His long black hair; his animal grace -- The boy in the bright blue jeans

peace out, bitches -- a fic update from me, to you

sa_kun — Wed, 30 Oct 2013 22:47:06 GMT

Just wanted to let you guys know that I wrote fic for the deancasbigbang. It's called Peace out, bitches and is up right here on AO3. The summary reads as follows:

With Sam off at Stanford, Dean decides it's time he started a new chapter in life as well. In California, with a job he more or less loves, a new apartment and sporadic visits from his brother, he finds friends, companionship and family again. Oh, and then there's Castiel.

It's accompanied by some lovely art made by bladegryphon.

Also, also, most importantly of all: THANKS SO MUCH runawaydreamer, YOU'RE A REAL SWEETHEART FOR PUTTING UP WITH ME AND GUIDING ME SO RIGIDLY THROUGH THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. You never let me slack with grammar. I even used my best Cockles icon for you, baby.

the art of incubating dragon eggs

sa_kun — Thu, 25 Jul 2013 10:26:38 GMT

Title: the art of incubating dragon eggs
Author: sa_kun
Fandom: Supernatural RPF
Characters: Jared Padalecki, Jensen Ackles, Misha Collins, Felicia Day
Rating: R
Word Count: 28k
Summary: Jared thinks there must be something about him that screams "looking for trouble!" But he's not looking for it. Honest. He can't help it if it seems like everyone wants to hold a knife to his throat these days, or get him involved in mysterious treasure hunts that may or may not have a secret, sinister motive. Or maybe it's the dragon eggs -- the ones he found abandoned in a dilapidated cabin in the woods the other day, all wrapped up in blankets and practically sitting in a fire pit. Yeah, it's probably that, to be fair. And Madthr help him if this Jensen guy, with the too-bright eyes and the occasional claws (not to even mention the dress), isn't just bringing more chaos into his life. It's just... Well... There's something about him, okay? But then again... just what is he, exactly?
Disclaimer: I do not own.
Contains: There are occasional bouts of violence, blood and death in this fic, but no major characters die. There are indirect and direct mentions of torture and the after-effects, the same with war, but I don't go into graphic details. Some nakedness may occur but again, no details.
Author's Notes: There are probably a thousand references in this fic. I've tried to catch them all but, sadly, they are not like Pokémon and I couldn't just chuck balls at the fic and wait for them all to be neatly absorbed. I couldn't catch them all, okay?

Anyway, here goes. Mentions include, but are most likely not limited to: Skyrim, intentional misuse of Norse mythology/language, Scandinavian folklore, misappropriation of dragons with ideas borrowed from all over the place – Lynn Flewelling’s Nightrunner series and the Dragon Age games come to mind. In addition, the names of the islands come from Latin plant names. I may have incorporated my ASMR tingles in one scene (go here for a detailed description and here for my favourite tingle-maker on Youtube).

I also looked up how to shave with a straight razor, using a grand total of ONE source which you can find here.

Please note, though, that this is a fantasy universe I made up all on my own. I took liberties. I made up stuff from scratch and bent and twisted and prodded at everything until it fit (with some help, yes). I had fun. It's not supposed to be perfect, but is supposed to be enjoyable. So, go on and read it but don't forget that reading is supposed to be a pleasurable experience.

I made the decision to only post on AO3 this year. If this is completely offensive to you, just let me know and I might be gracious and post it here as well.

My star, my heart, my world, the one and only, the lovely runawaydreamer was the glorious beta of this fic. I owe her everything and more. Including the summary. In addition, I only wrote this fic because I promised her dragons way-back-when, and this is what I came up with. claudia_nic was kind enough to help me take a look at the flow of the plot. Thank you!

The art wonderful art for this fic was made by spikessire, and is right here and you'll go straight to the where all the loveliness is, with some bonus art as well.

I also maybe should have mentioned that this is my entry for this year's spn_j2_bigbang challenge.

the art of incubating dragon eggs

stars & nebulas

sa_kun — Tue, 18 Jun 2013 05:46:23 GMT

Title: stars & nebulas
Author: sa_kun
Fandom: Supernatural RPF
Characters/pairings: Jensen/Misha
Rating: Teen
Word Count: 1,5k
Summary: Icarus is there first, winding dizzying circles around Jensen’s legs the second he’s closed the door behind him.
Disclaimer: Not real
Author’s Notes: This was written for rockstarpeach over at the spnspringfling challenge, and was first posted here. On AO3.

Icarus is there first, winding dizzying circles around Jensen’s legs the second he’s closed the door behind him, and Jensen sits down on the floor so the dog can climb up and lick his face to his little doggy heart’s content. Jensen buries his face in Icarus’ soft fur, scratching and patting behind his ears. He missed his dog something fierce.

“You’re a good dog, Icarus,” he says, and Icarus yelps – just a little, and it’s quiet, soft. “The very best.”

--

In the bedroom the early morning light turns the world into soft shades of yellow, red and orange. It hits the bed at an angle, catching the bare feet sticking out from under the covers. The sunlight makes everything warm, makes it cosy and hazy on an everyday morning, but it has nothing on the way it transforms Sunday mornings into lazy fests of slow kisses and fumbling hands, sleep warm and hazy. Those are probably the mornings Jensen has missed the most.

Misha is a lump under the covers, lying in a spot of sunlight, head turned away. Jensen is early; he wasn’t scheduled to come home today, not at barely five in the morning with Misha still in bed, lit by the rising sun. Jensen left his bag by the door, his boots by the kitchen table and he’s still in his fatigues. He’s tired, filthy from having spent half a day in a shuttle and more than anything he wants to sleep, wants to curl around Misha until the space that’s been between them the last several months is all but gone.

Jensen finds Misha’s hand under the covers, fingers warm and malleable. It’s easy, after that, to trace the digits one by one, to stroke his hands up Misha’s arm, to find the elbow and the shoulder, skin turning golden in the early morning light.

“No, Icarus,” Misha mumbles, turning his face into the pillow.

Jensen grins.

The bed dips when he sits down on the bed, and Misha rolls with the motion.

“Fed him too much,” Misha is saying, pawing at Jensen’s leg to push him off. Misha frowns, then he starts to grope at the material of Jensen’s trousers. “Who dressed the dog?”

“I sincerely hope no one dressed Icarus, Misha,” Jensen says, leaning forward, bracing himself with a hand on the head board. “That dog is energetic enough without being eye-catching in pink spandex on top of it all.”

“Am I dreaming?”

“How ‘bout you open your eyes and take a look.”

Misha scrunches up his eyes, but he doesn’t open them. “I’ve got a Jensen,” he says. “But he’s not home. He’s on moon base Luna.” His fingers tighten, pulls at the handful of Jensen’s trousers. “One more week.”

“Not this time,” Jensen says.

“Jensen.”

“Yeah?”

“If you’re not here when I open my eyes this situation will get ugly, I hope you understand. I will not be held accountable for my actions.”

Jensen just laughs, moving one hand to cup Misha’s face, to tug gently at hair gone wild and mussed. “Just so long as you leave Icarus out of it.”

“That dog is a menace. He ate all my left shoes.”

“Your left shoes?”

“All of them,” Misha says again. Jensen traces his lips, thumbs gentle over his eyelids. “Jensen?” he asks, voice hushed.

“Yeah, Misha?”

“What are you doing home?”

“We were recalled. Cut-downs.”

Misha swallows, nods. When he finally does open his eyes, they’re liquid-blue and dark, large and still the most beautiful eyes Jensen has ever seen in his life. “I still say your dog is a menace.”

Jensen laughs. “He’s adorable and you love him, admit it.”

Misha rolls his eyes. “I will admit nothing,” he says. When he sits up, pushing Jensen back as he goes, his sleep shirt, worn and full of holes, falls down over one shoulder. Jensen’s hand follows the motion, touching on warm skin.

The kiss when it comes is warm and familiar, it’s everything Jensen’s missed during the months off-earth, everything he’s wanted since he got on the space shuttle heading for Earth, for home yesterday.

The “You should have called,” is drowned out by the “wanted to surprise you.”

“You know how much I love a man in uniform,” Misha says against his lips. “But I think I love you even more out of it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Misha says, and he’s careful, slow, when he moves to push the jacket off Jensen’s shoulder, to pull the T-shirt off.

“I missed you.”

“I always miss you,” Misha replies, but then he’s pulling of his own shirt, and Jensen stops talking for a while, stops everything, because he can’t do much of anything but touch and kiss and hold Misha closer when they’re naked against each other, when they’re reaching for starbursts and supernovas in the quiet warm light of the early morning. There’s nothing but Misha then, and Jensen lets the rest of the world fall away around them.

--

“Icarus doesn’t like it when you leave,” Misha says later, stretched out on his stomach across the bed next to Jensen. He’s naked, and Jensen traces the bumps of his spine, the angles of his shoulder blades and the swell of his buttocks. He hasn’t touched anyone since he left, not like this, and he knows he’ll be all over Misha for days, touching just for the sake of touching and still not getting enough.

“I don’t like leaving him,” Jensen says.

“I think he’d like it if you stayed.”

“I know.” Jensen lingers on a constellation of birthmarks, dotting his fingers on them until the scar along Misha’s side pulls his hands away, and he strokes his thumb over it. “I know I’d like that, too.”

“We could do this every day.”

“We could.”

“You could bring me breakfast in bed every morning.”

“I could.”

“And cook dinner every night. You could become a chef; open up a little diner down the street.”

Jensen laughs. “Maybe,” he says, kissing Misha under his ear, nosing at the tufts of hair at the base of Misha’s neck, the little curls that hide there. Misha turns around until they’re facing each other, legs tangled.

“You could take Icarus on walks, watch as he flirts with all the dogs in the neighbourhood.”

“You could come with me.”

Misha smiles, reaching out to tap Jensen on the nose. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Oh?”

“I have to be at home, perfecting my reputation as the glorious housewife.”

“Is that what the neighbours are saying?” Misha just grins, eyes crinkling, so Jensen reaches down for his hand, lacing their fingers together before he starts tracing those lines as well. “Wouldn’t we have to be married for you to be my housewife?”

“Not necessarily,” Misha says. “The tale of our lives will be much more tragic if I never become Mrs Jensen Ackles, you see, forever doomed to be the illicit lover of the Air Force major.”

Jensen laughs, tucks his face into the crook of Misha’s neck. “Wouldn’t want that.”

“Of course not. It’s our duty to keep the tongues of the busybodies around here wagging.” Misha shifts, tucks himself closer to Jensen. “Of course…”

“Mmm?”

“If we were married it would be easier to have children.”

Jensen stills but his heart pounds. “We haven’t talked about kids,” he says.

“There’s a lot of things we haven’t talked about,” Misha says, voice warm. “Kids, more pets, what shade to paint the living room, do we want red or white hydrangeas by the garage or should we plant some climbing clematises instead—” Jensen’s laughter cuts Misha off, shaking his body. When Misha says his name, his tone is fond.

“Clematises, definitely,” Jensen says, and he’s still chuckling. “We could get some of those blue ones and you could put together a trellis for it, give them something to climb.”

“And kids?”

Jensen grins, kisses Misha – lips and tongues, soft and warm and slow and sure. “Only if you marry me.”

“Only, huh,” Misha drawls, but there isn’t really enough space between their mouths to say much of anything. “Some demands you make, Mr Ackles.”

“Major,” Jensen says. “That’s Major Ackles to you, Mr Collins.”

Misha laughs. He rolls them until Jensen is on his back, staring up at Misha’s face. “Is that what you’re gonna have our kids call you, too, Major Ackles?”

“Just their teachers,” Jensen corrects, and he’s smiling so hard his cheeks almost hurt. Seeing Misha this happy, this full of love, makes something in Jensen warm and soft, makes him never want to leave again and stay right here with this man for the rest of his life.

“Oh, just the teachers.” Misha rolls his eyes. “I guess that’s all right, then.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Misha says, leaning in for another kiss that turns into three.

The early morning is turning into later morning, into breakfast times in the kitchen and a walk around the neighbourhood with Icarus, but they can have this for a little while longer; can have the lingering kisses and the wandering hands; the promises of tomorrow and forever; of a house filled with kids and laughter; of love and early Sunday mornings spent in bed.

The water is bluer in dreamscapes

sa_kun — Fri, 31 May 2013 08:11:51 GMT

Title:The water is bluer in dreamscapes
Author: sa_kun
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/pairings: Dean, Sam, Castiel
Rating: Teen and up
Word Count: 3,5k
Summary: Dean stops having sex after Hell.
Disclaimer: Not mine
Author’s Notes: AU after season five, some spoilers up until that point. Ace!Dean Once upon a time, long ago, I sent this to the lovely runawaydreamer for some much needed beta help. Shortly after, I promptly forgot all about this fic. I'm posting it now! If you would rather read elsewhere, this fic is also up on a AO3.

Dean stops having sex after Hell.

Sex is tied up in Before, in Dad and Sammy. It was never about him – about Dean – or at least he doesn’t think so. Physically, an orgasm is an orgasm, and no matter how Dean ever gets one, it feels kinda nice, you know? He doesn’t like the way his skin crawls, though, or the way he has to take long showers afterward, or how he sometimes can’t sleep because there were hands touching him. He doesn’t like how invasive it is, or how he’d rather be anywhere but there, doing anything but that. He doesn’t like that bit at all.

So the whole “he stops having sex” thing is kind of just him not having the energy or inclination to keep up an act he should’ve quit years ago. Why the hell does he have to explain himself, anyway? It’s just, before Hell, there were expectations to live up to, shoes to fill and pictures to fit. Now, afterward… Now, he's just Dean again, empty and hollow like he hasn’t been in years. He’s just himself now; no more, no less. It’s enough that he has to keep going, day after day. It’s enough.

.ö.

The first time Dean has sex, he’s twenty-one and it’s only because he’s talked himself into a corner he can’t get out of. Dad expects him to flirt with girls, so he does (Dad gave him odd, searching looks for years, actually, because Dean never really got the whole “girls are awesome” deal, but then Sammy asked if Dean was gay, so Dean stepped up and tried to act like the guys at school had), because Dad’s maybe more afraid of Dean being gay than Dean is indifferent toward sex in general.

After that, Dean doesn’t have sex for a long time, not until Dad starts looking at him again, dropping comments and badly veiled questions. So Dean starts to make a habit out of it: he’ll go out, get drunk, flirt, then, well. If he’s lucky, the girls will just blow him, then leave. Closing his eyes and thinking of the metaphorical England kind of tends to work for him.

After Hell, Dad’s gone – it’s just Dean and Sammy now. It’s easier, ‘cause Sam’s never liked it when Dean goes out to get drunk and get laid, anyway, so he plays on that. He stays in, cleaning guns, watching crappy television or surfing the internet. It’s busy (it’s the Apocalypse, of-fucking-course it’s busy), so Dean gets away with it for way longer than he would have before, when Dad was still around. Dean has nightmares about his time in Hell, has scars on his soul and a shit-load of issues, so he figures that helps in keeping Sam off his back as well.

.ö.

“Dean,” Sam says one day. It’s late spring, they’re in Florida, and the world didn’t end. It doesn’t get much better than that, Dean thinks, and leans back in his chair, legs stretched out in front of him and feet crossed at the ankle. There’s beer, his brother is here, he’s never been more content in his life and the only way it’d get better were if Cas was here, too. That’d be pretty much picture perfect, actually.

“Sam,” Dean replies when it’s clear that his brother won’t say anything more than that. Not without prompting, at least. They’re on a pier and the water is glittering blue spread out across the horizon in front of them.

“Dude…”

“What?”

Sam sighs – long, loud and hard.

“Any reason you’re sounding like a dying hippo, man?” Dean asks, sparing a glance for his brother. He shouldn’t have, he realizes immediately; Sam looks awkward, face all frowny and his bottom lip sticking out. “No way. No chick-flick moments,” Dean protests at once. “Whatever you’re thinking, just no.”

“But, Dean,” Sam cuts in.

“But nothing, Sammy.”

“I’m just worried, man!” Sam blurts out. “I just. Dean. I don’t even remember the last time I saw you flirt with someone,” he says quietly.

The only way for Dean not to tense up would have been if Sam had just kept his fucking mouth shut. But he didn’t, so Dean does. “Ain’t none of your business, bitch,” he says as pleasantly as possible, which isn’t very.

“Dean—”

“Dammit— Fucking no, Sam.”

.ö.

Sam doesn’t bring it up again, not for weeks, and Dean doesn’t step up his game. He doesn’t flirt, doesn’t take anyone up on their offers, doesn’t get drunk and fuck someone in some back alley somewhere. He dreams a lot, though, mojo-ed up fake-dreams where he and Cas mostly sit side by side and watch a park or a setting sun or a lake or something. He knows they’re real because the handprint on his shoulder acts up the way it only does when Castiel’s around. They don’t talk much in the dreams – they don’t really need to – but it’s enough to put Dean’s demons to rest for a while longer.

.ö.

They’re in Chicago when Sam brings it up again, sequestered away in a “bar”— Actually, no, fuck that: it’s a coffee shop that Dean would never go to if the choice was left to him. For one, this place serves coffee as well as grilled sandwiches instead of beer and burgers. For another, there’s a huge rainbow flag strapped to the wall behind the shelf where the rows of whiskey bottles would’ve been if this was actually a bar. Two honking big reasons as to why this isn’t a place Dean would pick, but it’s just the kind of place his princess geek of a brother sometimes gets off on dragging them to.

“So, um,” Sam says, setting down their coffees on the table while one of the young guys who works there puts down their sandwiches and fries before taking off with a smile.

“What the hell, Sammy?” Dean demands, poking at his food. “Is there spinach in this?”

Sam’s eye roll is epic and practically audible. “It’s lettuce, idiot.”

“Cucumber?”

“Tomato,” Sam corrects.

Dean’s eyes are narrowed, but he accepts Sam’s word as true because he doesn’t question the food further. He does start eating his fries, though, possibly because the grilled sandwich is still smoking. “Don’t see why we couldn’t stick to a place that actually serves real food, like burgers,” he mutters.

“You always pick,” Sam snaps.

“‘Cause I’m older and wiser than you.”

“Older, yeah,” Sam agrees. “Wiser?”

“Dude,” Dean warns.

“Fine, whatever.”

They enjoy the rest of their meal in silence, only exchanging the occasional comment.

“You want pie?” Sam asks.

Dean’s eyes are wary and suspicious. “They have pie?”

Sam laughs. “Dude, of course they have pie. Berries or something. More coffee?”

Dean nods, and Sam takes off toward the counter again. There’s not much of a line at this time of the day, hours after lunch and hours before dinner (Winchesters have never exactly stuck to conventional meal times). When Sam comes back with the pie and drinks, Dean’s stacked their old plates and pushed them to a far corner of the table.

“So, uh, I was thinking,” Sam starts once Dean’s halfway through his pie.

“What?”

Sam shrugs, but he doesn’t look nearly as comfortable as he’s trying to and they both know it. “You know how I asked if you were gay when I was, what, sixteen?”

“Seventeen,” Dean counters, eyes a bit narrowed. “Why?”

Sam shrugs again. “I don’t know, man. But you haven’t been flirting lately, and I thought maybe—”

“I’m not queer, dude.”

Sam outright laughs at that. “Dude, we’re so queer,” he declares. “We don’t even fit the mold for normal most days and you know it, jerk.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Fine, but I’m not a homo.”

“But—”

“No butts,” Dean counters, smirking. “None.”

“Hilarious.” Sam’s voice is deadpan. “But, Dean, it’s okay if you are.”

“I know that, dickface. I’m not, though. Can I eat my pie now?”

“Yeah, Dean,” Sam sighs. “Eat your pie.”

Dean does, resolutely, and enjoys it as much as he possibly can. Sam’s not Dad, they both know that. Sam’s a giant geek, he went to Stanford, did the college bit, had the hot girlfriend and, on occasion, takes his brother to gay places. So, no, he’s not “afraid” Dean’s homo the way Dad’d been.

.ö.

“Hey, Sam?” he says later that night, when they’re both in bed, Sam with his laptop doing something Dean’s better off not knowing, and Dean with half an eye on the crappy sci-fi flick on TV. Sam grunts, so Dean goes on, “You like doing laundry?”

“Uh, no,” Sam drawls.

“No?”

“It’s boring, Dean. Kind of like watching paint dry.”

Dean chuckles. Then he flips the TV off, burrows under the scratchy motel covers and yawns. “That’s kind of what sex’s like to me,” he says, then adds in a slow, languid murmur, “Also messy and disgusting.” He closes his eyes and lets Cas’ mojo pull him under to their constructed dreamscape.

It’s a zoo, that night. The only animals are ducks, most of which are fluffy, squeaky and playful.

.ö.

“Hey, Dean?” Sam starts the next morning.

“Pancakes, bitch,” Dean says, then he’s out the door.

As far as diversion tactics go, this one holds solid for about an hour.

.ö.

“What d’you mean, sex is like doing laundry?”

Dean pauses in his quest of sharpening his favorite knife. He was using a brand-new whetstone, too. “You got a hearing problem?” Dean drawls.

“Uh, no, I just. Are you doing it wrong or something?”

Dean laughs. It’s bitter, lasts too long, and is way more scornful than laughter normally warrants. “Hell yeah, I’m doing it wrong, bitch. I never fucking wanted to in the first place, so yeah, I did it fucking wrong,” he snaps.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Sam demands. “You’ve been going out to get laid since I was a kid, Dean!”

Dean snorts. He puts down his knife, puts the whetstone to the side, then turns to face his brother. “Don’t give me that shit,” Dean tells him. “Me? I was fucking twenty-one the first time I had sex, Sam. I hated it, but it made Dad happy and kept him off my back ‘cause you were nosing around, asking questions about if I was gay or not. But then it was like I’d opened the floodgates on it, like, started some evil cycle or something, ‘cause every time I stopped doing it? Dad was there, giving me shit about it. So it just kept on going and going, ‘til I was so fucking sick of it, it was all I could do not to throw up.”

Sam blinks. His forehead is furrowed, his eyes are wide and he’s biting his lips. “But sex is supposed to feel good,” he says lamely.

“Don’t give me that crap,” Dean says and rolls his eyes. “It’s fucking invasive and creeps me the hell out.”

“What are you talking about, Dean?”

Dean huffs. “I’m saying I don’t want sex, all right?” he snaps. “Fucking bitch.” Dean tears out of the room, into his car, then drifts around. He doesn’t come back to the motel until the sun’s on its way down over the horizon (it’s not like they’re working a case or anything; no deadlines to meet). Sam’s gone, so Dean doesn’t stick around either.

.ö.

Dean finds himself at a rundown old movie theater. From the looks of it, it’s been shut down for a while and breaking in is child’s play. He mucks about inside, checking out old posters from crappy movies no one remembers, then sets up the projector with a roll of film dubbed “#16”. He’s halfway through the second roll when his phone rings. He knows who it is, of course, doesn’t even need to check the display or anything.

“Hey, Sam,” he says.

“Dean! Where the fuck are you?”

Dean shrugs. On the off-white screen, a zombie is hacked to pieces by a couple of animated shovels. “Abandoned movie theater,” he says. “Right by the edge of town, where that weird statue is with the wheel and the bowl.”

Sam babbles on, of course he does, but twenty minutes later he’s shouldering his way inside the projector room with bags of take-out, apologetic expression on his face and a six-pack of beer. Dean pretty much forgives him on the spot – no sense in holding grudges, right?

“What the hell are you watching?” Sam demands after five minutes, when a vicious little fluffy bunny eviscerates a fucking bear.

“I have no idea, man,” Dean answers. The food is warm, a little bit spicy and a lot greasy, but it’s enough to remind Dean he hasn’t eaten since breakfast. He tucks in with gusto even though it’s Chinese food when he’d been craving a meaty, cheesy pizza. “There was this weird fairy in the beginning, waved his wand and then exploded when a cat rubbed up against his foot. Yeah, I don’t know, man.”

Sam blinks. He remains quiet when the chopped up zombies return and fuse together with the rabbit to form a huge monster, and simply offers Dean a new beer, then drains his own bottle.

“You ever tried it with guys?” Sam asks a while later. Dean’s started a new roll of film, this one animated, untitled and a whole lot better than whatever the fuck “#16” was.

“Still not gay, man.”

Sam frowns. “No, I know, but—”

“Sam, let me ask you this: you ever have sex with someone you’re not attracted to? Not sweet on?”

Sam shakes his head. “No. I mean, sometimes, maybe I wasn’t interested in it right off the bat when Jess was in the mood, but it wasn’t like it took a lot of convincing on her part to get me in on the game either, you know?”

Dean shrugs. Says, “No, I don’t know.”

Sam frowns. “How do you not know, man?”

“It’s easy. I’ve never been sexually attracted to anyone in my life, Sam. Never, not once.”

“But you watch porn!” Sam blurts.

“So? That’s just me; my hand, my dick and some girls on a screen.” Sam grimaces at that, but Dean ignores him. “Look, man, the only time I like getting off is when I do it to myself, on my terms, all right? I don’t like sex with other people. I hate it when people touch me like that; it just doesn’t do it for me. Tell you the truth: if I never have sex again in my life, that’ll be way too soon.”

Sam’s quiet for a while after that. Dean can practically see him mull it over, as the great cogwheels turn and turn inside Sam’s giant brain. “What does that mean, Dean?” Sam asks when he’s done thinking it over. “You’re asexual?”

Dean shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m not big on labels, you know that.”

“But what about Cas?”

This time, it’s Dean who frowns. “What about him?”

“What about him?” Sam echoes, sounding a little incredulous. “Dude, he has the biggest crush on you I’ve ever seen. He fucking watches you sleep, man.”

“Cas is a little creep, all right,” Dean says under his breath.

“I know you like him, too,” Sam fills in. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”

“Dude’s my best friend other than you,” Dean agrees.

“So you don’t…”

“Don’t…?”

Sam shrugs. He looks a little embarrassed, a little hesitant. “I thought you stopped flirting with women ‘cause you were involved, Dean. Then I thought maybe you were just gay and sick of hiding, which’s why I dragged us around to those gay places, but I guess that’s not it.”

“You don’t say,” Dean drawls. He fishes the last of his fried noodles out of the box, then moves on to one of the smaller ones. It’s got deep-fried bananas in it, and Dean makes short work of them.

“Thing is, though,” Dean says much later, drinking beer number three. “Thing is that Cas isn’t human. He doesn’t get our hang-ups. You know how he is.”

“Uh-huh,” Sam agrees.

“So, it’s okay,” Dean says. “It’s okay with him.”

“What d’you mean?”

“I mean that he doesn’t give a damn about me being who I am. He doesn’t read too much into anything, and that’s pretty damn great and relaxing like you wouldn’t believe. Besides, dude dragged me out of Hell and pieced me back together; doesn’t get more intimate than that.”

“Relaxing?”

Dean shrugs and looks away. “Look,” he says. “When you hang out with someone. Say, this really hot chick. And you talk, laugh and just try to have a good time, right? Say, you’re drinking coffee or shooting the shit about muscle cars or something. I can’t do that, not like I can with you or with Cas, and he doesn’t know the first thing about what makes a car tick.”

Sam looks frustrated and confused. “Why not? I mean—”

“‘Cause basically every girl I’ve ever done shit like that with wanted me to fuck them, all right? No one goes to a bar or a, a club or whatever to talk, man! And, yeah, guys don’t exactly think I’m hitting on them when I’m not, but unless we’re in some gay hangout place, they’re not gonna appreciate some random dude striking up a conversation and then they’re gonna want to fuck anyway. So this thing with Cas, it’s fucking nice, all right? No expectations, no holding back ‘cause you’re afraid they’ll read too much into it, no weird touches and shit, no veiled suggestions that you should go someplace else. You know, I once got chewed out ‘cause I took a look at some girl’s car when she asked me if I wanted to ‘take a look under the hood’? I fucking hate sexual innuendos, man. Or, or, that time in high school when some other girl wanted us to go to the movies, then was pissed as hell at me when I spent two hours watching the fucking movie!” Dean snaps. Shaking his head, he runs a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. “Sorry,” he mutters.

“I don’t think I understand,” Sam says after a while, after enough minutes have gone by that they can pretend they didn’t just have a moment or that Dean basically just ranted about his feelings. Or something. “I don’t think I can, because to me sex is great and wonderful, and I don’t understand how anyone couldn’t like it. But… I’ll back off, okay? I mean, you’re my brother, man. If I don’t have your back, who will?”

Dean shrugs. “This is getting sappy,” he mutters.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, whatever. I just… don’t you get lonely, Dean?”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “I’ve got you, Cas, and the Busty Asian Beauties, Sammy. What more do I need?”

.ö.

“Dean.”

“Hey, Cas.”

“You and this lake, huh?”

“It’s your mind, Dean.”

Dean laughs, but then there’s space next to him because his chair is a couch that you just sink right down into. Castiel sits without prompting, face a little frowny as he stares out at the constructed lake with all the sunlight reflecting off of it.

“You okay, man?”

“I’m fine. You seem more at ease lately.”

“It’s been a good year.”

“Yes.”

They sit in silence, after that. Cas staring at the horizon (that he’d created in the first place, hadn’t he?) and Dean staring at Cas. It wasn’t that there was a breaking point, because there wasn’t in that sense, but at some point Dean becomes aware that Cas is staring back at him, eyes warm and blue and soft. Bedroom eyes, Dean would call it, if this had been any other situation (that is, if Dean wasn’t Dean and Cas wasn’t Cas).

“What?”

“You were staring.” Castiel’s lips twitches. “I thought that was my trademark,” he says in that awkward way, where he’s trying to do something that doesn’t come naturally to his angelic nature. Or something. “After all, I’m a creeper, right?”

Dean laughs. “Dude, you’re the worst creeper. No, I was just…”

“What?”

“Nothing. I don’t know. Me and Sam…”

“It’s good that you’re talking about your emotions,” Cas says, when Dean can’t make head or tails of what he’s trying to get out.

“Dude, have you been sneaking and creeping around again?”

Cas suddenly looks very shifty. “No,” he says, but Dean hears ‘yes’.

“Just drop by whenever, man.”

“You looked busy.”

Dean laughs. “Cas, we’re never too busy for you. I. I’m never, you know.”

“I know.” Castiel puts a hand on his thigh, leans close until there’s barely any space separating their noses because Cas still hasn’t got the whole “personal space” deal down under pat. “Dean. You’re important to me, too.”

stardust in our eyes

sa_kun — Mon, 27 May 2013 11:10:47 GMT

Title: stardust in our eyes
Author: sa_kun
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/pairings: Castiel/Dean, Sam
Rating: Teen and up
Word Count: 8,3k
Summary: Castiel thinks Dean is probably the most attractive man he has ever met in his life.
Disclaimer: Not mine
Author’s Notes: College!AU. Contains homophobia and transphobia.Castiel is trans*, female to male (ftm). In my eyes, Cas is demisexual in this, but that's really up to you. If you would rather read elsewhere, this fic is also up on a AO3.

This is for runawaydreamer, because she's always awesome and she beta'd this.

The first time Castiel sees his roommate, he’s sure there’s been a mistake. Castiel’s roommate is the epitome – the very spitting image – of the type of person he wants to get away from.

‘Bully’ is simply the easiest, most encompassing word he prefers to use.

Dean Winchester is loud. He has a love for all things sexual that involve women and is not shy about expressing it. He listens to mullet rock and claims it to be the very finest music ever produced. He eats unhealthy food. He drives a black muscle car and wears a leather jacket that doesn’t quite fit him. He parties every weekend. He goes running, which goes against everything about the person he likes to portray himself as, but he does it anyway because it’s something he’s used to doing, he says, with his dad and whiny-ass little brother.

Castiel started the college life late, but so did Dean, and he thinks that is the main reason they are rooming together.

--

Castiel hates having a roommate.

It means always sleeping with an eye open, always keeping large sweaters and cardigans and hoodies by his bed in case Dean should suddenly wake him in the night. It means smuggling his binder in with his clothes into the bathroom when gets dressed in the morning.

It means being constantly afraid that Dean will notice something, will somehow see that he and Castiel are not biologically the same.

It means being terrified that Dean will attack him with words and fists and feet.

Dean, who is uncouth and brash, who talks too loud and wide about whatever strikes his fancy; whose father is an ex-marine who taught him how to shoot guns, use knives and fight hand-to-hand combat.

Castiel, of course, thinks Dean is probably the most attractive man he has ever met in his life.

--

“Hey, dude,” Dean says when Castiel opens the door to their room. He’s not alone – not an entirely unusual ordeal, though usually his company is female and less composed.

“Hello,” the other boy says.

“This is Sammy,” Dean says. “My brother. Cas, my roomie.”

“Yes,” Castiel says, because he has social skills like no other. “Hello.”

The smile Dean’s brother offers him is more of a grimace. “My name is actually Sam, but Dean refuses to accept I’m not a chubby twelve-year-old anymore.”

“I’m Castiel. I don’t mind.”

Any variation of his name, the name that he chose, is infinitely better than the one his parents gave him, after all.

“So, we were gonna catch a movie tonight. You wanna come?”

It’s no secret that Castiel doesn’t have much of a social life or that Dean will on occasion invite him along. The question may have been placed as a suggestion or an invitation, but Castiel has learned the hard way that refusing to accept is far less pleasant for him. After all, at the end of the day he still has to live with Dean. Hell may not have the kind of fury a scorned woman supposedly does, but Shakespeare had clearly never come across a spurned Dean Winchester, so Castiel feels inclined to let that slide.

“I am not a fan of a lot of movies,” he says anyway, which, of course, Dean already knows.

“Sammy’s pick,” Dean says. “If I had ovaries, they’d be bleeding, and I’m not suffering alone. You’re coming, Cas.”

“Dean!” Sam snaps.

“What? You always pick never-ending dramas with way too much cheesy romance and shit.”

“And you always pick horror movies that premiered forty years ago,” Castiel says, heart pounding. He knows, of course, that Dean isn’t picking on him when he lets blatant sexism color how he expresses himself, but sometimes it’s hard not to let it get to him. “If it were up to me—”

“I let you pick one time,” Dean mutters. “And I had to sit and watch some three hour long flick where not one dude spoke English. Not one! You’ve had your movie-picking privileges revoked for the rest of eternity, buddy.”

--

After that day, Castiel is suddenly seeing Sam everywhere. Most notably, of course, is at the LGBTQ headquarters of the school. It leaves Castiel feeling a little bit stunned, a little bit surprised, because Sam is Dean’s younger brother. He had noticed how different they were, of course, but he’d also noticed how close and inseparable. He wants to ask why Sam comes to the meetings, but it would be rude, so he holds back; he wouldn’t want anyone asking him.

Castiel’s family was mostly cut from the same cloth, with few but very noticeable exceptions. He can’t help but wonder what kind of cloth Sam and Dean are cut from.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam greets him, as he has done at their every meeting now since the force that is Dean Winchester brought their worlds into contact. Castiel doesn’t entirely mind; Sam is nice.

“Hello.”

“Dean never told me you came here, too,” Sam says.

Castiel blinks. “I wasn’t aware I had to tell him?”

“No, no, of course not, dude.” Sam is all wide eyes and blustering innocence. It’s a refreshing sight, after living with Dean. “I just, he talks about you a lot, so… I don’t know. Never mind.”

“He talks about me?”

“You live together,” Sam points out. “Yeah, of course he does. You’re the only friend he has that, well. Let’s just say you’re the only friend he has who doesn’t want to get into his pants and leave it at that, okay?”

“What do you mean?” Castiel’s heart is speeding up, because it’s been years since he had a friend, and here Sam is, claiming that Dean considers him his friend. It’s startling and new. And terrifying. It’s something he finds he wants with a desperation that surprises him.

Sam shrugs. “Just that a lot of the time people hang around Dean because they think he’s hot, and they don’t really care about him as a person, you know?”

“People are shallow,” Castiel agrees, and it’s something he has experienced first-hand far too many times.

Sam laughs, but it’s not necessarily a happy sound. “The first time I went to a GSA club in high school— Well, there were a lot of first times because we moved around a lot. Anyway, at one place they wouldn’t let me join because I was too tall, like that has anything to do with anything, you know? Or because of Dean, or my dad, or just tons of different little reasons that basically had nothing to do with me.”

“I see,” Castiel says, slanting a glance at Sam. “You are rather tall.”

“I know, right?” Sam grins. “Rubs Dean like you wouldn’t believe.”

“He does have an overabundance of testosterone.”

--

“I saw your brother today,” Castiel says later that night. Dean grunts, so Castiel knows he’s listening, that he’s still awake. “At the GSA.”

“Yeah, he goes there.” There’s the sound of shifting, bedsprings creaking. “Didn’t know you were one of those, too.”

“One of those?” If there is derision and offense in his tone, then Dean brought it on himself.

“You know.” Dean yawns. “Freedom fighters. Rebels. Like, Sam is totally Luke Skywalker in this scenario, but I’m Han Solo ‘cause I’m too cool for this school.”

“Oh. Is he—?”

“Dunno. Didn’t ask.”

“How very marine of you, Dean.”

“Hey, I read that it wasn’t cool, okay? Like, you don’t ask ‘cause telling people is part of the whole deal, right? So if Sammy’s got something to say, then I’ll be there. Until then? I’m good with waiting.”

“You’re a good brother,” Castiel says, heart pounding.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

--

At Christmas, Dean stays but so does Castiel. Sam spends most nights sleeping on a spare mattress by Dean’s bed. The crowding freaks Castiel out, but he’s not heartless enough to throw anyone out on Christmas, much less Dean’s brother, someone who has been weaseling his way into something that might be called friendship as well.

Castiel can’t remember the last time he had friends, and it makes him panic a little, because the last time he did, it didn’t end in a way that made him want to try again, somewhere else with someone entirely different.

But now there are two people he needs to hide from, two people he needs to maintain a front with at all times. The first time he takes his clothes to change in the bathroom, Sam frowns at him. Dean slaps his brother over the head, though, just as Castiel is passing him by, and nothing is said of it.

Occasionally, Dean’s remarkable sense of insight surprises Castiel. He thinks maybe it shouldn’t. Dean is astute; he’s a people person.

--

They eat pizza on Christmas Day, have pie and too much ice-cream, eat too much candy and potato chips. The TV is looping one movie after another, and Castiel feels remarkably content. They exchange cheap gifts, drink too much eggnog and stay up far too late.

It’s the happiest Castiel remembers being in a long time.

--

“How come you don’t date, man?”

It’s the day after Valentine’s Day. Dean, who spent all of yesterday ‘prowling’, is now spread-eagled on his bed, all loose limbs and contentment. There are times when Castiel is incredibly jealous over the ease Dean has with his own body.

“I have no interest in dating.”

“For real, or just ‘cause you’re a hermit?”

