeling grimy and sweaty, her larger, muscular forearm unsettling to look at. Like the body part doesn’t belong to her-and if that’s not bad enough, the car’s empty and she’s alone.
She tries to ignore the headache building in her temples as she takes a shuddering breath, leaning against the car and opening the trunk. The throbbing increases, as her body goes on autopilot, carrying on. Letting that sense of self-preservation take over, let it carry her through.
The training’s gone on for twenty years in a body she was just getting used to, growing into her face and everything and-
Dean.
She’s alone now. She’s not supposed to be alone.
Sam pulls out a sawed-off shotgun-her own gun’s missing, never a good sign-and heads toward the right bank and the messy trail of leaves and broken branches.
She heads down through the brush, trying to be as quiet as possible in an unfamiliar body, accommodating for the heavier weight and thicker limbs. Her jeans are wasted, her shirt is too. It’s the kind of cold that has her nipples hard, the image of Dean in her head, laughing at her predicament and mouthing the word headlights, just to annoy Sam. She’d take freezing any day of the week over being this tall-six feet tall as a girl was fine, but now these few extra inches are pushing Sam into giant territory. Maybe even seven feet tall. She’s really damn huge now and she’s trying not to get whacked in the face by an errant tree branch. Leave it to her to have to go looking in the one place where the trees are huddled together as though the plants are almost surviving out of spite.
Sam reaches the crest of a small hill and surveys the land below. A wide swath of leaves cuts through the thick layer of branches deep into a ditch. In the little light available, it’s almost black and white, this dark patch of blue against darker ground. There’s a man at the bottom of the ditch lying facedown, one arm against his back.
There’s a man.
Anxiety, familiar feeling in Sam’s stomach, settles hard and fast and her knees buckle because if this is, God it can’t be. Doesn’t matter though. Sam always has to know.
Sam’s calling out to him, and he isn’t moving. Might not be breathing. She automatically moves forward, few unsteady steps before she slides down the ditch, faster, awkwardly supporting herself so she won’t fall head over heels.
Getting there feels like it takes forever, nausea forgotten in her rush. Her motions are hurried and abrupt, a little manic as she grabs and turns him over. His pulse is steady under her fingers when her large hand cups the soft flesh of his neck and jaw, lips too plush and pale.
“Wake up,” she says. “Wake up!”
Trying to check this guy and make sure he’s all right has her trying not to focus on the little things, like the rough rumble of her voice, deeper than she expects.
The next thing out of her mouth is, “Where’d you get this?” as she pulls at the amulet on his chest. And that’s when her eyes roam over the bends of his muscles, up his chest and to his face as he stirs awake. He’s a bit older than her, probably at the end of his twenties. Strong jaw, too, nose a little crooked if offered the opportunity to look took long.
It takes Sam longer that it should to recognize who it is, to place the distinctly male features on a somewhat softer portrait in her head.
Dean.
Her sister, Deana, Dean, Dee, the name doesn’t matter, what does matter is that she’s now a man. One that is struggling to stir awake, weird rapid eye movement behind closed lids. Sam takes stock of Dean, trying to force on waking her up, ignoring the way her stomach drops at the sight of different facial features, muscles, body. The sudden cold cutting through Sam, making her shiver, certainly doesn’t help matters.
“Sam,” she slurs, frowning, eyes not open yet. But they snap wide open, this brilliant, unmistakable green in the light, green that darts left and right as Dean looks up, trying to focus. “Sam…Sam, you’re… Where’s-where’s my sister, what’s-Oh God, Sam!”
“Dee. Dee, it’s me. Calm down,” Sam says, trying to grab onto Dean’s shoulders, but it does her no good; only has Dean pulling away, frantic, look of terror on her face. It fills Sam with dread and warmth all at once. Dread at the still fresh pain of losing her, over and over-the way Dean’s body was crumpled in a parking lot a few weeks back, right at the Mystery Spot, and Dean wouldn’t wake up. And then there’s warmth flooding through Sam, as Dean wakes up, knowing Dee’s okay, that she’s alive.
Only it’s the picture before her that’s displaced, like the nasty streak of blackish red against Dean’s cheekbone, superficial wound caked with dirt from the fall. Dean winces, brow furrows before her eyes widen. She backpedals and staggers to her feet, peering down at Sam. It’s a long moment that has Dean looking like she’s going to either pull out a gun or run off, her adrenaline pumping. Sam knows the feeling, only the nausea doesn’t seem to hit Dean like it did her-she knows she’d be throwing up if she moved like that, too fast and jerky.
Dean takes a breath and stops to looks at herself, starts to pats herself down-arms, chest, legs. “Oh, God. I’m a dude.”
“Deana-”
“No Deana here, little sis,” Dean says, her fingers wandering, cups between her legs and says with a disgusting amount of awe, “I have a dick.”
“I can see that,” Sam says even though she’s making every pointed effort not to. “You good to climb?”
“I-uh, I think so. Yeah. Yeah, gimme a sec,” she says, stretching out her legs, still wobbly like this gigantic newborn colt.
When Sam offers her hand, Dee grabs onto it without mentioning how it looks, two men walking around holding hands, leaning in close.
Her side presses up against Sam’s once they start to make their way up the ditch, panting as they go. They reach the road, Dean’s warm hand against Sam’s waist and side, clutching a handful of jacket for balance. She turns to face Sam, standing on the edge of the embankment. She’s a few inches shorter than Sam still, with the same scrutinizing gaze that’s unsettling when it’s focused on her. But the angles of her face are sharper, shadows playing across her cheekbones.
Dean swallows hard when she gets her first look at Sam. All that’s missing is some nasty joke about Sam’s appearance but Dean is unnaturally quiet, stumbling against Sam, hand ghosting against Sam’s stomach as though trying to make sure Sam’s real.
“You okay?”
Dean doesn’t respond for a moment, little cough before she curtly nods her head in affirmation.
They start to walk down the road, going a few dozen feet before Dean says, casually, “You’re kinda okay looking. For a guy, I mean.”
“Shut up, Deana,” Sam says, her hand clamping on Dean’s arm, jerking a little at the feel of corded muscle underneath her canvas jacket. Sam’s hand drops as they walk to the car, feeling uncomfortable. It’s as though she’s walking with a stranger, tension in the air that’s not just discomfort, but a disconcerting feeling that happens when your body is fucked beyond recognition.
Sam decides not to tell Dean this thought.
“Seriously,” Dean continues, waves her free hand as her fingertips again brush the cold flesh of Sam’s abs, giving her goose bumps, “And you’re friggin’ huge.”
“I know,” Sam says, smacks Dean’s hand off her stomach which doesn’t help as Dean then lays claim to holding onto Sam’s hip. “When you’re done staring at the place where my breasts are supposed to be, maybe we can head back to the motel, huh?”
“I’m just sayin’. You’re pretty big,” Dean says, jerks her head like she’s trying to avoid a bug; her hand goes up, brushes against her own cheek and neck, like she’s going to flip her hair back. But her hair is short, a buzz cut on the nape of her neck that looks soft to the touch.
Sam’s never been much of a tactile person but her fingers flex involuntarily. She wishes she could curl her fingers into a jacket instead of jamming her hands into the front pockets of these jeans, her right hand coming up against her money clip. Which is strangely absent.
She takes her hands out when she nearly feels it between her legs move. Dean grins at that, first real smile Dean’s given since she stirred out of unconsciousness.
“At least you’re still average. For, uh, for a guy. I’m gonna be picking leaves out of my hair for days.”
Sam turns on her heel to wait as Dean stops to thumb the waistband of her own jeans and underwear-Sam gets a glimpse of boxer-briefs, that’s new-pulls a belt loop with a finger and looks down. A moment passes before Dean looks up, her eyebrows arching.
“Bigger than average, actually. At least we’ve got one good thing goin’ for us tonight.”
She doesn’t give Sam a chance to respond when she claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder, adding, “Let’s go to the motel. Your headlights are on even under all those stupid layers. God, you dress dyketastic even when you’re a dude.”
