Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sam was pretty sure that he'd be having an easier time with the whole curse thing if Dean wasn't enjoying himself so much. Herself, himself--pronoun confusion was the least of Sam's problems with the curse, but it was annoying as hell all the same. As she died, the witch had cursed them to "walk the distaff path for the length of a moon," and the first half of that became clear immediately--his whole body swamped with overwhelming pain, merciful unconsciousness, and then waking up to find himself swimming in his own clothes, a woman with Dean's eyes and Dean's haircut sprawled on the floor next to him.

Sam just wasn't sure about what exactly the witch had meant by "the length of a moon." Did she mean a month, 30 or 31 days? Did she mean a lunar cycle, 29.5 days? Or a menstrual cycle, 28 days? Dean didn't seem bothered by the uncertainty, said there wasn't much difference between 28 and 31 days, so why waste time worrying about it when there were so many more awesome things to do. Sam was having a difficult time doing anything besides worry.

He worried about the timetable and about the possibility that they might not change back at all, that he and Dean might be stuck in female forms for the rest of their lives. He worried that a demon or something else supernatural would come after them while they weren't at their strongest, and he worried about humans, men who seem so big now, even if Sam wasn't all that small for a woman. He worried that this was the distraction that was going to keep him from figuring out how to save Dean from going to hell in far too few months.

And he worried that he was going to get his period. It was grotesque; he'd never imagined that he would even think those words in that combination. He wasn't a prude, he didn't think that menstruation was disgusting in general. It was kind of a shock when he first started getting serious with Jess and then when they moved in together, learning in a specific way about the different things woman buy and do, the different underwear they wear, and how they can tell when their periods are coming. His few high school girlfriends had always kept that kind of thing quiet, and until he moved in with Jess he'd rarely so much as slept in the same house as a woman or a girl.

The shape of his body was strange and different, though his breasts were a lot smaller than Jess's had been, smaller than Dean's had become, too. And that was fine with Sam--he didn't want big breasts getting in his way when he was trying to do something, didn't want to have to wear any kind of bra other than the stretchy sports bras he picked up in a three-pack at Wal-Mart: white, gray and black. Dean, on the other hand, had a field day with the bra shopping. Of course he did.

The first hours after the curse hit were bad for both of them. Aching from the violence of the change, they'd stumbled back down the half-mile path from the witch's cabin to where they'd left the Impala, hampered by too-long pant legs and shirt sleeves, padding along in baggy socks because their shoes wouldn't stay on at all. Dean drove them back to the motel room barefoot, and when they got into the room they just stared at each other for a couple of minutes, then they both tossed back painkillers with whiskey and passed out.

When Sam woke up, his head aching and his legs practically tied together by the seemingly ridiculous length of his jeans, he opened his eyes to see a woman--oh God, he'd realized with sick horror, that woman is Dean. Dean!--jumping up and down in front of the mirror while wearing nothing other than a pair boxer briefs. Sam slammed his eyes shut again; the last thing he'd ever imagined waking up to was the sight of his brother's breasts.

"Good morning, Samantha." Sam heard the grin in Dean's voice.

Sam pulled a pillow over his face. "In what way is this good? This is completely fucked up."

"It is pretty fucked up, but it could be worse. I mean, I have pretty nice tits, and--"

"Oh my God, I don't want to see or hear about your tits!"

"Oooh, delicate Samantha," Dean grumbled. A minute later he smacked Sam's legs. "I put a shirt on, you're safe."

Sam pulled the pillow off of his head and sat up. Dean had put on a black t-shirt, and while it left little to the imagination at least he wasn't bouncing up and down in front of the mirror anymore. "This sucks so much."

"Come on, you need to get up and go get us some stuff."

"What, why do I have to go?"