Castiel glares at Dean, but Dean’s eyes are closed. “I might admit that there has never been occasion,” Castiel says after a long enough pause. “But it’s not a lie that I have no particular interest in it, either.”

“So, like, no one ever catches your eye?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Dean. Of course I notice attractive people. I just don’t feel an urge to jump their bones.”

“Ever?”

“Why are we playing Twenty Questions, Dean?”

Dean shrugs. “Just something we talked about in class. But, Cas, man, I’m your friend, so yeah, sometimes I wonder about you.”

“I’m content.”

“Now, or always?”

“Now,” Castiel acknowledges, because it took him a long time to come to this point. “I am…starting to become optimistic. About my future. I’m…more comfortable in my skin now. It’s a good feeling.”

“That’s good, man.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow and wonders if it truly is. “Last time I was optimistic about something, my family threw me out.”

Dean sits up so fast the motion almost blurs. “What?! Why?”

“I told them something they didn’t want to hear.” Castiel clears his throat, uncomfortable with the intensity in Dean’s eyes, all of it focused on him. “And I refused to be brainwashed into something I’m not.”

“What? You said you were gay and they wanted to send you off to bible school?”

Castiel looks away. He picks at the covers on his bed. Incidentally, they were one of the more useful Christmas presents: new bed sheets. Dean’s taste in linens is not the best, but they fill their purpose regardless. Although why he would want to sleep with Batman is beyond him when Mystique’s ambiguity is so appealing, or the masculinity of Wolverine so compelling… Which of course has no bearing on sheets, but that isn’t really the point.

“No. I’m not gay, I don’t think. People catch my eye regardless of gender. I like hands or eyes or freckles, or the slope of shoulders, or the curve of hips. But I don’t define myself as gay or straight.”

“So, bi?”

“No, Dean. I’m not overly fond of labels. I have too many of them as it is.”

Dean sighs and shrugs. “If they got me tossed out, I don’t suppose I’d be thrilled with them, either. I’m not asking, okay? ‘Course, I’m gonna be wondering why, but—”

“I told them I was a boy, that I wasn’t their daughter and had never been,” Castiel says, and it’s almost offhanded enough to make it sound as if he does not care, when it’s the very opposite that’s true. He feels all color drain from his face, and then he’s got his head between his knees, trying desperately to breathe because he didn’t mean to tell Dean that. He meant to say that his family had disagreed with his worldviews, with his ideals and way of life and how Castiel didn’t want to follow in his family’s footsteps as bigots and homophobes and he hadn’t meant to tell Dean that.

“Cas? Cas, man, hey, you gotta calm down and breathe, okay? Breathe for me—”

There is an endless loop of Dean’s voice, steady and calm and low, even as his hands are frantic on Castiel’s back and shoulders.

When Castiel can finally breathe, the room is shrouded in shadow and Dean is sitting behind him, chest pressed close to Castiel’s back, still talking.

“Dean,” he says, and Dean starts.

“Cas? Hey, shit, you totally freaked me out—”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, dude, you don’t have anything to be sorry—”

“People look at me differently when they know,” Castiel says, subdued. He leans his head back until it’s resting on Dean’s shoulder, but he turns his face away because he isn’t sure if he can stand looking Dean in the eye right now, doesn’t know if he can be that brave. “I didn’t want that to be you.”

Dean is quiet a moment, then he says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, man.”

“Dean…”

“No, seriously. Like, your parents desperately wanted a daughter so they forced you into dresses and stuff? I’ve seen documentaries about that on TV. Like, a mom really wants someone to follow in her footsteps, so she makes her son wear frills and stuff. Like she can change a dude into a chick.”

Castiel just breathes. In a way that is exactly the truth, but it’s also not the whole truth, or even strictly speaking the “right” truth. “No,” he says. “It’s essentially the same but I was born biologically wrong, Dean. To them I was a daughter, but it was wrong.”

“So it’s more a case of ‘dude looks like a lady’?”

“No. More a case of me actually being a man but nothing is right.”

Dean is quiet for a moment. “It’s not like cross-dressing, is it?”

“No, it’s not.”

“What’s a transvestite? I mean, like that British dude. Izzard?”

“What it looks like: someone who enjoys dressing up as a member of the opposite sex.”

One of Dean’s hands come up then, knuckles sliding along Castiel’s jaw. Castiel flinches a little, but Dean ignores it. “How does this work, then? You have stubble; I’ve seen you shave.”

“Hormone treatments.”

“Oh. Okay.”

--

To his credit, Dean doesn’t really look at Castiel differently after that. He touches him less, though, and Castiel would be grateful if it wasn’t also a change. There are times when they are talking and Dean, being Dean, will say something that might be derogatory about women, then stops himself with a strange expression on his face, glances at Castiel, says sorry and changes the subject.

It grates on Castiel.

But Dean also never tries to insinuate that he is in any way wrong, which is both refreshing and exhilarating, and Dean is still forcing him to be social every so often, so nothing major actually changes.

--

“Oh, dude,” Dean says one day, tearing into the room and folding Castiel into a really tight, hard and long hug.

It’s not something Castiel would say he is at all used to. Dean might be rather free and physical with his affection, but he rarely hugs anyone.

“Dean?”

“Shit, man, I had no idea,” Dean says to Castiel’s shoulder. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again, okay? Hell, I’m putting a leash on you and you’re just gonna have to deal with it, okay? Sonofabitch.”

“Um,” Castiel says, because he isn’t sure what the proper response is. He awkwardly pats Dean’s back, then tries to wriggle away. It’s a moot point, because the more he tries to escape, the tighter Dean clings. It is a little bit like being caught in quicksand, he imagines. “What’s going on, Dean?”

“Sammy picked the movie,” Dean says. “Fucking ‘Boys Don’t Cry’.”

“Oh.”

“You seen it?”

Castiel shakes his head. “I don’t like to torture myself,” he says, which is true, but he also read the reports, the news articles, the statements of the people involved in the true story that hid behind the movie. After, he could never justify watching a production that made its money by exploiting the pain of real people. “Dean, can you let go?”

“No.”

“This is uncomfortable.”

“Don’t care. Fucking deal, man.” For a moment, Dean squeezes harder, but then he does let go, only to hold Castiel at arm’s length by the shoulders. “How the fuck can you stand to room with me?”

Castiel averts his eyes, because deflection is an acceptable form of dealing with all matters concerning Dean Winchester. “It’s not so bad,” he says.

“Lying little liar,” Dean counters, eyes narrowed as he ducks after Castiel to force eye contact. Sometimes Castiel does hate Dean, but only a little.

“I hated it in the beginning,” Castiel admits, then. “I hated it. I was terrified. It was beyond awful. But you didn’t question my need to change in the bathroom, or mock me for it, or push me. You have always let me be. So I find I’m not as uncomfortable anymore. You’re a good person, Dean.”

Dean’s ears go red, which is rare enough that Castiel takes a certain amount of pleasure in it.

“Even if I dislike the way you’ve changed how you treat me.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “I haven’t—”

“When I was stressed out about classes, you used to say, ‘Man up, dude, don’t be a fucking girl about it.’ You used to call your brother a whiny little princess. You used to say I was a ‘girl’ about the way I prefer to keep my half of the room in order.” Castiel glares a little at Dean, a silent dare for him to refute the accusation. He doesn’t. “You changed.”

“I didn’t wanna offend you,” Dean says. “I mean, I went to the club you and Sammy hang out at, right, and they had all these pamphlets and shit. So maybe I read them. And they were all about not stepping on toes or crossing lines and no-go zones and don’t touch this or that, and, yeah.”

The fact that Dean would go to such lengths for Castiel is warming, but the fact that Dean still changed does infuriate him. “I have one rule, Dean, and it’s simple: treat me as you would any other person. Don’t differentiate.”

“You mean you really want me to barge in and take a leak when you’re in the shower? ‘Cause you know I can pick a lock like nobody’s business, and the bathroom door’s ridiculously easy.”

Castiel goes a little red. “I will kill you if you ever do that. Painfully.”

Dean smirks. “Noted. Just for curiosity’s sake, you gonna use the shampoo bottles or the showerhead?”

“The shower curtain rod. Then I will key your car.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “There’s no need to be mean, Cas.”

“There is every need,” Castiel counters, and maybe he’s smirking, maybe he’s enjoying messing with Dean. “Rerecord your tapes.”

--

Castiel dislikes alcohol. He doesn’t enjoy the sensation of losing control, so while he does accept Sam’s heartfelt and pleading invitation to go out to a nearby bar with him and a few others from the LGBTQ club, he refrains from drinking, even though he is old enough.

Sam isn’t, but Castiel isn’t sure if that would have stopped him if the pretty but sassy blonde who also decided to come along hadn’t declared that underage drinking is just plain stupid. Sam, he reflects, is young enough to let forces like that direct him.

Of course, when that force is Dean, there isn’t much Castiel can do to escape it, either.

“What’s the name of this place again?” Sam asks, sliding a tall glass of ice and soda over the table to Castiel. He looks contemplative as he glances around, making note of the pool tables and dartboards.

“The Hole,” Castiel says.

“Huh.”

“What?”

“I think Dean comes here?” Sam says, but he sounds amused rather than bemused. “I think I need to talk to him about riling up the wrong kind of crowd again.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“Dean is a bit of a player, you know? Not, like, with people or anything, not like that, but he likes playing pool with high stakes. In a place like this? Dean’s raking in a fortune.”

“He has a lot of casual assignations.”

“Yeah, but they all know the score. Dean coming here, playing pool for money when most of the guys here bat for the home team?”

“I see.”

“My brother’s a flirt, but he doesn’t need to be an idiot about it.”

“Are you sure he doesn’t like this kind of attention, then?” Castiel asks when Sam takes to sucking on his straw, pouting and looking very mulish.

Sam suddenly looks very young. Sometimes it’s difficult to remember that Sam is one year younger than the freshmen at college usually are. “Pretty sure he’s straight. I mean, he would’ve said, right?”

Castiel makes a contemplative noise. “He compared himself as the Han Solo to your Luke Skywalker when we talked about gay rights.”

“So?”

“So, Han Solo was a rebel as well.” Castiel raises an eyebrow. “He’s your brother, though.”

Sam pouts a little. “Han Solo got the girl, though.”

“You do remember ‘the girl’ was Luke’s sister?”

--

Of course, because he’s Castiel and something almost always has to happen, he and Sam are jumped when they leave the club.

--

“No, nuh-uh,” Dean is saying before Castiel’s even managed to fully open the door. “You don’t come home ‘til the pumpkin turns back, Cinderella— Holy shit, what happened, dude!?”

So, yes, some of Dean’s less savory comments and sense of humor might have started to trickle back since their talk. Castiel isn’t sure whether or not to appreciate that yet. What he does know is that his face is bleeding, his ribs are smarting, his knuckles ache and there is something wrong with his right foot. Actually, much of everything hurts, even when Dean’s hands, gentle and sure, tip his face from side to side.

“We got ‘em good,” Sam slurs from behind Castiel. “Dude, there’s two of you. I don’t feel so good.”

“Sammy?” Dean gets Castiel to sit on his bed, then has his hands all over Sam. Sam bats at him, but he’s injured and not fast enough. “Hospital?”

“I think I have a concussion, Dean,” Sam says, and he sounds no older than five, either.

“His arm might be broken,” Castiel adds.

“Ow,” Sam says. “Dean, Dean—”

“I’m here, Sammy,” Dean says, carefully pulling up the sleeve over Sam’s right hand. “What happened?”

Sam has trouble keeping his eyes open, so Castiel clears his throat. “We left the bar early. I don’t do well with people, and the crowd was crushing me. Dean, I… We were two blocks away, and they came from nowhere.”

Dean just clenches his jaw. “How many?”

“Four.”

“Fucking cowards,” Dean spits. “We gotta take Sammy to the hospital, okay? His arm’s broken.”

--

Castiel hates hospitals. Dean manages most of the paperwork and talking that’s required, but then the nurses separate him and Sam, and Dean goes with his brother.

If Castiel still had a brother, he would have done the same.

The nurse, Williams, takes his time patching Castiel up. Williams helps him out of his jacket and coat, his shoes, socks and his trousers, calls him Castiel and is perfectly polite. He even makes the mandatory photographing that will be used as evidence – should Castiel choose to press charges – as painless as possible. He talks about how this will be reported to the police and that an officer will be by to take a statement, so Castiel shouldn’t be surprised when an officer stops by later on.

There is only a problem when Castiel refuses to remove his shirt. He is wearing a T-shirt underneath, but it’s far more naked than he feels comfortable being around strangers.

“Castiel,” Williams says. “I need to see if your ribs are broken.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re clutching your side like it hurts.”

“It’s nothing.”

“I guarantee you, there is nothing I haven’t seen before. And I wouldn’t be doing my job if I let you out of here without tending to all your wounds.”

Castiel nods, but refuses to meet Williams eyes. “Turn around,” he says, and Williams complies. It takes Castiel a long time before he can manage to unbutton his shirt and pull it off. There is still the matter of his T-shirt, though, and his binder. He can’t lift his arms over his head, his shoulder is throbbing, the ribs on his right side feel like they’re on fire and he wants to break down and cry.

This is why he hates hospitals – they’re invasive and demeaning. They force him to wear labels that don’t fit, push him into a biological slot that isn’t his.

“Castiel?”

“I can’t lift my arms.”

After a moment, Williams turns around. “Okay,” he says, then helps Castiel move into a position where Williams can slide his last barrier of defense toward the outside world off. “One more layer, huh?” Williams says, folding the T-shirt neatly and placing it on the bed next to Castiel.

“I don’t want to.”

“I’m sorry,” Williams says. “But you’re injured. The fact that you can’t comfortably lift your arms means I need to do a proper examination, okay? Lean forward again. This is probably tight and firm enough to keep your ribs in place so it doesn’t feel as bad, right?”

“Probably,” Castiel says. After that, when he sits nearly naked as Williams examines his ribs and his shoulder, down by the small of his back where he hadn’t even noticed he was injured, the bruise on his left hip, Castiel refuses to meet Williams’ eye. He keeps a hand over his chest and Williams doesn’t tell him to move it.

“There is some bruising,” Williams says. “I don’t think they’re broken, but one has been snapped slightly out of position so I’m just going to call a doctor who can fix that. It’s what causes most of the pain. Your tailbone isn’t broken, but sitting may hurt for a while.” Williams pauses. “You might find it uncomfortable and painful to wear your special shirt for a while, judging by when we removed it. It’s complicated to put on?”

“I have to pull it up,” Castiel says. “They’re designed to be formfitting.”

Williams nods. “I have to take a few pictures now. Is that okay?”

“No,” Castiel says, but he lets Williams do it anyway.

--

The doctor calls him Ms Smith and refuses to call him anything else. In response, Castiel refuses to say a word at all.

--

When Dean walks inside Castiel’s room as if he owns it, Castiel is sitting wrapped in a blanket Williams had provided for him and his clothes are in a neatly folded pile next to him.

“Hey, Cas. How you holding up?”

“I’ve been better,” he says. “How is Sam?”

“They’re keeping him for observation overnight. He’s got a concussion, but it’s not bad, and a broken wrist. The rest is just bruising.”

“I had an out of place rib.”

“Ouch.”

“My doctor is an asshole.”

“They usually are,” Dean says. “Sam’s was a total bag of dicks. Hey, it’s not our fault we need medical attention in the middle of the night, right? Don’t give us your passive-aggressive shit, man.”

“My nurse said a policeman would drop by.”

Dean nods. “Yeah. Sam, too. You gonna press charges?”

Castiel looks away. “I don’t think so.”

“Cas—”

“I’m a freak, Dean. To them, I’m not worth the paper it takes to write on; or the ink, for that matter. The doctor wouldn’t even call me by my name.”

Dean sits down next to him, but he doesn’t touch him, which Castiel is grateful for. He isn’t sure if he could take it right now. “What happened tonight, Cas?”

Castiel shrugs. “They thought we were gay. It offended them. They took action. Sam and I responded. End of story.”

“You were just walking?”

Castiel nods. “Yes. Maybe they followed us from the club. I’m not attracted to your brother, Dean.”

“No, no, that wasn’t what I—”

“I know,” Castiel says. “Can you stay?”

Dean nods. “They have Sam under observation. Don’t need me distracting them. Your dickwad doctor?”

“I want to punch him in the balls. Williams said I shouldn’t.”

“Williams?”

“My nurse. He was very understanding.”

“Is he hot at least? It sucks when the hospital doesn’t even have hot nurses.”

Castiel laughs and shakes his head, because Dean never changes. Privately, Castiel thinks that is a good thing. “He has kind eyes,” he says at last. “And warm hands.”

--

The officer knocks on the doorframe and asks for Ms Smith.

Dean looks like a perfect human question mark. “Who?” he asks.

“Ms Smith,” the officer repeats. “Dr Rogers said she was in here?”

“It’s Castiel,” Castiel says. “And I’d like it if you didn’t refer to me as anything but that.”

The officer blinks; at him, at the paper in his hand, at the sign by the door. “Huh,” he eventually says. “So, ma’am—”

“No. Castiel or nothing,” Castiel practically growls out.

“Castiel,” the officer repeats, and Castiel isn’t sure if it’s his imagination or not, but there seems to be a slight hint of mocking in his tone. “I’m Officer Caldwell. Sir?” he directs the last bit at Dean, who still looks a little confused, but now there’s a hard, cold edge underneath.

“Dean. I’m staying.”

Castiel nods, and Caldwell lets it go.

“So, Castiel, why don’t you tell me what happened tonight?”

There is a strange emphasis on his name, but Castiel ignores it. “I was walking home from a bar – the Hole? – with Sam—”

“Boyfriend?”

Castiel frowns. “No. My roommate’s brother.”

“That’s me,” Dean says, wiggling his fingers. “Dean.”

“The Hole is a gay bar, right?”

“Yes.”

“Huh. Where were you when you were attacked?”

“Two blocks away,” Castiel says, then proceeds to explain as much as he can remember. Caldwell takes notes, of course he does, but the sympathy has long since dropped from his voice.

--

After the officer is gone, Castiel is free to go. Dean looks furious, but he doesn’t tear into Caldwell the way Castiel has no doubt Dean wants to, because Castiel asked him to refrain. Instead, Dean sits on the bed as Castiel stands up and stares at his pile of clothes.

Without his binder, he feels awkward and vulnerable and fleshy, and he absolutely hates it.

“I can’t wear my binder,” Castiel says.

“Your what-now?” Dean asks, glancing down at the clothes. He catches on fairly fast, because his eyes double in size. “Oh. Shit, never mind.”

“I hate this. Dean, I hate this so much.”

Dean looks at him, just looks him in the eye until Castiel has to turn away.

“Did the doctor say—”

“He didn’t say anything. My nurse thought I might be uncomfortable, but it doesn’t matter because I can’t put it on or even take it off!” Castiel explodes. “I hate this, Dean!”

“Okay,” Dean says. “I can help you put it on. Or—”

Castiel glares. “I’m not exposing myself for your enjoyment—”

“No, no! Shit, Cas, no, not like that.” Dean stands, picks the binder out from the rest of the folded clothes. “How do you put this on?”

“I step into it,” Castiel says after a while. He can’t help but be suspicious, though, because there are almost always ulterior motives involved.

Dean nods, swallows. “Right, so, I close my eyes, you turn your back, then we just…yank it on?”

--

In the end, they don’t go through with it because Castiel’s body is already aching too much. They would have had to remove it again when they came home anyway, and Dean is planning to stay at the hospital overnight even though Sam is fine, so Castiel decides not to put it on. He does layer up, though, pulls on all his clothes and huddles in them, then accepts the keys to Dean’s car and drives home.

The next morning, Castiel puts on two sports bras and pretends that they’re enough. He dresses carefully, chooses clothes he knows are too large on him but that help him pass.

Castiel reaches the hospital by nine, cups of coffee in a tray and muffins in a bag. He may hate hospitals, but he remembers enough about them to know that food and coffee generally aren’t things they are known for.

Dean greets him like a dying man, inhales half of his cup in one go, then sends longing looks at the cup intended for Sam.

--

“You kicked their asses, right?”

“Yes, Dean.”

Dean looks strangely satisfied by that. He nods, pats Castiel on the shoulder. “Good, good,” he says. “Next time you go out, I’m coming with.”

--

Castiel doesn’t go out again; it really isn’t something he enjoys, and has nothing to do with the fact that Sam doesn’t bring it up again. Sam, who has to wear a cast on his arm for several weeks. Castiel feels guilty about that, because he heals up much faster. His most serious injury was a displaced rib and a sprained ankle. Sam was lucky he didn’t require surgery.

When Easter comes around, he goes to church. It’s the one constant he has left from his old life, from before his family disowned him. Easter is the only time he goes, and he doesn’t think that will change any time soon.

Dean badgers him into going running with him, claims it will build up Castiel’s stamina. Castiel goes, because he enjoys spending time with Dean no matter what they end up doing. It does give him the satisfaction of kicking Dean to the ground when he insists on teaching Castiel how to fight, though.

“The fuck?” Dean blinks up at him from the ground, eyes wide and mouth compellingly open. “Dude!”

Castiel feels his face warm a little, but they are already sweaty from their run so he thinks it probably goes unnoticed. “I lived in a group home. Mrs Anderson insisted on all of us knowing how to defend ourselves.” Castiel shrugs. “I wasn’t the only one with intolerant parents.”

Dean stands, narrows his eyes and grins. “See if I ever go easy on you again, dude.”

“Why would you go easy, Dean?” Castiel glares.

Dean smirks. “Thought you were a beginner. My bad.”

--

Dean mostly sleeps in a T-shirt and underwear. Also, he moves around a lot in his sleep. It means that he kicks his covers off, that when Castiel wakes early in the mornings, Dean is stretched out on his stomach with his face buried in his pillow because the early morning light hits his bed before Castiel’s. It means that his skin glows where the sun hits, on his back, the dip of his spine and the flesh of his thighs, because his T-shirt will invariably ride up and underwear never covered much in the first place.

Some mornings, it’s harder to look away.

Some mornings, he never wants to.

--

One morning, Castiel pulls out a sketchbook he hasn’t looked at in months. He isn’t an accomplished artist by any definition, but he enjoys the way his mind clears of everything when he puts his stub of charcoal on a blank sheet of paper. It’s early, earlier than usual, and Dean’s facing away from him, his face half-buried underneath his pillow, but that doesn’t make him any less appealing to Castiel.

He doesn’t know how long he draws, only that he has pages full of feet, and a thigh, and an arm, a hand, the creases of Dean’s T-shirt, the tufts of his hair. There are other details, too, pillows and sheets with silly race car motifs, but most feature Dean in some way.

“Dude,” Dean says, voice heavy with sleep. “You bein’ a creeper again?”

“No, Dean,” Castiel says. He considers stopping filling in the shade of the last sketch of Dean’s foot, but he doesn’t.

“What you up to, then?”

“Nothing.”

Dean makes a series of tired morning noises. “Not sure I believe you, man. You’re sneaky as fuck.”

Castiel doesn’t say anything in response. Sometimes, if Dean’s not encouraged to wake up, he will go back to sleep until his alarm actually goes off. What Castiel doesn’t expect is Dean suddenly falling down in a pile of sleep-heavy limbs on the bed next to him, Dean’s head in front of Castiel so that his nose is tickled by hair.

“Why are you drawing my foot, dude?”

“You have nice feet.”

Dean doesn’t say anything, but he moves back and turns around. “I have nice feet?”

“Dean,” Castiel says, closing the sketchbook. “You’re being rude.”

“I’m being rude? Dude, you’re the one drawing me while I’m sleeping. That’s, like, stalking or something.”

“It helps me clear my mind.” Castiel shifts, uncomfortably aware of how close Dean is, of how warm, and Castiel feels naked and fleshy. He isn’t wearing his binder, still in his sleep clothes, and he wishes that he had taken the time to get dressed, if only on top. He finds himself hunching his shoulders a little, trying to make himself invisible.

“They’re not that big,” Dean says.

“What?”

Dean gestures at Castiel. “Your breasts. They aren’t that big.”

Castiel scowls. “Don’t stare,” he snaps.

“I don’t.”

“I hate that I’m this way, Dean. It’s not okay—”

“Okay, okay,” Dean says, leaning close enough to put a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “I don’t look, okay? I notice stuff, yeah, but I don’t go out of my way to do it. I’m just saying that you shouldn’t feel like you have to hide or something, because if I didn’t know I’d just think it was your shirt or whatever. This here?” Dean points at the walls. “This is a safe-space. We always keep the door locked. You have a key to that door, I have a key. If it’s a crisis, Sam will probably pick the lock to get in but he’s a bitch about knocking before entering, so you’ll know when he’s about to barge in.”

Castiel just nods, because he doesn’t know what to say.

“Okay?” Dean prods.

“I…yes. Okay.”

“Good,” Dean says, clapping his hands down on his thighs. They’re nice thighs, Castiel thinks, firm and muscled, freckled and dusted with golden hair. It’s a uniquely Dean trait, the way his facial hair doesn’t quite match the hair on the top of his head, or how the hair on his arms and legs is almost blond, or maybe slightly reddish and again nothing like the hair on his head. “Cas.”

“What?”

Dean taps his fingers under Castiel’s chin. “Eyes up here, man.” Castiel feels his ears grow warm. “I know I’m hot, but staring’s rude.” Dean sounds amused, but there’s something guarded about him.

It makes Castiel think of Sam, of the conversations they’ve had where Sam worries. It makes Castiel think about what he’s observed, that he’s never seen any of Dean’s “study-partners” return more than once even though he thinks Dean would probably want them to come back, because Dean is a social creature who thrives on connections to other people.

“You’re very attractive,” Castiel says. “You have a beautiful soul.”

Dean stares, then he shakes his head and chuckles. “You say the cheesiest stuff with the straightest face and you don’t even mean it that way, do you?”

Castiel frowns. “I mean that you’re a good person, Dean. You’re the best person I’ve ever met. I don’t think you realize how much it means to me that you treat me as me. I’ve been kicked out for less.”

Dean is quiet, staring at the wall. “I think you’re probably the best friend I’ve ever had, and that scares me.”

“Is it because we haven’t had sex?”

Dean starts, then throws his head back and laughs. It’s a nice laugh, maybe a little harsh, but not overly so. “Dude, my life is one long series of fucked-up one-night stands.”

“I tried to have sex once,” Castiel says instead, because it seems to be a safer route to go.

“Yeah?”

“It didn’t go well.” Castiel looks away. “I’m not a girl. They thought I was. It was uncomfortable.” Dean frowns, so Castiel adds, “He thought I owed him for putting up with me. I didn’t agree.”

“That sucks.”

“Yes.”

“Dickish move, by the way. You never owe anyone anything that you don’t want to give in the first place. So, yeah. You wanna grab breakfast?”

Castiel smiles. “That would be nice.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “You want the shower first?”

Castiel looks at his hands, dusty and blackened by the charcoal. He knows that there are probably spots on his face because he tends to forget about charcoal smudging everywhere. “I think that might be best,” he agrees, looking as earnest as he possibly can, then deliberately puts a hand on Dean’s thigh – it’s warm and firm and feels glorious – and uses it to push himself up.

Dean squawks in offense, but Castiel has already gathered his binder and a top and is sprinting for the bathroom, laughing.

“Not cool, dude!” Dean calls after him.

--

In hindsight, weeks later, Castiel realizes that when Dean asked, “You wanna grab breakfast?” what he was really saying was, “Date me?”

Castiel feels that it’s maybe okay that he isn’t the most socially aware person that ever existed because it gives him the time he needs to change his perception of Dean that little bit that dating a friend actually requires. Because Dean starts to touch him again, broadens Castiel’s horizons in ways he wasn’t aware existed. Where, before, Dean went to a bar or some other similar place to drink and have sex – or so Castiel assumes, anyway – Dean now makes Castiel do something with him. There are movies, dinners and lunches and breakfasts even more frequently than usual, hikes, rock climbing (which Castiel enjoyed very much and Dean less so because he forgot that he didn’t like heights until he looked down at the top of the wall) and long drives along the coast.

Castiel is confused but pleased about this development for three weeks. On the fourth, Dean looks at him with raised eyebrows and pursed lips. “You got no idea, do you?” he says.

Castiel clears his throat. “We are bowling now,” he says, because they are. “Bowling is cool?”

“That’s not what I mean, Cas.”

“I’m missing something.”

Dean laughs. “Dude, you’re missing half a cultural language development thing. Seriously, what do you do when someone asks you to watch a movie with them?”

“I watch a movie, Dean.” Castiel frowns. “We do it all the time. Last night—”

“Yeah, no,” Dean says. “When I ‘watch a movie’, I get laid. ‘Study dates’? All about the sex, man.”

“I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.”

“Bowling?” Dean makes a grand gesture, sweeping an arm out to the room at large. “This is what high schoolers do on dates, dude.”

“We’re not in high school,” Castiel says. He’s not sure if he understands what Dean is telling him, of course, so he frowns extra hard at the bowling ball in his arms. Then he takes the required steps, moves his arms the way Dean showed him, and throws the ball down the lane.

Dean is there when he turns around, arms crossed over his chest and a smile in his eyes. “You know, if you were a chick you’d be raging on me for not getting you flowers or some bullshit.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow. “How good it is I’m not, then.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “You gonna let me kiss you this time?”

“On the first date?” Castiel makes a huffing noise, but his heart is pounding. “I’m not easy, Dean.”

“First?” Dean sputters. “This is, like, the fifth!”

Castiel just shakes his head, then walks around Dean to collect his ball again for the second throw. “Then you should have said so. This is the first date. I understand it’s customary to ‘put out’ on the third.”

“This is the fifth date, Cas!”

“It’s the first, Dean,” Castiel says, then throws his ball and manages a spare. He thinks he’s maybe getting the hang of this bowling thing.

“Fifth,” Dean says, catching Castiel around the waist before he has a chance to turn away from the lane. Then he kisses Castiel, and it’s easy and quick, over almost before it started.

Castiel is too startled to know if he likes it or not.

--

Castiel isn’t sure how he feels about dating. Dean Winchester isn’t the problem – Dean hasn’t been a problem for quite some time. Castiel knows how he feels. He knows he likes Dean, that he enjoys Dean’s company, his personality, his crass comments and the way he makes a room so full of life and color just by being in it.

So, no. Dean Winchester isn’t the problem. Castiel isn’t sure if there is one, as such. Except…

Except, Castiel has dated twice before. Once, a girl when he was fifteen. She had been more shy and nervous than he, and nothing actually happened beyond comfortable hugs, sweaty hands holding together tight, and somewhat awkward, wet kisses. It ended when Castiel started putting together why he was wrong, when he figured out why he felt out of place and why he didn’t fit.

It’s still Castiel’s most successful relationship to date.

The second time he tried dating, it was less about him and more his then-roommate’s sense of Castiel owing him for “putting up with Castiel’s high-maintenance idiosyncrasies.” So maybe, Castiel thinks, the second time wasn’t about dating at all. It was about paying for a mockery of friendship with sex, never about Castiel.

Now, there is Dean. Dean, who smiles and laughs and touches and feels. Dean, who talks without thinking, who is honest and loud, who cares with such reckless abandon about the most ridiculous things. Dean, who wants Castiel.

Castiel isn’t sure he knows what to do with Dean, how he fits in Castiel – with Castiel. He just knows that before Dean – before Sam, too, in a way – Castiel had been alone. Dean has made Castiel reach out to see what’s beyond the grasp of his arms, to see the world and try to touch it.

Dean makes Castiel feel alive in ways he hasn’t dared to in years, and that scares him maybe more than anything else.

--

“If this is an attempt at sex, then I feel obliged to point out that I don’t work that way.”

Dean blinks at him. His hair is a mess, his headphones are sitting crooked on his head, and Castiel suspects he interrupted Dean’s private study time. “Huh?”

“I said—”

“No, I heard. I just. What?”

“If you’re doing this because you want sex—”

“Yeah, no. Dude, you don’t fuck with your friends, man. That’s just a recipe for disaster, trust me.”

Castiel nods, because that is his opinion as well. Of course, he’s never had sex in his life before, but until Dean, he’s never particularly wanted to, either. Before, sex seemed messy, invasive and vaguely off-putting. Now, while he still thinks roughly the same about sex in general, he thinks that if it were with Dean, then it wouldn’t be like that at all. Maybe. Castiel suspects he might need a little more time to come to terms with himself in a sexual relationship, but ultimately it’s not about sex as much as it is about Dean, and Castiel thinks he might love Dean.

“Good,” Castiel says.

“Good. Okay, yeah. So…”

“So, if we are dating, then there are certain…ground rules. That I need you to understand. For me. Dean.”

Dean smiles, pulls his headphones off, then stands and stretches, and Castiel fails to not stare. It’s not his fault, entirely; Dean is very compelling.

“Yeah, I know,” Dean says.

“I’m not like the others.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t like when—”

“I know,” Dean says again, his hands warm and firm on Castiel’s elbows, his shoulders and his neck. “I’ve got this one rule, too, and it’s basically along the lines that ‘no means no,’ so, you know. Use it.”

“I see,” Castiel says, and he wets his lips. It’s hard to focus when Dean is so close, when his body is so warm and his eyes so dark and intense and on Castiel. “Dean—”

“Cas, I’m going to kiss you now, okay?”

“Okay,” Castiel gets out, his lips brushing Dean’s in a way that sends fire down his stomach, and then Dean is kissing him. Castiel thinks he might have forgotten how to breathe, but he doesn’t care, because Dean is kissing him. And yes, it’s not the first kiss he’s ever been part of but it might as well be. Because Dean? He—

“You’re thinking too much,” Dean says against his lips.

“No—”

“Cas, dude.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Fine, yes.”

“Just relax, okay? It’ll be fine.” Dean kisses him again, a quick press of lips that lingers. “Promise.”

Castiel smiles. “Okay.”

“Okay? Good. Now shut up.”

Dean’s kisses are full of the same kind of intensity he puts into everything he does – in a way, Dean is intensity – and Castiel lets himself be swept up in it, let’s himself sweep Dean away in his fledgling optimism for a bright future and brilliant choices. He has trust in Dean, Dean has trust in him, and right now that’s all he needs.

words don't come easy except when they do

sa_kun — Thu, 14 Feb 2013 16:46:08 GMT

I just wrote a 10k fic in one day. I must be insane.

Walking on sunshine

sa_kun — Thu, 13 Dec 2012 13:25:47 GMT

Title: Walking on sunshine
Author: sa_kun
Fandom: Supernatural, Harry Potter
Characters: Dean, Harry, Sam, Castiel
Rating: PG.13
Word Count: 2684
Prompt: 099
Summary: Harry's curse is reversed. Castiel helps.
Disclaimer: Not mine
Author’s Notes: Dean POV. Spoilers from Deathly Hallows. Title from this song by Katrina & the Waves. Continued from I heard of a girl.

"So," Sam says.

Dean grins at his little brother. "So," he says back, just to annoy him. Sam's mostly looking at the hot-ass chick next to Dean, though.

"Are you feeling okay, Dean?"

"I didn't put a spell on him," Harry says. "Do they serve tea in this place?"

"Uh, probably," Sam says. "Who are you?"

Harry looks up. He's got glasses on now, and Dean kind of wishes he'd known about that before because, Jesus, this chick is lining up kinks Dean didn't even know he had. "I'm Harry," he says. "Dean caught me trying to lift a knife of yours."

"The one with the fancy writing on it," Dean pipes in.

Sam sits straighter at that. "So you're a thief who deals in occult objects."

"Blimey! No, I'm not. I need it to break a curse. I was going to give it back."

"If you didn't break the knife in the process."

"Yes," Harry says. "Assuming it held."

Sam nods. Before he can say anything, though, the waitress comes along and they turn in their orders. "So, what's the curse?" he asks.

"Like I said, my name's Harry, and I'm actually a bloke."

Sam's eyebrows shoot up. "Huh," he says, then glances at Dean.

"Don't!" Dean gets out.

"Wasn't gonna," Sam says, but there's that glint in his eyes, the one that says yeah, I'm so gonna mess with you, bro. "Just, if I'd known you were into that I'd've told you to get a room with Cas ages ago."

"Sam."

"Dean," Sam says, tone sweet and mocking and annoying.

Harry's grinning. "You two remind me of someone I used to know so much," he says. "Who's Cas?"

"He's actually called Castiel," Sam starts.

"Castiel?" Harry interrupts. "That name sounds vaguely inhuman."

"I am an Angel of the Lord," Cas says, and they all jump, because, Jesus, someone needs to teach that guy not to fucking appear out of nowhere with no warning like that real fucking soon.

Harry's eyes are huge and round. Dean wants to laugh, 'cause the guy's never looked more like a chick than he does right now, which should be wrong, right?

"Right," Harry says. "Of course you are."

Cas tilts his head to the side, look in his eyes considering. "You're Harry Potter." Then he leans over the table, eyes on Harry's. It wouldn't be weird if Harry wasn't leaning over the table as well, staring straight back at Cas like the chick won the fucking championship in the awkward-staring-at-strangers category right next to the angel.

Sam's staring at Dean, the look in his eyes screaming seriously? Dean stares back, screaming seriously? What the fuck? because fuck if he knows.

"You picked him up in a bar?" Sam asks, and Dean thinks it's just typically Sammy to get the fucking pronouns right on the first fucking try. Fine, so Dean only got them wrong once out loud after Harry'd come clean, and the lashing he'd got for that one sure made him remember to get it right after that (yes, even in his mind, dammit: Harry was fucking scary when he wanted to be. Which, heh, was really way too hot). "Seriously?"

"Dude, he's the hottest fucking chick I've ever seen," Dean protests. "You shoulda seen him, man. Seriously, he's a gay guy, right, so he makes an awesome chick 'cause he knows all about the right buttons and how to press them, yeah?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "I know."

"No, you don't," Dean counters, feeling a little smug.

Sam just smirks, though. Dean's eyes may or may not have bugged out a little at that, because, Sammy? His baby brother Sammy? Hooking up with guys? Since when? "Yeah, Dean, I do," Sam says.

"You—"

"Stanford?" Sam shoots back and rolls his eyes. "It's not important, seriously. It happened a couple of times, that's it." Sam shakes his head, then looks back at where Harry and Cas are still caught in the weirdest fucking staring contest ever. "I get Cas not blinking, but Harry?"

"Yeah, I don't get it."

"You sure he's human?"

"He got into the motel room, his eyes don't flare. Seriously, though, what kind of monster wears glasses?"

"The real deal?"

"I went blind just holding them in front of my face, I swear."

"Isn't it kinda weird that Cas knew his name just like that, though?" Sam snaps his fingers to make his point, and Dean has to agree with it. Dude's an angel, sure, but he's not all that into bothering with the names of strangers, is he?

