AU, Sam is born a girl, everything else is the same. Slight weecest, Wincest later, because I can't seem to find people who fit them better. God they're so precious.

Samantha Winchester was not like other girls—not that she took much pride in that. While other girls played with barbies, Sam was learning to stitch the wounds her father always seemed to come back with. Other girls learned how to braid their hair, Sam learned to strip and reassemble a gun in 30 seconds. When girls picked out dresses for picture day, Sam was having target practice, her brother Dean's hand always there when the recoil on the gun was too strong.

So, no, Sam wasn't like other girls—but she wanted to be. She'd sit awake at night, the nameless towns passing by the window of the only home she'd ever really known, the Impala, and wished for a bed—a big one, fluffy and soft and that didn't creak every time she moved like the ones in the Motels they lived out of, with thick soft blankets. She wanted four walls, painted her favorite color, green. She wanted a closet, not a duffel bag. She hated living from town to town, watching her father, and even her brother go out to hunt all the creepy crawly things—like the thing that killed her mother. She would watch them come through the door, blood spattering on the pale beige of the already stained carpet, and feel a little more desperate each time she had to take up a needle.

But, she had to admit, that there were times, when their father wasn't around, with his aching silences and his drunken glares (because maybe her face reminded him too much of her mother, though she didn't know it.) when she was alone with Dean, when he'd turn on the radio and blast it—and they'd dance, even though Dean can't dance, he did it anyway. He did it for her. And so he'd stumble as she twirled in her makeshift skirt of two shirts tied around her waist, his hands grabbing onto her shoulders to keep from falling over—laughing until their sides hurt because they didn't want to cry anymore. He'd play any station that didn't play mullet rock, because as much as they loved it—enough was enough honestly. They'd listen to anything, like tonight, Pat Benatar blared through the speakers and Sam's hair was coming loose from the pony tail she always kept it in, soft brown tresses falling around her. She was barley 12—but she'd never had a haircut in her life, and it fell past her elbows, swishing around her in a curtain.

For all that Dean remembered of his mother, Sam did look a lot like her, the same soft shape of the eyes, same oval shaped face, and even her voice when she sang. Sometimes it almost hurt to look at her, but he never uttered a word, and neither did his father.

Sam spun, her bare heels grinding into the grungy carpet, the two tone shirts tied around her waist fluttering with her movement, lifting to show milky white knees, her hair swinging into her face. Dean lurched forward in an awkward dance, his hands going into air guitar mode, his head bobbing to the beat coming from the well worn radio. She shrieked a laugh and spun again, her body colliding with Dean's their legs tangling and down they fell.

The siblings landed on the carpet with a muted thump, their limbs tangled and heads spinning. Sam's lungs (and her new, barley there, boobs) ached from the impact—her body laying half across Dean who was already hard with muscle. Dean lifted his head a bit to make sure Sam was ok, and seeing her dazed hazel eyes gazing back at him, he let his head fall back. "Ow, Sam."

"Sorry." She said, a light laugh bubbling on her lips. She could feel her face flushing, embarrassed at her clumsiness, and pushed herself up, bracing her hands on Dean's chest. "Are you ok?" She peered down at him, her hair falling forward over her shoulder and creating a curtain. It tickled Dean's ear, and he flushed, realizing just how close her face was.

"I'm fine, Sammy." He said, ignoring how her nose wrinkled at the nickname. "Get off, would ya?" He huffed. She blinked her big doe eyes at him, hurt already beginning to settle in them even as she pushed off the ground and walked back to her bed at the other side of the room. Her thin fingers tugged at the knots of the shirt arms at her sides—pulling them apart, leaving her in a pair of soft cotton shorts. She tossed the shirts, Dean's, across the divide between their beds and grabbed her bag from the floor before heading to the bathroom, not looking back even once.