"I've been thinking about it, and you look like you're 5'8" maybe? If you wear my jeans and just roll them up a little they shouldn't be too bad, and if you lace my boots on really tight you can probably walk without falling down. I saw a Dollar General down a few blocks, so you can pick us up some basic clothes--some stretchy, uh, yoga pants? And flip-flops or something. And underwear. And breakfast. Then we can go to Wal-Mart or whatever and get some real clothes."

Sam sighed heavily. "Can't I just stay here in bed until the moon is over?"

"Nope. And yesterday made it obvious that we can't wear our own clothes. I certainly can't wear yours, Gigantor, so it's all you."

"Great." Sam unbuttoned his jeans and yanked them down to avoid falling on his face and then got out of bed. Dean handed him the clothes, and Sam took them before slamming the bathroom door shut behind him.

When he turned and caught his reflection in the mirror, he felt himself start to panic again at the bizarreness of the whole thing. His hair was the same, but the face underneath was smaller, narrower. Smoother. He stood in front of the toilet for a few seconds before realizing that things weren't going to work that way, then gave in and sat down to pee. He tried to block out the process of cleaning himself up, torn between feeling like he was touching somebody else and noticing the sensations he could feel in his own body. Or what was passing for his own body now.

Dean had been right--his jeans didn't exactly fit Sam, but he didn't feel like a little kid in his father's pants either. The boots weren't great, but by the time he laced them up as tight as possible they didn't hang off his feet like clown shoes. He tucked in a t-shirt and then buttoned a flannel shirt over top, and he figured he looked like a sloppy grunge 90s flashback girl, but nothing anybody would stare at. He clomped back into the main room and looked at Girl-Dean, who was messing around with the laptop.

"I'll get back as quickly as I can."

"Nah, take your time." Dean smirked--and somehow it was still the same smirk, even on a smaller, rounder face.

"Why? I figured you'd be starving for breakfast."

"Well, yeah. But first I want to take this for a test drive."

"Huh?"

"Solo." Dean smirked again, and Sam felt sick.

"Ugh, how can you--whatever. I'll knock before I come back in."

Sam shuddered and walked outside. The Impala looked strange when Sam opened the door, and then he realized that Dean had yanked the seat way up so that he could reach the pedals the night before. Sam had to push it back one notch, just like he always did, and somehow that small familiar thing felt good. He followed the big, yellow sign to the Dollar General and walked over to the clothing section, vaguely glad that they didn't have much to choose from. He figured that everything he was buying should have some margin for error, so he chose two pairs of women's flip-flops, one medium and one large, and then two pairs of stretchy drawstring-waist pants, both medium. He added two women's hoodies, both large because hoodies were supposed to be baggy, right?

The underwear was more difficult. The numbers didn't make any sense and he didn't know which kind was right, so he just grabbed a three-pack of a size that fell somewhere in the middle and figured they would be better than nothing. Sam was in line waiting to check out when he felt a huge presence behind him, looming in a way that put Sam's nerves on edge and made him reach toward the pocket where he'd stuffed a switchblade. He turned around and the looming presence was just a guy, maybe 6'2", a little heavyset.

"Hey, sweetheart," he said, looking at Sam like Sam was something he might want to possess.

Sam felt a swell of rage and fear and discomfort, but he managed a small smile and muttered, "Hey" before turning around again. The guy didn't say anything else, didn't reach out, but Sam could feel him looming back there. So tall, his shoulders twice as broad as Sam's. It felt wrong in so many different ways, but Sam just kept his eyes front, paid for his purchases and left.

Sam's hands shook a little as he let himself back into the Impala, and he had to sit there for a moment before driving off. Nothing bad had happened, but he wasn't used to feeling small, hadn't felt vulnerable that way in a long time. He felt like he'd give anything to be ducking under low doorways again. He swung by Hardees and got breakfast sandwiches and coffee, then sat in the parking lot drinking his coffee because no way did he want to take a chance of walking in on whatever Dean was doing in there. Just…no.