"'Less he's a prophet?"

"Yeah, I guess." Sam shrugs, Dean echoes the sentiment, and then the food arrives. Dean digs in, Sam starts buttering up his toast, and the staring contest goes on.

"And, you know, how often does he come when you say his name, anyway?"

"Well, you're the one with the expert opinion on that one, Sammy," Dean starts, leer only just starting to creep out when Sam glares and kicks his leg under the table, and Dean can't exactly let that go, can he?

"Jerk," Sam bites out.

"Hey, you're the one who goes for guys, not me. Bitch."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Whatever. Seriously, though, how often does Cas even appear when you just say his name? I mean, I get when we call him on purpose, but just a casual mention?"

Dean shakes his head. "Yeah, I know. Seriously." It's a bit weird, is all. Usually, Dean has to at least pray or try and call him on his phone or something. Just saying the guy's name almost never works (unless it's Dean who's doing the saying but even then he kind of really has to need Cas to drop by, so, you know).

Dean's almost done with his food when Cas goes, "Huh," and leans back.

Harry blinks, shrugs, then digs into his plate of scrambled eggs and toast. Dean looks between them, catches Sam's eye, then says, "You guys done now?"

"The knife wouldn't have worked," Cas says. "He needs an angelic blade."

"You got that from fifteen minutes of eye-fucking?"

"We weren't," Cas starts, but Harry laughs and says, "Dean, that's not eye-fucking. You need to be tied naked to a bed for that. I can show you after I turn back, if you want."

Dean feels himself go red. Sam chokes on his coffee, the bastard, trying not to laugh. "Oh, fuck off," he mutters. "You know I'm not into guys."

"You protest a lot, though," Harry says, pilling scrambled eggs on toast, stacks another one on top, then eats it like a hamburger. Brits are weird, man. "So, an angelic blade? Where do I find that?"

"I have one," Cas says.

Harry lights up. He almost looks innocent, too, when he asks, "Is it big?"

"It's a respectable size," Cas says, straight faced like always. "Would you like to see it?"

"Can I touch it?"

Cas is reaching into his pocket to pull the blade out, when Sam butts in with, "Not in public, man, that shit's private," and Dean loses it. Okay, so maybe it's not that funny, but it's been forever since he laughed with his best brother, his best buddy, and the chick he banged last night all in one place. In fact, he doesn't think that's ever happened before. He knows he's not the only one laughing, and it only gets worse after he sees the grinning angel high-five a laughing Harry, but that's okay.

In the motel, Sam and Harry sort through their supply of herbs and shit while Dean tries his best to draw out the magic circle Cas left detailed instructions for. He's fairly sure Cas'll touch up on it when he gets back from his own supply run for the stuff that's so rare him and Sam's never even heard of it before. Harry had, though, which, again: weird.

"So, how long've you been like this?" Sam asks.

"Too long," Harry says. "My family back home said there wasn't a way to reverse it, but I didn't agree."

"They know about the supernatural?"

Harry shrugs. "There's a community of us over there. We live separate from normal people, trying to keep it all secret. It's not ideal, but it works. When they started pushing me to get married, settle down and have kids, I decided to see if I couldn't find a cure somewhere else."

"Why'd they push for that?" Dean butts in. Sam and Harry both look over at him, then go back to chopping and grinding herbs and bones or whatever.

"Because I'm gay. They didn't really see what the big issue was. My body's female now, so why not go for a shot of 'normal'? It doesn't work like that, though. I'm a bloke, not a woman. I haven't felt normal since I was cursed. I feel wrong, uncomfortable in my own skin. It's like I don't fit any more. It's weird and disgusting. It's… I don't like it."

Cas comes back right around then, a sack of cloth in one hand and a duffle in the other. Harry grins like Christmas came early or something. "You got my things?"

Cas inclines his head. "You asked me to."

Harry just shrugs and smiles, as if he isn't used to people doing things for him. "Thanks, mate. Did you find everything we need?"

"Yes."

Harry's smile gets a bit wider, he says thanks again, then takes his bag and goes into the bathroom.

"So, Cas."

"Dean."

"How'd you know the guy, anyway?"

Cas does his version of a shrug. "It's not of import, to tell you the truth." He starts pulling stuff out of his bag, packets of herbs, and bones, and bottles of liquid. "He saved his world, and this one in the process some years ago now. My garrison was charged with watching this planet, as you know, and we observed him and his people along with everything else." Cas looks up and more or less pins Dean down with his gaze. "He is a very brave and righteous man, Dean. He died to save us, just as you both have." Cas frowns down at the bowl on the table. "I need his blood," he says, then disappears.

Sam and Dean wince at each other when they hear Harry's outraged squawk from inside the bathroom. Whatever happens next sounds a lot like a smaller war, with muffled bangs and curses drifting out through the door. In the end, the door flies off its hinges and Cas stalks out after it, trench coat painted in more colours than Dean can readily name with his hair bright green and even more fucked up than usual.

"Uh," Sam starts while Dean stares at Harry, who's glowering in the doorway, arms crossed and holding onto a stick that's got smoke coming out of it with one hand.

"It's not wise to surprise a wizard," Cas says, eyes fixed on the bowl that he's pouring a vial of what's got to be Harry's blood in it.

"You don't bloody well sneak up on someone from behind, you moron," Harry calls after him.

"Wizard?"

"Like, a witch?" Dean demands, inching for his gun.

Harry rolls his eyes. "No. Well, yes, but not like that. We don't make deals, we inherit it from our parents or something. How the first wizards came to be, nobody knows."

"Like, that stick's a wand?"

"Yes," Cas says. "Harry, you need to light this on fire."

"Incendio," Harry says, pointing his stick at where Cas is holding up an honest to god torch that looks like it came straight out of an Indiana Jones movie. The beam of light shoots from Harry to the torch, lightning it on fire faster than the speed of light (no, not really, or else he wouldn't be able to fucking see it, would he?).

"Good," Castiel says, then trusts the burning torch at Sam. "I need you to hold this. Harry, I need something that belonged to your parents."

"Right," Harry says. He waves his stick again, and the duffle comes out floating in the air, over to the bed.

"Right," Dean echoes. "No con."

Harry kind of pauses at that, then he sends Dean this sort of half-and-half look of apology and apprehension. He says, "I could get arrested for this."

"Oh, 'for this'?" Dean bites back, air-quotes and all.

"Unauthorised use of magic around Muggles. Normal people. Like you." Harry says most of this to the bag he's got opened up on the bed. Even with all the bullshit carp about magic and wizards, Dean can't make himself not move over, either, because, dude.

"That is an awesome bag."

Harry flicks a grin over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Hell, yeah."

"What?" Sam asks, stuck in place carrying a torch for Cas. Heh.

"It's like a fucking TARDIS, man," Dean says, all blissed and freaked out. He kind of wants to stick his hand in there, except for how he's not sure if it'd come out again. That thing goes on forever.

Harry sort of freezes at that, though. "How the fucking wank did I never think of that? I could make an honest to Merlin TARDIS. Dean—"

"Harry," Castiel says.

"Oh, right. Um. The Cloak belonged to my dad. I don't have anything that was Mum's. Something of mine I can't live without'll have to be my glasses, because I'm blinder than a mole without them. Would that work?"

"That's what you were planning to use before?"

"Yeah."

"Then it's good enough. It's mostly about intent. Except, of course, for the element of vanquishing evil. Why didn't you use the Elder Wand?"

"Because it's not purely one thing, is it? It needs someone to say a spell, to mean it, and it's not just an object, either. I mean, the core was a living creature at some point. I just figured it would be better not to mix it up with this ritual. A blade is more straightforward in that sense." He slides a glance to Dean, then. "Can I trust you not to jump into my bag?"

Dean shrugs. "Maybe."

Harry laughs, then holds up something that's shiny and smooth. Which he drapes over himself. Dean may or may have dropped his mouth open at this point, because, seriously? Seriously? A fucking invisibility cloak?

"Jesus," Sam spits out, eyes likes saucers.

"I want that, so bad. Holy fucking shit, man, gimme that!"

Harry just laughs, though, pulls it off and walks over to Cas. They start talking a lot of Latin, then, which Dean tunes out and Sam sucks up like the giant sponge of a geek he is. It ends with Harry's glasses, cracked and smashed, in the bowl and Harry's awesome cloak of awesome that Dean is so testing out as soon as he can pry it off of Harry in a ring outside of it.

"Uh, guys?" Sam butts in, still with the torch.

Harry grins. "You're the ideal I'm striving for, Sam. The light at the end of the tunnel." They move around a bit after that, Harry positioning Sam where he wants him, painting all kinds of symbols on the handle of the torch, on Sam, on Harry. In the end, Harry gags down a god awful concoction that Cas cooked up at some point – honestly, it smells so bad Dean almost gags and he's feet away, and he doesn't even have to put it into his mouth.

Harry grips onto Cas tight after he's choked it down, eyes clenched tightly shut, and he's kind of weaving like a drunk where he's standing, as if he's seconds away from collapsing or something. Cas, of course, being the sensitive, caring guy that he is, manhandles Harry around, slams his hands down on the table on either side of the bowl that is sort of oozing, sort of smoking some really weird, toxic-coloured thick mist, then shoves Harry's face down in it and starts chanting in fucking Enochian or something.

Yeah, like Dean said: caring guy, that Castiel.

I heard of a girl

sa_kun — Thu, 13 Dec 2012 13:09:06 GMT

Title: I heard of a girl
Author: sa_kun
Fandom: Supernatural, Harry Potter
Characters: Dean, Harry
Rating: Adult themes
Word Count: 1185
Prompt: 089, she
Summary: Harry has been cursed. The attempt at robbing Dean is not entirely successful.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Author’s Notes: Dean POV. Title from this song by Miss Li.

She's gorgeous, all pink lips and fleeting touches, no make-up and tits that are perfect and just fill up your palms, easy as anything. So you take her back to the motel, send a text to Sammy not to come back for a couple hours, then bury your mouth where she wants it. She's bossy, which you have a kink for, and the blowjob she gives you fry what little sobriety there's left in your brain straight out of you.

She says no when you try to fuck her, so you don't. You play with her tits and let her rub herself off against your thigh until she comes with a choked groan. The grin on her face is lazy and content, and it's all the warning you get before you find yourself on your back, pinned down. She tells you to leave your hands there, to not let of the edge of the mattress, then she goes back down, sucking, kissing, nibbling, until there's not a shred of coherency left in you.

After, you gather her as close as she'll let you, then fall asleep.

Dean wakes when the mattress shifts, but he doesn't get up (awkward is really too tame a word to describe what happens when you try and interrupt your one-nighter sneaking out). He's feeling sated and lazy, content to doze awhile, fucked out beyond— Yeah, that sounds kind of like my duffle being opened.

It fucking figures the best fuck he's had in months has got sticky fucking fingers.

So Dean opens his eyes, notes that, heh, the chick's still totally hot. She's in a tank and boy briefs, and fuck if that isn't the hottest thing he's ever seen. He grabs the knife from under his pillow, pulls it out, and sits up. "You know," he says, watching her jump. "Some people call that stealing."

"Sorry," she says, but she doesn't sound or look it. At all. She has the demon killing knife in her hand and, yeah, that's just not gonna fly.

"You need to put that back, sweetheart."

"I really don't, and if you call me that again, I'll cut your prick off."

Dean winces and crosses his legs. "Is it some kind of thing? British chicks in the US have to be fucking hot thieves?"

The chick shrugs – dammit, but Dean can't remember her fucking name. "I can give it back. Maybe. I just need it for a while."

"If you made a deal, that thing ain't gonna let you off the hook."

She just makes this face, as if that's the stupidest fucking thing she's ever heard. She rubs a hand over her face, through her hair. It's short, which is really, really sexy. Dean's dick agrees. It's messed up, though, and it looks just as thoroughly fucked as Dean feels (or felt right up until he caught her sneaking through his stuff, anyway). "Not even I am desperate enough to make deals with demons, and that's really saying a lot. I…"

"You…?" Dean prompts. He throws the stained sheets to the side because, hey, he figures he doesn't really need to be sitting bare-ass naked in bed having this conversation. He tugs on the boxers she throws him, then the jeans that're lying in a heap on Sam's bed.

"I was cursed. The reversal spell I found said I need a 'tool capable of slaying darkness'. This knife kills demons, correct?"

"Yeah, but how'd you find out about it?"

Now she grins, and Dean kind of really wants to fuck her again. "Please, as if you Winchesters are capable of being subtle."

Dean has to agree, because she's got him on that one. "So last night, you tried to con me?"

She shrugs. "Last night I was looking for a good time, so, no, no con. I had names but no faces." She nods at the table. "Your collection of IDs tipped me off."

"You know, if you'd come up and asked, I probably wouldn't have said no." Dean leers, throws in a wink for good measure, then stalks over to her. She stops him with the knife, pressed to his sternum, and a sexy-fuck raised eyebrow. "You got a name?"

"Harry," she says.

"Weird name for a chick."

She rolls her eyes. "Well, until recently, I used to be a bloke."

"Ah," Dean says, and wonders if the fact the he still thinks she's the hottest thing since Rhonda Hurley and the pink panties make him gay or not. Not, he figures, 'cause the packaging on this one is, well. Smoking is one word. "So. Witches?"

Harry rolls her eyes. "Oh, I wish," she mutters.

Disarming her isn't the easiest job in the world, but he gets it done. It's easier than it could have been, because she isn't out to hurt him, or kill him. She's got a curse she wants to lift, and that's it. Discarding the knife to the floor, he pins her to the wall. "Listen, Harry, I really can't let you run off with the only fucking advantage me and my brother have over the hordes of demon spawn after us. You get that, right?"

Harry nods, eyes on his. Dean grins. "Good, 'cause I like you. So, I was thinking, maybe you can hash it out with my geek brother, maybe we can get in touch with a couple of friends. See what they know. Yeah?"

Harry rolls her head back, lets it thunk against the wall. "I just want to turn back into me again," she says. "I really hate this. Boobs and a vagina isn't all they advertise it to be."

So, yeah, Dean thinks, he's probably messing up on all the pronouns, but he figures it's not like Harry's gonna know, right? Also? It's easier, and he's not gay – and trading handjobs in high school don't make you gay, all right? Bi-curious, maybe, but that's it.

Then Harry smirks. "What?" he says.

"Getting laid's way easier, though."

Dean blinks, then kind of wants to roll his eyes, because, duh, it's so fucking obvious once you've got the two braincells required to rub together. "You bat for the home team, don't you?"

"It's what got me into this situation in the first place. Word of advice, Dean: when trickster-inclined fertility goddesses make a pass at you, you don't bloody well turn them down."

"You— Who?"

Harry shrugs. "She said her name was Chastity, but to my knowledge there aren't any gods by that name." Then she shifts in a way that make Dean's eyes hone in on her tits faster than he can blink. "So, are you going to let me go?"

Dean purses his lips, his hands move from where they were pinning her against the wall to softly rounded hips and perky little tits. "Well, maybe round two first?"

"Just don't stick your prick in me and do as I say," she says, bossy smirk in place as she goes for the buttons on Dean's jeans. And, yeah, Dean can really kind of live with that, 'cause she's awesome and hot.

Continued in Walking on sunshine.

this gender thing...

sa_kun — Mon, 10 Dec 2012 09:02:12 GMT

I just signed up at a new webpage. Felicia Day recommended it.

I had to pick a gender. There were two to choose from.

I didn't like it.

"Come out into the sky."

sa_kun — Thu, 08 Nov 2012 21:27:13 GMT

Title: Come out into the sky.
Author: sa_kun
Fandom: Stargate SG-1
Characters: Jack, Daniel, Teal'c, Sam, Mitchell, Vala, mentions of yet more characters.
Rating: General audiences, occasional cursing.
Word Count: 4469
Summary: In which Daniel attempts to persuade Jack into running off to Atlantis with him and Teal'c successfully convinces Jack to throw a party.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Author’s Notes: So, I just found this sitting in a forgotten corner on my hard drive. Which I thought was a shame, since I'd already written it and all. So here you go. Obviously, this was written a long time ago, most likely before the removal of DADT. This assumes you've seen the end of Stargate SG-1 as well as know more or less what Stargate Atlantis is all about. Title from inspired by a CCR song I don't think I've ever heard, but thought looked pretty.

"Atlantis."

"Yes, Jack. Atlantis."

Jack scowled. "The answer's always gonna be no, Daniel."

Daniel gritted his teeth. "Dammit, Jack!"

"Ah!"

"I need to do this, Jack! Can't you understand that?"

Jack glared. "I need you here. Can't you get that?"

Daniel rubbed his forehead. "I need to do something! I'm an archaeologist. I need to excavate. I need to translate—"

"Ancient stuff. I know. You got heaps of it. The answer's no, Daniel."

"I don't have a purpose anymore! Atlantis was my dream. I could do so much more there than here."

Jack leaned back in his chair – well, Daniel's chair, but who was picky? "Daniel—"

"No, Jack."

Jack glared, his forehead furrowed. "What about me, then? Not old enough for ya to be interesting, am I? Too alive?" he sneered.

Daniel crossed his arms. "That's not the point, and you know it."

"No? If I let you go off to Atlantis, then you and I both know you ain't gonna come back. Not gonna happen. Sorry."

"No, you're not."

Jack nodded. "You're right, I'm not."

Daniel pursed his lips and looked away.

When he turned his head back, his eyes were focused entirely on Jack. It was the look that warned Jack to be real careful 'cause Daniel was about to do that 'thing' that always got him his way. There wasn't a single military member who'd ever worked with Daniel that didn't know to take cover from it. To back away. Jack was trapped in the chair behind Daniel's desk. Daniel leaned over the desk, his hands grasping the edge with white-knuckled grips.

"So come with me."

"What?"

Daniel's eyes were intense. "I said: Come with me. Jack," he enthused, voice low and hushed and so damned focused. "You'd be the ranking military officer. Don't pretend not to know they haven't wanted a big shot like yourself over there since the beginning. They'd welcome the idea so fast we'd be there tomorrow, Jack—" Daniel always spoke quickly when he was on to something— "Woolsey would be pissed that it was you, yeah, but he's IOD. They like protocol and rules; you know they do! And I heard rumours they were sending Sam back there again—"

"'Cause we are. She's way more efficient over there. Calms McKay down, too. Makes him more efficient. Takes some of the load off Sheppard's shoulders, too. Makes him more efficient," Jack said, laying it out practically. "Woolsey's gonna stay on base, but not in any leading capacity."

"See? See, Jack? If we went, we could help out, too! I know I could contribute with so much—"

"We both know you could. You know what else?"

Daniel narrowed his eyes. "It'd boost morale?" he drawled.

Jack scoffed. "Sure as hell it would. But no, not that. You see, you and I?" Jack waggled a finger between them. "People haven't been asking and that sure as hell ain't 'cause they haven't been wondering or 'cause they're too polite, and you know it!"

"…what?" Daniel blinked. "You can't seriously be suggesting they promoted you, transferred you to Washington just to get you away from me?"

"Don't be stupid!" Jack snapped. "The transfer? Yeah. The promotion? No way in hell. Don't reward fag—"

The doorbell rang.

"Oh, for crying out loud!"

Daniel smiled grimly. "This isn't over. Stop pouting."

"I wasn't pouting!" Jack called after Daniel.

"Of course not," Daniel said over his shoulder. His tone was just teasing enough that Jack stuck out his tongue.

"Oh, you," Daniel said, eyebrow raised.

"Hi, Jackson. Look, I brought Teal'c!" Mitchell's grin was too wide for Daniel's taste right then.

"I…see that. Hi, Teal'c."

Teal'c inclined his head. "He was most insistent, DanielJackson."

"D'you have company?"

"Company?"

Mitchell nodded, pointing a thumb back in the direction of the driveway. "Yeah, couldn't help but notice the big truck, there."

"Oh, no. It's just Jack."

Teal'c inclined his head. "May I speak with him? I have a most pressing matter to take up with him."

Daniel nodded. "Yeah, sure, he's in the office. Go right in."

Teal'c, after another little bow, went in.

"Jack…being?" Mitchel wondered as he followed Daniel into the kitchen.

"Jack O'Neill. You want coffee? Beer? Jack brought some."

Daniel opened the fridge. There was an entire row filled with beer bottles.

"Oh, sweet! Decent beer!" Mitchell grabbed himself a bottle while Daniel poured himself a cup of coffee. Daniel briefly wondered if he should feel insulted that Mitchel obviously thought Daniel couldn't get 'decent beer'. "So, General O'Neill's here?"

"Yep." Daniel rooted around in one of the cupboards for something to eat. Like cookies or something. "Aha!" Daniel grabbed the jar and put it on the table.

"Didn't know he was coming 'round to the SGC."

"Oh, he's not," Daniel absentmindedly assured, trying to work the damn jar open. Jack always closed them so tightly. The lid came off with a loud 'pop'. "Cookie?"

"Thanks."

"So what brings you here?"

Mitchell shrugged. "Nothing. Just, y'know, hanging with Teal'c. Didn't seem surprised that the General was here."

Daniel smiled. "Why would he be? This is Jack's house."

Mitchell frowned. "So why're you the one living in it, then?"

"Because I asked him to," Jack said suavely, walking inside the kitchen. Teal'c wandered in right behind him, a pleased smirk on his face.

Mitchell stood up, clutching the chair as support. "Sir!"

Jack rolled his eyes. "Oh, sit down." He narrowed his eyes at Daniel. "Why're you eating my cookies?"

"I bought them. They're mine."

"My house. Which makes them my cookies."

"Does not."

"Does too."

"Does not."

"Jack—"

"Uh-uh, Daniel! Mine."

"Jack."

Teal'c smoothly intervened. "Perhaps you might consider it 'shared custody'?"

"Yes, Jack, you take the jar, and I keep the cookies. Good idea, Teal'c!" Daniel's smile was wide and beguiling.

Teal'c smile and inclined his head. "Thank you, DanielJackson."

Jack snorted. He grabbed a beer, then sat down in a chair next to Daniel and leaned back. "So. What brings you here, Mitchell?" he drawled.

"I was just tagging along with Teal'c here," Mitchell answered. "Didn't know you'd be here, sir. Could've told me you knew," Mitchell directed the last part to Teal'c.

"I had not thought it of consequence. The week number is uneven, therefore O'Neill is at home. Is it not common knowledge?"

Daniel and Jack both shrugged. "Guess not," they said at the same time.

"I see," Teal'c responded.

"So…" Mitchell took a sip of his beer. "This your house, General?"

Jack smiled. "Nice, isn't it?"

"Very. Jackson's what, then, your house-sitter?"

Jack snorted. Daniel kicked him under the table. "Easy, Daniel." Daniel gave him a sweet smile, then turned back to Mitchell. "I don't see how it's any of your business, Colonel."

"Sorry, sir."

Mitchell wasn't looking very sorry, though. Just a helluva lot curious.

"He's my friend, Jack," Daniel added. "When Jack got transferred to Washington, he asked me to look over his house for him, but—"

"—since Danny here's incapable of looking over an apartment. Well." Jack shrugged.

"That is correct. DanielJackson has indeed had several residences over the years."

"So what happened?"

Teal'c smirked. "He forgot to pay his rents on numerous occasions."

"Yeah, yeah. Very funny."

"Oh, but it is." Jack nudged Daniel's cup of coffee closer with the butt of his bottle. "Drink up."

Daniel cast a suspicious look at Jack. "Why?"

"Teal'c found us something to do." Jack and Teal'c looked way too pleased with themselves.

It made Daniel wary. Very wary. "I was under the impression we already had something to do."

Jack raised his eyebrows.

"You know, the fair. And you wanted to go fishing."

For a short moment, Jack looked torn, but then he rubbed his hands together. "It'll still be there tomorrow. T-man here wants a good ol'barbeque." As if to defend his case, Jack added, "He won't be here tomorrow."

"On the contrary, O'Neill, I do not leave until Tuesday."

"Not helping here, Teal'c. Daniel?"

On the one hand, Daniel had been looking forward to going to the fair. The newspapers had said it was stocked with, what Jack had dubbed as, 'old stuff'. Then again, they hadn't had a proper 'ol'barbeque' a la Jack O'Neill for a really long time, either. Not since before Mitchell's time at the SGC.

"Oh, all right. Barbeque it is. But! This means we go to the fair tomorrow. No whining. And I drive."

Jack narrowed his eyes. Daniel was a menace in a car. "No whining, I buy lunch and you let me drive, there and back."

"And coffee."

"Fine."

"Deal."

"Good. I'll call the people."

"Don't forget Vala!" Daniel called after Jack.

"…the people?" Mitchell asked.

Daniel shrugged. "Oh, you know. Sam, Vala."

"General Hammond if his presence is nearby."

"The people. When we first started the barbeque nights, people just showed up. Everyone was always bringing something, or someone. The garden'd be packed with people."

"Why'd you stop?" Mitchell asked.

Daniel smile was a little thin. "Jack got moved to Washington, and I've been banned under pain of death from ever assembling a party tent. Which I'm perfectly capable of, if Jack wasn't so damned stubborn about it."

Jack held the phone away from his mouth. "Uh-uh, Dannyboy. It's not some pieces of canvas you can just pull and twist at like you did on Abydos. You ripped two before— Carter!" He went back out as Sam started talking on the other end.

Daniel pursed his lips, realised it looked like he was pouting and covered it up by draining his coffee in one go.

"There's something up with Jackson and O'Neill."

Vala leaned closer to Mitchell, her eyes sparkling with curiosity and delight. "Oh! What? They both seem perfectly all right to me."

Mitchell narrowed his eyes. "Did y'know this is O'Neill's house, not Jackson's?"

"Are you sure?"

"Yep. General himself confirmed it. Jackson never say anything about it to you?"

Vala shook her head. "No, he never mentioned it. Did he give you a tour the first time you were here?"

"Yeah. Boy's he got stuff stowed away everywhere. Man's like a hamster."

"Yes." Vala was grinning widely. "Did he show you the bedrooms?"

"Not the inside, no. Why?"

"Because bedrooms say a lot about a person. Didn't you know?"

"What're you two on about?"

Vala and Mitchell both gave Sam wide smiles. "Nothing," they chorused, thoroughly unconvincing.

"Now why don't I believe that?" With a groan, Sam sat down next to Vala on the blanket.

"Because we are lousy liars who really do want to be caught, don't we, Cam?"

Sam laughed. "Right. That must be it."

"No," Vala said after just a short moment, "What we're really wondering is why Daniel never told us that he's living in General O'Neill's house."

Sam blinked, then shrugged. "I guess we just assumed. I mean, I always thought everyone knew."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Sam grinned. "Just that Daniel and General O'Neill is the worst kept secret of the SGC, ever."

"What?" Mitchell sounded scandalised enough that Sam winced and took a mental step back. Vala, on the other hand, had a gleam in her eyes that couldn't bode well.

"Oh, you know. It's just since day one when Daniel came back with us through the 'gate, half the base has been gossiping about Daniel and the General. Most of time it's just stuff like is there really a 'Jack O'Neill Instruction Manual for the Care and Protection of Dr Daniel Jackson When Off-world With Other Teams'. He never liked lending Daniel to other teams. Oh, right, and Daniel's fish was always a big topic, too. Or if the General really did drag Daniel off the base by the back of his shirt. Basically, whenever something happened that involved the two of them, everyone knew about it within a day." Sam spread her hands out in a leisure shrug. "I'm guessing General O'Neill finally got fed up with Daniel getting kicked out of every apartment he rented and told him to stay here. People were speculating for ages how he got Daniel to do that."

"Yeah, 'cause you and me both know Jackson couldn't follow an order to save his life."

Sam smiled. "Exactly. And he was way worse under General O'Neill. Trust me."

Mitchel burst out laughing. "That's just not possible!"

But Sam nodded. "First planet we went to after he got back, Daniel rushed off after some Jaffa priests to chat them up. General was seriously thinking 'bout putting a leash on him."

Mitchell and Vala both continued laughing.

With a grin on her face, Sam sat back, leaning against the fence right behind her. From there you had a clear view of the garden. It was packed with people. She doubted everyone even knew everyone, but it'd never really mattered. O'Neill's barbeques had always been about having a good time and relaxing. Looked like it still worked that way. Next to her, Vala scooted closer and rested her head on Sam's shoulder. Sam could see Daniel from her position, deep in discussion with one of his fellow archaeologists. Sam didn't think she'd ever got the name of that one. She would've remembered being introduced to a woman almost seven feet tall. She practically towered over Daniel, and Daniel wasn't exactly short himself.

"I'm gonna grab a beer and some snacks. You guys want anything?"

"A soda," Sam said.

"I want chips."

Mitchel grinned. "I'll see what I can do."

"Soo…" Vala drawled, as they watched Mitchell's progress through the groups of people.

"So, what?" Sam shot the other woman a look, half curious, half wary. With Vala, everything was possible.

Vala sat up. Her smile was mischievous. "Did you know that only one of the two bedrooms here show any sign of being used? I checked. Daniel refused to open the doors, so I sneaked in the first moment I got." She looked extremely pleased with herself. "A bedroom says so much about the person living there, you know?"

Sam grinned. "Like I said, worst kept secret, ever."

"I thought there were rules?"

Sam nodded. "There are. Don't ask, don't tell. Really simple rule, you know. Oh, it's a lot more detailed, really, but it's never really been an issue. Being military, I'd never be able to ask General O'Neill about it. Teal'c and Daniel on the other hand…"

"Not military!" Vala exclaimed. "And neither am I!"

"Exactly." Sam smiled. "And everyone at the SGC always respected both of them too much to ever say anything, suspicions or not. I think, after Atlantis, the SGC is probably the most accepting and open base the USAF has."

"And why is Atlantis so open-minded?"

Vala and Sam both started. Neither of them had heard Daniel approach, but now he was crouched in front of them, that quirky little grin of his firmly in place.

"Jesus, Daniel! You startled me."

Daniel's grin widened. "I know," he said smugly. "Atlantis?"

"Started out as a civilian run operation. Scientists, you know?" Sam waggled her eyebrows, looking absolutely ridiculous. "And it's in a different galaxy. I think it was Sheppard who said that, really, they have way more important stuff to look out for. Like the Wraith. And they have Ronon."

Daniel rolled his eyes. "Please. I was there for a week."

"What?"

Daniel frowned at Vala. "He didn't proposition you? Sheppard told me he chased anything with, ah, well, anything that wasn't Wraith."

"Oh!" Vala's grin was extremely satisfied. "Oh, yes. He was very good."

Sam narrowed her eyes and leaned in closer to Daniel. "Do you think he and Sheppard…?" She trailed off. "I couldn't ask."

Daniel's grin was smug and all-knowing at the same time. "Isn't it just maddening to be military?"

"Daniel!"

"I got the feeling Sheppard wouldn't exactly say no, if you know what I mean. But them being in the same team made it a little awkward to have casual assignations all the time. Um. Teyla told me. Her people are also very open. I think because of the constant threat of the Wraith they are a lot more open to people finding happiness wherever they can. It's quite fascinating, really, because—"

"What're you on about, Jackson?" Mitchell handed out his finds. Vala grinned delightedly at the plate of chips, and Sam accepted the bottle of soda with a nod.

"Mitchell. Hi. Um, just about how the peoples in the Pegasus galaxy are often very open to relationships that differ from the heterosexual norm you would usually expect to see here on Earth. I speculate—"

"Whoa! Way too much info! Geez, there's just some stuff you don't wanna know about." Mitchell gave a theatrical shudder.

Daniel's eyes turned shrewd. And cold. "I see." Casually, he added, "the people of Abydos were also very open about sex and relationships."

Mitchell frowned. "What's that got to do with anything?"

Standing up slowly, Daniel brushed his hands off on his jeans. "I lived with them for a year. Anthropologists adapt so easily, after all." Daniel walked away, his hands crossed over his chest and his head facing straight at where Sam could only just make out O'Neill to be.

"What?"

Vala raised an eyebrow. "I think he just called you a narrow-minded bigot."

Sam nodded. "Exactly that."

Vala pursed her lips. "And I think he also said that he doesn't care if he sleeps with a man or a woman."

This time, Sam shook her head. "No, he doesn't care much for preconceived, old fashioned notions and assumptions about gender roles. He and General Hammond talked a lot about that. He saw that the people we met when we stepped out of the 'gate had no idea about our conceptions or beliefs. Back then, new recruits were always instructed to have an open mind. General Landry wasn't as open to the idea, though, and told Daniel to stand down." Sam paused, lips pursed. "We still have the pamphlets, though."

"But…it's just wrong!"

Sam narrowed her eyes. "Which was exactly what the Europeans said whenever they encountered a new people. In South America. In Africa. In North America. It's wrong because it's not us. We destroyed all of their culture. Enslaved the people. What gives us the right?"

"I take it Daniel has talked a lot about this?" Vala interjected.

Sam nodded. "Oh yes. Unlike General Landry, though, General Hammond always listened."

"Something distresses you, DanielJackson."

Daniel stopped and turned around. Teal'c was standing regally to the side, his pose stoic. "What makes you think that?"

"You have adopted the stance in which you feel an urge to protect yourself. I have not seen it for quite some time."

Daniel realised that the arms he had crossed over his chest had slid down and changed position until he was, just like Teal'c intimated, effectively hugging himself. "Oh." Daniel's smile was self-deprecating.

"Can I be of assistance?"

Daniel shrugged. "I don't know. Um. I didn't realise Mitchell was so close-minded, you know?"

"I see." Teal'c nodded once. "I had not previously detected such beliefs myself."

"Has it ever come up?"

"Indeed not, DanielJackson."

"Exactly! When I was allowed to talk to all the new recruits at the SGC, the base was more open to the fact that whoever we encountered on the other side of the 'gate was not going to be like them! I don't care if they believed it or not, but at least they were open to the possibility! God, I miss having Jack on base."

"Indeed. I, too, find Stargate Command to be much different these days."

They had drifted away from the larger groups, gravitating towards the outer borders of the garden. The distant drone of voices and peals laughter was comforting in the stillness of the otherwise perfect night.

"Yeah." Daniel rubbed his nose, fiddled with his glasses. "They're, um, budgeting my department. Means it'll get smaller. Fewer resources, less money. Less people. They don't think what I do is important anymore."

"Your work has been invaluable, DanielJackson." Teal'c immediately rose up to Daniel's defence.

It warmed Daniel's heart, prompting him to offer a shy smile. "Thanks. But with the Goa'uld gone, the Ori dealt with…" Daniel shrugged. "I guess they just think I've done my bit. And Jack…" Daniel trailed off.

"What about O'Neill?"

"They're moving him to the Pentagon. He's not exactly thrilled about it."

Teal'c raised an eyebrow. "That is most troubling."

"I want to go to Atlantis. I'm tired of the military, of Jack being so far away, of not having a purpose."

"Will he not be further away if you go to Atlantis?"

Daniel shrugged, then hugged himself around the middle again. "Yeah, but he could come with me, you know? We could both go. It'd be something fresh and new. And they're not as strict over there. Not with the constant threat of the Wraith and the calming influence of the Athosians."

"And RononDex," Teal'c added. "A most formidable warrior."

Daniel laughed. "You too, huh?"

Teal'c's smile was almost wide. "Indeed." Then he withdrew the smile and gave Daniel a very serious look. "You did not go behind O'Neill's back."

Daniel blinked. Then he shook his head. "What? No. We were just talking about it earlier, me, Sam and Vala. Vala said it'd been very good," he mumbled. Teal'c lifted a shoulder, but didn't otherwise comment. "Jack said they transferred him because of me. Well, maybe not me personally, but because me and Jack. I know Landry knows something – he's never liked me. He listens most of the time, but he doesn't like me. If I applied for a transfer to Atlantis, I know Hammond would approve of it. Yeah, Jack'd call him and try and talk him out of it, but—"

"Didn't realise you wanted to get rid of me that bad, Danny."

Daniel sighed and closed his eyes. "I don't. You know I don't. But I can't stay at the SGC anymore."

"I shall take my leave," Teal'c said. Daniel wasn't surprised that he'd noticed Jack walking up to them. Hell, Daniel should've noticed too. Proved just how distracted he was.

"You don't have to—"

"I do." Teal'c looked between him and Jack. "You have several matters to discuss," he said smoothly, before bowing and striding away.

"I've always admired the way he walks," Daniel commented to Jack.

"Commanding."

"Yeah."

Jack stuffed his hands down the pockets of his jeans and turned to Daniel. "So?"

Daniel rolled his eyes. "They're cutting me down," he muttered. "I thought you knew. Got a bit mad you didn't tell me, then just figured you—"

"—didn't care?" Jack said it slowly, making Daniel feeling even more stupid for thinking it in the first place.

"Yeah, I know. Silly ol'me, right? Then I started thinking—"

"—after a most entertaining hissy fit, I wager." Jack looked amused.

Daniel bit his lip. "I don't have 'hissy fits', Jack," he bit out. "And anyway, that isn't the point, and you know it."

Jack just smiled. "Oh, but you do. Very. Cute."

"Jack." Daniel closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them again and did his best to ignore Jack's mocking smile. "Anyway, then I started thinking that if you hadn't told me, then, maybe it was because you didn't know, and that'd mean they'd gone behind your back. And that, well. That's bad, right?"

"Very bad," Jack agreed. He looked troubled. "So the recent yapping about Atlantis hasn't got anything to do with what you said this morning?"

"I wasn't yapping, and no. They're perfectly valid points. I just don't know how long I still have a position at the SGC. If the last thing I do is get to Atlantis, then fine. I can live with that. If I don't have a job at the SGC, then you and I both know there isn't much I'd be qualified for anymore."

Jack's scoff caught Daniel by surprise. "Don't be stupid, Daniel. You're way more qualified for whatever job you'd ever want, and you know it."

"Yes, and if what I want to do is be an archaeologist, Jack. What then? We both know what that society thinks of me."

Jack ran a hand through his hair. He started walking towards the trees just outside his garden. There was a fence somewhere around here, too. Jack could probably find it blindfolded. Daniel just knew it was around here somewhere. "Look, there's some big changes going on. Hammond's worried about it. Recommended I retire. Said, well. Said pretty soon, someone might've had enough of not asking."

"Shit, Jack." Daniel took the hand Jack was holding out and allowed himself to be shown where the fence was, then let go of Jack and leaned back against the sturdy wood. "That's a bit more serious than just 'very bad'." Daniel frowned. "Wait, Hammond knows?"

"Daniel." Jack looked so amused. "All those talks you two had? Your file? D'you really think he wouldn't know? He was our commander for years!"

"Oh. He never…" Daniel grinned a little self-consciously. "What about my file?"

Jack smirked. He waggled his eyebrows and nudged Daniel's shoulder with his own. "Mexico '95. Julio Esteban."