The outer shirt is beyond saving-Sam peels it off. She takes the ripped flannel shirt and whaps it against Dee’s shoulder, getting a chuckle in return. Her chest is near bare with the shredded remains of the t-shirt, skin covered in goose bumps. Her pants are in tatters and her ripped sneakers are a lost cause, ruined by the underbrush in the ditch.
Dean’s clothes are in fine condition, looking like an average man just sprung from a bar fight (so essentially a male version of Dee after a typical weekend). Just a normal guy, unlike the lunatic Sam appears to be.
The temperature is decent, but Sam still feels a chill that shakes her. Everything’s a little askew, out of focus. Like a dream. Or maybe even like that edge of reality when you’re just hanging on the cusp of being asleep and awake.
Dean seems to notice Sam’s shiver, pulls off her jacket and throws it to Sam. It fits, snug.
They don’t talk until they’re at the car, each slipping inside only to bump their heads on the doorframes, a burst of “Fuck!” and “Oww!” in tandem as they adjust to bodies that are so much different. Bodies they aren’t used to, not yet.
*
Three or four turns of the radio dial bring static, then late night bullshitting about politics, followed by infomercials, and classic rock. The first few notes of Grand Funk Railroad’s “Walk Like A Man” make Dean settle on the station. Dean appreciates the irony, because it’s better than thinking about the dull ache in her knees and legs, how everything seems detached, even during the simple act of driving.
So this is pretty fucking awkward now. The reality’s sinking them fast and now they’re stuck at worse than square one because whatever put ‘em through the ringer made sure as fuck to muddle with their minds too and not just their bodies.
Sam doesn’t say a word; her knees knock against the glove compartment, body shifting awkwardly as she tries to slouch. Something like shock getting its firm grip on her and it’s time to make a joke or something, snap Sam right out of it because they can’t let things built up before they even have words to explain how it happened, not even memories.
Even remembering is difficult, like how Dean landed sprawled in a ditch but not all that cut up. Took the usual inventory, ‘cause it's no good to be bitching about injuries later. So long as you aren’t near dying, you’re fine. Dean’s not gonna think about the near dying part, because that’s where the problem lies and they’re already knee-deep in another freakin’ kind of messed up trouble.
So, Sam’s a little worse for wear and a freakin’ giant dude and Dean’s-what, a chick with a dick?-there are P.C. terms for it that Sam might know if Dean asked, but Sam’s stock-still and Dean’s not sure how to break the freakin’ ice. Not now, since this isn’t just a real bad dream.
It’s not fine even though that’s what Dean should be saying. That they’ll be fine and hey the mindfuck has already happened, no way that they could sink any lower than this. The worst of it, outside of the whole waking up on a stretch of road in the wrong body, will be over and done with and they’ll scrape by like they always do. There are some cuts and fading bruises but nothing life threatening.
They are going to be fine.
Dean curses under her breath when she takes the wrong turn, has to pull a nasty 360 to get righted again and Sam just stares, eyes wide. Dean doesn’t want to know what Sam’s doing by looking at Dean like that. Dean’s fine and they will be fine.
“Dee,” Sam says, gentling tone that meshes oddly with the altered voice. Dean could shut up Sam by saying Sam’s using a sex voice on Dean and since that’s the team Dean’s on, it’s sending all kind of mixed signals. But then Dean would have to admit that there are some signals heading straight to Dean’s brain-and not to mention groin, which awesome, it does have a mind of its own. Wait, Sam’s saying something only Dean’s completely blanking out.
“You’re hyperventilating,” Sam says, voice low but a little tight, stress coming through. “Pull over.”
“I am not-I’m not.” It’s funny how the words squeeze out as Dean slows down to something near to the actual speed limit.
Sam’s hands are ridiculously large now and Dean should throw some weight into these new shoulders, ram Sam back to the passenger side. But with her breathing coming out all ragged, maybe it’s a good idea to listen to Sam because yeah, wheezing like this should only happen after a fight. Or amazing sex.
Seeing as Dean’s not doing either, stopping seems like a pretty good idea.
With eyes closed, it’s like Dean’s in the car with two strangers. Sam’s fingers are on Dean’s pulse point and this ‘stranger’ tells her, “Your heart’s racing.”
“I’m fine,” the other stranger-Dean, in this new body-answers.
Dean can smell past the stink of them, the slight spice of Sam. Shit, there goes that dick again, can’t think about it, otherwise some hysterical laughter might just bubble out of Dean and if there’s one thing Dean has never been, it’s a hysterical female.
And especially not now.
Scrubbing at her face with larger hands, Dean pulls back from Sam, the car door wedged up against her side.
“I said I’ll be fine. Not every day I wake up in a new body. Finally hit me. Okay?”
“I think I understand,” Sam says, hands flexing like she has no idea what to do with them.
Dean has to bite back the bitchy comment dying to be unleashed and shakes her head, unnerved by the lack of hair swinging in accompaniment.
“I’m not hysterical,” Dean insists.
“I… didn’t say you were?”
“You’re thinking it.”
“No,” Sam says, saying the words slowly, “I’m thinking that you probably got hit on the head and maybe it’s really dumb to let you drive.”
“Hell no,” Dean says and the knot of not-hysteria is already easing, as though bitching at Sam is an instant stress-reliever (and that would kind of explain a few things). “No way you’re fucking driving with those giant legs. What if you Hulk out and smash out my baby’s floor when you try hitting the accelerator?”
Sam pinches the bridge of her nose, frowning and saying, “My nose is huge, isn’t it?”
“Um.” Dean looks over and takes in the fact that Sam’s fingers are really long now. Oh fuck. “It’s fine.”
Sam’s leaning back, throat exposed, hard bob of an Adam’s apple when Sam talks. It’s kind of distracting.
“Hey,” Dean coughs, shaking a really bad thought away-just what would Sam taste like?-and says, “I think I’m good to go.”
It’s a longer drive back than Dean expects, but there’s not much in the way of distractions, lots of flat land, and grass. She tries to figure out how they got this far in the middle of nowhere. A sparse little town rises over the slight bend to greet them. A couple of rundown, seedy bars and convenience stores, the only places open this late to greet them.
Dean isn’t comforted by the quiet.
They reach a stop light when Sam straightens, head grazing the roof of the Impala as she sits up and then slouches back down, uncomfortable.
Dean knows that Sam hates the strange body, that she’s frustrated at her lack of control in the situation. Maybe it’s a little bit of arrogance Dean can’t help latching onto, Sam’s inability to deal with that lack sometimes. There are some things that do suck, mostly twisted up with goddamn demons but Dean can’t let Sam see this as another obstacle, another pitfall they’ve fallen into. There’s too many bad situations that they’ve barely survived and now right on Sam’s face (not her face, but it’s still Sam in there) is frustration at this being one more thing that they can’t handle.
They’ll get through this if it kills Dean and since most everything as of late is itching to be her personal grim reaper, as ridiculous and freaking scary as this is, Dean’s not going to let it get them down.
Even if her heart’s beating too fast, palms sweaty. The light’s been green, turning yellow now and Sam can’t take it anymore. Dean can tell by the way she keeps shifting her weight in her seat, unable to keep still. Dean makes a point of waiting out Sam in circumstances like this and it always freaking works.
“Deana. Aren’t you going to-”
“Dean.”
There’s no good way this is gonna end. Because Dean has always wondered about something like this. Not wondering about waking up on the side of the road with no idea of what the fuck happened. But she’s wondered about being like this, being a… Jesus, Dean can’t even say it out loud.
But she looks over at Sam and Dean hates it when she gets mixed up in these things. It’s unsettling, because fuck, it’s Sam. Little giant sister turned brother and no one should look that freaking good covered in grime and gunk.
“What?”
“You know I hate bein’ called Deana. We’re guys now. So,” she starts, licking her lips, “you should call me Dean. Can’t slip up now, Samantha. Okay?”