When Dean's coffee was just about cold, Sam knocked on the door before letting himself in. To his relief Girl-Dean was sitting up at the table poking at the laptop. Sam fished his own clothing selections out of the bag and went back to the bathroom to get changed. The underwear felt weird, like they were too small and too big all at the same time, but the gray pants were okay, if a little short and the black hoodie covered up most of the shape of his breasts, so that was something. Dean changed after him, and his clothes fit okay, even if the hoodie didn't do as good a job of hiding Dean's shape. Sam figured they both looked kind of stupid in hoodies and flip-flops but they weren't going to stick out at Wal-Mart.

~~~

Dean had way too much fun at Wal-Mart, while Sam felt like some kind of nervous freak, constantly looking over his shoulder every time he felt or saw somebody bigger than him go by. They jumped into the deep end and hit the underwear section first. Sam just wanted it over; he grabbed a package of sports bras that looked like they'd be okay, a package of underwear that looked like they might fit better than the ones from the dollar store, and a package of socks. He was ready to move on to regular clothes, but Dean had barely begun.

"Dude, this is awesome." He grinned again, that leer looking so strange on a female face.

"I don't get how this is awesome at all." Sam crossed his arms over his chest, saw that it made his boobs stick out more, and let his arms drop back to his sides.

"I can feel up all the bras and panties without anybody thinking I'm a pervert."

"Dean, you are a pervert."

"Meh, sticks and stones." Dean set about exploring the ridiculous number of crowded lingerie aisles, occasionally cupping a hand to his own chest and then over a bra, like he was trying to size himself up. After running his hands over about a hundred bras, including a bunch of lacy ones that Sam could in no way imagine Dean wearing, and taking a couple of handfuls of them off to the fitting room, Dean ended up buying bras that were as plain as the ones Sam picked out, even if they had a lot more structure.

"I hope that was fun for you," Sam grumbled, sticking his hands deep in the pockets of his hoodie.

"Oh, it absolutely was fun for me, thank you. So, clothes?"

Shopping for clothes wasn't fun, but it wasn't anywhere near as bad as the bras and underwear. Sam did his best to ignore anything that looked particularly feminine, and after finding some jeans and slacks that fit from the misses section, he headed over to the men's department and bought t-shirts and flannels in sizes he hadn't worn since freshman year of high school. Feeling buffeted by all of the ridiculously tall guys around him, Sam headed back over to meet up with Dean, who had strayed into the juniors department and was eyeing up shirts that looked way too small even for their new female bodies. Sam didn't want to think about it.

The shoe department wasn't so bad; Sam found he could wear one of the smallest sizes in the men's section and just grabbed a pair of boots and a pair of sneakers. And Dean, thank God, didn't seem interested in the pumps and ballet flats and whatnot. His feet turned out to be too narrow for men's and boys' shoes, but he picked out some basic boots and sneakers that didn't look much different than Sam's.

"So, we're done?" Sam really wanted to get the hell out and go back to the motel room.

"I want to get a few more things. Why don't you go grab a twelve-pack and some snacks, meet me back at the registers so we can get out of here faster?"

"Fine." Sam kept his head down and hurried to over to the grocery section for beer and potato chips and Slim Jims. When he met back up with Dean, there was a package of pink razors and a can of some kind of feminine-looking shaving cream sitting on top of the clothes in his cart. "Ugh, seriously?"

Dean shrugged. "I don't know if gay chicks are cool with the hairy thing or not."

"WHAT?" The casual way Dean was dealing with this whole massively fucked up situation was making Sam's head spin.

"Dude, I don't plan on spending the whole month not getting laid, and I'm not gonna sleep with guys. I figure we're not too far from Minneapolis, and I bet they have gay chick bars there." Dean shrugged, looking excited at the prospect. "What, do you plan on being a weird, hairy girl all month?"

"It's not that weird," Sam snapped. "And anyway, I'll stay covered up, thanks."

Dean held up his hands. "Whatever floats your boat."

They went through the register, Dean paying with the one credit card they had with a borderline gender-neutral name, and then headed back to the room. Sam felt better as soon as they were inside the Impala, but once they were back in the room all he could think about was the problems they were going to have to deal with.

"Look, Dean, we need to have a conversation here."