"That's in my file?!" Daniel hissed.

"Whoever compiled it was very thorough. Anything might be a leak, you know?"

Shaking his head, Daniel slumped back against the fence. "No wonder Landry looks at me funny."

"He giving you trouble?"

"He doesn't like me. Beyond that I'm not military. He listens, but doesn't listen." Daniel ran a hand through his hair. "But, Mexico? God, that was ages ago…" Daniel flashed Jack a smile. "Maybe I could go there?"

"No," Jack said stiffly. "Not Mexico."

"No?" Daniel laughed, feeling rather relived when Jack joined in. "God, you shoulda seen him, Jack. He was fucking gorgeous," Daniel mumbled. "Taught me how to load and shoot a gun. Then told me I was crap at it. Which, yeah, I was."

"Oh, yeah," Jack agreed.

It was late, nearing midnight, but the people milling about in Jack's – their? – garden didn't look to be thinning out. The party was still going strong, the late night filled with warmth and laughter. Seemed like more than just Teal'c and Jack had been missing these nights. It was almost nostalgic. And still, despite all the people and friends around, Daniel still found himself missing Janet. She had always been a big part of these gatherings, usually co-conspirator with Jack.

"You know," Daniel started a while later. "There's fish in the Pegasus galaxy, too."

Jack let out a long breath. He reached behind him, leaning casually against the fence. Daniel could feel the warmth from Jack's fingers against his, almost but not quite touching.

"Yeah, I know, Danny."

&typing

sa_kun — Mon, 05 Nov 2012 14:40:07 GMT

I'm doing nanowrimo this year (again).

This is the major reoccurring problem: most common misspellings in my novel: Bagriel and Jaw (read: Gabriel and Jay).

Supernatural 8x01

sa_kun — Fri, 05 Oct 2012 07:25:21 GMT

So, there's a lot of talk about Cas being inside Dean somehow, about Dean maybe pulling him out the same way he did Benny. I'm not saying I don't want it to be true, it's just. If Cas is in Dean, wouldn't that make Dean an angel, in which case he'd be incapable of escaping Purgatory because the way out only worked for humans?

Also, that bright explosion of light when Dean escaped? First thing that popped into my mind? Oh, isn't that an angel exploding out of its vessel? Or into a vessel, come to think of it.

I also dig Sam's new scruff. He looks like a grown-up. A tired grown-up.

As a whole? I liked it. Especially Crowley's goats.

I think I might break my face from smiling, guys.

sa_kun — Tue, 18 Sep 2012 19:10:14 GMT

Amanda Tapping.

In Supernatural.

I don't think I have more words than that, other than a long, out-drawn yessssssss.

I have been waiting for this, okay? For, like, ever since I started watching Supernatural. Like, a year ago or something.

This woman is amazing, and funny, and sexy, and beautiful, and just pretty much all-round perfect. And, no, I'm not biased from ten+ seasons of SG-1 and SGA combined. Uh-uh (okay, maybe just a little bit).

My name is Sam -- [Masterpost]

sa_kun — Sat, 11 Aug 2012 15:34:23 GMT

Title: My name is Sam
Author: sa_kun
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 29k
Summary: In which Sam is Sam, not Sammy, and Dean finds out there is more to life than hunting. Also? Dean joins the Air Force (maybe, sort of) and Sam is wicked smart (oh, yeah: Dad's gone).
Disclaimer: I do not own.
Contains: AU. Transsexual character (Female-to-Male). Profanity. Underage drinking. Underage driving. Underage weapons usage. Slight use of homophobic/anti-trans language and situations. Possible abuse of medical terms, military terms and American school terms.
Author's Notes: Believe it or not, but this whole thing started with the one stray thought: huh, Dean'd look totally badass with a P-90 and a tac-vest. Then I put that thought on hold, because this whole idea with why Sam wanted people to call him Sam not Sammy sort of crowded out every single other piece of inspiration I had. And whaddya know? Turns out, it was the same fucking plot bunny (not that Dean is actually in a tac-vest at any point during this story, but that's what filling-in-the-blanks on your own is for).

This fic is a journey about self-discovery, about Sam and Dean, about brothers and about making your way in life.

This was beta'd by my lovely runawaydreamer. Honey, I'm releasing our baby into the wild!

Don't forget to check out the amazing art made by king_stitch! Leave her a comment while you're at it, too, because she's more than worth it.

Not to forget: If not for the spn_j2_bigbang, this story wouldn't have been written, so thanks to the lovely mods over there for hosting this challenge year after year.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

On AO3.

Also, here are some links to places I frequented a lot while writing this (and a reference or two):

LGBTQ: Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transsexual and Queer. Acronym that occurs within the story.

travelmath.com: To count distances and stuff.

insideoutys.org:"Our mission is to educate, empower and advocate on behalf of LGBTIQ youth"

ftmguide.org: An FTM Guide.

The QI-elves say: If you have a pizza with radius z and thickness a, it's volume is pizza (or pi*z*z*a).

My name is Sam -- [Part 3]

sa_kun — Sat, 11 Aug 2012 15:25:33 GMT

-'-2000(SEP)-'-

The first time Sam saw Dean after the prep school started was during Labor Day weekend, and Sam drove out to see Dean every day for a couple of hours. It'd been over a month since he'd last seen his brother, but Sam'd never been away from Dean for that long before, and he most decidedly did not enjoy it (Sam didn't really think Dean much liked it, either), but then Dean would look around, or start talking about the basic cadet training he'd just been put through, or the classes he'd been in, and there'd be this spark in his brother's eyes that he'd never seen before, not like this, and just like that Sam knew why Dean had to do this. Because if he didn't? Then maybe, probably, Dean would disappear one day, just like Dad, and Sam'd never see his brother again. Never know if he was alive or if he'd been killed by a monster or a ghost or a demon – or who knew what else? Never hear from him again and spend the rest of his life ignorant about the fate of his own brother. So yeah, Sam would deal with Dean being in the Air Force and he'd maybe learn to accept it, because it was what Dean needed to do, but he wasn't sure if he could ever like Dean being part of an institution that didn't recognize people like Sam, didn't accept them or offer them the same rights that everyone else was afforded.

It was probably the closest thing to an education in hunting you could find, though, and the fact that the government paid you for it just made it all the better. And Dean liked it, Sam reminded himself, looking at his brother smiling and talking about the absolute hell basic combat training had been, and how he'd totally aced it, and that was really all that mattered.

-'-

Sam started hanging out more and more at the Community Council for Adolescent Development downtown, using the rooms and facilities open down there to study, instead of doing it at home or at the library. It was never quiet at the center, which was good, because the quiet wasn't the same anymore when there wasn't anyone to snap at for being too loud. He kept busy a lot of the time, working out with the AFJROTC (the words "Air Force Junior Reserve Officers' Training Corps" was the sort of mouthful Sam rather omitted than voluntarily spelled out, but that's what it was and the training was vigorous to the point where it left him limp as a noodle, and he still went back for more, because he kinda loved it, too) program he'd talked Dean into letting him join so he could finally earn the credits he needed for PE, as well as being even more active in the martial arts club and the track team. The principal had pulled him from the official teams (he didn't think she'd ever get how someone could want to switch sexes, but he tried not to care) but still let him join the practices, so that was something, at least. His track coach was pissed at him because of it, and it only took about a month before Sam snapped, and then the coach didn't press him about it again.

At the CCAD center downtown they had a movie night one Friday, and Sam saw 'Boys Don't Cry' for the first (and only) time in his life and hoped to god that Dean never saw it.

Every weekend, Dean called Sam, or Sam called Dean, and they spent roughly an hour on the phone, pretending they weren't worlds apart. It wasn't really any surprise that Dean excelled in the physical training, or that he had a lot to make up for in the theoretical subjects, but he was doing the best he could. Sam just hoped that Dean's grades would be good enough that he'd be allowed to come home on the weekends, but he never pressured his bother about it.

Sam still went running as often as he could, and Dean's former boss, Major Banks, still joined him whenever they ran into each other. Sometimes they practiced hand-to-hand combat, and Sam still went to the local shooting range every Sunday when he managed to stumble out of bed in time.

The one good thing that came out of Sam living on his own was that he finally started to get the hang of grocery shopping and the planning thereof, as well as how to cook (which he did approximately once a week, on Sundays, and then only as big a batch as he could get away with so he could eat leftovers the rest of the week).

He still kept an eye out, still looked for hunts in the area, but without Dean around he had little to no chance of taking care of them, so he started relaying information to Bobby. At first he just called, but then he set up an email and started writing as well, detailing everything he could find on case after case, attached every single file he had on the subject and forwarded it all to Bobby. Sometimes Missouri called, and even though Sam was always glad to hear from people he knew but didn't see all that often, he never really felt like he completely understood every facet of his conversations with her.

-'-

"Winchester," Colonel Redford said one day after Sam had finished the one and a half mile run first. It wasn't the first time; in fact, he won most times except on the days when he wasn't feeling well. Out of all the officers involved with the AFJROTC training, Colonel Redford was the most insistent that Sam join the program all the way. The other instructors didn't prod him as much and mostly deferred to Colonel Redford instead, which left Sam with the less than desirable task of deflecting the man.

"Sir," Sam said, because talking to military officers was a bit like talking to Dad had been – before he ditched them – and it was so easy to fall back into the habit.

"I understand Principal Kinley is the one who won't let you commit fully to this program."

Sam paused. He was still red in the face, sweaty and short of breath after his run and really, this wasn't a conversation he wanted to have with an Air Force officer, like, ever.

"She dismisses my appeals to have you fully enrolled in the program. You're a good student, Winchester. Diligent. You work hard. I think you'd make a good officer."

"My brother's in the prep school," Sam evaded by saying.

"You could go straight to the Air Force Academy," Colonel Redford talked over him.

"I think I want to go to Stanford, actually."

"You've got the brains," Colonel Redford continued. "Be frank with me, son. Why won't Kinley let you join my program? She's citing medical reasons, but you're better trained than all the other cadets here."

Sam rubbed his face and shrugged.

"You a homosexual, then?"

Sam froze. "What? No!" he protested. "Why'd you… No, sir, I am not. Dr. Kinley wouldn't care if I was gay, you know."

Colonel Redford looked at him with contemplating eyes. "Coach Trent doesn't like you."

Sam shrugged. "Coach Trent has issues," he said shortly. "I want to run; he lets me run."

"He used to talk about how he wanted you on the official track team but Kinley wouldn't let you," Colonel Redford said. "Now the man won't even say your name. You got something I should know, you need to tell me now before I find out on my own."

"Yes, sir," Sam agreed, but he didn't say anything. He talked to Dean about it the next time his brother called, and Dean let him rant and freak out for about five minutes, then took over for another ten. All in all, Sam felt a lot better about it the next time he saw Colonel Redford.

-'-2000(OCT)-'-

Sam slowly got the hang of living by himself; it wasn't easy or hard, it was just different and new. It didn't mean he liked it, or that he didn't miss his brother, because he did; it was just that he didn't feel like he was floundering in the dark anymore. Or, well, so much, anyway.

Then one day toward the end of October, Dean rang. It was a Friday, around five in the afternoon, and Sam was being lazy, just hanging out at home and watching some weird documentary on killer whales that was on. Sam frowned, because Dean only ever called him on the weekends. They sent texts on weekdays and called on weekends; those were the rules.

"Dean?" Sam answered on the second ring. "Everything all right?"

"Fucking awesome," Dean drawled. "Now come pick me up, bitch. I have a craving the size of Texas for a good fucking cheeseburger."

Sam was in the car before he was aware that he'd even moved and, next thing he knew, he was at the parking lot of the Air Force Academy.

Dean was there, wearing his leather jacket, worn jeans, scuffed boots and olive green Henley, and Sam was out of the car before it'd even slowed down fully; he just pulled the handbrake and jumped out and crushed Dean in a giant bear hug.

"Dean!"

Dean laughed, patted Sam on the back and slithered out of the hug. "Whoa, Sammy, when'd you turn into a fucking Sasquatch?"

"Shut up, Dean!" Sam laughed, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt and his dimples just about eclipsed his face. "I fucking missed you, man."

Dean's expression sobered, but his eyes shone. "Yeah, me too. I have until 'round five on Sunday, so what say we make the most of it, huh?"

-'-2000(NOV)-'-

The drove up to Bobby's over Thanksgiving, mostly because they didn't really have anything else to do, and people seemed to find it offensive that they tended to skip holidays because they didn't know what to make of them. They celebrated birthdays, sort of, in that they acknowledged them, and last year they'd given Christmas a shot for almost the first time since Sam was a kid. Halloween meant hunts galore, Easter meant moving states and switching schools (which every single holiday Sam'd ever had from school had meant, in a way) and summer meant long, long days spent on the road.

"Holy cow, Sam Winchester, what the hell've you been eating, kid?" Bobby sputtered when he opened the door at five in the morning to let them inside the house. They'd driven in shifts through the night, and Sam was exhausted. Still, he couldn't help but grin.

"I feel great, Bobby."

"You look like a beanstalk," Bobby snapped back. "Now to bed with you; the both of you. I'll talk to you when the sun's shining."

-'-

Sam and Bobby spent the weekend trading research, Dean and Bobby spent the weekend looking over some of the cars outside, Sam and Dean ran and laughed and went over their weapons collection. They ate too much, slept a lot and probably annoyed Bobby to no end, what with all the grumbling the man was doing, but he didn't try to get rid of them even once, which was what really mattered, when it came down to it.

"Your daddy was here not a week ago," Bobby said the day they were heading back home. It was five in the morning, and the sun wasn't even up yet.

Sam froze and Dean tensed. "What?" Dean demanded.

Bobby lifted his shoulders, looking only a little uncomfortable. "He was here. Stayed two days, then took off as if someone lit a fire under him. Wouldn't say what he was doing, only that he had a lead."

"He always has a fucking lead, Bobby!" Dean exclaimed, and it was the first time that Sam could remember that Dean sounded angry with Dad – angry and annoyed and disappointed. "We're his kids, and we haven't seen him in almost two years now; that's not normal! You don't treat your kids like this. We're family," he added, a bit more quietly but no less angry or hurt. "You don't walk out on family, Bobby; you don't ditch your kids."

"You're doing all right," Bobby said, eyes a little narrowed and his jaw tense. Sam couldn't decide if it was because he hated that it was true, or if it was because he agreed and disagreed.

"That's not the point and you know it," Dean snapped. "He goes off, just like always, and next thing I know, he's sending postcards, won't pick up his fucking phone and he's just gone?!"

-'-

"Truth is," Dean said later, when it was just them in the car and the road stretched out in front of them, long and dark and vast into the horizon. Dean's voice was raw and subdued. "If Dad came back? Now? I'd fucking punch him in the face."

"I'd go hide in our room," Sam murmured.

"For real? Since when're you too chicken to stand up for yourself, huh?"

Sam shook his head. "It's not that. I just. I don't want him to take one look at me and decide he hates what he sees. Who I am. I don't think I could take that. Or. Dean, what if he won't even recognize me?"

Dean frowned. "What d'you mean? You're still you, Sammy."

"I've been on T for almost two years now. I don't— I don't look like a girl at all anymore. All those things that're soft and squishy on girls? They're gone, Dean. I'm taller than you and my feet are size thirteen."

Dean glanced at him briefly, more focused on the road than he strictly had to be. "Yeah, okay," he said after a while. "I guess I can see that. But truth is, Sammy, no matter how much you change? You're still my little brother. I'd recognize you anywhere. It's the hair, I swear. Stands out like a beacon, honestly."

Sam's grin was reflexive and the fist he slammed into Dean's thigh amid a lot of cursing and yelling and laughter was mandatory.

-'-2000(DEC)-'-

In December, the heating broke and Sam made use of the money Dad had sent for the first time to repair it. Dean's flimsy pay as an Air Force cadet went untouched – mostly because there wasn't enough of it, even piled up, to cover the cost. It worked in terms of paying rent and buying food, but that was it, really.

Dean had two weeks off over Christmas, so Sam did all the Christmas preparations that year. He even baked a pie, which was no small feat, and then waited for Dean to get home so they could get a tree and decorate it.

-'-

"You got a girlfriend yet, Sammy?" Dean asked the second day after he'd come home. They were down at the center and they were playing one of those crappy board games that the common room was cluttered with. Sam had an appointment in about an hour, so Dean had suggested they go down early so he could see for himself what his little brother got up to in that place. Growing up, they hadn't really played games in that sense, because anything bigger than a deck of cards was impractical to take with them in the car. It wasn't the first time he'd played Monopoly, no, but it was the first time he'd played against someone who sucked just as much as he did at it.

Sam shook his head. "No. Don't you think I'd have told you if I was seeing someone? I'm crap at keeping secrets from you, man."

"Hey, I remember that girl you were seeing a couple of years back. Never told me about her."

Sam went red. "'Cause I was nervous, maybe? I mean. I didn't know what to say, or how you'd react. Or. I was just. I guess I wasn't ready to say it out loud, I dunno."

"You honestly thought I'd have minded?"

Sam shook his head. "No, not really. But you would've said I was a lesbian, I would've said I wasn't, and, well. I don't think I was ready to have that argument back then."

"Huh," Dean said, and rolled the dice. "Oh, hey. Your street, Sammy."

"I don't think you're supposed to tell me when you owe me money, Dean."

"Hmm. Right. Not your street, then." Dean pushed his car one step forward and ended up on a train station.

"That's. Dean, don't cheat."

"You're the one cheating, Sammy. No way you got all the orange ones fair and square."

"Yes, I did! You're just a sore loser."

"You're a sore loser," Dean muttered.

"Because you cheat," Sam spelled out, pushing Dean's piece back one step, then snagged some of Dean's money. "You can't build houses unless you own all the streets in the same set."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch," Dean drawled and plunked a hotel down on a train station.

"Dean."

"What? Lots of train stations have hotels!"

Sam narrowed his eyes. "Fine," he bit out.

The game got a little bit out of hand, after that.

Like:

"Hey! Where'd you get all that money?"

"Credit card scams."

Or:

"My, my, d'you end up at the triple Hilton?"

"Uh, no. I'm bulldozing the place 'cause you're crap at paying taxes."

-'-

"So," Dean said after Sam was done with his check-up.

"I'm fine."

"Yeah, I know, or they'd have told me. No, I just meant a lot of people back there were giving me the stink eye."

Sam blinked. "Oh."

"What?"

"I dunno. I guess they think you're a homophobic ass 'cause I told them all you're in the Air Force or something."

Dean laughed and made a point of taking Sam to every check-up he feasibly could after that.

-'-

"I sent out applications," Sam said one evening. They were slouching on the couch, watching one of Dean's awful, bad taste horror flicks. "To colleges and stuff."

"Yeah?" Dean took a sip of his beer and didn't look away from the oh-so-riveting television. "What schools?"

Sam snorted. "All of them? Dude, my hand was cramping for a month."

"If your hand cramps, then you're not doing it right." Dean leered and flashed Sam a wink.

"Jerk," Sam muttered, ears a bit red, and snagged the candy away from Dean in protest. "No, but seriously, I think I applied to every school I could apply to. To be honest, I think the school counselor was a bit pissed at me toward the end."

"Geek on, Sammy."

Sam tossed a lollipop at Dean and hit him square in the forehead. "You have no grounds to complain about me being a geek anymore," Sam declared, only slightly smug. "I've seen your grades, man. You're such a nerd for a lot of weird-ass stuff. I mean, seriously? Math? That's what gets you hot?"

Dean scowled, but it didn't really hide how much he reddened or hid behind his frigging layers; Sam knew him well enough to know his ears had never been that particular shade of pink unless he was embarrassed. "I told you: I like building things," Dean complained, but he didn't really sound upset or annoyed. A bit embarrassed, maybe, but mostly sort of proud, because he was complicated like that.

"So, engineering?" Sam hazarded a guess.

Dean shrugged. "I dunno. But math? It's logical. There are patterns and rules. I, I guess I like that. It's like monsters: predictable. You know what's really weird, though?"

Sam scrunched up his face as he went through the list of Dean's grades that had arrived in the mail a few days ago. Most of the subjects were the same old standard ones Sam had seen on most 'come join the military' pamphlets that made their way into his hands, which all checked out with Dean's – with one notable exception. "I guess… I dunno, Latin doesn't really make sense; not in the Air Force."

"Exactly," Dean agreed. "I am awesome at Latin. It's all rules and grammar and endings, right?"

"Dean, you know exorcisms and banishment rituals in Latin."

"So? It's still Latin."

"Yeah, but." Sam sighed. "You know what? Never mind. You want hot chocolate? I got some of that chili stuff."

"We got whiskey?"

Sam nodded. "Think so, yeah. I know we have whipped cream."

-'-2001(MAR)-'-

Sam got wind of a hunt in early March that year. He waited for over a week before he told Dean about it, and then he laid down the facts his research had unearthed. There were four victims so far, all coinciding with the full moons of February and January. The vics all had the gear and clothing of hunters – wildlife, not supernatural – and not all of them had been found immediately.

"Dude. The monster's eating their hearts?"

Sam shrugged. "Looks that way. It's the only thing that links the victims. I, uh, I called Bobby, and he agrees with me."

Dean grinned. "It's a werewolf, right? They eat hearts, come out during full moons. It's in an isolated area in a forest. You don't get better hunting grounds than that."

"That's what he said," Sam agreed. "And what the research showed."

"So?"

"So?" Sam repeated, only he didn't sound nearly as excited as his brother. "Dean, we don't exactly carry silver bullets anymore. Dad took all of them, remember? Full moon's in two weeks, which gives us way too little time to prepare. I have to check in with Bobby next weekend and stock up on supplies." Sam was ranting and he knew it, but he couldn't help it. Werewolves were dangerous; way more than a ghost or a kappa. If Dad'd been around, he'd never have let either of them go out, alone, into a dark forest to take care of it. Dad would've probably called in some other hunter for backup, would've scouted the area for weeks in advance. Sam and Dean had two weeks – well, no, they didn't even have that, because school took up an insane amount of time, which meant they didn't have the luxury of checking out the forest beforehand.

"Is Bobby joining us?"

Sam ran a hand through his hair. "God, Dean, I fucking hope so. We can't corner something when there's just the two of us. Not in a forest that big. Shit, I mean, how fucking lucky are we that school's on break? Seriously? What if—"

"We're cool," Dean interrupted, then he put his hands on Sam's shoulders and forced his brother to meet his eyes. "When's the last time you slept the night through, Sammy?"

Sam shrugged out of Dean's hold, then collapsed on the couch. "I. I don't know," he mumbled.

"Nightmares?"

Sam's laugh was hysterical and brittle. "Dude, I have nightmares of my college applications vanishing in the mail. What the fuck is that about? I mean, usually? My nightmares at least included monsters or something, right? But now? It's all about some mistake making sure I never go to college."

Dean chuckled and sat down next to Sam. He rubbed a hand over his face, then leaned back against the couch until he was in a good and proper slouch. "You get in, then?"

"God!" Sam exclaimed, voice shrill. "I got in fucking everywhere. It's insane! I don't even know where I should go or which college to turn down. And shit, Redford is still on me about the Air Force, my friends at the center are concerned you're bulling me 'cause you're Air Force, my friends at school all think it's really weird I don't shower in the locker rooms, and the girls want me to take them out and think I'm weird when I don't. And the prom! God, the prom. I just. Dean. I just don't know what to do anymore, and then this hunt. I just."

"How about this," Dean started, looping an arm around Sam's widening shoulders and pulling him close. "How about this, Sammy: relax. Don't think about it, just go with the flow. If a girl catches your eye? Ask her out. You don't have to sleep with her if you don't want to; say you want to take it slow, or that you're religious or something. If you really like her? Tell her the truth and let her take it from there, okay? Ignore Redford; he's a dick and he's got nothing on you. You just be yourself, you hear me? And for god's sake, just ignore the dicks wanting to see you naked in the locker rooms."

Sam nodded and closed his eyes, resting his forehead on Dean's shoulder.

"Good. Now. Bring out your bunch of letters from all the colleges begging you to pick them and we'll go over it together. The hunt can wait until tomorrow."

It probably couldn't, but Sam didn't feel like arguing, and besides: he'd rather look at his college acceptances with Dean anyway.

-'-

The pile on the coffee table was quite high. Sam ran a hand through his hair, then said, "I don't even know where to start."

"How 'bout you sort out the ones where you didn't get a scholarship offer," Dean suggested. "You know we can't afford to send you to college and no way anyone'd grant us a loan."

Sam sighed. "That's a no to Harvard, then?"

Dean paused. "Dude. You got accepted at Harvard?"

Sam shrugged, his shoulders slumped. "Yeah. Yale, Berkeley, New York. I think the only place that didn't want me was MIT, and that's only 'cause I really didn't want to go there."

"Why the hell did you apply if you don't wanna go?"

"Why not?" Sam muttered. He pulled the stack of envelopes closer, then started laying them all out, one by one; ten envelopes all in all, and nine of them were thick and bulging.

"You got accepted to all of them?"

"Except—"

"Except MIT, yeah, got it."

"The principal and the guidance counselor are over the moon," Sam murmured. "Apparently I'm the best student they've had in years, even if they don't quite know what to make of me. You know, 'cause I'm not a boy but I'm not a girl?" Sam griped, bitter and tired.

"Dude, you're a bitch," Dean muttered, but he was a bit distracted with the acceptance letter from Harvard to really pay his brother any mind. "I just. Sammy, you're awesome. How many can honestly say they got accepted to Harvard after living the kind of life we have? I just. Honestly. This is amazing."

"They'll give me a scholarship if I run track for them, but I can't really do that, 'cause, well. It's the same with, uh, Columbia University, really."

"Fucking sucks," Dean muttered, then shoved the envelope away and grabbed a new one. "Their loss if they're too fucking bigoted. Seriously, if they can't see how amazing you are then they don't deserve you. Next is. Uh. University of New York. The Big Apple, huh? Oh. Is that a lot of money?"

Sam shook his head. "Covers about a third of the tuition. Same with Yale and Berkeley, Cornell and Duke. Got a full ride to UT at Austin."

"Texas?" Dean echoed, sounding skeptical and, well.

Sam's smile was thin and tired. "Yeah, I know. But I got in, right? I don't have to run around naked in front of a bunch of rednecks, but yeah."

"Sam," Dean said, and his tone was the one where you could argue 'til you were blue in the face and it wouldn't make any difference. "You're not going to Texas."

"But—"

"No buts," Dean snapped, then plucked the UT envelope off the table and dropped it on the floor. "Well?"

"University of Toronto," Sam murmured and pushed the envelope over to Dean.

Dean read it through, then stayed quiet.

"Dean?"

"Shit, Sammy," Dean muttered and closed his eyes. "Full ride to fucking Canada?"

Sam shrugged, but he was smiling a little too, because it was kinda awesome that he'd been awarded a scholarship in Canada.

"I'm not letting you go to Canada," Dean muttered, this time sullen instead of standoffish and overbearingly protective.

Sam grinned, his hair hanging into his eyes. Maybe it was time for a haircut, but he hadn't made up his mind yet. It was kinda weird, because before he started taking T? He'd have hunted down Dean and his scissors long before it got to the point where his hair threatened to grow long. But now? In a body that was finally more male than female? He literally couldn't care less about the state of his hair.

"What you smiling about?" Dean demanded, his tone suspicious. "You didn't accept it, right?"

Sam shook his head. "Haven't decided yet. Haven't declined or accepted anything. S'just…"

"What?" Dean barked. "I get that, yeah, it's kinda awesome that you got in at fucking Toronto, but, man, it's way too far away, and it's in Canada," he complained. "I…" Dean trailed off and shook his head. "Never mind," he muttered.

Sam's grin grew a little, and he nudged Dean's shoulder with his own. "What? You have plans on another four years at the AF Academy? I know you love it, so don't pretend that you don't. You get paid to play with guns, man."

Dean shrugged. "If you wanna go to Canada, then we'll go to Canada. I could—"

"No," Sam said, just a bit of bite to his tone.

"No what?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "You're not giving up what you want just to stalk me to Canada."

Dean glared. "Look, I ain't letting you go off to some other country alone. No way in hell, Sammy."

"Dean—"

"No, Sammy."

"It's Sam, dammit," Sam snapped. "Look, would you let me run off to California? Or is that too far away as well?"

Dean narrowed his eyes. The table was empty; all the envelopes had been sorted through. "What's in California, Sam?"

Sam flushed a little. "Stanford?" he chanced, throwing a glance at Dean and rubbing at his thighs.

"Stanford," Dean echoed, voice hard.

"Uh, yeah. Full ride."

"Bring it on, bitch," Dean ordered, and Sam fished out the envelope from behind the couch. It was just as thick as the one from Toronto, and Dean sure took his sweet time reading through every single page in it. Sam was sure it was some kind of revenge for him making Dean think he was running off to Canada, so he kept his mouth shut and only fidgeted a little (okay, he fidgeted a lot).

"This what you want, Sammy?"

Dean's voice startled Sam enough that he flinched by reflex. He wet his lips before speaking up. "Yeah. Yeah, I think so. I mean, don't get me wrong; Toronto is amazing, but Stanford? I just. Yeah, I want to go."

"Why didn't you just start the conversation by saying: 'So, hey, Dean, guess what? I wanna go to Stanford'."

Sam shrugged. "Dunno," he muttered. "Maybe because I wanted you to— I dunno."

"Approve?" Dean drawled, fingers tapping a lazy rhythm on the letter. "Give my unbiased opinion on Toronto and UT?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah," he admitted. "I just. What if I choose wrong?"

"You won't."

"But what if—"

"No ifs or buts about it, Sam. What do you want to study?"

"I'm not sure," Sam hedged. "But either way, Toronto or Stanford is good for it. Better than UT, at any rate. I'm not stupid, Dean: I'm transsexual. Me going to Texas, sharing a room with a guy, and public bathrooms and stuff? I just don't see how that'd go over well. And Toronto doesn't care where you live. But Stanford? They have all sorts of different housings and stuff, and yeah, it's mandatory for the first year, but I figure all I have to do is find a place that suits me."

Dean looked at him for a long time, then he nodded and declared, "We'll figure something out, Sam. Promise."

-'-

Bobby came down two days before the full moon, his rust bucket of a car loaded to the brim with silver bullets and knives and fucking machetes. The dog was a surprise, though; Bobby hadn't had it the last time they drove up to visit. Sam took one look at it, then didn't really let the overgrown puppy out of sight unless he absolutely had to.

"Heard from Dad?" Dean wondered as he put together something for dinner the first night.

"Nope," Bobby drawled, examining Sam's growing collection of books (of course, Dean used them too, but it was Sam who'd hunted every single book down and brought it home). They didn't really have a bookshelf, but it wasn't like they used all the cabinets in the kitchen, either, and it worked (most of Sam's friends from school and the CCAD center thought it was a bit odd). "Called him, though. Left a message."

"Yeah, me too." Dean's sigh of frustration was almost audible.

Sam looked up from where he was busy giving Rumsfeld, the dog, a thorough belly rub on the floor. "He hasn't sent a postcard in a while," he said, voice subdued. "Last one was around Dean's birthday and that was months ago," he pointed out because, yeah, he was just as worried about Dad when the postcards took too long a time arriving as Dean was.

"Caleb says he ran into him last week, somewhere down 'round New Orleans," Bobby offered, but didn't add any details. "Must say, you boys've got an impressive collection of books going on here."

Sam's grin was toothy and wide. "Well, I gotta do something when Dean's busy shooting guns."

"Yeah, how's that going for you?"

Dean shrugged. "It's all right."

"He's going back next year," Sam put in. "His CO is really happy with him."

"That so?" Bobby drawled. "Good job, Dean. And you, too, Sam, on getting into Stanford; that takes something extra, all right. You boys sure know how to make a man proud."

And just like that, the tense line of Dean's shoulders was gone and Sam felt about a million times lighter. A part of him couldn't help but wonder about Dad, though. For as long as Sam could remember, it had been all about the hunt with him, right up 'til the point where he vanished to hunt for something he wouldn't let either Sam or Dean know about – or help with, for that matter. So these days they only hunted when they had time, which was almost never, and ended up delegating most of the hunts Sam stumbled upon over to Bobby so he could pass them along.

It wasn't what Dad had raised them to do, and sometimes Sam couldn't help but wonder what Dad would think about that if he knew.

-'-

The forest was damp and cold, the ground covered in a thin layer of frost that crunched underneath Sam's boots. Dean had strapped a knife around Sam's ankle, a machete across his shoulders, a gun into his waistband and shoved a hunting rifle into his hands that Sam was quick to hang over his shoulder by one of the leather straps Bobby had brought. Sam had the sneaking suspicion that Dean was taking out his overprotective instincts when it came to Sam by arming him to the teeth like some kind of Terminator or something.

They had walkie-talkies that Bobby'd brought, and right now they were all spread out in the forest. Within shouting distance, hopefully, or at least running distance.

Sam hadn't been on a hunt like this since he was fifteen and Dad'd been trying to take down a shapeshifter in Maine. Sam'd cracked a couple of ribs that time, and Dean hadn't let him out of his sight for months afterward.

Sam's radio crackled. "I've got a gutted deer," came Dean's static voice. "Animal attack, maybe."

"Our guy?" Bobby asked.

"Maybe. Shit. Thing's such a goddamned mess I can't make out what the fuck's missing and what's not."

"Stay sharp and keep looking. Sam, you with us?"

"Yeah," he confirmed, eyes and ears alert and tuned into his surroundings. "It's quiet here." Even as he said it, he realized that, yeah, it was the complete and utter truth. A cold, heavy feeling settled like lead in his stomach. "Actually, it's too quiet. No birds."

"Sammy."

Sam kept walking, but he lifted his arm and took a good look at the compass that Dean had insisted they all wear, then started heading in his brother's direction. "Two klicks east of me, right?"

"Heading your way," Dean confirmed.

"Ditto," Bobby barked. "I got birds here."

"I have—" Sam swallowed and tried to pick up his pace without being obvious about it. His back was tense, neck bunched up and stiff. There were footsteps in the forest behind him, light and fast, that kept his exact pace. "I think I'm being stalked," he whispered.

"Keep walking, Sammy. Don't run."

"I'm not stupid," Sam hissed. Somewhere behind him, a twig snapped. Everything in Sam screamed at him to run, to just get the hell out of there as fast as he could and get somewhere safe, dammit, right the fuck now. But he couldn't, because there was no faster way of getting a predator to hunt you down than to let on that you knew they were there, so he kept walking, trying to keep to somewhat level terrain even as he tried to remember what direction he should head in, where his brother and Bobby were, where he was. Behind him, the treads came closer and faster. Sam refused to give into the urge that whispered and tempted him to just turn around and look.

"I can see a lake," he said and walked toward the shore closest to him on the left.

Somewhere, too close to be comforting but not distinguishable enough to pinpoint the exact location, something began to growl behind him. His brother was shouting at him in his pocket, but Sam wasn't listening. As soon as he cleared the tree line, he started running. Behind him, the werewolf growled and crashed through the trees and the undergrowth. Not too far ahead, there was an old, wooden pier with a shabby dinghy tied to it, and Sam headed for it as fast his legs could possibly carry him. His lungs burned, his vision was a bit spotty, but he didn't dare to slow down because there was a fucking monster growling and snarling and panting at his heels.

The wooden planks rattled underneath his feet. It submerged enough under his weight that cold, icy lake water started lapping at the ankles of his boots as soon as he set foot on it. Sam came to a skidding stop and whirled around.

The beach was empty.

The moon was fat and full in the sky, and it lit up Sam's mad rush across the pebbled and sandy shore well enough that he could track his journey across it just fine. There were his footsteps and there was a second set right behind them that veered off at the last second and disappeared back into the forest.

"Dean!"

"Sammy, goddammit! Don't fucking ignore me!"

Sam panted, fingers clammy and frantic on the speak button of the walkie-talkie, hunting rifle hanging heavy down his back. "It's in the forest. It came after me, out to the lake, then went back into the forest when I ran out onto the pier. I can't— I can't see it anymore. Dean, it, it's gone."

"No, it ain't," Bobby interrupted. "Listen, this thing's a damned near perfect hunter. The second you clear that pier and step back down on ground? It's gonna come hurtling out from the forest. Be careful, Sam. We're almost there; no need for idiotic acts of heroism, you got me?"

"Won't it come after you?"

"I'm already at the lake. Got the water at my back. It comes rushing out at me, I blow its brains out."

"Dean?"

"I'm good. Keep an eye out."

The radio clicked as it went silent and Sam shoved it back down in his pocket. He took a deep breath, then broadened his stance, put the butt of the rifle tight against his shoulder and took careful aim. Just because he couldn't see it, didn't mean it wasn't there.

The first time Bobby put a hunting rifle in his hands he'd barely been strong enough to hold it up and aim for more than a couple of seconds at a time. These days, he was stronger and taller, body pumped with adrenaline and fear, but his arms still started shaking long before either Dean or Bobby made it to him.

All right, Sam, he told himself, lower the rifle, five seconds, then back up. Can't keep a steady aim if you can't even hold the rifle still. Sam took a deep breath, counted to three, then lowered his weapon.

Sam never looked away from the tree line, but he still didn't see when the werewolf rushed out from the shadows of the forest and came at him again, because it was just there, between one blink and the next, snarling and stalking toward him as if it'd never left. Mostly, Sam later realized, because he hadn't been looking at the right section of the forest. Also, he admitted to himself, possibly because he'd been watching out for a werewolf.

"Dean," he said, voice shaky, as he raised the radio to his mouth.

"Sammy?"

"There are two of them."

Sam took a deep breath, trying to keep both calm and steady. He wet his lips as he carefully, slowly, raised his rife and pressed it hard against his shoulder.

"Shit," Dean cursed, and then Sam stopped listening to his brother.

Every step Sam backed up, he cursed himself for being so fucking stupid as to run out on a stupid fucking pier for safety, because he'd run out of space to back up in a lot sooner than the werewolves advancing on him would, and they knew it. In his pocket, the radio was crackling and Sam could only just make out Dean's voice, but he couldn't afford to pull it out and respond because he needed both of his hands right now. Maybe he should've pulled his gun instead, because you didn't need to reload guns between every shot to get rid of the empty shell casing the way you did with hunting rifles (and, he admitted to himself, because the other reason was purely selfish: he only needed one hand to hold a gun, so if he'd pulled that instead, then he could've kept talking to Dean), but it was too late to do anything about that now, because the werewolves were close and Sam was rapidly running out of planks to back out on.

His boots hit the wooden post at the edge of the pier way too soon. The werewolves stood side by side, hissing and snarling, just where the wooden planks started and the sand of the shore ended. Sam glanced down, caught sight of a frayed rope coiled loosely around the pole, but then he snapped his eyes back up again, because the pier started creaking under the combined weight of the two werewolves slowly stalking toward him.