Dean watched her go, he sighed and sat up running a hand through his close cropped hair. He was probably too harsh on her, she was just a kid, didn't know that you shouldn't be that close to your brother. He fought back the hurt look in her eyes and stared at the tangled shirts on his bed. Soon she'd be too big to want to wear his shirts like that. She'd want a real skirt, a real dress. She'd want a real dance, a date to go dancing with. Dean thought of her, changing every day, no longer the fragile little birdlike creature he'd become accustomed to, her hips wider now, harder for them to all squeeze into the front seat of the Impala on cold winter days when the heater used up too much gas—her face losing the baby fat, her legs sleeker, more muscle. He was watching her grow up, and it scared him.

::

Sam emerged from the bathroom half an hour later, her hair pulled back into a loose bun at the back of her head—wearing one of Dean's old Metallica t-shirts and a pair of worn leggings. The nights were getting colder again, and since John had headed out on a hunt, she wouldn't be sharing a bed with Dean, and therefore couldn't curl up against his back like she usually did when she was cold.

She pushed the bathroom door open and came out with a cloud of steam, her bag swinging from her hand, still humming the song from earlier. She looked around the room quickly and found that Dean wasn't in it. She frowned, it wasn't like him to just leave without telling her—so she scanned the room for a note. When she found none, she scanned again, this time for broken salt lines, her heart pounding. Still, she found nothing and so she began to relax. He was probably just walking to the nearest convenience store. Most likely for pie. She rolled her eyes and pulled on a pair or thick socks and her boots, lacing them quickly, she headed for the door.

She didn't have far to go though, because she could see him, sitting on top of the low roof of the bar to the right of the Motel. Sam rolled her eyes and picked her way quietly among the cars in the parking lot until she reached the ladder bolted into the back of the bar, and hauled herself up it.

Dean didn't notice her until she spoke. "You scared the hell out of me." He jumped and swore under his breath, twisting around to look up at her.

"Ditto." He grumbled, sliding over and making room for her to sit. She sank down beside him, letting her skinny legs dangle over the edge. Up here, the world seemed quieter, she could see the lights of the city in the distance and the cars flitting to and from a million different places below her, but it all seemed very far away.

The icy wind gusted by them, her wet hair pulling the chill against her skull, her exposed arms covered in goosebumps. Dean glanced at her when he heard her teeth begin to chatter and rolled his eyes. Of course she would forget. She was always forgetting the little things, in this case, a coat.

Without speaking, he hefted her up and into his lap, pulling the sides of his coat around her thin frame, her back pressed to his chest, her head falling against his shoulder. Sam squeaked in surprise, but began to relax immediately. This was what Dean did when their Dad was too drunk to make it to another Motel—when John would pull over on the side of the road, while the nights were still too cold to be considered spring. They would squirm around on the bench seat in the back until they were pressed up against each other for warmth, and Dean would wrap the sides of his coat around her—zipping them in together, and he'd bury his face in her hair while she'd press hers into his chest. Needless to say, this was nothing new.

"Thanks." She said, her teeth still slightly chattering. She pushed her arms back, sliding them awkwardly around Dean's stomach, pressing her fingers against him through the thin material of his T-shirt to warm them. Her brother simply nodded and let his chin rest on her shoulder, looking out over the small New York town.

"Do you think he's alright?" She asks after a while, because she has to. Her father scares her. Terrifies her, actually. He's never hit her—knows he loves her, but when he looks at her sometimes, it was like he was looking right through her, and it scared her more than anything in the whole world.

Dean's hands come up to cross in her lap, one hand pressing against her stomach, pulling her closer to him. "Dad's always ok." His standard reply is enough to calm her, because he's right. She's never doubted it, not really. To her, her father was invincible. Scary, empty, broken, drowning in booze—but invincible. Again the image of his teak colored eyes, glazed and drilling into her face, his face filled with anger and pain that she couldn't understand. The image sends shivers down her spine and she huddles closer to Dean under the thick leather of their fathers coat.