Sam grunts. “This is only temporary.”
“We don’t know that,” Dean says. “It’s easy. Just drop a letter. ‘Cause, look. I don’t remember. Anything. So unless you have some recollection of who whammied us, or magically know if we’re gonna wake up tomorrow in our regular bodies, then we better-”
“No.”
“No?”
“We’ll figure this out.”
Dean shakes her head and ow, fucking crick in her neck cracks loudly. Rubbing the back of her neck idly, she says, “Tell me where to go. ‘Cause we wound up in the middle of nowhere and there’s miles of nowhere ahead of us.”
And God that’s what Dean wants, for once, a fucking boundary line or a plan that’ll make fuckin’ sense. Because the gut feeling that’s responsible more often than not for Dean’s survival-when Sammy’s not stepping in to save Dean’s hide-it’s not giving off the best of signals.
It’s like a really bad fucking cramp, telling Dean this: they’re about to fall a lot further down the rabbit hole.
“Dee, let’s just go to the motel, okay? There has to be an answer there. I mean. There has to be.”
“Yeah. Gotta be. Cause it wasn’t just some hoo-doo priestess trying to make us see how the other half lives.” Dean laughs a little weakly. It sounds strange and the pissed-off look Sam shoots her direction is well-deserved. “I mean, no woman scorned is gonna turn us into dudes. You haven’t pissed off anyone, lately, right?”
“Not like it could have had something to do with the spirit.”
“Wait. Spirit?”
“Our last case?”
“Fuck.”
(High winds and dust kicking up, and this thin, young woman. Red rimmed eyes, body transparent. She opens her mouth to scream, but that’s when it all goes black.)
“It’s green again.”
“I know. I still have eyes.” Dean looks in the rearview mirror and says, impressed, “I even have my eyelashes.”
“Just not some of your memories. I don’t like this, Dee.”
“We’re gonna get through this, Sammy.” And since Dean can’t let it end there, she punches Sam in the shoulder, used to punch her in the boob whenever she’d been a major bitch going through her super brat part of her teen years, only that won’t really do much considering she’s a lot more flat-chested now. Ridiculously muscular as well.
And that part of it kinda isn’t fair. Sure, in the dim light, Dean’s guy body is hot but she’s gonna be disappointed if she can’t grate cheese off her abs. The way that Sam’s stomach is cut, she’d be able to grate Parmesan into fine shreds.
“Damn it,” Dean says. “I’m really fucking hungry.”
“Great. Way to think like a guy, Dee.”
“What? With my stomach? Sam, I promise you, that’s not what they’re thinking with most of the time.”
It’s a good thing Dean’s right in the middle of making a weird face at Sam because the moment her dick twitches, Dean nearly lets out a yelp. Oh, this is gonna be plenty interesting.
“Ugh,” Sam responds and if it weren’t for the fact that they’re well and totally screwed, it almost feels like it’ll be okay. The ease at which they’re slipping back into these nonsense arguments makes it all seem a little less traumatic.
Dean must be starving if the delusions have already set in.
“We need to figure how the hell this happened as soon as fucking possible. Only us, dude. Only us. Turning into guys. Guess it could be worse.”
“I’m sorry, how could this be worse?”
“Half and half.”
“You just… had to go there.”
“What? How could I not go there? We’re chicks with dicks, but at least most people won’t pick up on us the ‘chicks’ part. Well, until you start talking about the women-with-a-y collective bullshit.”
There’s a beat of silence before Sam snorts and shakes her head.
“Right. I’m the distraction.”
“You are when you’re the tallest thing for miles, Sammy.”
“God. Don’t remind me.”
*
The motel’s in a state of disarray like always. Sam watches Dean push past her, knocking Sam’s now giant shoulder into the doorjamb. She keeps on forgetting the larger bulk of her body. That they can’t squeeze into a doorway two at a time. It’s a little amazing to her that she’s able to enter the motel room period, as she’s just impossibly big, feels too massive for the world.
Sam breathes in, steps forward and trips over her own two feet, nearly dropping to a knee.
Her sister looks at her, tossing a smirk over her shoulder from an unfamiliar mouth, lips still plump and almost-red.
It’s a weird effect to see her sister this way. Even weirder, how it’s apt for Sam to call this strange newly male version of her sister Dean. Because for all intents and purposes, this is her sister, Deana, turned into her male twin, complete with a cocky swagger that puts to shame all the male displays of testosterone Sam’s seen throughout the entire course of her life.
And the shortened nickname fits, especially in light of those early years when Sam couldn’t quite work out those two syllables. She’d say Dee and nuh, all proud of herself. Never could get the hang of it altogether, though. Ended up only saying Dean instead. It stuck and Dean pushed for other people to use it. When she wasn’t conjuring up another fake name, that is. Janis Joplin, Patty Hearst. Those were classic and if there’s one thing her sister adored above all else, it was the classics.
Dean’s halfway to the bathroom, calling over her shoulder, “Watch where you’re going. I’m not gonna drag your heavy ass in here if you go and knock yourself out.”
Sam glares and steps through the minefield of crap on the floor, following Dean. Her breath catches in her throat when she sidles up next to Dean in the bathroom, both of them staring at the mirror.
Their facial features, eyes, lips, mouth, are stretched and hardened, rougher skin over sharp cheekbones. Short hair for Dean, messy and longish for Sam. Stronger, wider jaws. Dean’s eyes are vibrant and the green is even more obvious in a masculine face, and she palms, flattens her hair, and pokes at it. The light casts a dull fluorescent glow on their skin as Dean lifts the bottom of her shirt, rolls it up over smooth muscle. There’s a pleased smirk to her mouth, lips still full, running her tongue over identical white and even teeth.
Sam just sort of stares at herself, at this man that’s her reflection, that’s got thirty, forty pounds of muscle on her. Where the hell was this before? Sam certainly doesn’t feel like some muscle-bound jock but the body disproves her natural tendency to slouch, all wiry and lean-framed.
There’s a wheedling, crazed kind of voice in the back of her brain that rejects the person in front of her, a man with her face shaped harder, Dean’s jacket snug around her bare, broad shoulders and upper chest. Sam’s hands move up, settling on the ring of black ink, the tattoo that rests right above her heart. She feels awkward under her own gaze, under Dean’s. Adding insult to injury, Dean’s not even herself; for a second, Sam feels like she’s in a room with a stranger looking her up and down. A male stranger she doesn’t know and she resists putting herself into position to blow a kick to the groin or punch to the face.
Feather light fingertips roam over her belly, up to her pecs, bowing her head to avoid Dean’s reflection. “Shit.”
“This is-Wow,” Dean says, lets out a breath and looks at Sam, tugging at Sam’s shirt, pulling at it. It doesn’t feel like an invasion at all, not when it’s Dee doing it and how fucked up is that?
“Dee,” Sam says plaintively and Dean lets go.
Dean’s eyes widen as she says, shaking her head in amazement, “Look at you. This isn’t fair. I mean, dude, I’m hot, but you, you’re like, you’re ripped.”
Dean claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder, grinning. Pride in her eyes, like having washboard abs is a commendable thing.
Hard to concentrate on that when Sam is avoiding her dick twitching in her boxers, sudden movement of it bringing forth a world of ‘no.’
Sam licks her lips, letting her hands hover near the sink edge, vaguely covering her crotch. Time to focus on something else, and all the covering for erections leads her mind and gaze to a spot high on her chest. “What’s, uh. What happened to my tattoo?”
“What?”
Dean’s brow furrows as she leans in towards the mirror, looking at it, before whipping around and nearly plowing into Sam. She grunts, posture unsteady in the small bathroom, hand tracing Sam’s shoulder. “Wait a minute, you had it here. On your arm. Right?”
“Yeah, ‘cause I’d get a tattoo right over my breast. Don’t think so. Why did it move here?”