Sam crouched, took hold of the rope, aimed carefully, then squeezed the trigger, calm and slow, just like Dean'd taught him to.

The werewolf he hit went down with a high pitched whine, then went quiet. The other one? It howled with rage and fury and leaped at him just as Sam threw himself backward. The wind went out of him at the impact and his back felt like he'd broken it. With his foot, he kicked against the pier and sent the dilapidated dinghy he'd landed in careering out into the lake. With shaking hands he lifted the rifle, pulled the bolt backward, snapping the spent shell casing out of the chamber, then forward again to load the next bullet in the mag, before taking aim all over again.

He shot at the werewolf before it could get any ideas about joining him in the boat and watched as it went down in a growling, whimpering heap, then he just— just slumped down, stretched out uncomfortably across the wet, cold bottom of the dinghy. On the pier, the werewolf was whining, and in his pocket, Dean was shouting at him.

Sam fumbled out the walkie-talkie and held it against his lips. "Dean?" he murmured.

"Sammy! Fucking answer when I talk to you!" Dean growled out.

"Dean. Where are you?"

"At the lake. God, just fucking tell me you didn't fall in, you goddamned idiot. What kind of stupid fucking stunt was that, anyway? You can't just go throwing yourself off into a freezing lake, Sam!"

Sam's teeth chattered, and he was suddenly so, so cold. Maybe it was because the pier had sunk down into the water until he was soaking wet, mid-shin down. Maybe, maybe it was because the bottom of the dinghy was covered with a thin layer of water. He wasn't sure, but he was just so cold and tired, and, to be frank, kinda scared and terrified witless.

"I… there was a boat?"

There was a shot, sudden and shockingly loud, slicing through the silence of the night, and then the whimpering from the werewolf went silent.

"Sam," Bobby said. "Toss me the rope now, boy."

Sam blinked and looked at the radio, but it was quiet for now, so he raised his head and there was Bobby on the pier. He made an interesting picture as a knight in shining armor, with his trucker's cap, scruffy clothes and the rifle hanging across his back.

"You're taking in water," Bobby continued, crouched at the end of the pier. "Just toss me the rope and I'll pull you in. You'll be fine, just try not to move too much, all right?"

Sam nodded. He stuffed the radio away, grabbed the rope that he was still holding on to, then threw it toward Bobby and hoped that it was long enough to reach all the way, because this dinghy? Did not come equipped with oars.

"You got in a mighty fine shot, Sam," Bobby was saying as the dinghy started to move ever so slowly. "Saw you take the first one out before you went down. Damned foolish move, but brave. Just kinda wish the clouds hadn't come in to cover the moon up. Couldn't see where you went. Of course, there wasn't no splash, so at least I knew you weren't drowning. You missed the heart by an inch on the second one."

"Bobby?" Sam could barely raise his voice; he was suddenly just so tired.

"Yeah, kid?"

"I'm tired," he mumbled. "And wet and cold and— Is. Can you see Dean?"

"Not yet. You just keep your eyes open. How much water is there in the boat?"

Sam glanced around. "Oh. A lot," he declared, kind of surprised because he would've bet Dean a month of laundry duty there hadn't been this much water in the boat just a second ago. "If I get urinary tract infection, I'm gonna kill someone."

"You already took out the werewolves. Isn't that enough?"

"No," he whined. "That shit hurts!"

Sam could've sworn Bobby was laughing at him, but the next thing he said was, "All right, hand me that rifle, son." Sam handed it over, then didn't move while Bobby carefully spun the boat around. "I'm gonna grab you under your shoulders, slowly pull you out, okay? You hurt anywhere?"

"My back," Sam mumbled. "Hit it pretty hard."

"I think you're just lucky you didn't sink the boat with that stupid stunt, you idiot. That thing looks like a well-aimed sneeze could rip it to shreds."

Then Bobby was grabbing him, pulling him up and out until Sam was sort of standing, sort of leaning against Bobby on the sagging pier.

"Didn't want the monsters to get me."

"And they didn't."

Bobby pulled him off the pier, and then Dean was there, patting him down and hugging him close. "You're fine," Dean breathed into his hair, and just like that Sam finally relaxed.

-'-

Later that evening, Dean stripped Sam until he was sitting on his bed in just his underwear, then methodically went over every bruise and scrape on the back of his thighs and his back. He fingered Sam's skull through his hair for bumps, cursed at him for keeping it too long, then put him to bed and stood guard until Sam fell asleep.

-'-

"I thought you were still binding," Dean said the next morning and gestured around his chest.

Sam just shook his head. "No. Doc says it's a combination of the T redistributing my body fat and because I work out a lot."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "I thought T couldn't remove tits. Make them smaller, yeah, but not just—" Dean gestured over his chest again, eyebrows raised.

Sam shrugged. "I guess? I don't know, Dean; it happened, and I'm not complaining. Dude, I hated my tits."

Dean blinked, then grinned and shook his head. "Let me guess: you didn't fucking have any tits to get rid of."

"I so did!" Sam protested. "They were, like, there! Poking out!"

Dean snorted and shook his head, big fat smirk on his face. "Yeah, right. Maybe in, like, another dimension or something. You were flatter than a brick, Sam."

Sam narrowed his eyes, offended for all the wrong reasons (or maybe for all the right ones; he wasn't sure). "I was not!" he argued.

"Oh, yes, you were."

"I had. Bumps," he got out, and was just about ready to attack Dean, wipe that ugly smirk right off his face, when Bobby knocked sharply on the door.

"You girls done trading beauty tips in there? I wanna get to breakfast sometime today, if you ain't too busy painting each other's toenails." Bobby's voice was just loud enough to penetrate the closed door. He sounded lazily amused and just a little bit tired. Sam went bright red and scowled, but Dean just threw his head back and laughed.

-'-2001(APR)-'-

The third week in April, a package arrived, delivered straight to their doorstep. It was stuffed full of books and it didn't carry a note or the name of whoever'd sent it. Sam took a good look at the contents, then unpacked the books, one by one, only stopping long enough to thumb through some of the more interesting looking ones.

They were all pretty heavy, pretty dark, and pretty much exclusively into demons and the majority of them weren't even in English. He stashed them with the book Dad'd sent him the title of, all those months ago, and tried not to think too hard about why Dad was sending stuff here. When he mentioned it to Dean, his brother went quiet and stared at the additions in Sam's hunting library for a good hour under the pretense of cooking dinner. They spent the whole night between Friday and Saturday going through the books, but they didn't offer any clues about where Dad was. Just—

Just that he was hunting demons and that whatever he'd stumbled across was close, dangerous and pretty fucking dark.

-'-2001(MAY)-'-

Sam was eighteen when he handed in his petition for a legal name change with the court in Colorado Springs. It was a long process and, had he told Dean about it, he was sure his brother would've snapped at the judge present at his hearing. As it was, Sam felt more than a little intimidated when he stood in front of the rounded, graying judge with the cool, clear eyes. The questions were numerous, some of which Sam didn't feel comfortable answering at all. But he had his papers from the center, all of which were in order, he had the report card of his grades and he was a Winchester – and stubborn to boot.

Because, when it came down to it: "Do I really look like a Samantha to you, sir?" he asked, and stumbled only a little over the name. "It's not like I'm completely changing my name. Everyone already calls me Sam. My driver's license and my birth certificate say Samantha, but I'm not. I'm not Samantha, sir. I'm Sam."

"I see," the judge drawled. Sam wasn't sure if he did, because he was too focused on reading through the various reports in front of him, from Sam's school and his doctors.

The two hours he spent in the court room were two of the longest in his life. It was all worth it, though, because the court order meant he could request a new birth certificate that said Sam Winchester, nothing more, nothing less. After that came the driver's license, which he proudly brandished to Dean.

Dean grinned, ruffled his hair and said, "Way to go, Sammy."

-'-

Dean graduated in May and was granted a whopping forty-five days of leave without pay. It didn't matter much, though, because Sam was frugal with money, and besides, it wasn't like he had much of anything to spend it on. But yeah, other than the fact that Dean basically got paid to go to school and play with guns and shit – which was kind of awesome, really – there was the fact that they had medical insurance – legal medical insurance – for the first time in Sam's life.

Having Dean back also meant Sam didn't have to cook anymore, or drive anywhere, because Dean was doing his very best to make up for lost time with his 'baby'.

So no, Sam wasn't quite prepared for the stony silence that greeted him in the car when Dean picked him up after school one day – and how weird was it that Sam no longer drove around everywhere on his own, anyway? – because so far Dean'd been pretty mellow and relaxed.

"Dean?"

"Got another fucking crate," Dean muttered.

Sam blinked. "Oh," he murmured.

"Yeah. Books, scrolls, pictures. Hell, box was full of herbs and shit, too, and it was literally covered with sigils and holy water."

"Why is he sending all this?"

"Hell if I know."

"You talk to Bobby?"

"He ain't got a clue," Dean drawled, eyes on the road. Even though it only took about five minutes to drive from the school to their home, Dean still reached over and turned on the music, volume turned to max and blaring from the loudspeakers.

-'-

School let out the last week of May. Sam and Dean locked up the house, then drove up to see Bobby, making a short detour on the way there to stop by at Missouri's. Missouri looked troubled, but wouldn't say why, and Bobby was the same as always. His dog was a slightly bigger puppy, but still miles away from being full grown. One day, Sam thought, scratching the dog behind the ears, and promised himself that he'd get a dog as a reward if he survived college intact.

-'-2001(JUN)-'-

They took care of a haunting in Peetz, CO, on the way back home, and then Dean's phone rang.

They drove in stony silence after that, Dean tapping out angry rhythms on the wheel and Sam staring blindly out the window as the scenery rushed by.

"You hungry?" Dean grunted, somewhere between halfway home and there.

"No," Sam said, and didn't move.

"Bullshit," Dean declared and pulled off at the next intersection.

Despite the fact that they lived pretty close to Denver these days, they'd almost never taken the time to actually go there all that much (well, Sam had, on occasion, it was just that Dean'd never gone with him), but Dean still managed to find a somewhat acceptable café where they could eat in a relatively short amount time.

There was a rainbow flag in the window, just a small one, but the sight of it somehow lifted Sam's spirits enough that he could acknowledge and sate his hunger. Still.

"Dude, why do you know where a gay café is, anyway?"

Dean shrugged. He was stirring milk and sugar into his coffee – which, yeah, was pretty far from the norm when it came to Dean – and wouldn't look up when he spoke. "There's this girl at the Academy. She goes here with her sister all the time; won't stop jabbering on about it. Thought it was worth checking out, that's all."

Sam's eyebrows shot up. "You've got a girlfriend now, Dean?"

"No," Dean snapped. "I've got a friend who's a girl, dickhead."

"Oh." Sam looked back down at his plate where the last of his fries were slowly going cold. "Sorry."

Dean shook his head. "No, man, it's all right. I just…"

"Yeah," Sam agreed, then ate the last of his fries, movements systematic rather than laidback and relaxed.

He wasn't really hungry anymore.

-'-

There was a large, black pickup truck parked in their driveway when Sam and Dean made it back to their house. Sam looked at the car, then the house, and turned to Dean. "We'll have to cancel the lease," he said.

Dean blinked and frowned. "What?"

"I mean, when I go to Stanford, right? No sense in keeping this place." Sam's tone was mostly even, except for how it shook a little. "It'll be empty except for when you get out on weekends, and. Well. No point in keeping it, right? Save more money if we don't, s'all I'm saying."

Dean turned off the car and pulled the keys out of the ignition. "Focus, Sammy. One matter at a time, all right?"

Sam's nod was maybe slightly too manic. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, then took another and a third before he opened his eyes, squared his shoulders and stepped out of the car. By the time he reached the door, Dean's shoulder was brushing his and he took some comfort in that, no matter what happened after this point, Dean would always be by his side.

And that, he decided, was at the heart of it all anyway: Dean was the most important person in his life – always had been, always would be – no doubt about it. Regardless of what Dad said or how he reacted, Sam would always have Dean, and that was what made Sam's world right.

If he could have Dean, then everything was all right and nothing else mattered.

Not even Dad.

Masterpost

My name is Sam -- [Part 2]

sa_kun — Sat, 11 Aug 2012 15:19:20 GMT

-'-1999(MAR)-'-

Sam's first day of school rocked. He'd sat through a meeting with the principal and Dean for over an hour, so by the time the bell rang and signaled the start of classes, Sam was way more prepared than he'd been for any other school he'd ever been to. He was in every AP class he could feasibly be in, and Dean somehow talked the principal into letting Sam skip out on PE for the rest of the year because he already had all the units he needed, technically (but Sam wasn't really sure how that worked, exactly), and if Dr. Kinley, the principal, needed it, Dean could fish out a medical note excusing him.

By the time Dean picked him up that afternoon, Sam was vibrating with nervous energy, anxiety and anticipation, all wrapped up in a jumbled, mismatched package. Dean greeted him with a grin and a cup of cheap takeout coffee, but no matter how cheap and awful it was, it did the trick of relaxing Sam. Well, somewhat relaxing him. He was far too jittery.

"Ready to rock?" Dean asked.

Sam's stomach was doing cartwheels and he clutched his coffee tight. "I think I'm gonna be sick."

Dean shot him a panicked look. "For real?"

"I dunno. I'm kinda…" Sam waved his hands in the air. "I feel like I'm all over the place."

"If you don't wanna do this, just say the word and I'll take us right out of here."

Sam shook his head so fast his vision went kinda blurry. "No, no!" he blurted. "I'm sure. It's not a phase. I won't grow out of it—"

"Hey, Sammy. Easy, kid. I never said you would."

Sam nodded, then drank several mouthfuls of the coffee that was just warm enough not to scald his mouth and throat as it went down. "Right. Sorry."

"Talk to me, bitch," Dean suggested, eyes on the road.

So Sam did. He just opened his mouth, and the words vomited out.

Some of it was related to the classes he'd had that day in his new school, and "it's awesome, Dean," but most was just random chitter-chatter about everything and nothing. Like, "I've just had one girlfriend, and she was totally amazing. She kissed me, like, three times and then took me to the movies," or, "I swear, Dean, the robot had laser eyes," or, "We should totally go to Europe, man," so, yeah, coherence wasn't very high on Sam's list of priorities right then. It was probably why it took Sam a long while to realize that they'd stopped driving and that the car was parked in front of a nondescript building with two rainbow flags hanging from the wall by the entrance.

Dean was looking at him, body turned toward Sam's in the car, all indulgence and soft smiles in his eyes. "Oh," Sam said.

"Wanna go inside, check things out?"

Sam nodded numbly. He was still clutching the coffee cup in his hand when Dean came around the car to get him out, and he refused to let go of it until Dean tickled him. Dean kept his hand on Sam's shoulder, grip just tight enough that it propelled him forward instead of him just stopping and standing stock-still like an idiot. The cup was tossed in the trash, and then they were inside and the secretary sitting behind the desk looked expectantly at them.

"Hey, I made an appointment with a Dr. Becket for my brother, Sam? I'm Dean Winchester."

The secretary looked between them, but Sam was too busy looking at all the posters on the walls to really pay any attention to the guy. "Of course. Dr. Becket will be with you in a couple of minutes. Why don't you sit down and wait?"

"Sounds good," Dean agreed, and so Sam was dragged along to one of the couches in the room. "You with me, Sammy?"

"If you have a pizza with radius z and thickness a, its volume is pizza," Sam blurted out.

Dean blinked. "Like, pi times z times z times a?" Sam nodded. Dean smiled. "Yeah, that's kinda cool if you're a geek, I guess."

Sam was just about to protest, because how fair was it of Dean to call him a geek when Dean knew exactly what Sam was talking about, really, when the secretary cleared his throat and announced that, "Dr. Becket will see you now; her door is open if you'll just go down the corridor to your left."

So Sam froze up a little, Dean chuckled, and next thing Sam knew, he was standing in front of a woman who was way shorter than he was, wearing glasses, graying hair and a brisk smile.

"Sam Winchester?" Sam nodded. "I'm Dr. Becket. Your brother contacted me last week." Sam nodded again, but he didn't say anything because he couldn't really remember how to speak, much less how to move so he could shake her hand.

"Hi, I'm Dean," Dean said, all smooth and easy charm, and reached out to shake her hand in Sam's stead. "To be honest, I think my brother's a little, well. Overwhelmed."

"Yes, I can see that."

"Partly my fault," Dean went on. "I kinda dropped the bomb on him yesterday, so to speak. Maybe I shoulda told him right after I spoke with you. S'just, I didn't know he didn't know there was, y'know, treatments and stuff."

"I'm not sick!" Sam burst out.

Dean started. "No, I know," he said, looking kind of worried. "You with us now, Sammy?"

Sam blinked.

Dr. Becket indicated that they should sit down, so Sam allowed himself to be led again, then just— just didn't know what to do.

"How long have you been referring to Sam as you brother, Dean?"

"Since last week. He kinda… exploded on me? Rough day at school. I guess it got to be a bit much to hold in. To be honest, I'm kinda floundering here."

"Dean's the best," Sam heard himself say. "He's just awesome."

Dr. Becket raised her eyebrows, but she was almost smiling now as she looked from Dean to Sam, so Sam took that to heart. "Did hearing about this place make you nervous, Sam?"

Sam nodded. "Oh, yeah. Big time. I didn't know. I didn't know fixing me was possible. You can fix me, right? I'm all wrong, and I. I don't want to be wrong anymore."

"How are you wrong?"

"Wrong body," Sam declared, and even though it wasn't the first time he was saying it – far from it, what with how easily Dean had taken to it – it still sent such a rush of relief and pleasure through him that Sam went all tingly inside. "I'm a guy, not a girl."

"Simple as that, is it?" she asked, and Sam nodded with a big grin.

"Totally as easy as that."

"Has it always been?"

Sam shrugged. "Yeah. Ever since I was a kid, I always hated that Dad called me a girl, or that I had to have long hair when Dean didn't. I hated that the teachers in school always made me sit with the girls when I'd rather be outside with the boys, and that I wasn't allowed to do all the sports I wanted 'cause they didn't get that I wasn't a girl. I remember wishing when I was really little that maybe someone had just made a mistake and that I'd be fixed."

"Would you say you look up to your brother?"

It was such a huge understatement that Sam didn't really have words for it. "Yeah, I think you could say that. I've probably been running after him since I was, like, four or something, trying to be exactly like him."

"Look, we didn't have a lot of money growing up, so most of the time I'd save my old clothes so that he could wear them," Dean cut in. "I think Dad brought home skirts and dresses once or twice, but Sam, well. Sam sort of refused to wear them."

"I was jealous a lot," Sam whispered then.

"Jealous of your brother?"

Sam nodded, aware that Dean looked sharply at him. "Yeah," he agreed. "I just. I thought it was so unfair that he got all the cool stuff, and I got stuck with all the lame girly stuff. I hated that no one understood that we were the same, that I wasn't a real girl. I mean, I don't think it was until I started school that I really got why boys and girls were so different, so it wasn't too bad until then, but." Sam shrugged. "Dad never bought him any stupid skirts. I hated that he tried to make me wear them because I hated that it made me different and wrong."

"Did you ever feel pressured into thinking that you were a boy even though you have a female body?"

"No, absolutely not!" Sam protested. "The opposite, if anything. Dad's always the one who's on me about being too, too boyish. Dean's never really cared."

"'Cause I'm an awesome brother," Dean added.

"You accept this facet of your brother?"

Dean smirked. "Only thing that changed were the pronouns," he declared. "He's been like this since I can remember."

At some point during their appointment, it occurred to Sam that Dr. Becket might have been a psychologist, not a real doctor, and to be honest he wasn't too sure what to make of that. Then again, he theorized, she hadn't accused him of being either a liar or confused, like that stuck up counselor Mr. Fugly Sweater had.

"How do you feel about your body, Sam?"

"Don't like it," Sam said at once.

"Why?"

"It's… wrong. Uncomfortable. I…" He shook his head and trailed off.

"Look," Dean started. "Might not be my place, but he binds his, you know." Dean made the universal sign for boobs. "And when he came out to me he said something about hating mirrors."

"Because mirrors only show reflections of our outsides?"

"Yeah, exactly," Sam agreed. "And I don't like what I see. It's not me."

"You never consult mirrors?"

Sam shrugged. "If it's just my face, then it's okay. But I can't really… No, I kinda stay away from them."

Dr. Becket cleared her throat and glanced at Dean once before turning to Sam. "Do you touch yourself when you shower?"

"Just to get clean," Sam mumbled.

"Do you ever pleasure yourself?"

Sam went beet red in under a second flat. He pointedly ignored that Dean was even in the room, much less sitting squirming in the chair next to his. "Um. Maybe if I don't think about it? Like, if I can pretend it's someone else's body?"

-'-

"I'm going to recommend further therapy for Sam, or both of you if you find that you have a hard time adjusting," Dr. Becket said to them both after one of the longest hours in Sam's life. "I would see that you do it separately, though. It's not always topics you find you want to share with your family."

"You don't say?" Dean drawled.

Dr. Becket smiled. "Oh, but I do."

"Why do I need therapy?" Sam asked.

"Why not?" Dr. Becket returned. "Transitioning is a difficult time. You'll be confused, feel unbalanced, maybe even uncertain. It's vital that we assess your state of mind before it's too late. Not to make you change your mind or make you think you're merely confused, but to make sure you're comfortable all the way through. Living with the wrong sex is difficult. You know this, Sam; you've been doing it all your life. Dean tells me you were afraid to find out why in case there was something wrong with you. Now that you know you are perfectly normal…" She shrugged. "It can be hard, knowing your dreams might be fulfilled one day. You need someone to talk to during all of this who is unbiased, and for all that your brother is… awesome, was it?" Sam smiled. "He is hardly impartial. There is also the matter of how much you want to change."

Sam frowned. "What do you mean?"

Dr. Becket pulled out a folder from one of the drawers behind the desk. "Hormone treatments are fairly non-invasive, as a rule. You are the only one who can decide how absolute you want your transition to be. Do you want chest reconstructive surgery? Do you want to remove your uterus and your ovaries? Do you want genital reconstruction surgery?"

While Sam sort of understood what it all meant in a literal sense, he couldn't really make sense of it. Yeah, he knew he wanted to be a guy, it was just. Just, well.

"Geez, I'd no idea there was that much to it. All I could pull up at the library was testosterone shots," Dean filled in, sounding only slightly less astonished than Sam felt.

"As I said: there is a lot to consider, which is why these sessions are necessary. Now. I understand you have a meeting with Dr. Cavanaugh in five minutes regarding personal issues?"

It was Dean who nodded, because Sam hadn't known they were meeting more than one doctor (or, well, that he was meeting more than one doctor).

"A suggestion?"

"You want me to wait outside," Dean drawled.

Dr. Becket smiled. "Yes." She handed the folder to Sam. "You'll find some basic information in there on what the complete transition entails. I recommend you read it and start thinking about what kind of changes you want to make. But Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Take your time. There is no rush."

-'-

They didn't spend more than just a couple of minutes in the waiting room with the nice couches. Sam handed the folder over to Dean and tried to come up with a reason for Dean to follow him into the next doctor's office as well.

"You can stop thinking about it. I'm not joining you this time."

Sam glared. "Don't read my mind, jerk. I don't want to go in there alone."

"Sam, she's probably gonna examine you. Cavanaugh is the 'your puberty's all whacked' doctor. You seriously want me to watch you naked while she checks if your bits are in order?"

Sam went white in the face. "Oh my god," he gasped. "She's gonna make me sit in one of those GYN chairs, isn't she? Dean! I don't wanna—"

"Dr. Cavanaugh is ready to see you now," the secretary announced.

"Be right there," Dean called, then turned to Sam. "Listen, Sammy. I'll be out here the entire time. She's not gonna make you do anything you're uncomfortable with, and she'll ask before she does anything, then she'll tell you exactly what she's doing, the entire time. I promise, all right? Now get going before I drag your ass there."

That didn't really make Sam feel any better. He still felt nervous as hell as he walked into Dr. Cavanaugh's room. It looked identical to Dr. Becket's, except more clinical and medical, and there was a second room farther in that Sam could only see part of through the open door. Cavanaugh was slightly younger, a bit rounder and infinitely more smiley than the other doctor, though, which kinda helped make Sam feel at ease.

"Sam Winchester?" she asked.

"Yeah. Uh. Hi." This time, he didn't need any prompting to shake the doctor's hand.

"It was your brother who booked the appointment. I understand he was a bit concerned over your development into puberty?"

"Right," Sam agreed awkwardly.

The next hour Sam spent being poked and stung with needles and prodded at in various states of undress, being asked uncomfortable questions and offering awkward answers, with Dr. Cavanaugh writing down notes and humming through it all. And just like Dean had said, she never once did anything without first asking him, and then she talked him through the entire process. When he was shown into the next room and asked to undress, Sam had a quiet, private moment of freaking out.

"I really don't want to do this," he said.

Dr. Cavanaugh looked at him kindly. "What is it that makes you most uncomfortable, Sam?"

"Everything!" Sam pointed at the bed with the stirrups. "That! I hate being— I don't—!"

"We can reschedule and have you sedated, if that would make you feel better," she offered, and Sam shuddered; that sounded even worse.

"Why do I need to…?" Sam gestured at the bed, not quite willing to actually say the words.

"You can answer questions to no end, Sam, but only your body holds the answers. We will take as many breaks as you need."

So in the end, Sam lay down in just a flimsy hospital gown, feet in the stirrups and tried not to feel exposed and violated. He squeezed his eyes shut for good measure and mostly ignored what the doctor was doing down there. Then, when she was done, she wanted to examine his breasts and made him remove the wrap that kept them suppressed. He felt more than a little frazzled by the time they made it back out to the doctor's office, where they waited for less than a minute for Dean to arrive so they could go through the results of the check-up.

"Sam is exceptionally healthy and well-trained," Dr. Cavanaugh said. "A bit undernourished, but not alarmingly so, and it's not something that is at all unusual in teenagers."

Dean nodded. "And the rest?"

"If this were a normal scenario, I would recommend kick-starting Sam's body so that puberty is back on track. We will have to wait for the lab results to come back to know for sure, but going by the preliminary and the physical examination it does not look like Sam's body is going to start menstruating any time soon. Even breast development appears halted and immature. It's not unusual; it happens, but natural progression at this point is extremely unlikely. It's all easily solved in most cases, except I understand Sam does not wish to be a woman."

"Yeah, no, he doesn't."

"Yeah, so can't you just do nothing?" Sam put in, a vaguely hopeful expression on his face. Because not having breasts larger than what he had? Never getting periods? That sounded just about perfect to him.

Dr. Cavanaugh shook her head. "We go through puberty for a reason; skipping it entirely will just lead to more complications down the road. Now, while we wait for the results to come back to me, it's my understanding that Sam will be seeing Dr. Becket for regular therapy?" Sam and Dean nodded, Sam a bit less readily than Dean. "By the end of that, hopefully Dr. Becket will have enough to judge whether or not you would benefit from testosterone treatments. That will start puberty, just not in the way your body was designed to originally."

"Different how?" Dean asked. "Like, he'll grow a beard?"

"Eventually," Dr. Cavanaugh agreed, smiling a little. "It'll halt whatever progress his body has made in terms of female development and start developing more male characteristics. Deepening of the voice, facial hair, coarser body hair. Depending on whether or not the growth plates in his long bones have fused, he may grow a little taller."

"I think he's still growing," Dean put in, glancing at Sam, who slouched a little at that.

"Sam's medical records indicate as much as well." Dr. Cavanaugh looked between them before focusing on Sam. "If you choose to undergo testosterone therapy, there are a multitude of medical and physical issues you need to be made aware of and consider. And you must remember that you are the only one who can make this choice."

-'-

Sam was quiet for most of the ride home. He had two thick folders stuffed full with information in his lap that he'd need to go through, read and consider, and he just knew Dean would do exactly the same because that was what Dean did, apparently, and it wasn't really something that should've surprised Sam the way it did initially. Dean cared, Sam knew that better than anyone, but it hadn't ever occurred to him that Dean actively went out and looked up information that could help Sam, not like that (not stuff like puberty, identity and sexuality; not gender issues or testosterone treatments). But Dean didn't push or prod or demand answers from him; he just let Sam be, which was exactly what he needed right then.

The second they got home, Sam commandeered the kitchen table and started in on his homework. The folders from the doctors' office lay neatly on the couch, out of sight but not mind. Dean went out and returned with Chinese food, and plunked one of the containers down within easy reach in front of Sam, then disappeared. The TV was turned on, but Sam tuned it out in favor of his algebra homework. While Sam worked his way through history, literature, physics and Latin, he was sort of peripherally aware of Dean working his way through crappy horror movies that involved a lot of screaming, half-naked women in wet, see-through T-shirts (okay, so he noticed some bits).

"Time for bed, Sammy," Dean announced, and Sam looked up from his books with gritty eyes.

"Huh?"

"Bedtime," Dean repeated. "C'mon. It's, like, five minutes 'til midnight and you get grumpy if you don't sleep enough."

"I'm so behind in, like, every subject, Dean," Sam complained. "I need to—"

"You always have the first week off, dude. They don't expect you to be up to date until next week, and you know it."

Sam kinda hated when Dean was logical like that, but he allowed himself to be pushed into the bathroom. Brushing his teeth and washing his face, scrubbing it clean, felt awesome and, yeah, maybe he was a lot more tired than he'd thought. By the time Sam was done, Dean was waiting for his turn. The house was quiet and dark, doors and windows locked and salted. There was a bedside lamp on in the bedroom, and Sam picked the other side so Dean could turn it off when he was done preening himself in the bathroom (because no one took longer showers than Dean).

-'-

They settled into a routine in no time at all: Sam went to school, Dean went to work. Occasionally, Sam went down to the Community Council for Adolescent Development; sometimes Dean went with him and sometimes he didn't. They didn't talk about Dad much. Sometimes Sam would walk in on Dean talking to Bobby on the phone, or Pastor Jim, or Missouri, or Caleb, or some other hunter whom Dad may or may not have been in contact with. It wasn't that Dad was missing as such, it was just that they couldn't seem to find him. The only reason they didn't freak out entirely were the occasional postcards that found their way to them, all with Dad's handwriting, most of them just saying 'safe' or 'lay low' or something similar that was just as frustrating. They took to marking down Dad's progress through the country on a map they had on the wall, based on where the postcards had been sent from. It didn't really tell them much, other than that Dad was moving from one side of the US to the other, and that he was moving a lot faster than he ever had when they were with him.

"We might as well stay," Dean said one day, sprawled out on the couch next to Sam. The TV was on, showing a documentary on meerkats that was disturbingly captivating, and they hadn't looked away for over an hour. "I mean, no way I can drag the two of us around the country when you ain't even legal, Sammy."

"I wanna finish school."

"Yeah, and that."

"Remember the case that maybe wasn't a case?"

"No."

"Well, someone drowned a couple of days ago. Third time in three weeks, now."

"Huh. Isn't that river a bit too cold for swimming?"

"I was looking into sea creatures."

"Is it Nessie?"

"Could be a selkie, maybe, or a mermaid or a water demon or an undine or something."

"You think an army of them could take over Africa?"

"Dean, are you listening to me?"

"Sure. Monsters in the river. Fascinating. Have you seen these guys? They're, like, perfect little soldiers."

-'-1999(AUG)-'-

Sam started his T therapy in April and didn't feel that much different. Except, maybe, how his voice got a little deeper after a while and how he started getting hungry, like, all the time. Then one day Dean dragged him into the bathroom, shoved a razor in his hand and told him to start shaving, dammit. They were at Bobby's at the time and Dean had taken some time off work so they could drive up to meet the man. Usually they'd stop by once a year or so, but with Dad gone since about two weeks after Dean's birthday, they hadn't had the yearly check in, so Sam had suggested that maybe they should take some time and go visit the hunter themselves.

It'd be the first time since Sam began taking T that they met up with anyone who'd known him 'before'. So yeah, Sam was distracted and jumpy and Dean was poking fun and being annoying. It took them about eleven hours to get there, as now that Sam had his license they could easily drive through the day without worrying about cops or Dean falling asleep at the wheel.

"What the hell've you kids gotten into now?" Bobby asked when they got out of the car.

"Whaddya mean?" Dean asked, grinning. "We haven't gotten in trouble in ages now."

"You don't say," Bobby drawled, but he was looking at Sam, and Sam found he couldn't stop fidgeting or even raise his head enough that he could look Bobby in the eye. Maybe, he thought, they should've told Bobby beforehand, like, on the phone or something, but it was too late to do anything about that now, because, well. They were already here.

"Yeah," Dean was saying, and then he rounded the car and slapped Sam on the back, squeezing his shoulder once before letting his hand fall away. "So, Sam is my brother."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that," Dean agreed, and his voice was about three kinds of steely and immovable. "You got a problem with that, we'll just drive straight back home again."

"Your Daddy know about this?" Bobby gestured at Sam. The scrutiny made him feel uncomfortable for the first time ever since he started with the T, and it wasn't because he was gangly and awkward and finally more guy than a girl, except for maybe how it was exactly that, because he was finally going through puberty and, right parts or not, it was awkward. Pimples weren't fun, his voice squeaking wasn't fun, aching bones weren't fun, but he absolutely loved that his puberty didn't involve tits, periods or widening hips, and that it did include something he'd always been jealous at Dean for: muscle mass (well, he'd been jealous about a lot of things when it came to Dean, but that wasn't really the point). The point was that he was a guy, not a girl, and that Bobby probably just needed to do some research on the topic; he was a hunter, after all.

"Dad ain't been around since January," Dean was saying, drawing Sam out of his thoughts. "We were kinda hoping you'd heard something about that."

Bobby pulled his hat off and ran a hand through his hair. "I don't pretend to get this," he said, gesturing at Sam, but he didn't look outright disgusted, either, which made it all the harder to read him.

Sam shrugged. "I'm the same as always, only now I'm starting to look it."

"Yeah." Dean grinned and knuckled Sam's cheek. "Kinda liked him when he was shorter, though."

"Shut up, jerk," Sam spat and elbowed Dean in the side. Dean grunted, then went for all of Sam's ticklish spots. Sam, of course, retaliated.

"All right, you two!" Bobby growled. "Stop tussling. Come on, inside with you then and lay it out for me. Get going with you; ain't got all day."

So yeah, they were at Bobby's when Dean handed Sam a razor and showed him how to shave. Sam pretended to be annoyed through the entire process, but he couldn't deny that he felt kind of giddy about it all, too, 'cause there was no mistaking the hint of pride in Dean's eyes or the way he bragged about it to Bobby later on.

Bobby, of course, just rolled his eyes and told them to stop acting like idiots. Sam didn't fool himself into thinking that Bobby was all right with Sam being a guy, but he made an effort, at least, and Sam tried not to take it personally when he slipped up every now and then.

-'-

"So you two holed up in Colorado Springs, huh?"

"Yeah. I go to school, and Dean brings in the money. It's not ideal, exactly, but it works."

Bobby scratched his jaw. "Only time I hear from John Winchester these days is when he's got himself in a bind. Don't matter if it's with the law or some kind of supernatural freakshow."

"We get postcards," Sam said. "Dean thought about going looking for him, but…"

"But Sammy needs to finish school, and he can't do that if he needs to hold down a job as well, and I don't like the idea of splitting up and leaving him alone," Dean finished. He didn't even sound bitter about it, and Sam wasn't sure why, because even though Sam didn't particularly like hunting as such – or dislike it for that matter – Dean loved it. So yeah, Sam had never really dared ask why Dean chose to stick around with him instead of taking off to look for Dad, but he sure as hell wasn't complaining.

"You boys done hunting, then?" Bobby asked, and Sam couldn't help but smile, even if Bobby kinda looked a bit surprised at hearing himself refer to the two of them as boys.

"If it's in the area, we'll take care of it over a weekend. Like, hauntings and stuff. We don't got the, the juice to go on the kind of long, cross-country hunts Dad took us on. But we keep our eyes peeled, and Sam never stops with the research, so, yeah. We're set."

"There's something in the river, I think, we just can't figure out what it is or narrow it down. It's too random."

"Could just be drownings."

"Except they're almost all women and bits of their livers were missing."

"Which, yeah, can happen if the fish start eating at you, or the wild life. Dude, you saw the forensics on the vics; they weren't pretty. There's no telling how long they'd been in the river, and there was a lot of stuff missing from them, like their eyes?"

-'-

They stayed with Bobby the rest of the week before they had to drive back home.

"Think he'll be all right with you?" Dean asked, once they'd pulled out of Sioux Falls.

Sam smiled and nodded. "Maybe, yeah. He slipped up, but he really tried, you know? I don't think he understands, but I'm guessing he'll do all kinds of research until the next time we meet."

"Yeah." Dean snorted and shook his head. "'Cause if there's someone who's an obsessive research freak, it's a goddamned hunter," he muttered.

-'-1999(SEP)-'-

Bobby called about a month later and told them to pull their heads out of their asses and look up a goddamned kappa already, then hung up.

Dad sent two postcards. The first one said 'safe', same as always. The second one held the title of a book and arrived two days later. A week after that, a letter came with a bank account number in it and the name it was filed under (Sam assumed he'd been in contact with Bobby, who'd given him his opinion on ditching his kids without a dime, but he wasn't sure).

"Well?" Sam asked when Dean came back from the bank.

"So. We've got five grand in my name," he declared, looking kind of numb. "Where the hell did Dad make that kind of money, anyway? Hustling pool?"

"I. Shit," Sam said, and Dean grinned and said, "Yeah, that about sums it up."

By then, Sam and Dean'd had their own joint account for a while, mostly consisting of whatever leftovers there were from Dean's salary, which was never much, if there was anything leftover in the first place (so maybe they technically had two joint accounts after they got Dad's letter, but since they left Dad's money where it was, they sometimes forgot about it entirely). Dean was the one who'd opened their account after Sam'd nagged him about it for a while (and they kept the account long after they probably should've stopped sharing and started up separate ones). Still, they'd been doing well enough with Dean's pay that they didn't technically need the money Dad'd sent them, and they continued to make the odd deposit or two 'just in case' into their own account. They weren't sure what that 'just in case' was, but they'd been raised to be wary, so they saved and stockpiled rather than spent and wasted.

-'-1999(OCT)-'-

Dean's boss at the garage where he worked was a former Air Force major who'd taken a liking to Dean. They didn't mind so much, because they knew when to accept some extra help, but they didn't always appreciate the extra attention that help sometimes brought with it. This guy, though, in his later forties, was really kind of impressed with Dean, especially after they ran into him while on their morning run one day.

It was something Dad had started them in on when Sam was a kid: go running, every day if possible, and stay sharp and fit. So some mornings Major Banks, as people called him, accompanied them on their typical five mile-ish run.

