Word Count: 2,713
Summary: Sam gets turned into a girl, and if he wasn't beating up every guy who looked at him funny, Dean would probably do it for him.
Notes: The prompt was Sam/Dean, fire for earthquakedream. Er, as usually happens with these things, it went its own way.
Drabbles, I said to myself. I'll write them all tonight. Ugh, and then earthquakedream's prompt hit me upside the head and this silly thing is what came of it. Oh well, at least you can't accuse me of reneging on my prompts.
When Sam gets turned into a girl, he loses only three inches of height, and gains the slightest swell of breasts. Within five minutes of walking into the mall to get him clothes, those crazy modeling talent scouts are after him.
“Sweetie? Sweetie, you could be a model,” a girl with chunky blonde highlights tells him. This is despite the fact that Sam’s clothes are hanging off of him like grain sacks.
A storm passes over Sam’s face. “And you could fuck off!”
Dean has never seen Sam like this. Never. When he tugs Sam away, he’s still glaring over his newly thin shoulder like he’s thinking especially inventive ways to string her up by her dye job over a fire. “Whoa, killer, settle down there.”
Sam shoots him a dark look.
They go to the GAP because it’s the only place that Sam knows has variable sizes in the inseam. The last time Dean was inside a GAP it was 1996, and it was only because the girl who worked the register gave spectacular head. He thinks he’s going to break out into hives just looking at their men’s selection, all the button downs and khaki and wool scarves. He flinches away from a display of cashmere sweaters. When Sam has hastily gathered up a few things to try on, he follows him to the dressing room. The girl collecting hangers from the little cubicles grins at the two of them.
Dean double-takes when he realizes that the girl thinks Sam’s going to model for him or something. He wants to say that’s my sister, but then he figures he’ll have to stand awkwardly next to a pile of camisoles and raffia sandals, while girls flit about with their mothers. He makes a quick face at Sam’s back and settles into a chair outside the room.
He’s managed one game of Diner Dash on his cell-phone when Sam starts growling and throwing hangers around. “Fuck me, fucking fuck fuck fuck!” he shouts, and throws the door open. The jeans end inches above his ankles.
Dean laughs when Sam starts jiggling and tugging at the thighs. “The crotch is so high!” he snarls at Dean’s laughter.
“Oh sweetie!” Sam grits his teeth at the dressing room attendant’s voice. “We have some pants in 34 inches and longer, but only in skinny.”
Sam leans back against the dressing room door. “Whatever.”
Dean is still laughing when she comes back with four different pairs of jeans and an armful of shirts for Sam to try on. At Sam’s nonplussed expression she says, “You have that perfect body where everything looks good—shame to waste it.”
She leaves again when another customer calls her away. Sam slams his door shut. Dean hears him mutter that he’s not a fucking girl and there’s more cursing as he tries to shimmy into the pants.
“Quit whining, dude,” Dean says without looking up from his phone, “it’s a hell of a lot harder to peel them off again.” He thinks fondly back to the time he last time he attempted such a thing.
Still Sam walks away from the store with two pairs of the jeans, three new shirts, and an underwear set, because his attempt to keep his boxers on had resulted in a tutu of bunched uncomfortable fabric. The girl rings up the black pair and solid colored t-shirt right off his body. Sam looks good, Dean has to admit, maybe those crazy model people weren’t huffing their nail polish remover after all. And yet Sam looks particularly mournful when he hands over his credit card.
“You have such great—” the girl starts, but stops abruptly when Sam raises his brows. Even Dean has to admit that Sam’s new bitchface looks fucking scary.
When they go to a bar to hustle pool, and a little information on the side, Sam dresses in the jeans, a pair of second hand knee-high doc martins, and Dean’s leather jacket. Dean thinks the idea is to look forbidding. Doesn’t really work when Sam looks like a taller, lither version of Lara Croft.
The other patrons at the bar agree with Dean, that or they’re willing to suffer the “break your balls” attitude Sam has been wearing about him all day.
Dean realizes pretty quickly he’s getting the “you fucking rock, magog” look from the college kids and barflies. Let nobody think he’s some pansy-ass queen, as they inevitably do when he hangs out with Sam, but if these people want to think he’s banging the hot chick, Dean is down with that.
Sam is less than impressed.
Dean doesn’t quite understand the extent. He wishes he did.
When a guy misinterprets Sam’s 'go screw' expression, Sam flicks out his lighter, and lights the guy’s Grey Goose martini on fire.
Sam walks off with his Heineken while the guy shrieks and throws the glass up into the air.
“Holy shit, Sam, you’re behaving like a complete delinquent,” Dean whispers furiously when he sits down across from Sam in a booth.
Dean leans back in his seat. “Although, it cracks my shit up that you had to turn into a chick to grow a pair.”
The look Sam sends him makes him wonder if he should allow himself to sleep defenseless in the bed right beside his tonight.