Dean ignores her, already looking at her own reflection again. She starts to unzip her jeans and tug up her shirt mid-waist, boxers and denim low on her hips. Dean stretches awkwardly and paws at her back, trying to grab at what little extra flesh she might have.
“Hey. Hey, Dee. Stay still,” Sam says, because the cut on Dean’s cheekbone isn’t going to go away any time soon. Best to focus on that and not on the faint freckles spread across harsher cheekbones, less flesh rounding out her features. Dean’s face feels swollen and tender under Sam’s fingers as she wipes away the dirt and dry blood. Doesn’t get a chance to do it for long, because Dean’s still turning, scowling.
“You don’t have to share with the class all the wonders of your body,” Sam grumbles.
“You see my tattoo? It’s-Oh, come on. That’s not right,” Dean complains, jerks her head away as she tries to look over her right shoulder, then her left.
The circular black tattoo is gone from the small of her back. Sam had dubbed it the Tramp Stamp, to which Dean would just grin, show all her teeth like a dare. But it’s missing and Dean is a man looking for her trashy little tattoo that should be square in the middle of her lower back.
The bathroom isn’t big enough for Dean’s stretching, or Sam’s embarrassment at seeing the trail of hair leading into Dean’s boxers, the swirl of dirt and sweat streaking her naked skin. The distinctly male skin of a strange new body that Sam really needs to stop looking at. But she gets a flash of something familiar when Dean stretches, and she whacks Dean on the shoulder to point.
“I think I know where your tattoo ended up.”
When Dean pulls the neckline of her shirt down, and the tattoo rests in the same spot as Sam’s-a little higher than her heart-she stares, open-mouthed. Then says, “Oh. Oh my God.”
Sam rubs the back of her neck. “Dean. It’s not that-”
“Dude. We-we have matching tattoos. Oh God. Oh my God, that’s so gay.”
“Actually being gay would be gay,” Sam says, not for the first time. Dean’s got quite the affinity for calling things gay. Good to know not everything has changed. Sure, Sam’s a lesbian but apparently any attempt to be a little politically correct has never registered with Dean.
Dean lets go of her shirt collar, lip a thin line. The novelty seems to wear off as her gaze lingers on Sam’s chest, almost burns the way she doesn’t move, says, without looking up, “We gotta talk to Bobby.”
A few minutes later, hunching awkwardly in the chair in the main room, Sam tries to cross her legs and winces at the pain-flesh, just hanging, between her thighs-so she uncrosses them and tries to sit with her legs as closed as she’s able to, comfortably.
The laptop is on and Sam brushes hair out of her eyes, trying to draft an e-mail in her head. Get Bobby to help. Keep it vague on purpose, not saying directly what’s happened to them. It’ll probably bite her in the ass but frankly, she just doesn’t want him to know. He’ll marvel at how Sam and Dean are idiots because that’s what Bobby always does. Especially now that they’ve let Bela run off with the Colt.
Sam notices that the wireless connection’s sluggish. In fact, when the connection finally goes through, her last e-mails come up dated back several days ago. There should be more recent e-mails but they’re gone.
The e-mail that Sam sends Bobby is short and sweet and immediately bounces back which doesn’t surprise Sam. Bobby’s not exactly a stickler for looking at his e-mail and his server’s limit is pretty pathetic. Trying to call Bobby sends her to voicemail and she leaves the weirdest message she has ever left, awkwardness pitching her voice to a higher register, asking Bobby to call her back as soon as possible.
“It’s hard to explain,” Sam says, deciding to go with the understatement of the year.
Dean’s rifling through her duffle, trying to keep herself busy by the looks of it; her movements are stilted, hands darting in large and unfamiliar arcs as she tries to adjust to the farther reach of her limbs. There’s no who or what yet in this equation for Dean to deal with, Sam knows, for her to take out her energy and anger against.
She’s trying to keep busy as she searches, and after a few minutes, with finality, she says, “It’s all guy clothes. All my stuff’s gone. Even my sluttiest clothes for the job. The leather skirt, the black thigh highs, that blue halter I picked up in Cleveland. You know, the one that shows off my tits and tat? It’s not here.”
“What?”
Sam gets up to go look at her own bag, pulling out items frantically with her ridiculously large hands. “My stuff’s missing too. This doesn’t make any sense. These are just boy clothes.”
Dean walks over to inspect the contents. Which mostly involves her scratching at her belly absently under her shirt. “Yeah, so, it’s exactly the same only now you’re wearing guy clothes on purpose.”
Sam lifts up a shirt. “They’re all so…big.”
“That ain’t the only thing that’s big.”
“Dean.”
“Whatever, bitch. You were asking for it.” Dean grabs Sam’s duffel and continues looking through it, pulling out a satin bra. “Hey. Is this-”
“You know that’s not mine,” Sam says, annoyed because the bra has absolutely no function and it’s got a little satin bow in between the cups and Sam’s kind of sure it’s from Frederick’s of Hollywood and that’s Dee’s kind of obvious and tacky. “That has to be yours. It’s smaller than mine.”
“Me?” Dean huffs and then puffs out his chest as though there’s anything there to push out, made even more obvious when it’s a flat chest, not as broad as Sam’s now. “That bra’s way too small. I have fuckin’ amazing tits.”
“Not right now.”
“Fine! But there’s no way I could squeeze into a friggin’ B-cup. Damn it, Sam. That ain’t right.”
“Yeah. Because the rest of this is.”
Dean’s examining the tag, pointing at it like the truth has set her free. “You see this here? 32B. I’m a 34D.”
Deciding to ignore that Dean’s lying about her actual bra size, Sam shakes her head and says, “Fine, it’s not either of ours-”
“So it’s one of your trophies?”
“That’s so incredibly disgusting I don’t even want to start.”
“Sammy, it’s perfectly natural to want to remember sweet, sweet loving in a meadow of rolling hills as you frolicked naked under a stretch of blue sky-”
“You know I really hate that you associate lesbian sex with really bad romance novels.”
Dean shrugs. “I’m a very open-minded girl. Guy.”
“You know, I’d rather you be an open-minded girl before I lose my mind talking to a ‘guy’ about lesbian sex.” Sam shudders at hearing her male voice say lesbian sex.
Dean’s face is lit up and she says cheerfully, “Please Sammy. Like no guy’s ever asked you about girl-on-girl.”
Part Two
Get them out of the way.
*
Sam wakes up, laid out on an empty stretch of road, unfamiliar straining of well-worn, too-washed material on skin.
Thing is, body and mind’s off center. Everything is off and where are they?-
*
There’s a lot of breathing, heavy, strong stink of vomit and blood and urine that assaults the nose. Shadows work their way downward. Pulling at hair, flesh. Sharp edges and ends that break skin and dig in, sift easily through.
There are voices that Dean hears through the haze of pain. She feels hot wet spilling overhead and if it’s blood or water, there’s no way to tell.
Melting, comes the thought, doesn’t feel like a good way to die.
*
This is the kicker as the world lurches into focus, blurriness that gives way to blue-black sky and the red glow of a car’s tail lights. No sound or sight, and then everything all at once, too many sensations flooding in.
Differently.
Because Sam Winchester is a girl, always has been, near six feet of gangly limbs and messy hair, and just like that-horrible new welcome to the world-she isn’t.
Her body feels thick and sluggish as it rises up, dizziness making her brace herself on her hands, rough scrape of gravel under her palms. It’s an all over bad feeling besides the dizziness, knowing something is wrong. For one thing, Sam’s cold, for another, it’s an empty road at God knows whatever hour of the night, or morning, no way to really tell with her sense of time off-kilter.
Sam takes a deep breath, trying not to freak out. But it’s ridiculously easy to do so; she sticks her hands out, turning them over, back and forth. Sam expects to see long and slender fingers, the calluses from guns and knives, the blunt, short nails that look rough and delicate at once, kept short on purpose. But these hands aren’t hers.
They’re long and rough. They’re masculine, and so are her arms, torso, legs, weight and thickness that extends forever, splayed out on the rain slick pavement.