"Why does he look at me like he hates me, Dean?" The words are out before she can stop them, and she bites down on her bottom lip until she's sure it's going to bleed when she feels her brother stiffen under her.

"Sammy," Dean sounds shocked, and she turns her head slightly to find that for the second time tonight they're too close. "Dad doesn't hate you." His mind circles endlessly, searching his memory for anything that would've made her say that—that would've made her big eyes so sad. "What are you talking about?" His voice is quiet, his breath, smelling of beer (that he's not supposed to be having, but he gives her some so she doesn't kick up a fuss.) and the apple she made him eat earlier. She realizes that he's honestly never seen the looks that John sent her, and her stomach flies up into her throat because why did she have to open her mouth.

Sam turned her head away, wishing she'd kept the thought in her head, but now it was out, and if she knew Dean at all—which she did, it wasn't going to go away.

"Sam." He shakes her slightly, trying to press her into giving him an answer. She sighs and lets her head drop forward, her bangs, the only part of her hair that's ever seen anything like a scissor (ok, so it was a knife, but whatever. She thinks it came out well enough.) slipping from where she'd combed them back and falling into her face in wisps. "Sam you can't just say something like that. Come on." Dean huffs into the back of her neck.

"Sometimes.." She trailed off, pushing her fingers out from under the edge of Dean's coat and grasping at his fingers still resting in her lap. "When he drinks, he looks at me like.. I don't know, like I'm wrong. Like he hates me. And I just—" Her throat became too tight to go on, so she just stared down at their fingers, now twined together. Dean's hands were so much bigger, tan against her milky skin, dotted with scars already—he had the hands of a hunter at 16. She frowned and wished she could wipe away the tears that were gathering in her eyes.

Dean let out a deep breath. "He looks at you, and see's mom, Sammy." He whispered, pressing his face into the back of her head, the softness of her damp hair brushing his face, his hot breath next to her ear, comforting in the chill of the night. He feels Sam quake at the words, and grips her fingers a little tighter. "You look like her. I don't know if I ever told you that." He felt, more than heard his little sisters squeaky "no" as her chest heaved, trying not to cry. This was delicate territory, he knew, it was sore, because Sam was so young—still wanted a normal life, still thought it was possible—and no one would tell her about their mother. She'd long ago stopped asking, because Dean was either too young to remember much, or too possessive over his memories to answer, and John never spoke of her at all.

Sam blinked, and the tears streaked down her face, the wind making them into trails of ice the second they touched her skin. She felt like she couldn't get enough air, and kept gasping—before she knew it she was full out sobbing. It was so stupid, because Winchesters don't cry—but she couldn't stop herself. It wasn't even like anything bad had happened to make her stupid tears acceptable. All Dean had done was tell her something that should've made her happy. It was the first nugget of information about her mother that she'd gotten in months—since the day Dean told her she had long hair, like hers, but their mom's had been honey blonde.

Dean was at a loss. Sam almost never cried, she was always so bright, hopeful, always smiling at him even when all Dean wanted was to be alone—she was always pushing away the darkness that settled closer with every hunt that their father left him behind. She'd never cried like this, not since she'd tripped while they were trying to outrun a ghost, and had broken her leg when she was eight. He wrapped his arms around her, crushing her quaking form against him under the coat, and nuzzled his face into the sweet smelling knot of hair at the back of her head, humming 'Hey Jude' softly in her ear.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Sam stopped shaking in his arms, her breaths coming more evenly. Dean kept humming, rubbing his hands over her arms from above the leather. Ever since she was a baby, Dean had been lulling her to sleep on hard nights with the same song he was humming now—and even though his voice was deeper with each passing year, the notes becoming scratchy and bone ringingly deep, she would never fail to be calmed by her big brothers voice in her ear.