"Okay, fine." Dean sat down at the table and gestured to the other chair. "Let's sit down and discuss this like grown women."

"DEAN!" Sam sat down but closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose against the headache building there. Dean was going to give him a stroke, an actual stroke. When he felt like he could talk without shouting he opened his eyes. "Okay, first thing, we are not women. We need to be trying to reverse this curse, and you're acting like this is all fine, like it's fine for you to just pretend to be a lesbian for a month and shave your legs and wear under-size t-shirts. What's next? Navel piercing? Tramp stamp?"

"I don't know--probably not, maybe. What difference does it make? In seven months I'm out of here whether I have a butterfly on my ass or not. I want to enjoy the time I've got, and this seems like a pretty awesome opportunity. How many people get to be blown and eaten out in one life without going through pretty serious surgery in the middle of it all? And we can't reverse this thing, all we can do is wait it out."

Sam opened his mouth and closed it again. He wanted to argue on so many points, but he picked the last one. "We have to try to reverse it. How are we supposed to hunt like this?"

"The witch is dead, the curse is set. If there is any way of reversing it, and I don't think there is, it would probably be a hell of a lot more difficult than just being girls for a month." And then, finally, Dean looked uncomfortable. "I think we have to take a break from hunting, unless something really straightforward comes our way. If we were going to stay like this forever--" Dean reached out and smacked Sam on the shoulder when he cringed. "IF we were going to stay this way, we could train and get used to fighting and hunting as women. But I don't think it's worth training all day long to get used to a new size, new center of gravity, new weapons to fit us better, all of it just for whatever couple of weeks is left by the time we feel halfway competent."

"So what do you want to do instead?"

"We need to take some pictures and make some new IDs, then I don't know. Like I said, Minneapolis. I think we can scrounge up enough cash to pay for a room for the month, and we can figure it out from there."

"Maybe we should go stay at Bobby's. You know, lay low."

"Oh man, I love Bobby but you know he'll put us through every test under the sun to make sure we're not demons or shape-shifters or something, and then he'll laugh at us for the rest of the month. Besides, Sioux Falls isn't where I want to be. Come on, Sammy, we can make the best of this."

"Great, yeah, this is such a wonderful opportunity." Sam sighed. "Fine, let's just get changed and go then."

Sam took his purchases out of the Wal-Mart bag and retreated to the bathroom. He and Dean always changed in the room together, and he never even thought about it, but this? Sam didn't know how to deal with it. He stripped down, keeping his eyes away from the bathroom mirror, then pulled on one of the sports bras and a pair of underwear--boy shorts, which felt a lot less uncomfortable to think than panties. The socks looked so small, but at least they fit his feet. He pulled on jeans, tucked in a t-shirt and buttoned a green and brown flannel shirt over top.

He laced up the brown boots and then turned to look at himself in the long mirror on the door, trying to be objective about what he saw. He looked okay; the clothes fit, and his hair was hopeless but no more than usual. If Sam saw himself on the street, he'd think, "kinda plain, practical looking girl," and then he probably wouldn't look again, and as far as Sam was concerned that was perfect. At least his new body didn't have a lot of curves, even if his shoulders seemed terribly narrow and fragile.

Sam opened the door and glared hard at Dean when he looked like he was going to say something. Dean--this strange woman who was at the same time his brother, the cognitive dissonance was giving Sam a headache--just shrugged. He was already changed, dressed like Sam and yet somehow differently. Dean's jeans were snugger, hugging his noticeably curvier hips before getting just a bit wider to cover his boots, and he had on a t-shirt and flannel like Sam but…not. The black t-shirt was untucked, but it clung and stretched over his chest, and the blue and green flannel was unbuttoned and shorter, cut smaller than Sam's. The amulet hung down just to the neckline of his t-shirt, and something between Sam's shoulders twitched at the sight of somebody else wearing that necklace, even if she really wasn't somebody else.

Even worse was the little voice in the back of Sam's head that said Dean was pretty, which pretty much made Sam want to shudder like he was covered in spiders. No.

Dean smirked then, that look that was so clearly his brother even in a female face, and said, "I look awesome, right?"