She’s patting herself down when she gets to her jeans, the fly’s open and there’s an opening in the underwear. Men’s underwear.
She’s turned into a man.
It’s a little hard to think clearly, like the dull rumble of lightheadedness threatening to send her back into unconsciousness. Looks like a curse; she pinches herself in the shoulder and she doesn’t wake up. There is only the road beneath her and her shaky legs.
Sam grabs her chest and feels firm and flat muscle under a tattered t-shirt, a dirt-streaked flannel shirt on top, sleeves rolled up. Even though she’s disoriented, she manages to register the fact that these pectoral muscles are larger than her breasts. Actually she’s kind of big all over.
She stands and the ground seems to fall away, further at this impossible height. Everything’s struggling to come into focus as she touches herself gingerly, checking for wounds, and blinking away the fuzziness in her eyes. Sam takes a deep breath and looks at her surroundings. Last time she checked they were outside of Big Spring, Texas, on a road surrounded by darkness and the rare tree on either side, low rolling banks covered in dead grass and dirt before they’d dip into the stretch of forever, blurring into the horizon. A few yards away, the Impala’s parked on the shoulder of the road, empty, the radio playing low.
Nausea threatens to overtake her as she swallows, advances in large, wobbly steps to the car. It’s like walking on stilts at this new height. Combined with that, there’s this shitty feeling, an out-of-body experience without the psychedelic high. Not like Sam’s ever experienced a high unless she counts the trip courtesy of the African Dream Root.
And there’s a new problem because when Sam reaches for the memory of that exploit, of having to walk around in Dean’s mind, it comes hazy and indistinct. She runs her hand over the back of her now giant head, seeking to see if there’s any damage or a sign of concussion.
Sam checks the car when she reaches it, bracing an arm against the roof. Her whole body aches, feeling grimy and sweaty, her larger, muscular forearm unsettling to look at. Like the body part doesn’t belong to her-and if that’s not bad enough, the car’s empty and she’s alone.
She tries to ignore the headache building in her temples as she takes a shuddering breath, leaning against the car and opening the trunk. The throbbing increases, as her body goes on autopilot, carrying on. Letting that sense of self-preservation take over, let it carry her through.
The training’s gone on for twenty years in a body she was just getting used to, growing into her face and everything and-
Dean.
She’s alone now. She’s not supposed to be alone.
Sam pulls out a sawed-off shotgun-her own gun’s missing, never a good sign-and heads toward the right bank and the messy trail of leaves and broken branches.
She heads down through the brush, trying to be as quiet as possible in an unfamiliar body, accommodating for the heavier weight and thicker limbs. Her jeans are wasted, her shirt is too. It’s the kind of cold that has her nipples hard, the image of Dean in her head, laughing at her predicament and mouthing the word headlights, just to annoy Sam. She’d take freezing any day of the week over being this tall-six feet tall as a girl was fine, but now these few extra inches are pushing Sam into giant territory. Maybe even seven feet tall. She’s really damn huge now and she’s trying not to get whacked in the face by an errant tree branch. Leave it to her to have to go looking in the one place where the trees are huddled together as though the plants are almost surviving out of spite.
Sam reaches the crest of a small hill and surveys the land below. A wide swath of leaves cuts through the thick layer of branches deep into a ditch. In the little light available, it’s almost black and white, this dark patch of blue against darker ground. There’s a man at the bottom of the ditch lying facedown, one arm against his back.
There’s a man.
Anxiety, familiar feeling in Sam’s stomach, settles hard and fast and her knees buckle because if this is, God it can’t be. Doesn’t matter though. Sam always has to know.
Sam’s calling out to him, and he isn’t moving. Might not be breathing. She automatically moves forward, few unsteady steps before she slides down the ditch, faster, awkwardly supporting herself so she won’t fall head over heels.
Getting there feels like it takes forever, nausea forgotten in her rush. Her motions are hurried and abrupt, a little manic as she grabs and turns him over. His pulse is steady under her fingers when her large hand cups the soft flesh of his neck and jaw, lips too plush and pale.
“Wake up,” she says. “Wake up!”
Trying to check this guy and make sure he’s all right has her trying not to focus on the little things, like the rough rumble of her voice, deeper than she expects.
The next thing out of her mouth is, “Where’d you get this?” as she pulls at the amulet on his chest. And that’s when her eyes roam over the bends of his muscles, up his chest and to his face as he stirs awake. He’s a bit older than her, probably at the end of his twenties. Strong jaw, too, nose a little crooked if offered the opportunity to look took long.
It takes Sam longer that it should to recognize who it is, to place the distinctly male features on a somewhat softer portrait in her head.
Dean.
Her sister, Deana, Dean, Dee, the name doesn’t matter, what does matter is that she’s now a man. One that is struggling to stir awake, weird rapid eye movement behind closed lids. Sam takes stock of Dean, trying to force on waking her up, ignoring the way her stomach drops at the sight of different facial features, muscles, body. The sudden cold cutting through Sam, making her shiver, certainly doesn’t help matters.
“Sam,” she slurs, frowning, eyes not open yet. But they snap wide open, this brilliant, unmistakable green in the light, green that darts left and right as Dean looks up, trying to focus. “Sam…Sam, you’re… Where’s-where’s my sister, what’s-Oh God, Sam!”
“Dee. Dee, it’s me. Calm down,” Sam says, trying to grab onto Dean’s shoulders, but it does her no good; only has Dean pulling away, frantic, look of terror on her face. It fills Sam with dread and warmth all at once. Dread at the still fresh pain of losing her, over and over-the way Dean’s body was crumpled in a parking lot a few weeks back, right at the Mystery Spot, and Dean wouldn’t wake up. And then there’s warmth flooding through Sam, as Dean wakes up, knowing Dee’s okay, that she’s alive.
Only it’s the picture before her that’s displaced, like the nasty streak of blackish red against Dean’s cheekbone, superficial wound caked with dirt from the fall. Dean winces, brow furrows before her eyes widen. She backpedals and staggers to her feet, peering down at Sam. It’s a long moment that has Dean looking like she’s going to either pull out a gun or run off, her adrenaline pumping. Sam knows the feeling, only the nausea doesn’t seem to hit Dean like it did her-she knows she’d be throwing up if she moved like that, too fast and jerky.
Dean takes a breath and stops to looks at herself, starts to pats herself down-arms, chest, legs. “Oh, God. I’m a dude.”
“Deana-”
“No Deana here, little sis,” Dean says, her fingers wandering, cups between her legs and says with a disgusting amount of awe, “I have a dick.”
“I can see that,” Sam says even though she’s making every pointed effort not to. “You good to climb?”
“I-uh, I think so. Yeah. Yeah, gimme a sec,” she says, stretching out her legs, still wobbly like this gigantic newborn colt.
When Sam offers her hand, Dee grabs onto it without mentioning how it looks, two men walking around holding hands, leaning in close.
Her side presses up against Sam’s once they start to make their way up the ditch, panting as they go. They reach the road, Dean’s warm hand against Sam’s waist and side, clutching a handful of jacket for balance. She turns to face Sam, standing on the edge of the embankment. She’s a few inches shorter than Sam still, with the same scrutinizing gaze that’s unsettling when it’s focused on her. But the angles of her face are sharper, shadows playing across her cheekbones.
Dean swallows hard when she gets her first look at Sam. All that’s missing is some nasty joke about Sam’s appearance but Dean is unnaturally quiet, stumbling against Sam, hand ghosting against Sam’s stomach as though trying to make sure Sam’s real.
“You okay?”
Dean doesn’t respond for a moment, little cough before she curtly nods her head in affirmation.
They start to walk down the road, going a few dozen feet before Dean says, casually, “You’re kinda okay looking. For a guy, I mean.”
“Shut up, Deana,” Sam says, her hand clamping on Dean’s arm, jerking a little at the feel of corded muscle underneath her canvas jacket. Sam’s hand drops as they walk to the car, feeling uncomfortable. It’s as though she’s walking with a stranger, tension in the air that’s not just discomfort, but a disconcerting feeling that happens when your body is fucked beyond recognition.