The song ended and Dean placed a cold kiss to her temple. He didn't know how long they'd been up here, but the night was an inky black, the stars washed out and cold—November air gusting by them, and even in their cozy little bundle, it was beginning to get cold. "Lets go in, ok?" He asked, his voice hushed. She nodded jerkily and waited for him to slide down the zipper and let her out. When he did she clambered awkwardly off of his lap and stood on the gravel roof, her legs almost numb from sitting for so long. Dean climbs to his feet, more gracefully than her, and she grabs his hand again—knowing she's a little old to be holding his hand, but he doesn't say anything and neither does she.

When they get back inside the motel, she plunks down on the bed and pulls off her boots. They used to be Dean's, but he outgrew them when they were still good, so when her old ones had fallen off her feet from overuse, John pushed them at her, and that had been that. The boots dropped to the floor with a clunk, and she glanced over at the clock on the bedside table, her eyes widening when she saw it was almost midnight.

"Are you tired?" Dean asked, following her gaze to the clock.

"No." She said, standing up again. She stretched her arms above her head, her joints cracking the way they always did after she'd sat still too long. Her eyes swung lazily around the room, everything exactly as they'd left it—salt lines intact, the radio still on, quiet but still on, and their bags tossed haphazardly on the floor between the beds. This was the way she'd grown up, having been too young to remember their home in Lawrence, blissfully, too young to remember the fire.

Dean shrugged and meandered over to the mini-fridge on the counter of the dingy kitchenette. She watched him go, shucking off his coat along the way, his arms and back already corded with muscle, his strides long and rugged, the walk of a hunter. She'd know it anywhere. Bobby had it, so did their dad. Someday, she knew with dread, she'd have it too. Dean rifled through the small amount of food they'd grabbed on the way here, nothing too fancy. Cheese, bread, milk, a six pack that was quickly becoming a four pack, but Dean had grabbed another one on the way out of the store and hidden it under his bed when they got in, so John wouldn't know, a bag of grapes, some microwave hungry man meals and a bunch of apples on the counter next to the sink. Her brother grabbed another beer as she sat cross legged on his bed—she never went to her own until it was time to sleep—and waited as he walked back, toeing off his boots before he dropped down on the bed as well.

"Hey De?" Sam asked, laying back on the bed, her hands folded over her stomach. Dean looked down at her, catching the old name she'd used before she could pronounce 'Dean'. It had been her first word, well—half a word really, and it had stuck since she was just a baby.

"Yeah?" He asked, twisting off the cap of the beer and tossing it, with expert aim into the small trash can by the door.

"What's the song you always sing?" She turned her face towards him. She looked so young, younger than she was—by now most girls were wearing makeup, stuffing lip gloss into tiny sequined bags, pulling the tubes out in school bathrooms, showing off that were allowed to. Sam's face was still clean, the little mole by her nose the only mark on her face at all. It was almost painful, the innocence of her face—she was beautiful, and he knew she'd grow up to be even more so.

He cleared his throat, taking a sip of beer before he answered. "It's Hey Jude, by the Beatles. Mom.. Mom used to sing it to us as a lullaby." His green eyes clashed with her hazel ones, and he could see her tucking that away, into the little folder in her head where she kept all these nuggets of information about Mary, safe and warm in her mind, the little pieces of fact about a woman she didn't remember.

"Will you sing it? I know you already.." She trailed off, her eyes slanting to the side to avoid his gaze. He took a breath in, let it sit in his lungs until it burned, and then let it out his nose. Sam still avoided his gaze, and so he set the beer bottle on the bedside table with a clink and grabbed her by her skinny arms for the second time that night—hauling her up the bed, until she was nestled into his side, her head resting on his shoulder. She started to speak, but as her mouth opened he reached for the bottle and began to sing.

"Hey Jude, don't make it bad, Take a sad song and make it better, Remember to let her into your heart, Then you can start to make it better..."

::

Sam woke the next morning in Dean's bed, her legs tangled with his, her arms wrapped tightly around him and her head pillowed on his chest. She could feel his hand on her back, heavy and warm, and she felt like a little kid again, when she'd have nightmares about strange yellow eyes and crawl into his bed in the night.