The next day they get up bright and early to talk to some florist who witnessed some ghostly apparition stab a guy to death with a pair of nose clippers. Dean thinks it’s a hoax. Next they’ll be hearing of spirits sawing people’s heads off with a Venus disposable razor. Dean leans on the counter and contemplates all the ways he could better spend his day: watching porn, fixing the Impala, hiding all of Sam’s bras, eating a burger, cleaning the guns, hiding all of Sam’s panties. But for like, humorous effect. Dean figures he cannot explain this bit to anyone else.
The florist initially refuses to talk, scared shitless over specters with tweezers or something, but when Sam leans over his counter, and starts using that same old earnest voice, he opens right up. Dean glances over and thinks he knows why.
Sam stiffens. “Eyes up here, buddy, there isn’t even anything to look at down there,” he says, “trust me, I’m an expert.”
Dean snorts, Sam does barely fill an A cup.
The guy jumps back, cheeks bright red. “I don’t know anything else, okay? I don’t know anything else.”
Sam leans forward and yanks him over the counter by his collar. “Tell. Us. About. The. Nose. Clippers.”
The guy lets out an eep and starts spilling everything from the size of his child hood bronzed shoe to the exact details of the weather on the day of the attack: partly cloudy with 5 mile an hour winds. When they get everything they can out of him, Dean extricates Sam’s hand from the guy's shirt and tugs him out of the shop.
“You’re not possessed are you?” Dean asks. “Christo?” he says hopefully.
Suddenly Sam’s ire is turned upon him. “What the fuck, Dean?”
He makes a move like he’s going to kick Dean in the nuts. Now that he’s no longer encumbered by testicles of his own he seems to have lost the sympathetic 'not on your life' guy code of conduct. Dean raises his hands. “It was a joke?”
They eat at an Olive Garden for dinner, because the town diner was a horror show and Dean had never met a diner he didn't love. The waiter flirts with Sam, even when he shovels breadsticks into his mouth and starts waving the candle on the table around menacingly.
“Okay, pyro,” Dean takes the candle from him and sets it next to his own elbow.
When the waiter hands Dean the check, Dean notices that Sam’s entrée has been discounted and they’re not even paying for his club soda.
“Sweet! You’re like the next Adriana Lima or something.” Dean imagines all the ways he can exploit this.
Sam shoves his chair back and walks out of the restaurant.
Dean throws tip down on the table and catches up with him. He nearly trips over a cute blonde girl and her friend on the way out.
Sam is going to die early from all the stress he’s putting on his heart with these rages. Dean pats Sam on the shoulder. “Look, I know in an ideal world, they’d give the ugly chick the free stuff—”
“Dean!” Sam is so angry his voice has almost reached its former timbre.
Dean laughs. “I’m just joshing!”
Dean lets Sam drive back to the hotel, and tries not to whimper over the fact that Sam still has to adjust the seat back.
A few days later they’re down to the bare minimum of supplies. They pick up lighter fluid, rock salt, lime Tostitos, and beer in a Shaws on the road. The guy in line behind them tries to chat Sam up. Dean chuckles and flips through Sports Illustrated when Sam says, “Did you just try to neg me?”
Dean leans back to catch the expression on the guy’s face. The poor schmuck's petrified, mouth opening and closing like it'll help him find an answer. Dean has to stuff a piece of gum in his mouth to keep from laughing. Sam doesn’t even have to go for the lighter, the shame of the situation is enough. Everybody in the store is staring at the guy and Sam is making Shannon Doherty look like a kitten.
Dean accepts the bags from the cashier and Sam stomps out after him.
“It’s just a little attention, Sam,” Dean tells him as he stows the groceries in the backseat. That’s a really big understatement. He’s also failing to admit that if Sam were reacting any differently Dean would probably walk around with a naked firearm."You've been hit on before. At least once in your joyless sex-free life."
Sam twists and fidgets with his bra straps. They had to get him a front closure, because he'd understandably only ever figured out how to take bras off. Dean's been amusing himself for days by snapping the straps every single time Sam lets his guard down. Which has only happened twice. The third time he went for it, Sam caught his wrist and twisted it up behind his back until Dean cried uncle. He could've outlasted Sam, Dean would swear it to his dying day, but his shoulder socket couldn't have.
“Stop it,” Sam says, catching his look and snapping his fingers in Dean's face. "Snap it one more time and I'll hoist you up by your eyeballs with it."
Apparently Sam + girl meant James Bond. Dean likes to think that makes him less badass, rather than more.
Sam snorts, and sprawls his legs in the seat, just like he used to. Dean looks away quickly.
“We’re running short on cash,” Dean says that night, when they’re lying on the beds in the hotel room, fans whirring overhead. Sam sighs and looks at his old duffle full of menswear.
“They still pay attention to you and they’re uncomfortable,” Dean tells him, looming over his bed. "You went on a two-hour long rant about thigh chafing. Put the girl pants on and quit bitching."