Sam decides not to tell Dean this thought.
“Seriously,” Dean continues, waves her free hand as her fingertips again brush the cold flesh of Sam’s abs, giving her goose bumps, “And you’re friggin’ huge.”
“I know,” Sam says, smacks Dean’s hand off her stomach which doesn’t help as Dean then lays claim to holding onto Sam’s hip. “When you’re done staring at the place where my breasts are supposed to be, maybe we can head back to the motel, huh?”
“I’m just sayin’. You’re pretty big,” Dean says, jerks her head like she’s trying to avoid a bug; her hand goes up, brushes against her own cheek and neck, like she’s going to flip her hair back. But her hair is short, a buzz cut on the nape of her neck that looks soft to the touch.
Sam’s never been much of a tactile person but her fingers flex involuntarily. She wishes she could curl her fingers into a jacket instead of jamming her hands into the front pockets of these jeans, her right hand coming up against her money clip. Which is strangely absent.
She takes her hands out when she nearly feels it between her legs move. Dean grins at that, first real smile Dean’s given since she stirred out of unconsciousness.
“At least you’re still average. For, uh, for a guy. I’m gonna be picking leaves out of my hair for days.”
Sam turns on her heel to wait as Dean stops to thumb the waistband of her own jeans and underwear-Sam gets a glimpse of boxer-briefs, that’s new-pulls a belt loop with a finger and looks down. A moment passes before Dean looks up, her eyebrows arching.
“Bigger than average, actually. At least we’ve got one good thing goin’ for us tonight.”
She doesn’t give Sam a chance to respond when she claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder, adding, “Let’s go to the motel. Your headlights are on even under all those stupid layers. God, you dress dyketastic even when you’re a dude.”
The outer shirt is beyond saving-Sam peels it off. She takes the ripped flannel shirt and whaps it against Dee’s shoulder, getting a chuckle in return. Her chest is near bare with the shredded remains of the t-shirt, skin covered in goose bumps. Her pants are in tatters and her ripped sneakers are a lost cause, ruined by the underbrush in the ditch.
Dean’s clothes are in fine condition, looking like an average man just sprung from a bar fight (so essentially a male version of Dee after a typical weekend). Just a normal guy, unlike the lunatic Sam appears to be.
The temperature is decent, but Sam still feels a chill that shakes her. Everything’s a little askew, out of focus. Like a dream. Or maybe even like that edge of reality when you’re just hanging on the cusp of being asleep and awake.
Dean seems to notice Sam’s shiver, pulls off her jacket and throws it to Sam. It fits, snug.
They don’t talk until they’re at the car, each slipping inside only to bump their heads on the doorframes, a burst of “Fuck!” and “Oww!” in tandem as they adjust to bodies that are so much different. Bodies they aren’t used to, not yet.
*
Three or four turns of the radio dial bring static, then late night bullshitting about politics, followed by infomercials, and classic rock. The first few notes of Grand Funk Railroad’s “Walk Like A Man” make Dean settle on the station. Dean appreciates the irony, because it’s better than thinking about the dull ache in her knees and legs, how everything seems detached, even during the simple act of driving.
So this is pretty fucking awkward now. The reality’s sinking them fast and now they’re stuck at worse than square one because whatever put ‘em through the ringer made sure as fuck to muddle with their minds too and not just their bodies.
Sam doesn’t say a word; her knees knock against the glove compartment, body shifting awkwardly as she tries to slouch. Something like shock getting its firm grip on her and it’s time to make a joke or something, snap Sam right out of it because they can’t let things built up before they even have words to explain how it happened, not even memories.
Even remembering is difficult, like how Dean landed sprawled in a ditch but not all that cut up. Took the usual inventory, ‘cause it's no good to be bitching about injuries later. So long as you aren’t near dying, you’re fine. Dean’s not gonna think about the near dying part, because that’s where the problem lies and they’re already knee-deep in another freakin’ kind of messed up trouble.
So, Sam’s a little worse for wear and a freakin’ giant dude and Dean’s-what, a chick with a dick?-there are P.C. terms for it that Sam might know if Dean asked, but Sam’s stock-still and Dean’s not sure how to break the freakin’ ice. Not now, since this isn’t just a real bad dream.
It’s not fine even though that’s what Dean should be saying. That they’ll be fine and hey the mindfuck has already happened, no way that they could sink any lower than this. The worst of it, outside of the whole waking up on a stretch of road in the wrong body, will be over and done with and they’ll scrape by like they always do. There are some cuts and fading bruises but nothing life threatening.
They are going to be fine.
Dean curses under her breath when she takes the wrong turn, has to pull a nasty 360 to get righted again and Sam just stares, eyes wide. Dean doesn’t want to know what Sam’s doing by looking at Dean like that. Dean’s fine and they will be fine.
“Dee,” Sam says, gentling tone that meshes oddly with the altered voice. Dean could shut up Sam by saying Sam’s using a sex voice on Dean and since that’s the team Dean’s on, it’s sending all kind of mixed signals. But then Dean would have to admit that there are some signals heading straight to Dean’s brain-and not to mention groin, which awesome, it does have a mind of its own. Wait, Sam’s saying something only Dean’s completely blanking out.
“You’re hyperventilating,” Sam says, voice low but a little tight, stress coming through. “Pull over.”
“I am not-I’m not.” It’s funny how the words squeeze out as Dean slows down to something near to the actual speed limit.
Sam’s hands are ridiculously large now and Dean should throw some weight into these new shoulders, ram Sam back to the passenger side. But with her breathing coming out all ragged, maybe it’s a good idea to listen to Sam because yeah, wheezing like this should only happen after a fight. Or amazing sex.
Seeing as Dean’s not doing either, stopping seems like a pretty good idea.
With eyes closed, it’s like Dean’s in the car with two strangers. Sam’s fingers are on Dean’s pulse point and this ‘stranger’ tells her, “Your heart’s racing.”
“I’m fine,” the other stranger-Dean, in this new body-answers.
Dean can smell past the stink of them, the slight spice of Sam. Shit, there goes that dick again, can’t think about it, otherwise some hysterical laughter might just bubble out of Dean and if there’s one thing Dean has never been, it’s a hysterical female.
And especially not now.
Scrubbing at her face with larger hands, Dean pulls back from Sam, the car door wedged up against her side.
“I said I’ll be fine. Not every day I wake up in a new body. Finally hit me. Okay?”
“I think I understand,” Sam says, hands flexing like she has no idea what to do with them.
Dean has to bite back the bitchy comment dying to be unleashed and shakes her head, unnerved by the lack of hair swinging in accompaniment.
“I’m not hysterical,” Dean insists.
“I… didn’t say you were?”
“You’re thinking it.”
“No,” Sam says, saying the words slowly, “I’m thinking that you probably got hit on the head and maybe it’s really dumb to let you drive.”
“Hell no,” Dean says and the knot of not-hysteria is already easing, as though bitching at Sam is an instant stress-reliever (and that would kind of explain a few things). “No way you’re fucking driving with those giant legs. What if you Hulk out and smash out my baby’s floor when you try hitting the accelerator?”
Sam pinches the bridge of her nose, frowning and saying, “My nose is huge, isn’t it?”
“Um.” Dean looks over and takes in the fact that Sam’s fingers are really long now. Oh fuck. “It’s fine.”
Sam’s leaning back, throat exposed, hard bob of an Adam’s apple when Sam talks. It’s kind of distracting.
“Hey,” Dean coughs, shaking a really bad thought away-just what would Sam taste like?-and says, “I think I’m good to go.”
It’s a longer drive back than Dean expects, but there’s not much in the way of distractions, lots of flat land, and grass. She tries to figure out how they got this far in the middle of nowhere. A sparse little town rises over the slight bend to greet them. A couple of rundown, seedy bars and convenience stores, the only places open this late to greet them.