Lifting her head, she glanced around—the sun pushed it's light through the crappy blinds on the windows, streaking the floor and their legs with bars of light. She realized then that Dean hadn't changed from his jeans after she'd fallen asleep, and rolled her eyes. Sliding her eyes to the clock she saw that it was almost nine. She groaned low in her throat. They were supposed to wake up at six every morning when they weren't enrolled in school and practice both sparring and gun skills—but crying had worn her out, and Dean had two beers instead of just one last night, it was no mystery that they had slept so late.

"Dean." She said, pushing her wayward hair out of her face as she sat up, his arm falling from her back. She shook him lightly, smiling when he groaned and turned his head away from her. "Dean, wake up." She said again, poking him roughly in the chest.

"Mm.. Stop.." Dean's sleepy voice curled around her, warming her from head to toe and settling in her stomach. She loved Dean's sleepy voice—almost as much as Dean loved pie.

"You have to wake up." She laughed, bending down to kiss his nose. He cracked one eye open to glare tiredly at her, the startling green color lit up by the morning sunlight. "Come on, up." She shifted back, onto her knees and grabbed the flaps of his flannel shirt, using them to pull him upward. For a girl of 12, she was pretty strong. Dean groaned and finally sat up, reaching out and rubbing his hand roughly over the top of her head, pulling hairs form her already hopelessly ruined bun.

"What time is it?" Dean asked, clearing his throat and losing the sleepy tinge to his voice. She tried not to be disappointed.

"A little after nine." She answered, hoping that today wouldn't be one of her brothers "Dad's rules are law" days. In which case he'd drag her up, to the barren field behind the motel to spar in the cold, and right now, with her body still buzzing with warmth she'd sucked from Dean, her head still kind of heavy with sleep—that was the last thing she wanted to do.

Dean glanced from her to the clock, twisting his mouth up in indecision. He could tell that she was still tired, and after last night, he couldn't blame her. He didn't really feel like going out into the cold either. They could always spar later—it wasn't like John was here to yell at them anyways.

Sam laughed when Dean shrugged and flopped back down on the bed, grabbing onto her shoulder and bringing her with him. "No sparring then?" She asked, her voice light and sweet and going straight to Dean's head. He shook his head, smiling at her and pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. It was nice, sometimes to just hang out with his little sister. Lately, with all the frustration of John not letting him go on a hunt, even though he was old enough—he'd forgotten that. Last night, dancing with her, was the first time he'd relaxed in weeks and it had felt nice. "Thank God." She said, and snuggled closer to him.

"What do you wanna do today?" Dean asked, tilting his head to glance down at her, curled up against him, her hand fisted in the material of his shirt. She didn't answer for a moment, thinking about it. They didn't have much money—not counting the Credit cards that their dad used to book rooms, all illegal, and so therefore she didn't want to use them. She wished they owned boardgames, or a Nintendo, or anything. Instead, all they had was a pack of cards and a couple of old Disney movies she still toted around in secret. Maybe, if she wheedled enough, she'd get him to take her for a walk. Maybe he'd even let her wear one of his coats since hers were all worn out—she thought she'd seen a playground a few blocks back, and she wasn't too old to deny herself the pleasure of swings. Yet.

"De.." She began, her eyes going big and soft like a puppy. Dean groaned, knowing he wasn't going to like this. "There was a playground.. not too far back when Dad dropped us off and.." He sighed and glanced back at the clock.

"Fine, Sammy." He said, pulling her closer. He knew he'd be bored out of his mind, but at least she'd be happy—and he never knew, there might be someone there closer to his age, maybe even a hot girl or two. "We'll go in a little while ok? First we've got to eat and shower and stuff." He said, but didn't move. Sam smiled into his shoulder, snuggling closer.

