"Sam?" Dean coughed and cleared his throat. "Sam?" Huh. His voice sounded... odd.

Sam didn't open his eyes, but mumbled, "What, Dean?" and turned onto his side, facing his brother.

Dean fell out of the bed. Literally, fell onto the floor and refused to get up. Because if he got up, he'd have to see it again. See himself. Lying in the bed across the room from him. And that just wasn't something he could handle at seven a.m.

"Dude," Sam began, "what the-"

"Don't," Dean warned. "Just leave me here, don't question it, and go back to sleep." Dean, as badly as he wished he weren't, was coming to terms with exactly what was going on, and quickly added, "Keep your eyes shut, Sam. Do not look at me. Just sleep."

Of course, Sam just couldn't listen to a damn word he was told, and lifted his head from the bed to peer down at his brother.

Or, not his brother.

Oh, god.

"Dean." When Sam spoke again, he realized that his voice was much more gravelly and low than it should be.

Oh, god.

"I don't know," Dean admitted, answering Sam's unasked question. "If we don't talk about it, maybe it'll go away."

"Oh, yeah, I'm sure that'll work out real well."

If this were any other situation, Dean may have laughed at Sam's usual sarcastic tone being spit at him in his own voice. However, this was not any other situation. This was this situation. The situation of himself and his brother being in one another's bodies. And this was not a situation to laugh about.

"How the hell could this have even..." Sam trailed off. "God dammit, Dean. Fuckin' witches."

Dean clapped his hand over his (Sam's) eyes and groaned. "Why'd we have to take a job in Salem, man? I hate witches. And it was probably your fault. If you would've just given her some like she wanted in the first place-"

"Seriously?!" Sam exclaimed incredulously. "I'm sorry that I don't let random freaky witches in my pants."

"Yeah, well..." Dean sat up, disoriented by how much taller Sam's torso was than his own. "Maybe if you did we wouldn't have problems like this."

Sam sighed, burying his face in his pillow. "I need a shower."

"No way, dude." Dean demanded, rising to his feet. "My body, my responsibility to shower. You can take one after we get this all sorted out."

Sam turned his head to the side to look at... er... himself. "We're not gonna be able to get shit sorted out until I shower, Dean. I can't function without one. It's like you and coffee."

Dean shook his head, refusing to budge. "Hell no. Get up and get dressed. We're gonna head back up to Salem and get that bitch to fix this, because I am really not feelin' bein' Gigantor."

Sam rolled his eyes but reluctantly did as he was told, crossing the room to Dean's duffel to pull out a set of clothing and, on instinct, making his way to the bathroom.

Dean snorted.

"What?"

"Who're you hiding from, Sam? Me? It's my body," Dean pointed out. "And I'm not sure I want you alone with it, anyway. You might decide you like it too much."

Sam shot Dean bitchface number five (which, Dean thought, looked fucking weird on himself), but started shucking off his clothes, nevertheless.

Dean couldn't help but watch. Of course, he saw himself naked every day, but knowing it was Sam made it... different. Sam almost seemed nervous, taking extreme care with the extraction of each article of clothing and pointedly not looking at any part of Dean's body, just getting the job done as respectably as he could.

When Sam finished and looked up, he caught Dean staring and shook his head. "God, you really are obsessed with yourself, aren't you?"

Dean blinked and retaliated, "Just made me realize I should record myself stripping, Sammy. Have you seen me lately? Damn."

Sam didn't respond. Instead, he began pulling clothes out of his own bag and tossing them to his brother to put on.

Dean took them and placed them on the bed beside him so that he could get undressed. He pulled off his shirt and started to throw it to Sam, but stopped, pulling his arm back. "Is this mine?"

Sam held his hand out and Dean passed the shirt to him for him to examine. Sam shrugged. "Dunno. Could be. We get our shit so mixed up all the time, I honestly have no idea."

"Huh." Dean disregarded it and got back to business, pushing Sam's pants and underwear down from his hips. Standing in front of Sam, in Sam's body, naked, Dean sort of understood why Sam had wanted privacy when changing moments ago. It was an odd feeling. More exposing than being naked in your own skin, even. He quickly pulled on a new pair of boxers, almost tripping because he wasn't used to balancing so much height, let alone on one leg, but stopped once they were secured around his waist. Dean began tracing a long scar from low on the left side of his/Sam's stomach to... well, he wasn't going to follow through with the whole thing. It went a little too far down for comfort. "What's this from?" he asked, indicating the scar to Sam.

Sam looked at it in an assessing manner before responding, "That's from when I was, like, ten. Remember? We were staying in that crappy trailer in Ohio, and Dad was on a hunt. There was a pond outside, and I ran out and jumped in while you were taking a shower. Sliced myself open on a rock."

Dean rubbed his jaw. "Oh, yeah. I do remember that. Man, you scared me to death."

Sam chuckled. "Yeah. I did."

Dean finished re-dressing and swiped the keys to the Impala off the table while Sam shoved their remaining belongings quickly into their bags. "Got everything?" he asked.

Sam nodded. "Yeah, I think so."

Dean began looking around the room, a somewhat lost expression on his face.

"What?"

"Making sure we didn't have any scissors anywhere."

Sam raised an eyebrow, puzzled. "Why do you need scissors?"

Dean grinned, then. "Just thought I'd cut your hair. This gives me the perfect opportunity."

"You cut my hair, and I swear to god I'll scratch up the car so bad you can't recognize it," Sam countered without missing a beat.

"...Bitch."

"Jerk."