~~~

The only thing that was better about being in a female body, as far as Sam could tell, was that he was a lot more comfortable sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala for hours at a time. Even with the seat pulled up further, he could stretch his legs out so that his knees didn't get cramped up. On the other hand, the indignities of his new body kept adding up. Sitting down to take a piss in the motel bathroom had been one thing, but the rest stop toilets were a whole other situation. Plus, Sam felt like some kind of creep, going into the women's restroom. When Sam brought it up to Dean, he just shrugged it off.

"Eh," he said. "I figure the point of skin is to protect your insides from everything outside. Not gonna die from a few germs. And it would be a lot creepier if we went into the men's room looking like this."

Sam hit up the vending machines for a bag of peanuts, and of course the damn thing got stuck, hung up on a corner of the bag. Annoyed, Sam pushed on the machine, hoping to rock it enough to get the bag to fall down, but the machine didn't budge. Sam was missing eight inches of height and a hundred pounds in weight; the leverage just wasn't working in his favor. He was standing there eyeing up the machine, trying to figure out the best way to go about it, when suddenly a guy came up behind him, stuck his palm flat on the front of the machine and pushed. The machine rocked back and forth, Sam's bag of peanuts fell down.

Sam looked up to see that the guy was middle-aged, broad-shouldered but not particularly muscular-looking. Nobody he would've been the least bit intimidated by in his normal shape, but this--there was something about constantly looking up at men that was seriously freaking Sam out.

"Don't forget your nuts, Darlin'." The guy winked, and Sam felt sick. He snatched up his bag of nuts and stalked back to the Impala where Dean was rifling through his box of tapes like everything was right with the world.

Sam flung himself into the car and slammed the door shut. "Are you sure we can't do anything to reverse this or speed up the timetable or something?"

"Seriously, Sam, I know this is a fucked up situation. I mean, this bra is not the most comfortable thing in the world." He reached one hand through the neck of his shirt and pulled on the straps, wincing. "But we weren't turned into dogs or given hideous weeping sores or, I don't know, wings or something. We can live with this." Dean looked at Sam then, eyed him up and down like he was looking for wounds. "At least I can. What's going on with you?"

"It's just--" Sam sighed, resigned himself to admitting it. "I'm so small." Dean raised one eyebrow and opened his mouth, and Sam cut him off. "I don't mean my breasts, Dean!"

"Okay, okay. But you're not that small. You're taller than Ellen and Jo. You're still taller than me."

"It just feels weird, all these guys around looming over me, calling me pet names like I belong to them or something. Usually, I hardly ever run into anybody who's noticeably taller than me."

"They'd have to be a circus freak."

"Shut up."

"Okay, okay. But the height you are, you were shorter than that until what? Tenth grade? It wasn't that long ago, dude."

"Yeah, and I hated that! I hated--you know, Dad was always so tall and big, and then you got tall and big, and most of the other guys in my class were bigger. It sucked. It sucked a lot. And now I'm this skinny girl, and I don't feel like I can defend myself. How are you not worried about this, too?"

"Aw, hell, I'm used to being around you all the damn time, Gigantor. And I'm still armed, I still know how to figure out who's dangerous and who's just bluffing. I think we'll be okay."

"I don't know. I don't feel good about this."

"Well, you're still good at making IDs so we're covered there. I have to admit it feels weird to have fake IDs with almost our real names on them. But I don't care as long as I can get into bars and maybe pick up some work. And just think, in less than a month you'll be back to intimidating people with your man musk."