He may be inappropriately enjoying Sam’s psychotic behavior. Sam runs a hand through his hair with a huff and gets to his feet. Dean is suddenly painfully aware that Sam is still an inch taller than him.
He backs up quickly. “I won’t even make you hustle,” Dean offers on their way out. The last time, Sam got his ass grabbed as he was lining up his shot and knocked a guy out with a cue. It took all of Dean’s fumbling charm with the locals to get him not to press charges. Sam hadn’t even helped—he'd leaned against the table, playing with his lighter and grinning evilly as the guy held a bloodied towel filled with ice up to his nose. Clearly there are some aggression issues that need to be worked out there.
They’re inside the bar barely two minutes discussing the game on the TV when a waitress comes over with drink. “It’s from the guy next to the tap.” She points out a man in a camel-colored jacket.
Sam accepts the drink, a crantini as far as Dean can tell, and makes eye contact with the guy.
Dean wonders if Sam is going to go all Carrie on them, but he tilts the glass up in salute and then presses his lips right to Dean’s. Worse than Carrie, Dean thinks, lips meshed with Sam’s. Worse even than The Rage: Carrie 2 and then Sam tilts his head and flicks his tongue against Dean’s lower lip. Never mind, better than Angelina Jolie in that glorified porno Original Sin. Sam curls slender but still strong fingers in Dean’s shirt when Dean leans forward into the kiss, parting his lips. He’s making out with his brother. And getting a semi. There’s probably a law that says that’s not allowed.
Sam’s lips are soft and he kisses with the barest pressure like a complete tease.
Dean can’t help it. He's highly aware that Sam might cut his nuts off for his next move, but he can’t stop himself from sliding a palm up the outside of Sam’s thigh. It’s slender enough now that Dean’s thumb is only centimeters away from the inseam. Dean feels a strange fluttery feeling in his stomach. He’s pretty sure he’s flushed bright red, because heat is lighting him up everywhere. Sam’s velvety tongue slides against the roof of his mouth, and Dean traces his thumb along that seam. Sam moans and slips his other arm around Dean’s neck to sink into the short hair at the nape of Dean’s neck. He can feel the pressure of those fingertips all over his body if he thinks about it.
Dean thinks this is probably getting way out of control, but he doesn’t stop, Sam hasn’t singed his eyebrows off yet, even though he’s definitely palming the outer curve of Sam’s breast.
Sam pushes closer, tongue running just inside Dean's lip. Dean really likes making out. Even with his brother turned into a girl. Which only proves how much Dean likes making out, and not how much of a sick pervert he is.
Sam pulls back, cheeks dusted pink, and eyes heavy. He leaves his hand on Dean’s chest. When he scans the bar, nobody is grinning at him lasciviously or sending fruity drinks over. “If I knew how well that was going to work, I would’ve done it sooner.”
Dean tries not to act too disappointed that Sam was only putting on a show. He definitely tries not to act all giddy when he plays pool against two guys in a biker gang and Sam leans into his space. One guy gives Sam the up and down, and Dean unconsciously slides his hand into Sam’s back pocket. He only notices when Sam shoots him an incredulous eyebrow. Dean swallows but refuses to move it.
Sam ducks his head, but Dean still has his manhood when they leave the bar. “Any reason you haven’t cut my dick off?” he asks as he unlocks the car. Hoping the answer is that he’s simply just that awesome.
Sam slides into the passenger seat. “You haven’t been all slimy and sleazy, buying me drinks and trying to talk me into the back seat of your car.”
Dean thinks for a second. “That’s only because I’m your brother.” He clears his throat. "Wow, that came out wrong"
“I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to especially light your brother’s drink on fire when he comes on to you, it’s a rule. Like in all fifty states.” He starts the car and mutters, “Along with the getting half a chub rule.”
“Nothing." Dean breathes a sigh of relief when Sam turns away from him and leans his head against the window.
When Dean wakes up the next morning, Sam is stepping out of the bathroom, towel around his waist, ‘nads properly back in place.
Dean remembers Sam’s mouth on his last night, the sting of vodka and fizzy sugar on his lips when they parted. “Do you wanna make out?”
Sam shoots him a look. “Hi Sam, it’s nice to see you’ve gotten your body back,” Sam says as he pulls boxers out of his duffle.
“Oh yeah, that.” Dean rolls out of bed. “Wanna check to see if everything’s back to working order.”
Sam smiles, but he doesn’t give in. “Why?”
“I really like making out.” He leans in and brushes their lips together. “Like really, really.”
“Yeah, I’m getting that, Luke Skywalker,” Sam says.
Before Dean leans in again, he says, “Whatever, this has nothing to do with you.” He slides his fingertips around the edge of Sam’s towel, skimming the skin.
It's okay if nobody believed that.
Just so everybody knows, a neg is when a guy puts a confident, pretty girl down in order to get her to sleep with him. I’m not sure how this actually works for them, but apparently it does. As classyhooch would say, “The treachery of men!”