Dean isn’t comforted by the quiet.
They reach a stop light when Sam straightens, head grazing the roof of the Impala as she sits up and then slouches back down, uncomfortable.
Dean knows that Sam hates the strange body, that she’s frustrated at her lack of control in the situation. Maybe it’s a little bit of arrogance Dean can’t help latching onto, Sam’s inability to deal with that lack sometimes. There are some things that do suck, mostly twisted up with goddamn demons but Dean can’t let Sam see this as another obstacle, another pitfall they’ve fallen into. There’s too many bad situations that they’ve barely survived and now right on Sam’s face (not her face, but it’s still Sam in there) is frustration at this being one more thing that they can’t handle.
They’ll get through this if it kills Dean and since most everything as of late is itching to be her personal grim reaper, as ridiculous and freaking scary as this is, Dean’s not going to let it get them down.
Even if her heart’s beating too fast, palms sweaty. The light’s been green, turning yellow now and Sam can’t take it anymore. Dean can tell by the way she keeps shifting her weight in her seat, unable to keep still. Dean makes a point of waiting out Sam in circumstances like this and it always freaking works.
“Deana. Aren’t you going to-”
“Dean.”
There’s no good way this is gonna end. Because Dean has always wondered about something like this. Not wondering about waking up on the side of the road with no idea of what the fuck happened. But she’s wondered about being like this, being a… Jesus, Dean can’t even say it out loud.
But she looks over at Sam and Dean hates it when she gets mixed up in these things. It’s unsettling, because fuck, it’s Sam. Little giant sister turned brother and no one should look that freaking good covered in grime and gunk.
“What?”
“You know I hate bein’ called Deana. We’re guys now. So,” she starts, licking her lips, “you should call me Dean. Can’t slip up now, Samantha. Okay?”
Sam grunts. “This is only temporary.”
“We don’t know that,” Dean says. “It’s easy. Just drop a letter. ‘Cause, look. I don’t remember. Anything. So unless you have some recollection of who whammied us, or magically know if we’re gonna wake up tomorrow in our regular bodies, then we better-”
“No.”
“No?”
“We’ll figure this out.”
Dean shakes her head and ow, fucking crick in her neck cracks loudly. Rubbing the back of her neck idly, she says, “Tell me where to go. ‘Cause we wound up in the middle of nowhere and there’s miles of nowhere ahead of us.”
And God that’s what Dean wants, for once, a fucking boundary line or a plan that’ll make fuckin’ sense. Because the gut feeling that’s responsible more often than not for Dean’s survival-when Sammy’s not stepping in to save Dean’s hide-it’s not giving off the best of signals.
It’s like a really bad fucking cramp, telling Dean this: they’re about to fall a lot further down the rabbit hole.
“Dee, let’s just go to the motel, okay? There has to be an answer there. I mean. There has to be.”
“Yeah. Gotta be. Cause it wasn’t just some hoo-doo priestess trying to make us see how the other half lives.” Dean laughs a little weakly. It sounds strange and the pissed-off look Sam shoots her direction is well-deserved. “I mean, no woman scorned is gonna turn us into dudes. You haven’t pissed off anyone, lately, right?”
“Not like it could have had something to do with the spirit.”
“Wait. Spirit?”
“Our last case?”
“Fuck.”
(High winds and dust kicking up, and this thin, young woman. Red rimmed eyes, body transparent. She opens her mouth to scream, but that’s when it all goes black.)
“It’s green again.”
“I know. I still have eyes.” Dean looks in the rearview mirror and says, impressed, “I even have my eyelashes.”
“Just not some of your memories. I don’t like this, Dee.”
“We’re gonna get through this, Sammy.” And since Dean can’t let it end there, she punches Sam in the shoulder, used to punch her in the boob whenever she’d been a major bitch going through her super brat part of her teen years, only that won’t really do much considering she’s a lot more flat-chested now. Ridiculously muscular as well.
And that part of it kinda isn’t fair. Sure, in the dim light, Dean’s guy body is hot but she’s gonna be disappointed if she can’t grate cheese off her abs. The way that Sam’s stomach is cut, she’d be able to grate Parmesan into fine shreds.
“Damn it,” Dean says. “I’m really fucking hungry.”
“Great. Way to think like a guy, Dee.”
“What? With my stomach? Sam, I promise you, that’s not what they’re thinking with most of the time.”
It’s a good thing Dean’s right in the middle of making a weird face at Sam because the moment her dick twitches, Dean nearly lets out a yelp. Oh, this is gonna be plenty interesting.
“Ugh,” Sam responds and if it weren’t for the fact that they’re well and totally screwed, it almost feels like it’ll be okay. The ease at which they’re slipping back into these nonsense arguments makes it all seem a little less traumatic.
Dean must be starving if the delusions have already set in.
“We need to figure how the hell this happened as soon as fucking possible. Only us, dude. Only us. Turning into guys. Guess it could be worse.”
“I’m sorry, how could this be worse?”
“Half and half.”
“You just… had to go there.”
“What? How could I not go there? We’re chicks with dicks, but at least most people won’t pick up on us the ‘chicks’ part. Well, until you start talking about the women-with-a-y collective bullshit.”
There’s a beat of silence before Sam snorts and shakes her head.
“Right. I’m the distraction.”
“You are when you’re the tallest thing for miles, Sammy.”
“God. Don’t remind me.”
*
The motel’s in a state of disarray like always. Sam watches Dean push past her, knocking Sam’s now giant shoulder into the doorjamb. She keeps on forgetting the larger bulk of her body. That they can’t squeeze into a doorway two at a time. It’s a little amazing to her that she’s able to enter the motel room period, as she’s just impossibly big, feels too massive for the world.
Sam breathes in, steps forward and trips over her own two feet, nearly dropping to a knee.
Her sister looks at her, tossing a smirk over her shoulder from an unfamiliar mouth, lips still plump and almost-red.
It’s a weird effect to see her sister this way. Even weirder, how it’s apt for Sam to call this strange newly male version of her sister Dean. Because for all intents and purposes, this is her sister, Deana, turned into her male twin, complete with a cocky swagger that puts to shame all the male displays of testosterone Sam’s seen throughout the entire course of her life.
And the shortened nickname fits, especially in light of those early years when Sam couldn’t quite work out those two syllables. She’d say Dee and nuh, all proud of herself. Never could get the hang of it altogether, though. Ended up only saying Dean instead. It stuck and Dean pushed for other people to use it. When she wasn’t conjuring up another fake name, that is. Janis Joplin, Patty Hearst. Those were classic and if there’s one thing her sister adored above all else, it was the classics.
Dean’s halfway to the bathroom, calling over her shoulder, “Watch where you’re going. I’m not gonna drag your heavy ass in here if you go and knock yourself out.”
Sam glares and steps through the minefield of crap on the floor, following Dean. Her breath catches in her throat when she sidles up next to Dean in the bathroom, both of them staring at the mirror.
Their facial features, eyes, lips, mouth, are stretched and hardened, rougher skin over sharp cheekbones. Short hair for Dean, messy and longish for Sam. Stronger, wider jaws. Dean’s eyes are vibrant and the green is even more obvious in a masculine face, and she palms, flattens her hair, and pokes at it. The light casts a dull fluorescent glow on their skin as Dean lifts the bottom of her shirt, rolls it up over smooth muscle. There’s a pleased smirk to her mouth, lips still full, running her tongue over identical white and even teeth.
Sam just sort of stares at herself, at this man that’s her reflection, that’s got thirty, forty pounds of muscle on her. Where the hell was this before? Sam certainly doesn’t feel like some muscle-bound jock but the body disproves her natural tendency to slouch, all wiry and lean-framed.
There’s a wheedling, crazed kind of voice in the back of her brain that rejects the person in front of her, a man with her face shaped harder, Dean’s jacket snug around her bare, broad shoulders and upper chest. Sam’s hands move up, settling on the ring of black ink, the tattoo that rests right above her heart. She feels awkward under her own gaze, under Dean’s. Adding insult to injury, Dean’s not even herself; for a second, Sam feels like she’s in a room with a stranger looking her up and down. A male stranger she doesn’t know and she resists putting herself into position to blow a kick to the groin or punch to the face.