Sam closed his eyes and tried to sleep the rest of the way to Minneapolis.

~~~

The weekly rental efficiency they found to rent in Minneapolis wasn't horrible, which was a good thing because Sam thought he might just spend the rest of the month there. At least he could use the time to focus on research, try to find a way out of the deal. He thought he'd check out one of the university libraries--one day when he felt like going outside.

Dean didn't seem to have a problem with anything. He took the laptop to some cafe with Wi-Fi and came back with a printed out list of places he wanted to check out. He brought warm jackets for the both of them home from a thrift store and then headed out the door at night with his hair gelled up differently than usual, wearing one of those clingy t-shirts with just the jacket over top. He didn't come home until 4am, and Sam tried not to spend the whole night thinking about the things that could happen to a woman alone at night. Even if Dean did have a knife stuffed down in his bra and guns in the Impala.

After two more nights like that, Dean came home with a job--tending bar and waiting tables at his favorite bar during their afternoon hours. It would be enough to keep them in food and gas until they a) got some new cards, and b) looked like they could be the guys whose names were on them.

Sam kept coming up with excuses to stay in the room, and then two days later he ended up with both the best excuse ever and a pressing need to go out: he was bleeding. In his underwear. Sam had been trying to not pay much attention to the space between his legs when he went to the bathroom or showered, but apparently it wasn't going to put up with being ignored.

He went to the bathroom and sat down to see blood spread across the crotch of his heather gray underwear, more on the toilet paper and--God--his hand. Sam panicked for a minute; part of it was how the hell is this my life and part was that normally blood meant a wound, something that needed to be fixed. He didn't think he could fix this, but he had to do something before he ruined all of his crappy Wal-Mart clothes. He yanked about five feet of toilet paper off the roll and carefully folded it over and over itself in six-inch lengths then put it carefully over the blood stain and held it there as he pulled his damp underwear up.

After scrubbing his hands, Sam put on his sneakers. He stayed with the black casual pants that weren't showing the bloodstain but layered an over-sized flannel shirt and his jacket over top of his t-shirt and stuffed his wallet, room key and switchblade in the jacket pockets. He looked at his handgun, but he didn't think it would stay put if he tucked in the back of his pants, and none of his pockets were big enough. He hoped he wouldn't need it as he steeled himself and stepped outside.

The convenience store was only two blocks away and Sam walked quickly--his stride length was shorter now, but quicker steps moved him along at his usual speed. Some guy at a bus stop tried to talk to Sam, but he just kept walking until he could get inside the store. It took him a minute to find what he needed, but on a shelf underneath an assortment of over-the-counter medicines and another shelf of shampoo and soap was a shelf of feminine products.

Sam had purchased them before, precisely three times. All of them had been for Jess, and Sam had used his phone to take a picture of the empty box she had in the apartment so that he could find exactly the same thing in the huge aisle at Walgreens, and that had been fine because he wasn't like a fifteen year-old embarrassed about buying condoms. He was a man buying supplies for his girlfriend, and there was nothing wrong with that.

Now, in the midst of the surreality of buying them for himself, even the small convenience store selection was confusing. He knew the basics--pads outside versus tampons inside--and while the thought of shoving a tampon up inside him gave him the shivers, the idea of continually leaking into his underwear was deeply unappealing. Now that he was aware of what was happening, he could feel it, a slow ooze.

After staring at the shelf long enough to have the clerk eyeing him up like a potential shoplifter, Sam decided to delay the decision. He picked up a box of thin-maxi-something pads and a box of tampons that promised pearly smoothness, which sounded better than cardboard. He didn't see the kind he'd bought for Jess, wallet-size boxes of bullet-like tampons, but he figured it was just as well.

Sam paid for his supplies and hurried back to the room, crossing over to the other side of the street to avoid the man who was still standing at the bus stop. Back in the bathroom at the efficiency, Sam sat and read the instructions for the tampons before groping around with one of them. It was weird, like some kind of an injection, but it wasn't too bad. He took a shower and changed, but then his back and his stomach started to hurt at the same time somehow so he curled up in bed and dreamed about being himself.

When Dean got home from work, Sam just looked at him from under the covers, and Dean frowned. "You sick?"

"Not really." Sam sighed and reached around to rub his back. "I. Have cramps."

"What, you ate something bad?"

"Dean," Sam groaned his frustration into his pillow. "I have my fucking period."

Dean's mouth opened in a perfect O and for once since just after the beginning of the whole debacle he looked like he understood the horror of their situation. Then he tilted a wry grin at Sam and quipped, "Hey, at least we're used to dealing with blood, right?"

"You wait," Sam growled, and Dean backed off, hands in the air.

For the next few days, Dean left Sam in peace, and Sam was grateful that he kept bringing food back to the room so that Sam didn't have to go out. The whole thing felt unendingly disgusting and painful and humiliating, but then after a few days the worst of it was over.