Some days, Dean came home grinning and bruised after work and talked about how Major Banks insisted on teaching him hand-to-hand combat, kind of like Dad used to before he went missing, and sometimes Dean dragged Sam with him when he knew Sam wasn't too busy with school. Eventually it led to Sam and Dean spending their Sunday mornings at a local shooting range, which did wonders for the (in)famous competitive Winchester streak, because when it came to the long range weapons, Sam always won. It evened out, though, because Dean took him every time they did hand-to-hand combat training these days.

Taking T meant, apparently, that Sam wasn't done growing yet, even though both his doctors and most of the reading he'd done, both on his own and with Dean, had said that he probably wouldn't grow significantly taller, because testosterone wasn't a growth hormone (Dr. Cavanaugh reckoned it was because his long bones hadn't started to fuse yet when he started taking T). So Sam was gangly and awkward and thin, and Dean was sturdy, muscled and kind of like a tank. Sam enrolled in martial arts in school in an attempt to get one over Dean, but Dean retaliated by fighting dirty.

Halfway through October, the principal called Sam and Dean in for a conference. The school's counselor was present as well as the school nurse. Dean frowned at Sam, who frowned back and shrugged; he didn't know what this was about anymore than Dean did.

They spent twenty minutes going over Sam's grades (outstanding, all As and A+s), his performance rate (zero absences) and placement tests (highest score in his age group). By the end of that, Sam felt kind of uncomfortable, but Dean was preening and looked proud as a peacock. Still, though, it didn't explain why they were talking about this with the principal, or why the nurse and the counselor were there as well. It didn't exactly make either Sam or Dean relax.

"As you can clearly see, Sam is a very well-adjusted individual."

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "He's wicked smart."

"Certainly." The principal pursed her lips, then said, "Some matters were recently brought to my attention. Regarding… Sam. I would quite like an explanation."

Sam and Dean exchanged a look, then Dean faced the principal and raised an eyebrow. "You gonna kick him out if I don't tell you what you want to know rather than the truth?"

"This is a serious matter, Dean. What would happen if everyone were to simply pretend to be the opposite sex?"

"I imagine the world'd be a happier place, for one. And two? Sam's not pretending."

"Sam's medical records—"

"Are out of date. Sammy?"

Sam shrugged. He sat on his hands to hide how much they were shaking. "I started taking testosterone shots in April," he said. "I go to that Community Council for Adolescent Development center downtown? Dean made me appointments, and I've been seeing one of their therapists since then and I have regular check-ups. I go to support groups. I've always been a guy; this is just my body catching up on that. I've been told I make people uncomfortable because I don't fit into their neatly, prearranged little boy/girl gender perceptions."

The school nurse nodded, then cleared his throat. "I was confused when I went through the records; mandatory check-ups is coming. Your file says you're supposed to be a girl."

"No," Sam disagreed. "It says I've got the body of a girl. It says nothing about who I am. This is who I am. I'm Sam Winchester, I'm sixteen years old, and I'm a guy."

"If this were to get out to your classmates—"

"How would it do that?" Sam asked. "You guys are the only ones who know."

"If you were to form a relationship with a boy," the counselor started.

Sam shook his head. "No, listen, I'm a guy, right?" The three of them looked a bit hesitant, but the principal was the first of them to nod in agreement, even if she didn't actually look convinced of the fact. "Right," Sam said anyway. "So. I'm a guy, and I'm straight. What's that mean?"

"Too much information, I think," the principal said drily.

"The center downtown's all about us being as honest as possible." Sam shrugged.

"Will you have surgery?" the nurse asked.

Sam shook his head. "Can't 'til I'm eighteen, at least. I need to finish school; I want to go to college."

"You are one of our best students," the principal allowed. "Have you started thinking about where you want to apply? Scholarships?"

"Not yet, no," Sam said, and he only darted the quickest of glances at Dean. It wasn't exactly something they'd discussed – Sam going to college. Still, Sam didn't see how Dean could be particularly surprised at the revelation either, so. "I mean, there's so much to study; so many subjects and majors. I don't even know where to start."

"Yes, quite," the principal agreed. "For the sake of my peace of mind, I would request you see the school counselor once a month. If possible, I would have you forward your medical records from the center to the school nurse."

"No," Dean said, voicing his disagreement for the first time since the meeting started. "Last school that pulled us in to have this discussion? Their counselor was not a nice guy. I won't stand for it if all you'll do is try to make Sam feel ashamed of himself, or talk him into admitting that he's just 'confused' or that it's a 'phase he'll grow out of'. If that's what you want? The answer is no. But what I can and will agree to? Have the therapist he's already seeing write out some of those notes that explain how there's nothing wrong with my brother."

The principal looked at them both. "It's a start," she finally agreed, and she only sounded a little grudging about it. "There is also the matter of Sam's gym grades."

Sam offered Dean a fake smile, then turned to the principal and said, "I want to take gym, but Dean won't let me. I already do martial arts and I'm on the track team—"

"And you can go straight home after that without detouring into the locker rooms," Dean snapped back. "Also, you take Latin when the rest of your class runs around the gym. Your schedule is full!"

The principal pulled out a paper from one of the many littering her desk. Her eyebrows went up. "The only times you don't have class is when you have lunch, Sam. In light of your situation, I'm not sure if it is a viable idea to enroll you in gym class. On the other hand, if you were prepared to do a lot of the work in your spare time, maybe we could arrange something with one of the coaches. That you are involved with both track and martial arts would indicate that you are already in good physical shape."

-'-

Dean put his arm around Sam's shoulders the second they were out of the principal's office.

"I couldn't get a reading on them," Sam said tiredly, slumping a little as he led the way to his locker.

"Yeah. Total stonefaces, the bunch of them. No one's giving you a hard time, right?"

Sam shook his head. "Just some of the teachers who think I'm holding back."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Are you holding back? Jesus, Sammy, you can't get better grades!"

"I know!" Sam exclaimed. Then, quieter, he murmured, "I kinda am. A little, maybe. I don't wanna stand out, Dean; I hate people looking at me like I'm a freak."

"'Course you're a freak, Sam," Dean said, tone light and teasing. "Wouldn't be my brother if you weren't. And seriously, you can stop growing any day now. You're like a goddamned weed."

-'-1999(DEC)-'-

They had a proper Christmas that year for the first time that Sam could remember, ever. Dean stole a tree – Sam didn't believe for a second that he'd bought it, no matter what Dean was saying – and Sam stocked up on ornaments at the local second hand stores. Winter in Colorado Springs, was cold and snowy, and they were totally caught off guard in terms of proper winter gear. Dean bitched about it, because the Impala didn't do so well in cold climates (and neither did he, for that matter), but other than that?

Other than that, it was kind of awesome.

They exchanged more or less proper gifts (porn wasn't an appropriate gift, no matter that Dean insisted it was), tried to cook something more fancy and they even tried to bake a pie. The end results weren't completely inedible, and all in all Christmas that year was one of Sam's happiest memories.

-'-2000(JAN)-'-

They caught the kappa two days after Dean's birthday. Dean charmed it into bowing down and knocking its bowl of water off its head, freezing it into position. They hadn't counted on it turning into stone, or how the bowl was sort of all slimy and disgustingly fishlike. The reports of people drowning in strange accidents tapered off, and they sent the bowl via mail to Bobby (who called them back the day he got it and cursed at them for being goddamned idiots) because they didn't know what to do with it.

A week after that, Dean went out early one Saturday morning and didn't come back until well after dark, looking kind of pale and shell-shocked at the same time. Sam spent the day pacing, worrying and cursing Dean to hell and back. In between, he called Bobby and ranted, called Missouri and ranted, and ranted at himself when he didn't know what to do anymore.

When the front door finally opened and Dean walked in, Sam flew up from the couch, heart in his throat. "Dean! Where the hell've you been?!" he demanded, scared and worried and so fucking relieved all at once. "I wake up and you're gone? You don't answer your phone, there's no note, and your car's fucking missing!"

Dean blinked. Then he stumbled over to sit on the couch. "My boss has been bugging me about this stupid test since, hell, since fucking August or something. I figured if I just ignored him he'd stop, but… Only, the bastard signs me up, tells me yesterday, then fucking guilts me into taking it, right?"

"What test?" Sam asked, eyes a little wide. Because he knew all about tests, and they usually meant that, well, if you passed? Then you were going away to, like, college or something. On the one hand? Yeah, he was fucking thrilled that Dean'd finally decided to do something with his life, other than being a hunter and a mechanic. On the other hand? He really didn't want to move. Not again, and certainly not yet. "Dean! What test?"

Dean blinked, and when he looked at Sam his eyes were too wide and too innocent. "I… You know the Air Force? They have this preparatory school, right? That test. Physical's tomorrow. I don't even know what the fuck I'm doing, man."

Sam dropped down onto the couch as the air went right out of him. "Air Force?" he breathed.

"Yeah." Dean's laugh was dry and brittle. "I dunno what the fuck I'm doing anymore, Sammy."

"What do you mean?"

Dean shrugged and leaned his head back on the couch, exposing his throat and closing his eyes. "My whole life, Sammy, all I've been doing is looking out for you, right? Dad made that my only priority. Then, suddenly, you ain't a kid anymore, so I start in on making sure you escape from puberty intact. Only, you're not a girl and you wanna be a boy, so I fix all that, get you on track. I didn't finish high school; you made me get a GED 'cause you kept pushing me to be more than just some wannabe hunter.

"I don't have any dreams – I only went to school 'cause you looked up to me. When Dad was around, all I wanted was to be someone he'd be proud of, y'know? But now? These days? I don't do anything. I go to work, I come home – that's it. But I'm not an academic, Sammy. I'm not smart like you. I like to build things, fix cars. I like guns and I like fighting. I like hunting, Sam, I do, but I'm twenty-one; who'd take me seriously? It worked when we were with Dad, 'cause he had authority. But now? The two of us? I look like a college dropout, and you're in high school, man."

"Do you know why Dad left, Dean?" Sam asked then, subdued and hesitant.

Dean shook his head. "No, not really. I know he was hung up on you not looking like a real girl, but that's not why he left. My guess? He got a lead, then another lead, then another lead until it was all messed up and it was just easier to keep going rather than coming back to pick up two kids who were doing all right without him."

Sam shuffled up close to Dean. "Look, Dean," he said. "I just want you to be happy, all right? If doing this makes you happy, then I'm fine with that. Even if they're a bunch of dicks."

"It's just one year."

Sam huffed. "Yeah, and if you decide you like it, what then?"

"Another four. It's like college. I'll get a bachelor's in, like, science or something out of it. If I even get in. Oh, god, man, I don't know what the fuck I'm doing anymore." Dean leaned forward, arms on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. "When did shit get this complicated?"

"You like guns. They have guns in the military. They have cars, right, and tanks and bombs and, oh!"

"Planes," Dean groaned. "They have fucking planes in the Air Force. Like, helicopters and fighters and shit."

"You don't like planes?" Sam asked.

"Don't sound so fucking surprised; why d'you think I drive everywhere? Planes fucking crash, man."

"And cars don't?"

Dean huffed. "Not when I'm driving."

"So do the same when you fly, idiot. Can't be that different, right? Just think how fast you can go."

"Bitch," Dean eventually muttered, and Sam grinned.

"Jerk," he said, just because, then gave Dean a real good noogie, for good measure.

It cued a wrestling match that only ended when they crashed into a wall and nearly split a lamp into pieces.

"Look, Sam," Dean panted, sprawled on the floor. "If I get in? Then I gotta live there. And I mean, yeah, it's at least in Colorado Springs, but I'd only get away on the weekends."

"Oh," Sam said. Then: "Don't take this the wrong way, okay? But I'm not really a kid and you don't gotta look after me the same way anymore."

"Sammy," Dean protested. "It'd be easier to cut all my limbs off than stop looking after you. I just can't."

"Dean…"

Dean shook his head. "Look, don't you think I know how messed up we are? I raised you, Sam. I dressed you, fed you, took you to school, to your after school projects, picked you up from your friends and whenever you hung out at some library, right? Hell, I taught you how to tie your fucking shoelaces, man! I did everything for you; taught you everything. I can't just stop, Sammy. I can't. And, man, what's most fucked up about all that? I'm four goddamned years older than you." Dean rubbed a hand over his face, and he looked so tired that it hurt Sam inside, just a little. "Dad never shoulda dropped that on me. I don't regret it; wouldn't do a thing different. But… you don't do that to your kids, you just don't. I was cooking you dinner and putting you to bed when I shoulda been out, playing football or just being a hooligan, right?"

"Right," Sam agreed, subdued, and he couldn't help but feel that maybe Dean's ever so rare private sessions with Dr. Becket ran in a wholly different direction to his own. "I appreciate it, y'know? How you always stood up for me and took all the crap from Dad 'cause I wouldn't— wouldn't conform to girl standards or whatever. But, Dean… Dad raised us like hunters, soldiers. I think I'd be all right, just one year, if you join the army."

"It's not the army," Dean protested, but he was only half-hearted about it. "It's just. You wanna go to college, don't you? Full out geekhood, amma right?"

Sam nodded. "I've already started looking at applications."

"Yeah, like I'm surprised," Dean muttered. "But if you do?"

"Yeah?"

"This year? Next year? That's all we have, then you're in a dorm somewhere and I'm alone and, fuckit, Sammy, I can't do this alone. Without you? If I don't have anything to do? I'll turn into Dad and obsess over hunting 'til you never see me again, never hear from me again. Hell, I'd probably start resenting the shit out of you for getting out while you still had the chance." Dean's laugh was self-deprecating and dry. "I'm pretty messed up, to tell the truth."

"Dean," Sam said, feeling conflicted and hurt and worried, and so, so confused, that he didn't know what the proper words were to make this right for Dean – for either one of them.

"You know your only hope of going to college is by scholarship, right? Even if I work my ass off 'til you go I won't make nearly enough money to pay that off."

"I'd never ask you to do that," Sam protested, eyes wide. "Look, Dean, to me? You being happy is the most important thing. Whatever you think you owe me or, or think you feel obligated to do for me? I feel the same way about you. I'd hate myself forever if I held you back from being the best fucking Air Force officer there ever was. 'Cause you're my brother, Dean, and you're awesome."

"And you're a goddamned freaky sap," Dean snapped back.

"Jerk." Sam grinned, only half-hiding behind his fringe that was growing too long again.

Dean slapped the back of his head. "Bitch."

-'-

The next day, Dean went out with the sun and came back long after it'd set. He was way more exhausted than he'd been the day before, and he stumbled into the bathroom, then fell over into bed. Sam didn't disturb him until half an hour before they had to leave for school and work respectively on Monday, and then only once he had a cup of coffee in his hand to lure Dean out of bed and into the kitchen with.

"Sammy?" Dean groaned.

Sam rolled his eyes and placed a piece of toast into Dean's blindly searching hand. "The big, bad Air Force wear you out, Dean?" Sam asked, and there was only a mild hint of mocking in his tone.

"Bitch. I fucking owned them," he mumbled. "I was awesome."

"Of course you were."

-'-2000(MAY)-'-

Sam's birthday brought two things: The first one was Dean's admittance letter to the preparatory Air Force Academy. The second one was a set of keys of his own to the Impala (Dean denied that it had been a birthday gift whenever questioned on the topic, and maintained that the gift-wrapped strap-on Sam had shoved down the back of Dean's trousers the second he opened the package had been the 'real gift').

Sam had enough going on with school, after school activities and group sessions at the center downtown as well as regular private therapy, all of which kept him plenty busy. Dean's skin started to crawl sometime midway through April, the kind of itch that said he'd been stationary for far too long, and he started to stay out far later than usual on the weekends when he went bar trawling.

Then there were the hunts.

It'd been well over a year since they'd last seen their dad. Yeah, Sam missed the man, of course he did, but so far his year had been way more tumultuous than Dean's, no matter that he'd had to get used to having a brother instead of a sister. It was Sam's body that the T was reshaping, it was Sam who went to school, and it was Sam who had to deal with it all. Sam who got bigger feet and wider hands and broader shoulders and a square jaw; it was Sam who changed in all the physical ways. But it was Dean who started looking for hunts in a way they hadn't for more than a year now, all grabby hands and snappy words, because change was coming and Dean'd never done well with changes that affected the routine he had going for himself. Hunting was familiar; it was routine, and monsters followed patterns when nothing else did.

Sam figured it was Dean's way of dealing as July loomed closer and closer, and with it his departure for the Air Force prep school.

For two months straight they went on a hunt every single weekend. If Sam didn't have time to do all the research, then Dean did it, and they did all right. By the time Dean came out of his funk there probably wasn't a single ghost left in the region around Colorado Springs, CO.

-'-2000(JUL)-'-

That year, on the second of July, at age seventeen, Sam became a legal adult in the eyes of the law. Dean was put in all the places where emergency contacts, next of kin, closest living relative, family member and so on and so forth were needed, asked for or required. Dean had quit his job when Sam's school let out for the year, and they spent most of the time between the end of Sam's school and the start of Dean's on the road, just the two of them, kind of like they used to do before, only Dad wasn't around.

They slept in dodgy motel rooms they paid for using credit cards they'd scammed for. They ate lousy diner food and drove out to see the Californian ocean. They walked around in San Francisco, CA, banished a poltergeist in Haven, MA, checked in with Bobby for a couple of days, then drove out to meet Missouri for the first time in years (and no one was really surprised that she'd already known all about Sam), then decided to go visit Pastor Jim while they were at it (Pastor Jim didn't really take it better or worse than Bobby had, initially, he was just more… religious and reserved about it, which didn't really make either Sam or Dean able to figure out if he was okay with Sam or not).

Dean made sure they both had functioning cell phones, forwarded their new numbers to the few people they trusted to have them, plus Sam's school and his doctors, then disconnected the landline to the little bungalow that had become home sometime during the period of little over a year that they'd lived there. Dean tried to talk Sam into talking Dean out of going to school at least once a day, and Sam refused to let Dean talk him into talking Dean out of going to school at least just as often.

On the twentieth, Dean left for the Air Force, and Sam was alone for the first time in his life. Sam followed him around the base the day he went in, taking in the place Dean would be spending his next ten months at, sort of, for the first time. He knew a lot of tourists came by to the Air Force Academy every year, but Sam and Dean never had. Together, they sat on a bench and stared at the registrations office for over an hour.

"I don't have to go," Dean said.

"Yeah, Dean, you kinda do," Sam argued, voice soft. "Five years down the line? Ten? You'd never forgive me if you were still working lousy jobs in a garage somewhere, or off hunting alone, and you know it."

"Still, I don't have to fucking like it, ditching you like this."

"You're not ditching me, Dean. Dad raised us to be hunters; I can take care of myself. You'll be the best cadet the prep school ever saw, and you'll come home every weekend. We'll call. I'll write letters and be geeky and needy. I'll sit in the car for hours and wish I wasn't the one driving it—"

"Christ, Sammy," Dean cursed and hugged him. Sam clutched at his brother and didn't ever want to let go. But he had to, of course, because then the bell rang and other new cadets started turning up, and then, well. Then there was really no point in putting it off any longer.

Sam watched Dean walk away until he couldn't stand to see Dean's back and the back of his head anymore as he left Sam's world to become part of a new one that Sam wasn't privy to, not yet, and maybe never would be.

Afterward, he sat in the Impala and stared at the Air Force building in front of him. The car was quiet and still. Dean's annoying music wasn't blaring, no one was yammering on about hot waitresses or shady characters from any number of the weird shows Dean followed on TV. There wasn't anyone (Dean) to tease him or ruffle his hair or just be such a fucking nuisance that Sam wanted to hit someone (Dean).

He might have cried that night, as he tried to sleep in a room that was too empty and too quiet, but if he did then he'd never admit that to anyone, ever, not even under pain of death (and especially not to Dean, even though he was under no illusion that Dean didn't already know, somehow [possibly because he'd maybe cried, too, but Sam never asked and Dean never said]).

Continue

My name is Sam -- [Part 1]

sa_kun — Sat, 11 Aug 2012 15:10:40 GMT

-'-1990-'-

Sam stared at the skirt with badly disguised horror. It was ugly. Pink. He hated it; hated it even more than he hated the stupid, ugly purple top with the stupid sequins on it. He hated it. Dad never got him clothes like that; hadn't for as long as Sam could remember. Sam wore Dean's castoffs, and that was that. It'd always been like that because clothes were kinda expensive and money could be better spent on food, or so Dean was always telling Sam when he wanted new, cool stuff.

"C'mon, Sammy, it's not that bad," Dean wheedled. "Girls wear skirts all the time."

Sam stomped his foot and glowered. "You wear the stupid skirt! I don't want it!"

"Sammy—"

"No! It's ugly. I don't want it."

"Okay, fine," Dean sighed. "What do you wanna wear, then?"

Sam brightened and ran back into their room. He came out with a worn pair of jeans and an old Batman T-shirt. "Wanna wear this!" he declared.

"Sammy—"

"No, I want to!"

Dean ruffled Sam's hair as he grabbed the T-shirt and held it out. "It's dirty, see?"

"Can you clean it?"

"How about we see after school?"

Sam pouted until Dean suggested he wear the Spider-Man T-shirt instead. The pink skirt and the purple top vanished from Sam's little part of the closet and he never saw the clothes again. But he did wake up one night, a couple of days later, when Dad and Dean argued.

"You can't keep catering to her every wish, Dean!" Dad was saying, sounding angrier than Sam felt entirely comfortable with, and he pulled all the covers over himself and cuddled close to his pillow.

"She's a kid, Dad. What's it matter if she won't wear some stupid pink skirt?" It kinda made Sam feel all warm and happy inside, knowing that Dean thought the skirt had been stupid, too, even if the way Dad was talking made Sam a bit afraid.

"It's what girls her age wear," Dad snapped. "This? Her insistence on copying your every move? It's not normal, Dean. It's not what your mother would've wanted."

It hurt inside when they called Sam a girl (because he wasn't, not really, he was sure of it) or when Dad kept insisting it wasn't normal for Sam to refuse wearing girly stuff. He wasn't sure why, not just yet, but he thought maybe someone got it wrong – got him wrong – that maybe he would turn into a real boy soon enough if he just waited patiently. He didn't like girls (well, they did have all those cooties, sure) but they were all wrong, too, because even if Sam looked like them he was nothing like them.

Deep inside, he hoped Mom wouldn't have cared that Sam wasn't a real girl. He wished and hoped that she'd have just known, in that magical way he'd heard other kids explain about how moms were the best things ever, because they knew everything. In his mind, Mom never would've bought stupid, ugly skirts for him to wear, or kept insisting he have his hair really long when all he wanted was to cut it short like Dean's.

Sometimes he even wondered if Mom really would've wanted them to drive all over the country, but he hadn't been brave enough to ask Dad that yet.

-'-1993-'-

He was ten the first time he defied one of Dad's orders on purpose. Sam never understood why Dad insisted Sam keep his hair long. It was impractical – most of the time they didn't even own a hairbrush, and Sam'd be forced to grit his teeth as Dean struggled to sort it all out in a neat fashion.

So that day, twenty minutes in on another battle with the bird's nest that was Sam's hair, he asked Dean to take him to the hairdresser's and his brother readily agreed. Dean read a gossip mag and chewed gum while he waited for Sam, and didn't offer either advice or opinions. The stylist wouldn't cut his hair like Dean's no matter how much Sam wheedled or begged, but she did trim it. A lot. It was, she confided, all the rage somewhere her sister had been, and looked both cool and mature. Sam's hair was shaggy, short and rumpled. But it was awesome. He still had a fringe; his hair just barely covered his ears and only just brushed his neck. It wasn't even close to Dean's, but it was still so much better than it had been.

Sam didn't stop grinning until Dad snapped at him for getting his hair cut, but even then, after being sent to bed without supper, he still didn't regret a single thing (of course, Dean sneaked him food; he always did, so it wasn't like Sam fell asleep hungry).

-'-1995-'-

When he was twelve, he started snapping at Dad and Dean to call him Sam, not Sammy or, god forbid, Samantha. It was a bit like running up a mountain – a constant struggle. It was easier in school, because he was always the new kid and his classmates always used the name he gave them.

Sam, he'd say. My name is Sam.

-'-1997-'-

The school in Springfield, MA,had a Gay-Straight Alliance club. He was fourteen then, and was just at the point where he was starting to stand out more and more as the years went by. Dad said Sam was being ridiculous, that he should stop playing around and just be a normal girl the same way that Dean was a normal boy. Sam wasn't sure how many arguments got started that way, because they were growing in number every year now, but bottom line? Nothing the Winchesters did was normal, so why the hell did Sam have to be?

Still, whenever Dad or someone else nagged on him about being a fucking girl, Sam just clenched his jaw, narrowed his eyes and squared his shoulders as he stood even straighter. He refused to be a girl (because he wasn't; had never been and would never be), and that refusal never wavered, not once, but only grew stronger and stronger.

By then, by Springfield, MA, he was the only customer at Dean's hair salon, and they used a brutal bartering system in lieu of real money (he scored a bunch of points the time he came home from school with his pockets full of condoms that he'd snagged from the nurse's office). He dressed in Dean's castoffs, in layers upon layers, deepened his voice as much as he could, and started to actively hate the world for making him wrong.

In the GSA, he didn't really have to be anything other than himself, and he started coveting schools that had clubs like that. It wasn't something Sam'd spent a lot of time thinking about, exactly; it was kinda like how he knew that Dean was Dean and Sam was Sam, and they were the same, not different. It was just something he knew, something he'd known ever since he started toddling after Dean, determined to follow in his brother's footsteps and grow up to be exactly like him. Well, until puberty hit, at least.

Puberty sucked. Not just for him, because he'd never been happier in his life that he was one of those late bloomers everyone laughed at and pushed around like losers. No, he hated it because he was in the wrong body and everything was just so gross and wrong, and. And he'd seen, in the locker rooms, how the girls the schools made him change with all got breasts and curves and hips, and periods. It was just wrong.

Sam's skin crawled with how wrong it was.

-'-1998-'-

He got his first girlfriend when he was fifteen, and it was only the second secret he'd ever kept from Dean. She was shy and sweet and cute, and she'd sat with him in the library every day since Sam transferred to the school in Milwaukee, WI, two weeks ago.

He wasn't sure if maybe Dean knew anyway, because his brother kept giving him sort of amused, sort of knowing looks almost every day after school when Dean drove them home. Most of the time, Sam only ever went to where Dean was waiting in the Impala after saying goodbye to her as she found her own ride home (her mom, usually, sometimes her older sister). The thing was, though, that Dean never once said a word about it, so Sam never quite dared to bring it up, even though he wanted to. Oh, he wanted to tell Dean all about it so bad!

"How's your friend?" Dean would ask, and Sam would shrug and say, "Okay," and then they'd be silent as Dean navigated the streets toward the ratty trailer Dad had dumped them in for the duration of their stay in Milwaukee.

The first time she kissed him, it was a Friday, and Sam didn't stop smiling for the entire weekend.

"Oh, Sam," Dean said and laughed when Sam climbed into the car.

"I love this school," Sam murmured, his eyes stuck on the car his girlfriend – his girlfriend – had disappeared inside of.

"I bet," Dean said, voice dry. "How 'bout we splurge on some burgers and pie?"

"Uh-huh," Sam agreed, but he wasn't really paying attention, because his girlfriend was awesome and she had these amazing, soft lips and, like, the softest hair in the world and she smelled wonderful.

"Your friend okay?"

Sam grinned so hard his cheeks hurt. "She's awesome, Dean."

Dean laughed, long and loud, then he put the car in reverse and pulled out of the school's parking lot.

-'-1999(FEB)-'-

Tallahassee, FL, and everything changed. Chip away at a piece of flint stone long enough, and sooner or later you'll hit the wrong (right) spot and it'll explode in your hand.

The student counselor and some of the teachers started giving him a hard time when he switched home economics with advanced algebra, a class he'd taken at the previous two schools he'd been at that year. They were unhappy with him – to say the least – when he kicked up a fuss about running track: they wanted him to wear one of the skimpy uniforms they forced on girls, except he insisted on wearing the boys' version.

All in all? It led to awkward times in the locker rooms. Because the girls? The girls thought he was weird and started insisting he stay in the bathroom while the rest of them changed for PE, because they didn't want 'the dyke' to see them naked. The boys were easier, because they kinda thought he was the coolest girl for a while (at least until he started agreeing on certain girls being hot, and then they thought he was a weird-ass fag).

So what it led to in the end was that he was closing in on sixteen the first time he said, "Actually, I'm a guy," at a meeting in that one interchangeable high school in Tallahassee, FL, with yet another GSA club, when he was introduced as a new girl. He'd been at the school a couple of weeks by then, but up 'til that point he hadn't had time to check it out. So he just stood there, and he said, "My name's Sam. And. I'm a guy." It was the first time since he and Dean were kids that he'd said that out loud (the one time Dad caught them playing one of their games where Dean was Han Solo and Sam was Luke Skywalker hadn't ended in a way that had made Sam want to play that game – or any of the hundred other similar games they'd had back then – ever again. He'd felt ashamed, guilty, confused, but at least he'd waited until Dad went out to get dinner to let the tears fall. He'd sobbed for a long time, been asleep when Dad came back, and mumbled about wanting to be a real boy and wishing that he'd have been Dean's little brother for real).

"Really? You're a guy?" one of the other guys said, voice pitched in a way that made Sam's skin crawl.

"Yeah." He gritted his teeth. "You got a problem with that?"

Turned out, the guy did have a problem with that, and so did two of his friends.

When he got out of school, an hour late because of the detention he'd gotten when he punched the dick in the face and started a brawl in the GSA room, Dean was half-asleep in the driver's seat of the Impala. Sam had a split lip and a nasty bruise growing by the side of his eye.

The first words out of Dean's mouth when Sam slammed his way into the car were: "Whoa, girl, you all right?" It was all perfectly Dean: his special way of mixing scorn and worry and pride into a jumbled, mismatched package that no one but Dean (and Sam) ever made sense of.

Sam, predictably, exploded. "I'm not a fucking girl, you dick!"

"Sammy—" Dean started, eyes wide, but he was sitting upright now instead of half-slouched in his seat.

"Sam! I'm Sam!" Sam shouted, voice hoarse, choppy and hitched. "I hate this fucking school; I hate my crappy body; I hate fucking biology! I'm wrong, Dean! Wrong! I hate that I'm this way and I just wanna be normal; I don't wanna be stuck in this disgusting fucking body. I just wanna be normal. I wanna be me."

Dean gaped some, blinked some. He cleared his throat and looked Sam right in the eye and ignored his blotchy cheeks and red eyes. "Well, who are you, then?" he managed, sounding no less confused than he looked. "'Cause, I mean, you've always been you. Right? You're my little sister—"

"I don't want to be your sister, Dean!" Sam got out, almost choking on the words but, oh, they felt so good to say. "I, I hate being your sister."

Dean recoiled. He looked as if it would've been kinder to just carve his heart out with a dull spoon, throw it to the ground and stomp on it. "Oh," he said, all breathy and hurt. "I didn't know you hated what we do that much."

Sam just shook his head and wiped his eyes. "No, no." He shuffled closer, until their noses almost touched and they were all cross-eyed trying to keep eye contact. "I wanna be your brother, Dean," Sam whispered. "I'm Sam, not, not— I'm not a girl, Dean. I'm all wrong and I hate it. I hate that everyone thinks I'm a fucking girl, because I'm not. I'm not, Dean."

"Oh," Dean said again, sounding no closer to coherent. It didn't really matter if he got it or not, because he was still Sam's big brother and he still hugged Sam close when he broke down crying not ten seconds later.

-'-

"Well," Dean said, some time later in another time and place. "You've got that whole butch dyke thing going for you, you know? Hairy legs, my old toys, my old clothes, crushing on my dates—"

Sam shut him up by tackling him to the ground and restarting their ever on-going game of wrestling. It wasn't like there was ever a clear winner, or as if they kept count, but it blew off some steam and they got their differences sorted out.

After, Sam sat panting on the bed, legs stretched out and Dean slouched in front of him on the other bed in the room.

"I'm straight, Dean, 'cause I'm a guy," he said then, as if it was perfectly natural, even when he was sweaty and nervous and unsure about Dean.

"Right." Dean raised his eyebrows, then shrugged. "Whatever."

"No, not 'whatever'," Sam snapped.

"Why'd you get beat up?"

Sam looked mulish for all of a second. "When I stay after school? Not all the time, but sometimes?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Let me guess: not soccer."

"No, not soccer," Sam agreed, without an ounce of guilt over his rather transparent lie. Dad never noticed because Dad was never around, but Dean kinda did. Because Sam? Didn't own a single piece of soccer related equipment. Running shoes for track, yes, but nothing for soccer. "GSA."

"The fag club?"

"The Gay-Straight Alliance, Dean."

"Yeah, that. S'what I said. So, what, they kick you out 'cause you're too much T in the whole LGBT-thingy they got going on? Their open-mindedness only go so far? They too close-minded to accept the full scale of it, or what?"

Sam pulled in a deep breath and forced himself to close his mouth. Sometimes he kinda forgot that Dean was wicked smart but chose to pretend he wasn't a lot of the time. Sometimes he even forgot how much Dean cared, when it came down to it. He cleared his throat. "This guy," he started slowly. "He. He laughed in my face. Then his buddies started, too, but they stopped when I. Well. I mighta called names, so they punched me, and I hit back."

"Except their daddies ain't marines," Dean quietly pointed out.

"You could say that," Sam agreed, tiny smile playing about his lips before he frowned at his brother. "Why do you even know what LGBT is, Dean? Hell, why d'you even know what it stands for?"

Dean ran a hand through his hair and shrugged. It took a while before he started talking, and his words took Sam by surprise, even though he knew they shouldn't, because it was Dean. "Well, for a while, I kinda figured I had a really butch, really dyke little sister. Turns out maybe I don't, not so much," he mumbled. "So I figured, y'know, I'd be prepared to be all supportive for when you started in on the confession and questions time. 'Cause you do; you always do. Hell, you ask all these questions and you demand I know everything about some weird-ass bug in fucking Mongolia!"

"Maybe because you practically raised me and kids kind of have this idea that their parents know absolutely everything?" Sam pointed out, voice dry, but his heart was hammering something awful beneath his breastbone. "So…"

"So, yeah. Bring it on, Sammy, 'cause I know a shit ton of stuff about dykes that I'll never have any use for now."

Sam snorted. "Please. Like you didn't just watch lesbian porn."

"Like you don't," Dean lazily countered just to have the pleasure of watching Sam go all red in the face. "Don't think I don't know what you get up to, you little pervert."

"Shut up," Sam muttered, but there was no real fire behind his words.

Dean laughed. Then he got up, dug through his duffel and came out with a brown paper bag that he threw at Sam. "I totally read books, too. Had it all prepared, figured out what to say and all." He nodded at the bag. "Fixed that for you, 'cause someone at one of those LGBT offices said it'd be, I dunno, helpful or something."

Sam looked skeptical and half terrified out of his mind. There was a book in the bag, one of those books with interviews/life stories from 'real people' in it, a bookmark, a round badge with all the colors of the rainbow on it and a bar of chocolate that didn't look like it'd been waiting in the bag forever to come out. There was also a T-shirt that was so like Dean that Sam couldn't help but laugh, even if it hurt a little inside. '(I'm) dyke, BITCH', it said, in black against the white, but at least the T-shirt wasn't one of those stupid women's cut versions and, hey, it wasn't like grammar had ever been Dean's strong suit (okay, yeah, that was a lie, because Dean had been the one to lay it all out for Sam back in the day, but that didn't mean that Dean wouldn't jump at an opportunity to get on Sam's nerves by putting a big, fat grammatical error on a T-shirt).

"So, yeah," Dean cut in. "I had it all planned out how I was gonna be the coolest brother ever."

"I'm so sorry to burst your bubble, Dean," Sam managed to say, but he couldn't really keep the scorn out of his voice. "I'm so sorry I'm not fucking perfect, and. Shit."

"Sam, hey, no. Sam. Listen to me." Dean tapped him on the nose, shoved the gifts out of the way and sat down next to him. "Listen, I read up on all that for you, 'cause that's what I thought was, y'know, up. So, stupid me, I skipped reading the tons of books on trans issues. But this?" Dean indicated the gifts. "That was me being all supportive and cool about it."

"And now?" Sam asked.

Dean was quiet awhile. "Well, I'm still kinda relieved that you don't go for guys, because to be frank? I gotta tell you that's one conversation I don't ever wanna have with you. And I mean, come on, how the hell does any guy let bastards like me even get close to their sisters? Or, well, brothers who got mixed up with the wrong body. How does that work, anyway?"

"I. I don't know," Sam admitted. "I just know. I look at you, or the guys at school, and I just know that's what I'm supposed to be. You know, I haven't looked at myself in a mirror in years, because what I see is so wrong I want to throw up. I just. I just, I kept hoping, for so long, that there'd been some mistake or something; that maybe I'd turn into a boy if I just waited a bit longer, but it doesn't work like that."

"No," Dean agreed. "It doesn't. I wish it did," he added in a quiet but serious tone. "Because then everyone'd be happy, right?"

Sam just nodded, so Dean went on, "And, you know, it's not like I call you Sammy because you're a girl. I call you Sammy 'cause it's you."

"I hate it when you call me— when you call me Samantha." How Sam got the name out without stuttering was a miracle. "I don't like it. It makes me feel so wrong. Like I have to be something I'm not."

"Like a square peg in a round hole," Dean murmured. He took a deep breath, then said, "This girl I was seeing once. Marina? She. Well, she had a dick instead of, y'know, the usual bits. I guess maybe she was like you, only the other way around."

Sam wasn't sure if that was too much information or not. Because on the one hand? Ew, he did so not need to know about his brother's sex life. But on the other hand? Dean had fucking dated a chick with a dick, so that had to count for something, right?

"You, you didn't mind? You don't, I mean, I."

"Sam. You're my little—" Dean cleared his throat and Sam narrowed his eyes. "Well, I guess you're my little brother now, but to me? You're still the same person you've always been. Only…"

"Only?" Sam pressed, eyes narrowed and lips scrunched tightly together.

Dean shrugged. "Only, well, I guess— I mean, you're still you, right?"

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "I won't start acting all weird or change or anything. I just. I just told you who I am, that's all."

Dean nodded once. "Yeah, right. So. You gonna get all pissed at me when I get the pronouns wrong? 'Cause come on, Sammy, you gotta realize that'll take time, even if I know now. I've spent sixteen years thinking I had a little sister when it turns out that, hey, maybe I don't, not so much. Just a bitchy little brother."

"Shut up!" Sam growled, and this time the wrestling match didn't stop until Dean accidentally banged his head against the bedside table.

"Ow," he whined.