Feather light fingertips roam over her belly, up to her pecs, bowing her head to avoid Dean’s reflection. “Shit.”
“This is-Wow,” Dean says, lets out a breath and looks at Sam, tugging at Sam’s shirt, pulling at it. It doesn’t feel like an invasion at all, not when it’s Dee doing it and how fucked up is that?
“Dee,” Sam says plaintively and Dean lets go.
Dean’s eyes widen as she says, shaking her head in amazement, “Look at you. This isn’t fair. I mean, dude, I’m hot, but you, you’re like, you’re ripped.”
Dean claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder, grinning. Pride in her eyes, like having washboard abs is a commendable thing.
Hard to concentrate on that when Sam is avoiding her dick twitching in her boxers, sudden movement of it bringing forth a world of ‘no.’
Sam licks her lips, letting her hands hover near the sink edge, vaguely covering her crotch. Time to focus on something else, and all the covering for erections leads her mind and gaze to a spot high on her chest. “What’s, uh. What happened to my tattoo?”
“What?”
Dean’s brow furrows as she leans in towards the mirror, looking at it, before whipping around and nearly plowing into Sam. She grunts, posture unsteady in the small bathroom, hand tracing Sam’s shoulder. “Wait a minute, you had it here. On your arm. Right?”
“Yeah, ‘cause I’d get a tattoo right over my breast. Don’t think so. Why did it move here?”
Dean ignores her, already looking at her own reflection again. She starts to unzip her jeans and tug up her shirt mid-waist, boxers and denim low on her hips. Dean stretches awkwardly and paws at her back, trying to grab at what little extra flesh she might have.
“Hey. Hey, Dee. Stay still,” Sam says, because the cut on Dean’s cheekbone isn’t going to go away any time soon. Best to focus on that and not on the faint freckles spread across harsher cheekbones, less flesh rounding out her features. Dean’s face feels swollen and tender under Sam’s fingers as she wipes away the dirt and dry blood. Doesn’t get a chance to do it for long, because Dean’s still turning, scowling.
“You don’t have to share with the class all the wonders of your body,” Sam grumbles.
“You see my tattoo? It’s-Oh, come on. That’s not right,” Dean complains, jerks her head away as she tries to look over her right shoulder, then her left.
The circular black tattoo is gone from the small of her back. Sam had dubbed it the Tramp Stamp, to which Dean would just grin, show all her teeth like a dare. But it’s missing and Dean is a man looking for her trashy little tattoo that should be square in the middle of her lower back.
The bathroom isn’t big enough for Dean’s stretching, or Sam’s embarrassment at seeing the trail of hair leading into Dean’s boxers, the swirl of dirt and sweat streaking her naked skin. The distinctly male skin of a strange new body that Sam really needs to stop looking at. But she gets a flash of something familiar when Dean stretches, and she whacks Dean on the shoulder to point.
“I think I know where your tattoo ended up.”
When Dean pulls the neckline of her shirt down, and the tattoo rests in the same spot as Sam’s-a little higher than her heart-she stares, open-mouthed. Then says, “Oh. Oh my God.”
Sam rubs the back of her neck. “Dean. It’s not that-”
“Dude. We-we have matching tattoos. Oh God. Oh my God, that’s so gay.”
“Actually being gay would be gay,” Sam says, not for the first time. Dean’s got quite the affinity for calling things gay. Good to know not everything has changed. Sure, Sam’s a lesbian but apparently any attempt to be a little politically correct has never registered with Dean.
Dean lets go of her shirt collar, lip a thin line. The novelty seems to wear off as her gaze lingers on Sam’s chest, almost burns the way she doesn’t move, says, without looking up, “We gotta talk to Bobby.”
A few minutes later, hunching awkwardly in the chair in the main room, Sam tries to cross her legs and winces at the pain-flesh, just hanging, between her thighs-so she uncrosses them and tries to sit with her legs as closed as she’s able to, comfortably.
The laptop is on and Sam brushes hair out of her eyes, trying to draft an e-mail in her head. Get Bobby to help. Keep it vague on purpose, not saying directly what’s happened to them. It’ll probably bite her in the ass but frankly, she just doesn’t want him to know. He’ll marvel at how Sam and Dean are idiots because that’s what Bobby always does. Especially now that they’ve let Bela run off with the Colt.
Sam notices that the wireless connection’s sluggish. In fact, when the connection finally goes through, her last e-mails come up dated back several days ago. There should be more recent e-mails but they’re gone.
The e-mail that Sam sends Bobby is short and sweet and immediately bounces back which doesn’t surprise Sam. Bobby’s not exactly a stickler for looking at his e-mail and his server’s limit is pretty pathetic. Trying to call Bobby sends her to voicemail and she leaves the weirdest message she has ever left, awkwardness pitching her voice to a higher register, asking Bobby to call her back as soon as possible.
“It’s hard to explain,” Sam says, deciding to go with the understatement of the year.
Dean’s rifling through her duffle, trying to keep herself busy by the looks of it; her movements are stilted, hands darting in large and unfamiliar arcs as she tries to adjust to the farther reach of her limbs. There’s no who or what yet in this equation for Dean to deal with, Sam knows, for her to take out her energy and anger against.
She’s trying to keep busy as she searches, and after a few minutes, with finality, she says, “It’s all guy clothes. All my stuff’s gone. Even my sluttiest clothes for the job. The leather skirt, the black thigh highs, that blue halter I picked up in Cleveland. You know, the one that shows off my tits and tat? It’s not here.”
“What?”
Sam gets up to go look at her own bag, pulling out items frantically with her ridiculously large hands. “My stuff’s missing too. This doesn’t make any sense. These are just boy clothes.”
Dean walks over to inspect the contents. Which mostly involves her scratching at her belly absently under her shirt. “Yeah, so, it’s exactly the same only now you’re wearing guy clothes on purpose.”
Sam lifts up a shirt. “They’re all so…big.”
“That ain’t the only thing that’s big.”
“Dean.”
“Whatever, bitch. You were asking for it.” Dean grabs Sam’s duffel and continues looking through it, pulling out a satin bra. “Hey. Is this-”
“You know that’s not mine,” Sam says, annoyed because the bra has absolutely no function and it’s got a little satin bow in between the cups and Sam’s kind of sure it’s from Frederick’s of Hollywood and that’s Dee’s kind of obvious and tacky. “That has to be yours. It’s smaller than mine.”
“Me?” Dean huffs and then puffs out his chest as though there’s anything there to push out, made even more obvious when it’s a flat chest, not as broad as Sam’s now. “That bra’s way too small. I have fuckin’ amazing tits.”
“Not right now.”
“Fine! But there’s no way I could squeeze into a friggin’ B-cup. Damn it, Sam. That ain’t right.”
“Yeah. Because the rest of this is.”
Dean’s examining the tag, pointing at it like the truth has set her free. “You see this here? 32B. I’m a 34D.”
Deciding to ignore that Dean’s lying about her actual bra size, Sam shakes her head and says, “Fine, it’s not either of ours-”
“So it’s one of your trophies?”
“That’s so incredibly disgusting I don’t even want to start.”
“Sammy, it’s perfectly natural to want to remember sweet, sweet loving in a meadow of rolling hills as you frolicked naked under a stretch of blue sky-”
“You know I really hate that you associate lesbian sex with really bad romance novels.”
Dean shrugs. “I’m a very open-minded girl. Guy.”
“You know, I’d rather you be an open-minded girl before I lose my mind talking to a ‘guy’ about lesbian sex.” Sam shudders at hearing her male voice say lesbian sex.
Dean’s face is lit up and she says cheerfully, “Please Sammy. Like no guy’s ever asked you about girl-on-girl.”
Part Two