~~~

The first day that Sam was feeling more like a regular person and less like a Full-Time Menstruator, he put on jeans instead of sweats and sat at the table with the laptop instead of folding up around it on the bed. Dean sat down across from him before he left for work and pushed the laptop closed. Sam glared across the table but Dean just raised one eyebrow.

"You've got to get out of this room, and I'm ready to stage an intervention if I have to."

"You and who else?"

"Huh?"

"You need more than one person for an intervention, at least according to the crap I've been watching on TV."

"This is why you need to get out more." Dean shook his head. "Look, just come to work with me. There are these big, dark booths, and you can take over one of them; might just have to share it with me or one of the chicks that work there when we're on break."

"I really don't want to."

"I really don't care." Dean stood and tugged on Sam's arm. "Come on, put on some shoes and man the fuck up. Anyway, the fries there are really good, and I'll make up a fresh batch just for you."

Sam sighed and stood up, shoved his feet into the boots that always, always looked like they'd be too small for his feet. "Fine. I'm doing it for the fries."

Dean smirked and waited as Sam stuffed the laptop and a couple books into his battered old backpack. He pulled on his coat, took a deep breath, and walked out to the car like he didn't hate every step he was taking.

The bar was grungy but no worse than a hundred other bars Sam had spent time in--usually waiting for Dean to finish playing pool or hitting on girls or whatever. And it was immediately apparent why Dean liked the place so much when Sam saw the pair of pool tables in the back. The room was mostly empty, this clearly not their peak time, but of the four customers Sam could see three were women and the one guy didn't seem likely to be hitting on women.

It was...okay. Sam felt his shoulders relax, and he headed to the table Dean pointed out and set up shop. The bar didn't have Wi-Fi, but the signal from a nearby coffee shop was strong enough to browse the web, and that was good enough for Sam. Dean, a black apron tied over his jeans and ridiculously snug t-shirt, brought Sam a glass of Coke and a big plate of fries that were just as good as promised--hot and salty and delicious.

Sam was just getting bored with his current thread of research when he felt somebody looking at him and glanced up to see a woman standing next to his table--short and curvy with wavy blond hair down to her shoulders, wearing a sweater and a skirt and warm-looking tights.

"Um, hi?" Sam wasn't sure if she was just standing there waiting for somebody or trying to get his attention.

"Hi!" She looked right at Sam and smiled brightly. "So you're Dee's sister?"

The word sister stuck in Sam's brain as wrongwrongwrong, and he realized that he hadn't even known what Dean was calling himself, which made Sam distantly grateful that he could stick with his own name. "Yeah, apparently I am. Do you work here, too?"

"No, I work at the bookstore down the street, but I come here for lunch pretty much every day."

"Cool." Sam didn't know what to say; he felt suddenly worried that he'd say the wrong thing, something so obviously man-like that everybody would know there was something wrong with him.

"Actually, it looks like Dee's bringing out my salad now. Do you mind if I sit?"