Sam laughed and pushed at Dean until he could check if he'd been injured for real or not. "Stop being such a baby," he admonished when he couldn't even find a bump. "You're fine."

Dean looked a lot like a disgruntled twelve year old right then. "I shoulda known you were too cool and way too fucking cruel to be a girl," he whined.

Sam rolled his eyes and pretended to be annoyed, but it was kinda hard when he was grinning from ear to ear, so, well, he wasn't too sure how convincing he was.

-'-

They ordered pizza that night. Or rather: Dean went out and brought pizza home, only one of which were of the meat monstrosity kinds that the Winchesters normally went for. The other was the kind of pizza Sam only ever got when he wasn't eating it with his family; there wasn't an ounce of meat on it and it had extra pineapple.

Sam gaped.

Dean grinned. "Don't say I never did anything for you, bitch."

"I just. How'd you know?"

"'Cause I? Am an awesome brother."

Sam just grinned. "Yeah, yeah, you kinda are."

"I expect points for this."

"I got another bag of condoms."

"Consider us even."

They didn't speak much after that. Dean rarely did when he was eating and for once even Sam was starving. His busted lip was kinda sore and stung whenever he got tomato sauce on it, but it wasn't even close to popping Sam's good mood. Still, he should've known something was up when Dean cleared the table and came back with two bottles of beer and a big bag of M&M's.

"Dad—" Dean started, then stopped speaking again almost as abruptly as he'd started.

Sam froze. He felt a bit like he'd throw up any moment now, 'cause he really hadn't needed to eat that last slice of pizza, except he wasn't sure if maybe it was just that he wanted to run as far away as possible. And come on, Dean only ever bribed him with beer when he wanted to talk about something that he knew Sam didn't want to.

"Dad," Dean started up again. "Well, I think he maybe started noticing the other day, when I said I was twenty now and maybe I could stay and look after you while he took off on longer hunting trips. I think maybe he realized that if I'm twenty, then you're closing in on sixteen, and, dude, you still don't have tits."

Sam scowled. "I hate my fucking tits," he spat.

Dean blinked. The beer bottles were placed on the dingy table next to the bag of candy, and Sam kinda wanted to punch Dean in the face for ruining his good mood. He poked at Sam and shifted around on the couch until they sat chest to chest, then tugged Sam's over shirt off. Tilting his head to the side, Dean raised an eyebrow. "Dude. I can't fucking see your tits."

Sam pursed his lips, then shrugged. Throwing his shirt at Dean, Sam peeled off the T-shirts he was wearing under it – one long-sleeved, one short sleeved, because layers fucking ruled. It left him sitting in one of his old, threadbare tops that had more holes that not. Sam bit his lip.

"Sam?" Dean asked, a bit wide-eyed, and Sam supposed he couldn't blame his brother. They hadn't been naked around each other since, well. Probably since Sam started school and Dad started insisting on them not taking baths and showers together anymore. When it came down to it, right here and right now, Sam had the body of a girl some months short of sixteen and Dean was a guy who'd only recently turned twenty. Hell, Sam hadn't walked around topless since… He couldn't even remember anymore, but his best bet was since around the time that Dad freaked about how girls didn't fucking wrap their towels around their hips, no matter the fact that Sam had looked just like a guy, waist up, at the time.

Even in normal families, Sam doubted younger siblings got undressed in front of their older ones. Especially when they didn't share the same sex outwardly.

With some slight hesitation on Sam's part, he pulled off the last article of clothing that kept Dean from seeing Sam's most guarded secret – or most shameful facet of himself; he wasn't sure.

Ever since the first hard, fucking painful buds had started poking out from his chest, Sam had been ruthless in his quest to hide them and push them away and make it all just disappear. So he'd nicked a couple of rolls of bandages from their med kit, and started making what little he had in breast growth go away.

"Sammy," Dean breathed, his eyes wide.

Sam sniffed. "I hate being like this, Dean."

"Okay, yeah," Dean said. "I guess I. That's gotta hurt, Sammy."

It was just so Dean to be concerned with Sam's wellbeing that Sam kinda wanted to laugh, just a little bit. "It's not so bad," Sam said. "At first even moving kinda made me want to scream and cry and punch something, but I got used to it. And it's better than, than."

"Having tits?"

"Yeah. That really sucks."

Dean frowned, though, looking sort of concerned still, in a way that made Sam shift.

"Dean?"

"You're almost sixteen, right?" Dean put a hand on Sam's shoulder and twisted him until Dean could look at him from the side. Sam nodded, so Dean went on, "I dunno how, well. I read up on puberty – the girly bits. You should… I think, maybe, you should've had a bit more cleavage than that by now. Even tied down. You, ah… You started with periods and stuff? 'Cause—"

"No," Sam admitted.

Dean made a curious little sound. "Huh," he said. "I think maybe you should've by now."

"What kind of books have you been reading, Dean?" Sam asked, and he wasn't even sure he wanted to know the answer to that one.

"You think Dad would've?" Dean returned, and Sam had to admit Dean had just made a brilliant point. "He told me to look after you, and that's what I'm doing. Still, Sam. I kinda think you're a bit, well, late?" Clearing his throat, Dean gestured at Sam's bound chest. "How long've you been doing that?"

"Since…" Sam bit his lip as he counted backward. "I think we were in Texas, 'cause I kept getting frustrated with how fucking hot wearing all the bandages was."

"So… May, June, '98?" Dean paused. "That's kinda late, isn't it?"

"I love being late. I think I was the only, well." Sam made a face of distaste. "Let's just say, the real girls? They had tits."

"And you know this, how?"

Sam grinned. "Locker rooms, Dean. They put me with the girls; I know all about when they grow tits."

Dean's mouth fell open. "That is so fucking unfair, man!"

Shrugging, Sam said, "Though to be fair, the girls at this school make me stay in the bathroom while they change, because they think I'm a weird dyke or something and don't want me sneaking looks at them. The guys think I'm cool so long as I don't act like a dyke, I suppose."

"Are you kidding me? If I was hanging out with someone like you when I was in high school? I'd want all the juicy details."

"'Cause you're a sexual freak, Dean."

Dean laughed, but he didn't deny it, either.

Sam was halfway through his beer and they had both made a sizeable dent in the bag of M&M's when Dean said, "I've been thinking about it since you told me, Sam, but I can't make heads or tails of if we should tell Dad. Hell, what we should tell him."

Sam took a deep breath and ignored the way it was suddenly hard to hold the bottle steady. "He's the one who's really insistent on me being a, a proper girl."

"Yeah," Dean agreed.

"He doesn't like me being all tomboyish. Isn't that what he calls it? It doesn't even matter that— Look, if I was… if I was a girl, for real? How'd me wearing heels and skirts and fucking fake nails and hair extensions be a fucking good idea on a hunt?"

"I dunno, man."

Sam leaned back against the couch and brought the bottle up to his lips. The leather stuck uncomfortably against his back, and maybe he should've put his clothes back on by now, but there was a certain freedom in having Dean know, in having Dean listen to him, believe him. In Dean not flipping out on him or calling him a liar, a freak; in Dean seeing him, finally, and not who his body claimed he was. Which, of course, was when Dean dropped a bombshell on him by saying:

"I think maybe you should see a doctor, just to make sure?"

"There's nothing wrong with me, Dean!" Sam snapped. "I'm not confused, or, or—"

"Hey, no. Easy, Sammy." Dean squeezed Sam's shoulder. "Not that kind. I mean 'cause you're late."

"Late?"

"With the boobs and stuff." Dean made a gesture over his chest – as if Sam could've possibly misunderstood what Dean was talking about. "I read about it, you know? I think the books and stuff said you should've started with that stuff by now. Maybe? Or maybe we could go see Missouri, or. I don't know, man."

"Oh."

"I don't know if it's normal or not, s'all I'm saying. But I'd kinda like to make sure that there's nothing really wrong, now, rather than waiting too long and then maybe there was something seriously wrong and we were too late."

"Okay, I guess," Sam agreed, even though his skin was crawling and just thinking about it made him feel nauseous. "But I'm not confused, Dean. I know who I am."

"Yeah, I know you do. Ain't never met anyone who was more hard-headed and stubborn than you. If you say you're sure? Then you're sure. I think I had that down by the time you were three."

"I don't want a doctor to tell me I'm wrong, either."

"Okay. So we go to an LGBT doctor."

For a moment, Sam was thrown by how much reading Dean really had done when he thought Sam might be a lesbian or something; how much reading he'd done on the female aspects of puberty in the first place; how determined Dean was to make sure Sam felt normal. So Sam hugged Dean, burrowed his nose into Dean's neck like he had when he was little and needed to feel less alone. Dean returned the hug, ruffled his hair, and rubbed his back and said, "You're gonna be all right, kid."

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"You know how you say 'dude' and 'man' to everyone?"

"Oh, Sam."

Sam smiled. "It made me really happy whenever you called me man, 'cause I could pretend a little more that maybe, maybe—"

"It'll be fine, Sammy. I promise."

Sam thought, maybe, that he could really trust Dean to make this okay, too, like he had with everything else since Sam was so little he could barely walk. Because Dean? Well, he was magic like that.

-'-

Sam went to school the next morning, ignored the people from the GSA who looked at him funny, and ignored the whispers that spread and spread until the whole school was staring and talking about him behind his back. Two days later, he was called into the nurse's office and told to talk to the counselor about his 'delicate state of mind'. Sam sat in sullen silence until Dean came stalking in to pick him up.

"All right, what's up?" he demanded of the counselor – Mr. Fugly Sweater, Sam mentally called him, because what he was wearing was absolutely scarring (it might be wool, it might be patterned, and it might be about five colors too many).

Fugly raised his eyebrows at Dean's typically cocky attitude, then set about polishing his glasses as if he had all the time in the world. "It appears Samantha is a bit confused." Sam flinched at the name, just like he always did, but this was probably the first time Dean really noticed it, because he placed a hand on Sam's shoulder and squeezed once before turning all his attention back to Mr. Fugly Sweater.

"Confused?" Dean asked, and he sounded as if he really didn't give a damn, except his eyes were all dangerous and he was tense; too tense.

"Yes. She's been telling her classmates that she is, well, a boy; you can understand that she is confused, of course. Several girls have complained to their teachers that they feel uncomfortable changing in the same room with her for PE. I must insist you make your sister see reason about this. It is simply not acceptable behavior."

"Huh," Dean said. "Well, maybe it'd help if you weren't a complete moron."

"Excuse me?" Fugly sputtered. Sam hid a grin.

"Well," Dean went on. "It's quite simple. See, my brother? He's transsexual. You should look it up; might explain a few new concepts to you. Well, except you're such a crappy guidance counselor I doubt you'd even understand a word of it. So: It's when people are born into the wrong body. It's a bit complicated, so I see how you might be confused."

"How dare—"

"I dare," Dean said, steel in his tone. "Because Sam is my brother and you are an ignorant bigot." He turned to Sam, snapped his fingers and said, "Come on, Sam. We're leaving."

Sam's face was flushed and he was grinning ear to ear, trailing after Dean as they made their way out of the school. "Dean," he breathed.

"Yeah, yeah. You owe me, bitch."

"You're fucking awesome!"

"And don't you forget it."

-'-

In a reversal of their usual roles, Sam cooked dinner that night while Dean was busy with something else. He wouldn't say what, of course, only let enough details slip that Sam's insatiable curiosity reared its ugly head. Sam wasn't the best cook; out of all of them, Dean was the only one with any real skill in a kitchen (which, yeah, annoyed Dad to no end, but Sam was frankly sick of finding something Dad wasn't annoyed at these days). Still, he was more angry at his school because he wouldn't be the least bit surprised if he got a mark in his record for this, which sucked big time because unlike Dean's record, Sam's had always been spotless and impeccable.

Sam had plans – okay, so maybe they were more along the lines of wishes and dreams at this point, but still. Some involved vague notions of maybe going to a university or college. Others, well. Others involved him turning into a real boy. He wasn't sure how exactly he was going to manage that feat, but he didn't doubt for a moment that he would either. It was just…

It was just, he didn't want to get his hopes crushed because it wasn't possible, or if it was illegal, or if there was something wrong with him so that everyone would refuse to help him. He knew he wasn't alone, he couldn't be – it had a name and Dean had known it. So he wasn't alone. He had just never dared to actually do any kind of research about it, but now that Dean knew, now that Dean was on his side…

Maybe it wasn't impossible.

"Okay. Freak."

Sam started and glared at his brother, who was glaring right back down at the vegetables Sam was frying in the pan. "Healthy food won't kill you, you know."

"Hmm," Dean said, and he didn't sound entirely convinced. "Hey, is there bacon in that?"

"Bacon, peppers, onions and mushrooms."

Dean nodded. "So you left the eggs in the fridge."

"Yep. Figured we could have those with the milk tomorrow for breakfast."

Dean groaned. "Fuck, I need to get another job, don't I?"

"I could—"

"No," Dean interrupted immediately. "I know how insane you are about school. You honestly telling me you could hold down a job on top of that?"

Sam shook his head. "So I can still go to school?"

Dean scowled, then he reached around Sam and snatched the pan off the stove. He turned it off, put the pan on the table and had the plates out in no time; Dean could be freakishly competent in the kitchen like nobody's business when he wanted to.

"Dean?"

"They felt it would be best if you were given some time to 'figure yourself out'."

Sam looked down at the plate Dean handed to him, loaded with food. "Oh," he said. "So they won't let me back until… until I take it back?"

"Yeah, that's what I got, too," Dean sighed.

"Dad's gonna be pissed."

"Dad's not gonna know," Dean snapped. "I pulled you out; we're moving."

"What?!" Sam exclaimed, fork clattering to the table as he dropped it in shock.

Dean shrugged. "Look, Dad set it up the second I turned eighteen. In case we run into trouble and he ain't around to pull us out of it, then, well, then I got this nice, legal paper saying I'm in charge of you, right? So I figure we pull you out of school and—"

"—and go where, Dean?"

"Colorado Springs."

Sam blinked. "Okay. Why?"

"Because."

"Because what, Dean?"

Dean grinned and winked. "That's a secret. I'll pull up a school at the library tomorrow. You take the rest of the week off and pack, yeah? See if we can't be there by Saturday or Sunday."

"Wait, you're seriously my guardian?" Sam exclaimed.

Dean just nodded, not perturbed even the slightest bit. "Yeah. S'partly in case anything happens to Dad and partly in case something happens when he ain't around. This is the first time I've had to use it."

-'-

Two days later, their crappy little apartment was… well, empty wasn't the right word, because the furniture had been there when they moved in, but all their stuff was gone, packed into bags in the car. Sam had even taken the time to get hold of two cardboard boxes that he'd stuffed their kitchen paraphernalia in, along with the books and some of the other stuff – like the extra towels and the bed sheets – that usually got left behind. This time was different from the other times they'd moved, because it turned out Sam and Dean were better planners together than their Dad was alone. Also? And this was partly the real reason: Dad was the one who always insisted on leaving everything behind. Without him around, grabbing the extra stuff made no difference to Sam, and there was room for it in the car.

"Okay," Dean declared. "I drive during the day when the cops are out, and you drive at night."

"Cool."

Dean dumped a wad of newspapers in Sam's lap the second he climbed inside the car. "Find us a case."

"What?" Sam scowled. "Why? I thought—"

"Hey! You wanna tell Dad you got kicked out of school 'cause your plumbing is all wrong?"

"No," Sam mumbled, sheepish and sullen.

"Right. So find us a case."

"Did you tell Dad?"

Dean shook his head. "I left him a message saying we'd moved, but I didn't leave any details. Figured it could wait 'til he finds the time to call back."

"Right," Sam agreed. Then, "He hasn't called back?"

Dean shook his head, lips tight, and Sam didn't ask about Dad again.

-'-

They drove for two days, and by the time they reached Colorado Springs, CO, Sam felt only slightly more alive than a dead fish. His eyes were gritty, his mouth felt disgusting and Dean'd been snoring for an hour straight. Sam woke him by tickling a feather in his ear, which made him feel a little better, but not a lot.

"Christ, Sammy," Dean growled, rubbing his ear to get the tickly feeling to stop.

"We're here."

"Right." Dean yawned and sat up straight. "So."

"So."

"Motel for the night, find a place in the morning?"

"Sounds good," Sam agreed with a yawn. He pulled over at the first motel he found that fell into the Winchester category. It was cheap, downtrodden and unremarkable. Most likely, the manager'd forget they'd ever been here by the time they checked out, which suited them just fine; always had. While Dean went to get them a room, Sam pulled out their bags and locked the car.

"What's the plan, then?" Sam asked once they were inside the room that was theirs for the night. It had two beds, a tiny little bathroom and had probably needed a complete makeover about ten years ago. All in all, it looked exactly like any other motel room Sam'd ever spent the night in.

Dean shrugged. "I get a job, you go to school. That's it."

Sam was just tired enough that he didn't bother finding out what else there was to Dean's ever so simplistic plan. He just yawned, said it was fine by him, and fell into bed face first, with his shoes still on. He was asleep by the time Dean tugged them off, and when he woke in the morning Dean had somehow gotten Sam out of his jeans as well as his oversized hoodie and got him in under the covers.

-'-

Dean had coffee ready on the table after Sam came out from his shower, just wearing a towel wrapped around his waist and one of the tight sports bras he owned. He still preferred to bind his breasts, but this? Just wearing a sports bra when Dean knew? It felt kind of nice, too.

"What is it you're trying to hide, exactly?" Dean asked, looking him over. "You don't have anything there to hide."

"Yes, I do," Sam snapped. "I know they're there. They stick out."

Dean rolled his eyes. "If you say so. Anyway, breakfast is served."

They ate in silence, Sam smothering more syrup than was entirely warranted over his pancakes while Dean skimmed through the papers he'd picked up and ate several pieces of toast and slices of bacon.

"Did you find anything?"

Sam shook his head. "There might be something in Fountain Creek, though."

"Yeah?"

"Couple of locals disappear every year, but it's not like it's unheard of for people to drown, right?"

"Right," Dean agreed. "Still, it's more than I have."

"Yeah?"

"Someone claims their cat is really Jesus. How 'bout that?"

Sam blinked. "I don't even… How do you start thinking that your cat is Jesus?"

"Maybe it died and came back? Or hey, raised a tiny little army of, like, hamsters or something."

"Zombie-cat Jesus?"

"Huh. That's kinda cool. I want a zombie-cat."

-'-

They spent most of that day just driving around in Colorado Springs. Whatever Dean was looking for, he wouldn't say, and Sam did his best to be extra annoying and asked far more questions than was probably justified to fill up his quota as pesky little brother. By the end of the day Sam had a couple of new notebooks for school and a new place to live.

The bungalow had seen better days, no doubt about that, and it only had the one bedroom, but Sam and Dean had been sharing for as long as Sam could remember and, frankly, it'd probably feel way weirder not sharing, so. Sharing it was. There was just the one bed, though, and it had been years since they'd shared one of those. In all honesty, Sam wasn't sure if he'd be comfortable sleeping in the same bed as Dean. Not when he didn't feel at home in his own skin, and, well. It was complicated.

For the first time in his life, there were actual boxes to unpack in the living room/kitchen (it turned out it wasn't as fun as all those crappy shows on TV made it look). So Dean cooked, and Sam ran around carrying stuff, trying to look like he knew what he was doing.

-'-

"It's Monday tomorrow."

"Brilliant observation, Sammy."

"It's Sam, and shut up." Sam scrubbed at his plate, trying to get the last of the stubborn, sticky food off it. "Where am I going to school?"

"Right. I called around to some of Dad's contacts, and one of them hooked you up with this fancy school, so you better not flunk, you hear what I'm saying?"

Sam twisted around to stare at Dean. Dean smirked, leaning back against the sill of the one window in the kitchen. "What?"

For the first time since Dean had gone off claiming to 'research schools', he looked a bit unsure. "It's the third best school in the state, Sammy. You're a geek, so I'm betting you'll just wet yourself at the thought of going to a 'real school'," Dean said, complete with air quotes and all. "I've no idea if it's, y'know, open minded? I'm guessing not, since, well, it's the Air Academy high school. But. Sam, it's a really good school."

Sam wasn't sure what to say, because, yeah, on the one hand he was fucking ecstatic to go to a real, normal school instead of all the cheap, falling-apart, barely-hanging-in-there schools he'd been to in the past, it was just… "Is it a military school? Dean, they hate people like me in the military! Are you fucking insane? I can't go to a military school! Dean—"

"It's not a military school!" Dean snapped. "It's just… related to the Air Force, I guess. I don't know. But it's the best fucking school in Colorado Springs, man, and I gotta tell you: you fucking deserve to go to a good fucking school, all right? I've seen your reports and it shouldn't be possible to score grades like that the way we've been living, Sam. You're. You're a genius, all right? You should go to a good school."

"So why pick Colorado Springs, then? Dean, there are hundreds of schools out there, and I'm sure at least some of them have a fucking GSA chapter!"

"Yeah, maybe they do, but. I found you a fucking doctor, okay? And she's here, not upstate or in San Francisco, all right? She's here."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "What? Now, suddenly, the only doctor in the US who can take a look at me 'cause I'm late is in Colorado Springs?!" he exclaimed, disbelief practically dripping from his tone. He sneered. "I sincerely doubt that."

Dean just huffed and rolled his eyes, though. "No, you idiot. Not that kind of doctor. The other kind."

Sam flushed, feeling his heart pound a thousand times faster, and suddenly he was so angry and wretched and betrayed that he didn't know what to do or how react or even how to speak. His hands were trembling so bad he dropped the plate he was cleaning down into the sink with a crash. "You said—" he choked out. "You promised!"

"Aw, shit, no, Sammy." Dean pulled him away from the sink and into a hug Sam really wanted no part of. He put his elbow in Dean's side, which made him grunt, but not really loosen the hold he had on Sam. "They have a center, Sam, for kids like you. I figure we go see her, talk to her, and she'll help you out."

"Help me how, Dean? Make me a normal fucking girl?!"

Dean laughed. "You'll never be normal, kid. You're too much fucking Winchester for that. No, it's kind of an LGBT center. You wanna be T? They'll help you out."

Sam's breathing was shaky and irregular. "What're you talking about?" he mumbled, not really following a thing Dean was saying. "Whaddya mean, T?"

Dean didn't say anything right away. "Sam, you ever done any research on yourself?"

Sam shook his head and closed his eyes. He sort of really liked that nook, right there, by Dean's shoulder and just under his ear so that his hair tickled Sam's face. Right there? The rest of the world didn't even fucking exist and it was awesome. "Was afraid to," he whispered. "Didn't wanna know if I was a freak or if, if there wasn't anything— anything that'd fix me."

"So I can still be awesome? I mean, I'm not as prepared for this as I was on the whole butch-dyke thing, but I think I covered the basics. Sam? Sammy? Aw, come on, kid, you don't have to cry; it'll be fine, I promise."

Continue

We were young.

sa_kun — Mon, 30 Jul 2012 06:05:06 GMT

Title: We were young.
Author: sa_kun (archaeology-geek)
Prompt/Recipient: Prompt 3: Anything with a nautical theme by mishasmerkinofwarmjunk
Characters/Pairing: Sam, Castiel, Dean (Sam/Cas)
Word Count: 1813
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Every Wednesday, Sam goes down to the ocean.
Notes: I read nautical theme, and my mind went to mermaids, the sea and there you have it. Maybe, strictly speaking, I should have involved more ships or boats, but that wasn't how this story wanted to play out.

Every Wednesday, Sam got Dean to drop him off on the shore of an uninhabited island. The first time they did it, Sam had been twenty-six and freshly graduated (and re-settled) from Stanford. That was a couple of years ago, though, and he was older now, supposedly wiser, but mostly just a little more content in life. In front of him, the ocean looked the same, filled with gently lapping waves and ripples. It even smelt the same; felt the same as it tickled his bare toes.

He'd been twelve the first time Dean took him to the ocean. For an entire summer, Sam had been happy, tan as gingerbread cookie and so in love he could barely breathe.

Now, here, Sam couldn't fathom ever leaving (not again; not like he'd been forced to that summer when he was twelve). In his pocked, his phone chirped and vibrated (Dean, wanting to know what Sam felt like stuffing his face with that night).

The time Sam almost drowned, he'd been twelve then, too (he could hardly breathe, remember?).

"Hello, Sam."

"Cas."

The waves splashed against the sand as heavy fins flopped down across the surface of the water, and then there was the sound of a heavy thump that made Sam grin. The salmon Castiel had thrown down on the shore was fat and heavy (salmon, Sam texted his brother. Got a big one. Cheater, Dean wrote back).

"Thanks, man."

Castiel didn't respond, but his eyes flashed and he looked as pleased with himself as only cats could when they got the cream, the canary and the obedience of an entire household. "I like it here," he said instead.

Sam laughed; he couldn't really disagree, could he? Here, the ocean was blue, salty and warm. Back where he'd lived before, on the mainland… Well, the ocean was as diverse as anything, of course, but there was a certain kind of freedom in being so completely surrounded by the vast, blue sea as he was here.

"Me, too," Sam admitted.

"Better than San Francisco."

"Yeah." Sam shifted on the sand, sliding further down until the lapping waves reached his hips, forcing him to pull his phone out and hang it around his neck before it joined the long string of water-damaged brethren (okay, yeah, so Sam had the bad habit of forgetting to empty the pockets of his shorts before jumping into water). "I got you something, too."

"Will I like it?"

"It's shiny."

"I like shiny," Castiel said, sounding very earnest.

"I know you do." Sam pulled out a pouch from one of his other pockets. It clinked when he dropped it into Castiel's waiting hand. There were marbles inside, five of them, each as large as an eyeball and see-through with splashes of colour inside.

They were even prettier underneath the surface of the sea.

"Thank you, Sam," Castiel said, the ocean splashing behind him. Sam smiled. "When will Dean arrive to drag you away from me?"

Sam shrugged. The skin across his nose felt a little tight, as if he'd been burned by the sun (again). "An hour, maybe?"

"Swim with me?"

Sam's answering grin was swift and sunny. "Thought you'd never ask, man. Brought my flippers and all."

"Those are not flippers," Castiel reprimanded, bringing down his own to send enough water over Sam to make him look like a drenched dog. "Those are—"

"Crude, inefficient representations, yeah, I know, Cas," Sam grumbled. He pulled his waterproof, floating cooler to him, then stuffed the fish in it along with his phone (which, yeah, he had a Ziploc bag for "just in case", like Dean was always on about). Castiel grabbed the cooler out of his hands, holding onto the line as he efficiently flopped back into the sea. Sam wasn't far behind him; as soon as his swimfins were in place, Sam scooted down into the water, and then he was free.

Castiel was waiting from him, moving with an enviable ease through the water.

Sam had been twelve the first time they met, off the coast of California. Dean had been sixteen, cocky and giddy with the freedom of having a car. They'd driven for two days to get there and, once they'd reached the cabin Dad had arranged for them, Sam hadn't left the beach until he absolutely had to. He met Castiel the second week when a current caught hold of him and dragged him under.

Held him under.

Presently, a cold, webbed hand caught Sam around the waist. "I want to show you something."

Sam pulled his goggles down over his eyes. "Okay," he agreed. These days, it was Castiel who pulled him under, not strong currents. It was also Castiel who always brought him back, time after time, just like he had since that first time when Sam was twelve and Castiel barely older than Dean.

Castiel flexed his body with the agility of an eel (okay, so maybe dolphin sounded prettier or whatever, but Castiel was a lot more bendy than any of the dolphins Sam'd ever seen, and comparing Castiel's movements with an octopus was just even more wrong), and then he was facing away from the surface. Sam followed him, holding on tightly to the hand in his.

Castiel's hands were human and inhuman at the same time. He had five perfect fingers, just like Sam. Unlike Sam, his fingers were webbed and his knuckles scaly. Most of Castiel's joints were scaly.

Castiel didn't drag Sam far, just down to the bottom, which wasn't that far considering how close to the shore they were, and a bit to the left. There was a ring of stones, most likely dragged there by Castiel, and between them lay a mound of marbles. Sam watched as Castiel carefully deposited the new ones, meticulous and precise in his movements as he flitted through the water above his treasure cove.

Castiel was a mermaid; of course he had a treasure cove. Maybe some people thought that a treasure should consist of gold, or diamonds, or rubies; something valuable, but fact was that a treasure was only precious to the person who collected it. The marbles were beautiful, and they were all a gift from Sam.

Sam left for the surface before Castiel had placed all of his new treasures. Instead of swimming back down, he relaxed his body and floated on the surface. When Castiel joined him, he wound part of his tail – fins and flippers and all – around Sam's legs, and then they floated together, watching as sparse, fluffy clouds slowly danced across the too blue sky. Trusting Castiel to hold him up, to alert him if danger approached, Sam allowed the rhythmical swaying of the moving water to pull him into a light doze.

-x-

Sam woke slowly, aware only of the dual embrace of Castiel and the sea, and of Castiel, nuzzling along Sam's shoulder.

"Cas?"

"Your brother's approaching," Cas murmured, tasting Sam's skin.

"Yeah?"

"He'll be here soon." Castiel moved, releasing Sam and moving them into an upright position that forced Sam to tread water in order for them to maintain eye contact.

"Will you stay?"

Castiel didn't answer. Instead, he tugged closer and ran his fingers through Sam's hair, over his cheeks and down his arms. Castiel's hair felt nothing like human hair, but it was doubly pleasing to touch. His teeth were a lot sharper than Sam's, but that just made kissing an even more interesting experience. Sam ran his hands up and down Castile's back, feeling and stroking – rubbing – along the flowing fins that followed the direction of his spine, shorter at the nape and growing progressively longer the closer to his waist they were situated. Castiel's fins were probably the most striking facet about Castiel's body; they were flashy, distracting and goddamn awesome (of course, Castiel said their females put even the most extravagant man to shame, but Sam kind of didn't believe him).

"Cas?"

"I'll come back in a week," Castiel promised.

"Cas—"

"Sam," Cas said, holding a finger across Sam's lips. Somewhere among the waves a boat was approaching; even Sam could hear it now. He forgot about it when Castiel kissed him, though, when Castiel slid against him, slippery and soft and hard all at once.

When Dean steered his boat close, engine rumbling softly, Castiel pulled away.

"Hey, Cas, staying for dinner?"

"You ruin the fish," Castiel called back, like he did every time. Then he pulled away, arched backwards and twisted into a dive.

"Yeah, yeah!" Dean shouted out at the sea – maybe Castiel heard him, maybe he didn't. "So long and thanks for the fish, eh? Fucking show off."

Instead of immediately swimming over to the boat, Sam dove under the surface. He could make out Castiel for a little while as flashes of lights and glittering scales and fins before he was too far away. When Sam resurfaced, Dean had already pulled the floating cooler aboard and lowered a ladder into the ocean.

"You okay, Sam?"

Sam pulled off his flippers, one by one, and threw them up on the boat before climbing on-board himself. "What're we eating?"

Dean was quiet just long enough for it to get to Sam, then his brother shrugged. "Soup, I figure. Gotta make sure you keep your figure for your little mermaid, don't I?"

"God, Dean," Sam muttered.

"What? Gotta look out for you, don't I?"

"Thanks," Sam just said. Dean shrugged, looking uncomfortable and faking being relaxed at the same time. "I appreciate it, you know?"

"Yeah, I do. Now get dressed and start cooking, bitch. We got stomachs to fill."

"I swear, Dean, yours is some kind of freakish black hole mutation; no one can eat—"

"Hey, come on, man!"

"What? I'm just telling it like it is. The things you put in your mouth…" Sam trailed off and shook his head. He pulled his goggles off, ran a hand through his hair and sat down on the bench next to Dean. "Can we stay here tonight, you think?"

"Shouldn't be a problem," Dean said, and he didn't say anything about Sam being a sappy sap who wanted to stay an extra day just to see if Castiel would maybe be back the next day, instead of having to wait for a week as he always did.

It wasn't the first time they spent the night there, anchored right by the shore in their trusted old boat, sleeping on mattresses under the open sky, and it wouldn't be the last.

Not all treasure was gold, or diamonds, or sparkling marbles. Sometimes, your treasure was the one person who made the world so much brighter and warmer (and also full of sparkling blue salt water, but that was beside the point; the point was that Sam fit with Castiel, and that was that).

I'm the queen of nothing; I'm the king of the world

sa_kun — Sun, 08 Jul 2012 12:15:08 GMT

Title: I'm the queen of nothing; I'm the king of the world
Author: sa_kun
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Dean, Sam, Castiel, Gabriel
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 6139
Prompt: Supernatural, Dean, trans woman in very deep denial.
Summary: "Isn't there anything you want, Dean? Something just for yourself?"
Disclaimer: I do not own.
Author's Notes: Written for the above prompt over at queer_fest. Dean is transsexual, Castiel plays a part in it and Sam is the best brother he can be. Spoilers for the end of season five, AU after that. Title is from King of the World by First Aid Kit.

Also, I'm so bad at this I almost forgot (I'm new at this, all right?). This was beta'd by the wonderful, lovely and amazing runawaydreamer. Darling, this one's for you.

“Isn’t there anything you want, Dean? Something you want just for yourself?”

Dean doesn’t say anything.

“I wanted Stanford,” Sam says. “Jess. A wedding. I wanted to be a lawyer; help people. Not one of those lawyers who do anything for money, but the other kind, you know? The ones who’re dirt poor and volunteer and stuff. The good kind. I wanted to be a good man, Dean.”

“You are a good man, Sammy,” Dean says after a while.

“Yeah?” Sam’s smile is the shy one, the one where his dimples are only just peeking out and his eyes are sort of hidden behind his bangs.

“Yeah.”

“Dean?”

Dean looks away. These days, she can barely stand to look in a mirror. Sometimes, she can’t even look her little brother in the eye anymore. Sometimes…

Sometimes she wishes Cas had never pulled her out of Hell. That he never remade her in her own image. That she was still wrong, with a dick and no tits, because in a way, fucked up as it is, that’d been easier. When she couldn’t dream and wish and want.

When everything she maybe, possibly thought of in the far reaches of her mind, like, so rarely it basically almost never happened, was completely and utterly impossible on every level imaginable.

“Dean?” Sam says again, and this time he’s close enough that Dean doesn’t have a chance of dodging one of his giant paws as it comes down to rest lightly on her shoulder.

“I want a baby, Sammy,” she hears herself say, and she curses her traitorous tongue. Because, dammit, she hadn’t meant to say that! It’s not as if it’s true or anything, except that maybe it is, it’s just… Dean doesn’t know. Maybe it’s one of those biological things; maybe it’s the fact that she was dead and now she isn’t. Except she remembers taking care of Sammy, of wishing that Ben really had been hers, that… That Sam never left Stanford, that he married Jess and had a hoard of kids that Dean could play cool uncle to (never aunt; never, because Dad’d done everything he could to beat that out of Dean).

Sam’s hand is heavy and tense on her shoulder. “Oh,” he says.

Dean glances at him. His eyes are wide and his forehead furrowed. Maybe, she thinks, he looks surprised but he’s not— Shit, he’s not Dad, okay? Sammy is her baby brother, and he’s never done anything but back her up, so it wasn’t like that was an issue. Which means that when Sam starts stammering something that might be words on another planet, sounding awkward as fuck, Dean cuts him off.

“Look, it’s not like that shit ever mattered before, ‘cause it wasn’t like it was ever possible, right? I didn’t want anything ‘cause…”

“Because Dad made you think it wasn’t something you could ever have.”

“Not just him,” Dean says, and her heart is a slow, dull pounding under her breastbone. “But now? Shit, I have fucking periods now, man! Everything I never let myself want? I can have that now. If I want.”

“And you want.”

Dean manages to nod, somehow. “Yeah, Sammy, I do.”

“When it’s over.”

“When it’s over,” Dean agrees.

Before it’s over, though, there are demons and angels and pagan gods and witches and a buttload of monsters. There’s the time she’s cursed so bad she doesn’t stop bleeding for days and Sam ends up having to take her to a hospital. What they do to her, how they cure her, what they take from her…

Dean clams up and refuses to talk about it. Sam hugs her – well, the bitch can try, right? – plies her with pie and burgers and beer when Dean refuses to talk and basically holds her – them – together long enough for Dean to get her feet back under her again, which is just in time for them to be trapped in TV-Land. Cas looks at her sometimes, mostly in her dreams when she’s sleeping, but he never says anything even though Dean’d bet her left tit that she knows exactly what he’s thinking. That, if he’d still been able to heal people, then it wouldn’t have happened, because then Cas could just pop another uterus in her or something. Then, there’d still be a goal worthy of fighting toward.

A reason to say no, to get up in the mornings.

A reason to never give in.

When it’s over, Dean’s alone in a cemetery with the car at her back and a patch of grass where there was once a hole in front of her. Sammy’s gone, Bobby is dead. Cas is dead.

Everyone except her is gone. It’s so easy, she marvels, to pick up her gun even though her vision is for shit and forget everything she promised Sam she’d do once it was over (it’s over now, the world is saved). The gun is loaded, she knows, loaded and the safety’s off. It fits comfortably in her hands, the way it always has, even when her hands were those of a man instead of a woman.

The flutter of wings, the crunch of dry grass crushed under the heavy weight of shoes; the sounds are easy to ignore in favor of the comfortable, welcoming weight of her gun in hand.

Cas, crouched in front of her as he folds his hands over hers and takes the gun away, is not as easy to ignore, nor is the sensation of her body healing in a wave of warmth and sunshine and the best pie she ever tasted.

“Dean,” Cas says.

Cas’ eyes are blue and endless. Sometimes, Dean thinks she could look into his eyes forever. “Cas, I can’t,” she says. “Sam— Sammy, he…”

“I know.” One of Cas’ hands moves from hers, down to where the buckle of her belt is pressing into her abdomen. “Do you want me to?”

“Can you?”

Cas smiles, wry and shy all at once. “I’m restored, Dean. If you wanted me to, I could make planets dance across the sky.”

Dean sort of laughs, except it’s really more of a sob. “That’d be awesome, Cas. Is Mars really red? I always wondered, and— oh.”

Cas’ hand isn’t really glowing, but the heat it’s spreading through Dean’s lower abdomen feels like it should make Cas at least flash a little. It lasts a lot longer than when Cas healed her just seconds ago, but then, he is basically rebuilding an organ this time.

“I can do anything you want now,” Cas says when he moves his hand away. It looks like he dips into one of the pockets of his overcoat, but Dean is almost positive that what Cas pulls out? He so didn’t keep in a lousy pocket. Maybe, like, in another dimension of space or something. It’s hard to tell with angels sometimes. Dean remembers, though, one night ages ago now, when Cas hadn’t been in the best of headspaces and Dean had been closing in on shitfaced, herself.

Cas does this thing sometimes, where he talks and his voice drones on but you can’t stop listening. That night, Cas had explained about angels and souls. Or, rather, that angels don’t have souls because the soul is a human possession; it’s why they’re so valuable and why demons make deals for them. Angels, they’re different, because they have grace, the stuff of Heaven. Cas’d said a lot, once he got going, about incompatibility and how grace had the potential to burn souls up like fire and dried grass. Souls give humans power, love, passion, free will and so much more that angels don’t have – are never supposed to possess, because angels are warriors of God and their purpose is to serve.

Or so he’d said, anyway.

The ball glowing brightly in Cas’ hand right now is not exactly like the one Dean and Sam found in that briefcase that belonged to Famine. It’s different, because there’s more gold to this one, and it’s a little smaller and looks frail, somehow.

Cas says, “Will you look after my brother, Dean?”

“Brother? But—”

“Angels weren’t meant to spend prolonged time in a vessel or be on Earth. We aren’t meant to be gods or humans.” The thing in Cas’ hands flickers. “Archangels are Heaven’s most fearsome weapon, Dean. No one argued the word of Michael or Raphael up there. You know about Lucifer. But Gabriel?” Here, Cas sounds almost mystified. “He was kind,” he whispers. “He helped us when we were new, showed us the way. He’s always been different, even to other angels like me, not just the archangels. I know he spent a lot of time with the cherubs—” Both Dean and Cas wince at the mention of the frigging naked cupids— “And that he often spent time in heavens belonging to humans like you. We didn’t question him, because he was an archangel. He might’ve been different, but he was still powerful enough to wipe us out on a whim. And then, of course, he disappeared.”

“He was a trickster, Cas,” Dean says.

“He also protected the ones in need of protection,” Cas points out. “Considering what he was, he had a lot of emotions. Most of my brothers would say too many, but I don’t agree. When I found him in his constructed reality, his grace was just as overpowering as I remember, but it was…fractured. Heavier. Beautiful. Dean, it was human.”

The ball of golden light in Cas’ hands is starting to make a frightening lot of sense, Dean thinks, and she isn’t sure if she likes the conclusion she’s coming to.

“Anna didn’t have a soul, she had a fissure of grace. Dean—”

“Demons would kill for that,” Dean says.

“Angels would kill for it,” Cas snaps. “It’s not supposed to exist. In fact, if I hadn’t seen it myself I’d say it’s impossible.”

“What about you, then?”

Cas looks away.

“Cas?”

“Would you look after my brother, Dean?”

“Cas?” Dean asks again, this time with more of a demanding tone. Cas’ eyes are wide open, filled with the kind of emotions Dean could’ve sworn the angel didn’t even know existed back when they first met. “You were human, man. Gabriel never was, he was just— well. But you fell.”

“And now I’m restored. But…”

“What?”

“I feel, Dean,” Cas almost whispers, as if he’s afraid someone might hear him. Who knows – maybe someone can. “I’m not supposed to, I— Dean, please, will you accept my brother? I don’t know how long I’ll be able to sustain him like this. Souls aren’t meant to be without bodies.”

“What happens to souls without bodies?”

Cas just gives her this look that make her feel all of ten inches tall. “You’ve been to Hell,” Cas drawls.

Dean feels cold. “He’d become a demon?”

“Dean.”

“Okay, okay! Jesus!” Dean rolls her eyes. To be honest, she feels kinda nauseous, and the stone of grief in her gut is pressing outward in any direction it can. She knows, for sure, that any second now she’s gonna break down. “Will he remember?”

Cas shrugs, and the gesture is so human, so Sam, that for a moment, Dean wishes Cas hadn’t taken her gun. “I don’t know. This has never happened before.”

“Okay. So.” Dean wets her lips. “How, how’ll you…?” She motions at the soul, then at herself.

Cas tilts his head a little, then he moves closer, until the ball of light disappears inside her stomach. She can’t feel it happen, even though she’s looking. There’s no sensation of burning heat or blistering cold, just an uncomfortable sense of nothingness.

“There,” Cas says. “I think it’s a boy, but I can’t be sure.”

“But—”

“Angels don’t have a gender, Dean,” Cas reminds her. “Our vessels do.”

They don’t exactly hug, but they’re still kneeling on the ground, and they rest their foreheads together. “Can you bring them back?” she whispers, only faintly aware of the tears trailing down her cheeks.

They end up in Alameda, CA. For the longest time, they avoided California like the plague, but now, when they’re settling down, it seems more than appropriate. The house they find is rundown, no doubt about it, but they manage. It takes them a while to restore it, at least partly, and for the longest time Dean doesn’t say anything about what she let Cas do to her.

Sam looks at her, sometimes, like he wants to say something but can’t.

Their house has two floors (well, one and a half, technically, because the second floor is a lot smaller than the first), and they put most of their effort into making the first floor habitable. The kitchen is there, after all, as well as the living room, bathroom and one of the bigger bedrooms (okay, so maybe it’s technically an office or a dining room or something, but whatever).

But then, well…

Sam catches on fairly fast. In fact, Dean only manages to hide that she’s throwing up every morning now for maybe a week, probably less.

“Dean,” he says, after he’s rubbed circles on her back and handed her a glass of water to rinse her mouth out. “I know you’re not drinking.”

Dean looks at herself in the mirror, and in a way she knows what Sam is getting at, because she looks haggard and her hair is greasy. Sam looks better, but only marginally. He hadn’t been in Hell long, but time doesn’t matter down there. He has nightmares, same as Dean, and Hell leaves its traces.

“Cas, he—” Dean closes her mouth, breathes carefully through her nose. The nausea eventually fades, but she’s still aware that Sam was instantly ready to leap back in action. She thinks he’s ready to be whatever she needs him to be. “He made me whole again,” she says when she can speak.

“Whole?” Sam gestures at his own stomach. Dean nods. “Okay.” Sam breathes out heavily. “Okay, so, what, you went out and got yourself knocked up straight away? First chance you get, and you go to some stranger?”

Dean shakes her head. She steps closer, until she can whisper in Sam’s ear. Sam’s frowning, but he obliges by leaning down a little. “Cas did it.”

Sam’s expression turns funny. “Please tell me you didn’t have sex with Cas. Shit, Dean, how am I supposed to look him in the eye—”

“No, bitch,” Dean snaps. “Listen. He had a soul that— that he put in me, right? Said it was the soul of our favorite trickster.”

“That’s impossible,” Sam protests. “They don’t have souls, man!”

“I know! Listen,” she demands, then, in an undertone, tells him everything Cas told her. Their house is protected and warded against basically everything, but that doesn’t mean that caution is overrated. Between Sam and Dean, they know their way around some heavy stuff. Throw Bobby and Cas into the mix, and they’re pretty much set, but that still doesn’t mean they should be reckless.

“Holy shit!” Sam curses.

Dean grins, wide and sunny. “I know, man!”

Sam shakes his head, but there’s a smile fighting to break out, right there. Dean can so spot the dimples. “You’re gonna have a baby, dude.”

“You’re gonna be an uncle, bitch.”

“I need to sit down,” Sam declares and collapses onto the toilet.

Cas drops by more days than he’s gone. Each time, he brings more stuff they need to fix up their house. He shows up with tools and paints, wallpapers and floorboards, insulation and fucking windows. They don’t ask where he gets it, because they need it all. It’s not like they have much money to speak of and they’re grateful as fuck.

Unlike them, Cas doesn’t sleep, and he’s taken to carpentry and woodcarving. Most of the furniture he brings is broken or flawed in some way that only Cas can see, and he always spends time fixing and reupholstering and sanding and who knows what the fuck else. By the end of it all, Sam and Dean have a sort of complete collection of mismatched furniture. It’s beautiful, of course, and it fits together because it’s Cas.

At some point, he takes over fixing the downstairs bathroom and builds a bathtub from scratch for them. The mosaic tiles he uses for it are in so many shades of blue that Dean would have a hard time naming them all. The end result is really fucking beautiful. The tub is long enough even for Sam to stretch out comfortably in without being too deep, and the sink is part of it all, somehow. They probably have the most unique house in all of Alameda – possibly in all of the state.

At some point, Dean becomes really round. It’s a bit after Sam badgered her into seeing a doctor for regular check-ups, most of which Sam is present for as well. It’s Sam who decides to put together a baby book, and it’s Sam who fawns (ha! Fawns!) over ultrasound pictures. Cas comes along once, and he smiles when he hears the baby’s heartbeat.

Dean, she’s just content that her baby is real.

The neighbors think they’re strange, but they don’t really care about that. Dean is pregnant, but she isn’t married, she lives with her brother, and the strange man who pops by more often than not isn’t the baby’s father. It’s Dean who fixes the car, and it’s Sam who tends to the garden. She doesn’t cook or bake, and she doesn’t own a single skirt or dress, and her brother has longer hair than she does. So, yeah, they think the Winchesters are a little bit strange, all right.

They go jogging sometimes, her and Sam, pace slow and calm compared to what they’re used to. They don’t do it so much toward the end of the pregnancy, but definitely in the beginning, before Dean gets so big that moving at all is uncomfortable. In fact, the closer to the end of it they get, the less Cas leaves at all.

By the time Dean goes into labor, he’s pretty much been a permanent fixture in their house for over a week.

“Oh, shit,” Dean says.

Sam looks over from where he’s frying eggs for a late night snack. Dean was supposed to butter the toast so the bread requirements of their sandwiches would be ready and waiting for the eggs. She’s sitting down on one of the kitchen chairs, not really moving much, and her stomach is almost pressing against the table top. Her stomach is still right now, but before, when the baby was kicking, it would move and look sort of creepy. Kind of like there was an alien inside, fighting to get out.

“Dean?”

Dean clears her throat, then sticks her hand down her trousers. Now, just because her doctor (and Sam and Cas, busybodies that they are) told her several times that the likelihood of her water breaking was slim, at best, that doesn’t mean she hasn’t been thinking about it. Like, when she has trouble sleeping or something. Still.

“I think I’m in labor?” Dean says, tone less than certain. She’s had fake contractions before (Braxton Hicks, whatever) and they usually pass fairly quickly. But this time, well— “I’m leaking?”

Her fingers are a bit wet, don’t smell like ammonia (meaning she didn’t piss herself; this pregnancy shit is seriously nasty), and, yeah, that was another contraction right there.

“Oh. Uh. Eat up and go to bed?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

It had been Cas’ idea that Dean should give birth at home. In all seriousness, it makes sense, because Cas trumps a doctor any day of the week. So, Sam and Dean, they eat up, and if Sam hovers a bit more than usual, then Dean can’t really fault him for it (even if she snaps at him).

Cas enters the kitchen when Sam’s doing the dishes, covered in a thin film of dust. “It’s finished,” he declares, and looks moderately smug.

“About time,” Dean grouses. She manages to get up by sheer stubbornness alone, but she doesn’t shake the hand Cas places at her elbow as they walk toward the nursery. Cas had forbidden both Sam and her from entering the room about two weeks ago, so whatever the angel dude’s been up to in there, he’s been very hush-hush about it.

Cas frowns, then moves one hand to the small of Dean’s back. “You’re in labor?”

Dean laughs. “Yeah, man.”

“You should rest.”

“I will. Just let me see the room first, then you and Sam can drag my heavy ass to bed all you like.”

The nursery is downstairs. It made sense at some point – though Dean can’t remember when, exactly – for Sam and Dean to sleep upstairs while the baby’s room was downstairs. Of course, the baby’ll stay with Dean for a while at least, but once the brat starts sleeping through the night, then there’s a room of its own for it, ready and waiting.

All the floors in the house, except the bathrooms, are hardwood. In the nursery, Cas has spread out several rugs to soften the floor. Most of them are different colors, some of which would look more at home in a gypsy camp than a regular house, but Dean likes it. She likes the mishmash of colors and the wood of the furniture.

“Sam explained that all human children must have ‘glow in the dark’ stars on the ceiling. They’re spelling out an angel repellent.”

Dean laughs. “Thanks, Cas. This is awesome.”

It is, even if it looks nothing like the nurseries most families have. It’s awesome, because it’s personal and warm. The furniture – the crib and rocking chair and so on – are all cherry wood or something, dark and red and polished, and the upholstery varies, just like in the rest of the house. Some is patterned, some isn’t, and they always subtly match and clash at the same time. This time, Cas’ gone for all colors between blue and green, while the walls are leaning toward orange, with one wall covered in black wallpaper patterned in orange, green and blue passionflowers.

“There’s a stuffed animal in the crib,” Cas says. “It’s a pony. I thought it was…soft.”

The pony is soft. It’s also lavender purple, has sparkling wings and a horn. “Thanks, man.”

Cas never understood the difference humans made up between male and female, and Sam and Dean are hardly the most appropriate teachers, so when Dean thanks Cas for the work he put into creating the nursery, she’s kind of sure that he doesn’t grasp on just how many levels she’s grateful that the room isn’t covered in pastel colors.

“Wow,” Sam says from the doorway, eyes round. “This is the coolest baby room ever.”

“I know, right?” Dean grins and rubs her stomach. “This is one lucky baby.”

It’s not long after that Dean finds herself in bed, Castiel standing guard over both her and Sam as he makes sure they get a full night’s rest.

The labor lasts a ridiculously long time.

It’s painful, even with Cas there to take the edge off, sweaty, dirty and it fucking hurts like a bitch, all right?

“Oh, God, that’s disgusting,” Sam says at one point.

Dean wishes she had her gun so she could show him just how fucking disgusting his brain is.

“Bobby, Bobby! Hi, it’s Sam.”

Sam sounds like a total dork. Dean’s sure Bobby’s grousing at him (it’s, like, four in the morning or something), but he probably doesn’t mean it because, well. They’ve all been looking forward to this baby being born just as much as Dean has.

Cas sits next to her in bed, the baby cradled in his arms. “What will you name him?” he asks. He sounds reverent, and he’s so careful when he strokes a finger down a plump baby-cheek.

“I don’t know,” Dean says. She’s fucking exhausted, but she can’t sleep yet. “What do you think?”

“Is Gabriel wrong?” he asks, sounding both hesitant and wistful. “That’s who he used to be. Is it stupid to name him after who he was?”

“I don’t know,” Dean says again, this time more seriously. “There’s this tradition where people name their kids after relatives. Me and Sam are, you know?”

Cas nods, a little contemplative furrow between his eyebrows. “Maybe Gabriel Johannes?”

Dean smiles. “Yeah, sure. That’s a good name, Cas.”

“You named him?” Sam butts in, eyes wide and hair all over the place. “What?”

“Gabriel Johannes,” Cas repeats again. “They were good friends once, him and Johannes.”

“Johannes?”

Cas smiles. “You call him John the Baptist.”

“Oh.”

If they talk more after that, Dean doesn’t know, because she falls asleep with her head on Cas’ shoulder.

They’re Winchesters, so life isn’t exactly normal, but they move on, slowly at first. Gabe grows; of course he does. He’s walking in almost no time, and then he starts talking. It’s a little weird how much he looks like Sammy did when he was a kid. Personally, Dean thinks it’s the floppy hair more than anything.

At some point, Sam goes back to school to get his Master’s (it’s not Stanford this time, and it’s not law school, but the local community college) and works extra at a local library. Dean gets a job fixing up old cars. It’s harder as a woman, because when she was a man, people’d just look at her and assume she knew what she was talking about when it came to cars. Now, it takes time; she has to prove herself in a way she’s never had to before. In the beginning, the only reference she has is her car, but once her business starts taking off for real, she has a whole scrapbook full of old cars she’s fixed for a dozen or so different clients.

They don’t hunt anymore, but they’ll always be hunters. In a way, they’ve become a hub, same as Bobby, because people call when they need help, drop by every now and then with news or to borrow a book or something. Or they need refuge for a couple of days, or just some place to rest up.

“Maybe we should open up a new Roadhouse,” Sam says one evening.

They’re out in the garden, watching Gabe tussle with the dog Sam brought home a couple of weeks ago and wouldn’t return (Dean thinks they should’ve at least talked about getting a pet before just bringing one home).

“Then we’d have to move again.”

“Not if it’s nearby. I know you need more space for your cars, so, you know, maybe we could buy something that we can use for both? It doesn’t have to be a bar, either, it could be a bookshop, or a café, or something else, you know. Hell, it could just be a garage, man.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“It’s just, I don’t like that we open up our house to hunters. It’s not that I don’t want to help, ‘cause I do, but Gabe’s… He’s so little, you know? I keep thinking that something could happen, and, yeah.”

Dean nods. She hands her brother a beer, then sits back in her lawn chair. Cas built them, just after Gabe was born, and the entire set of lawn furniture they own now is ridiculously comfortable. “Yeah, I know,” she says. “Maybe just a garage?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Sam echoes.

“Gabriel’s very happy,” Cas says one afternoon. It’s just the two of them in; Sam’s out with both Gabe and the dog at some traveling carnival or other. Dean wasn’t listening.

“He’s always laughing or smiling,” Dean answers. “Then again, he’s, like, three so it’s either that or the complete opposite.”

Cas nods. “I read the books Sam gave me on child rearing. But what I meant was: his soul is in balance, Dean. You all are.”

Dean considers that, then shrugs. “I guess, yeah. I mean… When you first brought me back I was pissed as hell at you. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Cas acknowledges. “When I held you in my arms I saw you, Dean. I knew every part of you, from your very first thought to your last. But I didn’t know humanity, or denial or pride. I knew of you, but I didn’t know you.”

“I wanted to be a girl, you know, when I was little. Dad—” Dean clears her throat. “Dad didn’t like that. Thought I was, well, a sissy. A faggot. I guess I was ten? When he caught me and Sammy playing dress up? I never forgot that. Never let myself…”

“You never let yourself be you again,” Cas fills in, frowning a little. “How did Sam find out? Of course, I know the difference between men and women now, and he should’ve been surprised when I brought you back whole. But he wasn’t. Was Bobby?”

Dean shakes her head. “We were at Bobby’s when we played dress up,” she says. “It was his wife’s old clothes. When Dad caught us… It wasn’t the first time we did it. And, I dunno. I think maybe him and Dad never agreed on, well, me, I guess. And Sam… Just because I didn’t let myself think about it, or want, or, shit, wish, that didn’t mean I never read books, you know? Do you know how many gay bars I’ve dragged him to since he ditched Stanford?”

“A lot, I’m wagering.”

Dean sort of laughs. “Yeah, you could say that. I don’t like guys, never have, so I guess he got that I didn’t go there for that. Most I did was kick back with a beer or two, and I’d paint my nails.” She’d paint them black and ignore Sam looking at her, then she’d drag him to a bar, order one beer more than usual and just soak up the environment of a place where slurs like dyke and faggot didn’t exist.

Being a woman hadn’t ever been about what kind of clothes you were allowed to wear – not to Dean at least. To Dean, it was about your plumbing being right instead of all messed up and wrong. She still wore boots and flannel and ripped jeans. But now she had hips, tits and a pussy underneath it all. It was everything she’d ever wanted, even from before she knew the words to describe what was wrong with her – or after she stopped herself from wanting it, for that matter.

“You know how terrified I was when you brought me back and I found out what you’d done to me?”

“I tried to apologize at the gas station. It didn’t go well.”

Dean laughs. “Shit, man, you tore that place down around me.”

“In hindsight, it wasn’t the best decision I ever made.” Cas sort of smiles. “Getting to know you and your brother was the best decision I ever made, by the way. Knowing you set me down a path I wouldn’t have found if it weren’t for you.”

“Cas—”

“I don’t regret it, Dean.”

“When’s the last time you were upstairs?”

Cas shrugs. “I like it better down here.”

“Do you?”

“You make a good mother, Dean Winchester,” Cas says, and his smile is small and awkward and happy all at once.

There are signs, of course. Like the detachable bunk bed Cas starts building one day. It’s not like Gabe needs a big bed yet or anything, but even if he did, he’d only need one, not two.

Or like the time when he comes home with a tattooing set, complete with as much black ink as they could possibly use. He teaches Sam how to use it, teaches him the signs and the sequence of Enochian that spells out the mumbo-jumbo for ‘invisible to angels’ crap she and Sam both have carved into their ribs. Dean watches them practice, then as Sam sets the gun to Cas’ chest and starts filling in the anti-demon possession tattoo. The Enochian ends up scrawled out all over Cas’ back.

Some nights, Cas mentions Amelia and Claire, but only in passing.

The last night before Cas leaves, he brings burgers from some fancy place in Europe. They have pie for dessert and they drink a few too many beers. Sam’s eyes are glassy and wet, and Dean knows she probably isn’t in any state to judge.

“I want this,” Cas assures them both, his eyes that wide, innocent blue. But he looks content and at peace in a way Dean thinks he hasn’t ever been before. “I’m too human to be an angel. Heaven is…” Cas looks away. “They’re squabbling amongst themselves, trying to find something to blame.” His voice is quiet. “It’s inconceivable to them that they might have been wrong, and with Michael gone leadership falls to Raphael. Heaven used to be my home, but I love you.”

“Home’s where your heart’s at, yeah?”

“Something like that,” Cas agrees.

“But Gabe, he doesn’t remember anything. From before, I mean,” Sam butts in.

Cas glances to the floor, where Gabe had been busy building something with the blocks Cas carved for him only last month. “Perhaps,” Cas agrees, his eyes soft. “But he is trying to rebuild a Viking settlement.”

Sam and Dean both turn to look at what the kid had been up to just a couple hours earlier.

“Gabriel was older than this planet,” Cas says. “I’m older than mankind, older than most life forms you’ve ever heard of. When I was made, Earth was an empty rock. It’s not impossible to think that some of the memories might stick. Not all of them, but—”

“You won’t remember us.”

“I’ll know you. I’ll love you, and hate you, and call you my parents. I will die and return to Heaven.”

“You’ll be an angel again?”

Cas shrugs. “Who knows?”

Dean swallows, the lump in her throat in the way. “Look, maybe this is all wonderful to you, but me and Sam, we’ll lose our best friend. You get that, don’t you? We’ll miss you like hell. Shit, we’ll fucking mourn you ‘cause in a way it’ll be like you’re gone, man.”

Cas puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder, right where he left his handprint all those years ago. “If I go back to Heaven now I’ll be an outcast. You might recall Raphael and I don’t exactly get along. I won’t have companions, I won’t have a garrison; I’ll be alone for essentially the rest of time. I’d rather have a lifetime as your child, Dean.”

“Can’t you just be you?” Sam asks.

“Heaven, Earth…” Cas trails off. “It’ll be the same, won’t it? Humans don’t live forever. When you’re gone, I can’t follow. Not like this.”

Dean narrows her eyes. “Why? You just said that you could go back to Heaven—”

“The Gates are open now,” Cas cuts in. “They won’t be in forty years.”

Dean feels the lump in her throat solidify. She knows what happens when the Gates close, when the angels leave. She hated it then, and she hates it now, but she won’t ever let Cas fall like that (again, even though it technically never happened the first time around, sort of). “You should say goodbye to Gabe first,” she says. Sam starts, stares at her, but he doesn’t protest.

“I already have. When I put him to bed.”

“And Sam’s done with the angel and demon proofing?”

“Ye—” Sam clears his throat. “Yeah, I am.” He puts one of his giant hands on Cas’ shoulder. “You sure, man?”

“Yes.” Cas smiles, then leans over and kisses Sam on the forehead, just once. “Thank you, Sam.”

Cas’ lips are dry and warm on her forehead, his breath humid and spicy as he says, “Dean, you’re worthy. Thank you.”

Cas glows, but it doesn’t burn their eyes out the way it would have before, when Cas was all angel and didn’t have a soul. It disappears into Dean just as easily as Gabriel’s soul did not that long ago. When it’s done, when Cas is gone and Jimmy stares back at Dean, cheeks wet from tears and eyes scrunched up, Dean shakily stands and locks herself in her bedroom.

She doesn’t come out until Gabe climbs into bed with her the next morning (she wants to ask how he got into her room in the first place, but, well, Sam the bitch probably picked her lock).

“Cas is happy now,” Gabe says and squirms closer.

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh.” Gabe nods. “I told him I’d be the best big brother ever. He smiled and said I already was.”

“—and that’s why the Black Widow totally kicks ass.”

sa_kun — Sat, 23 Jun 2012 07:55:15 GMT

Title: “—and that’s why the Black Widow totally kicks ass.”
Author: sa_kun
Wordcount: ~2.2k
Pairing: Charlie, Dean | gen
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language? Might be some minute spoilers in passing for Avengers and Moulin Rouge, along with some sort-of-spoilers for Supernatural (as in: you won’t know they’re spoilers unless you’ve seen either the episodes or the films in question). AU, probably, though it could take place at any point between episodes S07E20 and S07E23. The flimsy plot in this fic centres on Dean commissioning Charlie to locate Castiel for him. Make of that what you will. Written for the 2012 spnspringfling for the prompts "Charlie and... anyone, really" and "I guess they won't exchange the gifts that you were meant to keep" by cordelia_gray.

&black widow

“I guess they won't exchange the gifts that you were meant to keep,” she says to the tiny action figure next to her computer. The head of it bobs, as if to agree, and Charlie grins. “See? I knew you’d agree with me, H.” She turns to Dean, then, eyes narrowed and chin raised. “And you! I told you to stay away!”

Dean’s grin is lascivious and flirty, complete with hard eyes and jagged edges. It makes her shudder, a little, how much he’s changed since the last time they met. How different the Winchesters are from most people she’s ever met, in fact. “Sorry, princess,” Dean’s saying. “Look, can you find him or not?”

Affronted, Charlie huffs. “I can find anything. Anyone. With the proper tools. Which you didn’t provide me with. And this takes time, too; it’s not like I can just wave a magic wand or something and whatever I’m looking for’ll just fall into my lap, you know.” She cocks her head, considering, aware that she’s ranting but preoccupied by that stray thought. “Though that would be so cool. I totally I need a wand,” she tells the little Hermione. “It’d match yours, of course.”

Dean rolls his eyes, then he gets off the motel bed. It’s really unfair, Charlie thinks, that Dean gets to be all flowing moves and muscles and so freaking smooth when she’s still awkward and kind of jumpy. He settles on the desk next to her, fiddling with his bracelet. “Look, Charlie… I don’t know what else I can do, all right? Dude’s an angel. Not like I can keep tabs on him if he don’t want me to.”

“But you want me to do it,” Charlie points out, and she sounds only a little smug. Hey! It’s justified, all right? She’s awesome, after all. Totally worthy of owning a wand and be allowed to be as smug as she pleases.

Dean grins again. “Yeah, ‘cause you can do anything, sweetheart.”

“Please.” Charlie rolls her eyes, but she’s preening a little at the praise. “And I’m not your sweetheart. In fact, I’m so out of your league that—”

Dean laughs, then taps on the screen with a finger. “Focus, Charlie.”

“Right, right.” She’s quiet for a while after that, focused on her task, sifting through worldwide security footage and less-than-credible news sites. Charlie mostly forgets about Dean, even though he’s sitting on the desk right where she’s working. It’s not until she catches herself humming along to something that’s suspiciously like the theme of Dr. Sexy M.D. to the rhythm of Dean’s tapping fingers on the desk along with his boots kicking against the cabinet under the desk that she remembers she’s not alone.

Also: she totally doesn’t watch that show, like, ever (honestly!).

“Hey,” Charlie says.

“You found him?”

“No, wait. No. Angels are real?”

Dean snorts, sounding very little amused and a whole lot of tired. “Yeah. Kinda the first question most people ask.”

“Oh.” Charlie clears her throat, cracks her fingers. “Well, I’m asking now, and you know I’m not like most people. Actually, one of my favourite books from when I was little had people with wings in them – they weren’t angels, obviously – and I—”

“Angels aren’t people with wings,” Dean interrupts.

Charlie pouts. “Damn. That would be so sexy.”

“Sexy?”

Charlie nods. “Oh, yeah. Just— Imagine this: like, big wings, stuck to your shoulders. Has to take a lot of muscles keeping them up in flight, right? And just walking with them, they’d be so heavy. Anyway, I think that’d be, like, really sexy. For real. With the muscles and all.”

Dean smirks. “Maybe,” he says, and he sounds like he’s at least considering it, if not outright creating nice, super-hot mental pictures of his own to go along with Charlie’s description (Charlie totally is).

“Like a swimmer,” Charlie muses, mostly to herself. “Swimmers are totally sexy.” Or like, say, Scarlett Johansson. Charlie smiles to herself. Or, maybe Sigourney Weaver, sweaty and pumped in Alien… Then she forcibly shakes her head, snapping out of her daydreams.

Dean hums a little, then kind of says, kind of muses, “I boned an angel, once.”

“Okay.” She draws out the word and raises her eyebrows. “The one I’m looking for?”

“Cas is a dude,” Dean drawls.

“So?”

“And I’m straight?”

Charlie chuckles, mostly to herself, as she types her way through the program she’s writing up (or, well, modifying, because it’s not technically the first time she’s had to stalk someone through surveillance cameras; she’s just never done it on an international scope before, that’s all – and, no, she’s not a pervert, all right? There were totally legitimate reasons!). “I always say: try everything once. Right, H?”

“So you’d do it with a guy?” Dean asks, sounding a little amused and maybe even a little flirty; she wouldn’t know. “Just once? To try?”

Charlie scrunches her nose up. “Oh, ew. Oh, god, no! Ew! Penis overload! I need to bleach my brain—” Her fingers almost dance across the keyboard as she changes track, moving from code to browser in a flash. The laptop is her trusted friend; it’s never failed her yet (unlike the bastard Dean, who is laughing at her) and it’s totally penis free (well, except maybe for that one time when she let Betty from Comic Con loose on it and she tried to sell Charlie on the whole guy on guy thing, but that’s really besides the point). The point is that Scarlett Johansson should totally play the Black Widow in, like, at least seventeen three hour movies. At least. That clip where she kicks ass and totally owns the screen? It’s golden.

“Good choice,” Dean agrees, smirking again. He’s squinting a little at the screen, but most of his attention is on the clip and not the rest of the page. “What movie is that?”

“Uh, the Avengers?” Charlie says, the ‘duh’ in her voice so obvious it’s like a Stormtrooper at a chess tournament.

Dean raises his eyebrows and purses his lips a little, looking intrigued. “They finally made the movie, huh?”

“Uh, yeah!” Charlie sits a little straighter, chin raised and eyes sparkling. “I’ve already seen it, like, four times— shut up; it premiered, like, a month ago! It’s totally awesome and—”

“—and now you know where Cas is?” Dean finishes for her, voice dry, a single eyebrow arched so perfectly she almost wants to snatch it off him.

Charlie blinks. “Uh, right… Look, after I’m done with this we’re gonna catch it at the movies, all right? You’re not allowed to say no, because the movie is that epic; trust me. You’re gonna buy me a Slurpee and some really good snacks. Then, afterwards, we’re gonna eat pie and talk about it. It’s totally a move that deserves talking about. I mean, it’s not as epic as Lord of the Rings or Star Wars or Dragon—”

“Yeah, that’s enough, Miss Granger.” Dean snaps his fingers in front of Charlie’s nose. “Focus.”

“But—”

“Find Cas, or no Scarlett Johansson in tight leather!” Dean threatens. Charlie’s mouth snaps closed in a flash. “Good girl. Now figure out how to locate Cas for me.”

&black widow

“It’s like I said, I guess: they won't exchange the gifts that you were meant to keep.” Charlie’s voice is mostly steady, and she’s only slurring a little (okay, she’s slurring a lot, but only because Dean keeps sneak-feeding her whiskey).

“What d’you mean?” Dean’s voice is a lot steadier than hers, just like his walk (bastard, she wants to tell him, but keeps forgetting because Dean distracts her with pretty, shiny things and more booze). “Charlie?”

“I mean,” she says. “I mean that you told me ‘bout what Cas did for you, right? And – Wait. You didn’t tell me, did you?”

“Uh, no, I didn’t,” Dean agrees.

“Huh. Well, anyway, what I mean was that you and Sam saved my ass, big time. Like, I’d be monster-chow if not for you guys— and why is Sam so tall, anyway? He totally dwarves you, and you’re already tall— Hey, what’re you doing?” Charlie complains, but Dean is stronger. He easily coaxes the bottle of JD from Charlie’s intoxicated fingers, then slips it down one of his way too big pockets.

“I think you’ve had enough, darling.”

Charlie is about to protest, but then she pauses. She’s warm, the world is a soft buzz around her and she has a craving for chocolate chip pancakes; yeah, she’s definitely had enough. “I’m not your darling, Dean,” she points out, very serious. “I’m your partner in crime. Totally different thing.” Then she grins. “I always wanted to be a partner in crime.”

Dean drapes an arm around her shoulders and tugs her close. “Yeah, I know. You’re a pain in the ass, just like Sammy.”

“Is that a good thing?”

Dean smirks. “Oh, yeah,” he murmurs. “Definitely good.”

Charlie smiles. “Oh,” she says.

“What?”

“I remembered. I was gonna say that you guys gave me new shot at life, and that’s just huge. Huge, Dean. Why’d I waste that? It’s the stuff that matters, right? You’re meant to keep your life ‘cause it’s the ultimate gift we have; why exchange it?”

“Sappy,” Dean mutters, then he mock-groans when he sees Charlie’s grin. “This is detouring into chick-flicks, ain’t it? I don’t do—”

“Oh, oh! Please, please can we watch Moulin Rouge? Kidman’s so dreamy in that one, and McGregor’s voice! God, that man can sing…” They’re back at the motel by then, Charlie walking in a straight line as long as Dean holds on to her. Dean scratches his chin, looking a little uncomfortable. “What?”

“I was abducted by fairies,” he mutters.

Charlie freezes up. Then she frowns. “For real?”

Dean nods. “Evil flying little buggers.” He clears his throat. “With nipples,” he adds, sounding almost accusing, as if he’s affronted that fairies… Charlie mentally shakes her head; even drunk, she probably doesn’t want to go there. “Anyway,” Dean continues, a little awkward still. He goes red when Charlie starts giggling, though, because, hello, fairies with nipples got one over badass Dean. “Hey! I didn’t laugh at you when you freaked out about the—”

“That’s totally different,” Charlie argues. “Ants kill people! For real; I promise. They have this plan of total world domination by chewing all the houses to bits, and—”

“There was one on your shoe, Charlie. It wasn’t gonna kill you.”

“You don’t know that!” Charlie staggers inside the motel room after Dean, then collapses down in a seated position, more or less upright, next to him on one of the beds. “They’re devious little bastards. It’s because of the pincers, I think.”

Dean blinks, then he digs out the bottle of whiskey and swallows a mouthful or two. “The pincers?”

“Pincers.” Charlie puts her finger in front of her mouth and mimes the action. “Pincers,” she says again. “It’s why the Black Widow kicks ass.”

“‘Cause she doesn’t have pincers?”

“Exactly.” Charlie nods wisely, then sneakily steals the bottle from Dean and proceeds to get very, very drunk.

&black widow

“Yes, I was drunk,” Charlie tells Dean first thing the next morning. “Very drunk. The sooner we can forget and move on, the better. For the record? I hate the Caramelldansen, all right? We never mention it again, ever. Also? Epic hangover of doom, here.” Charlie taps her temple, wincing a little.

Dean grumbles and rolls over in his bed. Charlie’s opened all the windows she can, because she’s a freak who likes fresh air and sunshine when she’s hungover (all of her girlfriends have complained about it more than once, usually loudly and epically). The thing is, she does some of her best, and craziest, work when she feels like shit and she always wakes up, like, three hours after she crashes just so that she can jump onto some project or other.

Charlie walks across the room so she can better see Dean, before laying out what she’s been up to while Dean was sleeping off the booze they’d chugged down the night before. “I would like to inform you that while you were having happy, disturbing dreams, me and H figured out how to stalk your angel buddy across the world. I expect grovelling for this. And pancakes. Also, I want you to never, ever contact me again.”

“I lifted a poster of Scarlett Johansson in the Black Widow get-up from the movies,” Dean mutters into his pillow.

Charlie stands at attention, hands on her hips and nose aimed slightly up, like a dog scenting the air. “You will surrender it to me,” she demands.

Dean chuckles. “You gotta find it first, girl.”

Charlie narrows her eyes. “Are you declaring war, Dean Winchester?”

“What if I am?”

“I give you the program, show you how to use it, and you give me the poster. Deal?”

“Deal,” Dean mutters.

Charlie grins. “Sweet,” she whispers. Now all she needs is a job, a place of her own – again – a new identity, and then that poster is so going up on her wall. Possibly above the bed. Maybe in a frame.

(originally posted here)

because this is the truth:

sa_kun — Fri, 15 Jun 2012 12:42:07 GMT

"This love of artefacts, in itself, has nothing to do with archaeology in the strict sense as study of the past. Artefacts tell us nothing about the past in themselves. I have stood in the middle of countless ruins of castles ancient palaces and listened very carefully, and not heard a single syllable. Collaegues tell me that they have had similar distressing experiences with pottery, bones, bags of seeds."
Matthew Johnson, ARCHAEOLOGICAL THEORY : AN INTRODUCTION

that's not a moon; that's a space station

sa_kun — Wed, 06 Jun 2012 06:22:39 GMT

This:

How many times have I watched Star Wars?

who pushed me in the pool

sa_kun — Sun, 27 May 2012 10:00:12 GMT

I was going to write you something because it's my birthday, but then I forgot, so I'm sharing this instead.

The Guild: I'm the One That's Cool:

Just thought I'd share this

sa_kun — Sat, 26 May 2012 22:41:04 GMT

(We won, by the way)

Loreen:

recs for your entertainment

sa_kun — Thu, 24 May 2012 19:09:15 GMT

Two recs for you here. In the first one, Sam is a totally adorable dog. I can describe it better than that, but Sam is a dog. He's adorable, all right? The second one is a HP/SPN crossover with a rather unusual pairing, but the plot and the characterisation and everything was just incredibly well executed. And it works! Everything about the second story just clicks as believable. You should all go read both of these fics at once, you hear?

Happiness is somebody to lean on.
Sam, Castiel, Gabriel, Dean | GEN | Whit Merule
Poor, bedraggled Sam, lost and hungry, runs into an unexpected precise, blue-eyed feline. Who promptly rearranges the world so that everyone, including both their owners, have sufficient cuddles.

January Girl
Dean/Luna | PG-13 | parenthetical
With Sam trying out normal life at Stanford and his father working an undercover gig across the country, Dean is on his own and getting reckless. While investigating a series of mysterious deaths, he runs into a strange witch called Luna Lovegood, who is searching for what she calls a 'Horcrux'. (Seriously?) Suddenly Dean finds himself dealing with evil wizards, broomsticks, Bat-Bogey Hexes, Dementors, mirrors which order him to wear a pointy hat, and much more - all the while trying not to think too much about Luna's last name and whether it's accurate.