"Uh, no?" The girl frowned slightly, and Sam realized that he was just being rude. "I mean, no of course not. Please." He waved at the empty side of the booth, and she smiled and sat down.

Dean put the salad and an iced tea down on the table and then gave Sam significant looks from behind the girl's back, but Sam just did his best to ignore Dean until he had to give up and go back to work.

"So, I'm Sam, in case Dea--" Sam had to force himself to swallow the n and passed it off as a cough. "In case Dee didn't tell you."

"My name's Allison." She smiled and reached across the table to shake Sam's hand, then let go slowly before picking up her fork. "Dee mentioned her geeky little sister, but you are not what I was expecting."

"Sorry?"

"Don't be!" She smiled again, looking right into Sam's eyes for a moment before looking back down at her salad and starting to eat.

Sam sipped on the watery dregs of his Coke and realized with a weird kind of not-horror that he was being flirted with, that Allison was flirting with him. And he didn't know enough to tell if he really liked her, but she was cute and he felt sort of big sitting across from her.

"So, Dee said you're a grad student?"

Sam wasn't sure exactly what sort of cover story Dean has used, but he just nodded. "Yeah, I'm kind of taking some time off to work on my thesis."

"Oh wow, what are you studying?"

Sam looked at the book that was in view and went with it. "Mythology and folklore, especially how those beliefs persist in the modern day."

Allison, as it turned out, knew more than a passing amount about the subject, and they spent half an hour or more talking about books before she looked at her watch and frowned. "Aw, damn, I have to be at work five minutes ago."

"Oh, I guess you've got to go then?" Sam found himself genuinely wishing she could stay.

"Unfortunately I do! But I get off work at seven." She smiled, and Sam realized with a lurch that she was asking him out, or fishing for him to ask her out. And Sam wasn't entirely opposed to the idea but he didn't feel ready to be out at night, with the whole world around him.

"I wish I could come by then, but I have to do some stuff tonight. But I'll be here tomorrow. Do you want to have lunch together again?"

"That would be great!" Allison stood up, a smooth motion of her hips sliding out of the booth, and Sam clambered up to stand too.

"It was nice to meet you," Sam said, feeling like a dork--but then he always felt like a dork when he talked to women.

Allison smiled again and turned to leave. On her way out the door she said something to Dean, and Sam couldn't hear it but he could see the barely-restrained laughter in the lines around Dean's eyes. Dean came over with a pitcher to refill Sam's Coke and sat down in the seat Allison had vacated.

"What?" Sam asked, plopping back into his seat. "What did she say to you?"

Dean laughed and then forced himself to make a straight face. "She said that I didn't tell her my sister was such a gentleman."

"What? I mean, did you tell her I'm--we're--really guys?" Sam whispered viciously.

"Hell, no." Dean grinned then and reached over to pat Sam's arm. "Congratulations Sammy, it took turning into a woman to make you butch." Dean stood up, still grinning like an idiot, and walked away.

~~~

Sam was already awake the next morning, eating a bowl of cereal and reading the newspaper, when Dean woke up.

"Holy shit!" Dean's voice was higher than its new normal, and Sam turned around to see him sitting up halfway out of bed, staring down under the comforter.

"What?"

"Holy shit, Sam, you weren't fucking around. It's like I killed something." Dean looked up, his eyes wide, mouth turned down in horror. "It's like I killed something with my crotch."

Sam went over to his bag to find his leftover period supplies and tossed them over to Dean's bed.

"Goddamn," Dean complained. "I felt weird last night but I thought I had a bad burrito or something. Fuck this shit, Sammy."

Now, now that Dean was getting an idea of how much this whole thing sucked, Sam finally knew that even if their lives were terminally screwed, even if he didn't know how he was going to save Dean in the end, they were going to get through the rest of this mixed-up month just fine.

Sam laughed and lobbed the bottle of Advil in Dean's direction before heading out to give Dean some space to deal with things. He had a date with a lesbian and a brother with his period but maybe, just maybe, it would be a good day.