::

An hour later Dean dragged himself, and a very content Samantha out of bed. Half carrying her to the table and dropping her into a seat as he went to rummage up some food. He cut an apple into slices for her and gave her a glass of milk, toasted her some bread and set her makeshift breakfast in front of her. He knew it wasn't much—they didn't even have any butter for her to put on the toast, but she still smiled at him, her hair falling all around her face. He smiled back.

He made himself a cheese sandwich and scarfed it down quickly before he went to go shower. Sam could hear him singing (horribly off-key) 'The Eye Of The Tiger' and snickered to herself as she shucked off her leggings and dug around in her bag for a clean pair of jeans. She wriggled into a pair of faded jeans with holes in the knees, and pulled an old sweater the color of hot-coco on over the training bra her father had dragged her off to buy. The experience had been mortifying. The lady that was there though had been kind, realizing that John was an only parent just from the embarrassed way Sam and his eyes slid away from each other, she'd helped Sam find a modest white training bra. And two more until Sam really started growing. They'd come back with the Walmart bag, which she'd tossed onto her bed, her face flushing with shame and headed straight to the kitchenette of their Motel desperate to get away from her father. Dean hadn't stopped laughing for twenty minutes, so she'd given him a black eye that lasted for a week—and earned a pat on the back from John who mumbled, "Nice right hook."

When Dean came out of the shower, she pushed past her shirtless brother who was still humming the last strains of another classic and wiped the steam from the mirror. Sam pulled her hair around the side of her head and braided it, quick, efficient. For a second she looked at herself in the mirror. Short, unlike the men in her family—Dean was already six feet, and he still had room to grow, while she barley crested five. There wasn't much to her. Her eyes were wide and sometimes she wished they wouldn't be so disconcerting, their color an odd green brown that swirled together. Her skin was pale, not enough time spent in the sun—whereas Dean was golden brown, his skin like bronze in the light. She thought of the girls Dean always seemed to hang around with, usually blondes. Blondes with large breasts and blue eyes that caked on the makeup, and tilted their heads and giggled and made Dean smile. She touched the end of her braid, her eyes traveling over her skinny childlike body and frowned.

"Sammy come on. You don't have that much hair." Dean's voice broke the silence, jerking Sam from her thoughts and sending blood rushing to her cheeks. She walked away from the mirror and headed to the side of Dean's bed where she'd left her boots, her face still pink.

Dean watched her lace up her boots, tugging her fraying jeans down over the tops and frowned a little. All her clothes were like that. Old, worn out, coming apart at the seams. Soon enough she'd need to buy more. He tried to push the thought of him and John waiting in a cheap superstore like Walmart or Target as she picked out durable jeans—not the kind with rinestones on the pocket, or the ones that came with the cute little belt, and shirts, not the ones that you could see right through, nothing with glitter, or sequins—she just couldn't have the things normal little girls had, and the thought made his heart a little heavier. But then she turned to him as she finished lacing up the other boot, a bright smile on her face, looking at him like she always had, and he couldn't help but smile back.

Sam watched her brother lock the door, pocket the keys and glance around, his hand always ready to grab the gun she knew was shoved in the back of his jeans, hidden by the thick leather coat. She was wrapped up in one of his jackets, it was warm and big and smelled like him, so she didn't mind that it fell almost to her knees and that the sleeves were way too long, her fingers barely poking out. She pushed the cuffs back, wiggling her fingers in the freezing air and breathed out a puff of steam. Dean glanced down at her, all small and short in his big coat and laughed. She shot him a look and pulled the coat around her in a way that told him to shove off. She liked it.

They walked down the road, the frost covered grass crunching under their boots, not saying anything. By the time they'd left the motel it was almost eleven, because Dean had decided to tease her about her braid, and that wasn't cool, because dammit, she'd worked hard on learning how to braid. So, of course they'd ended up rolling around the floor throwing light punches and mock insults until they'd run out of breath. She didn't mind though, because she still got what she wanted. She was in Dean's coat, on their way to the wooden playground she'd seen six blocks from the motel.

When they rounded the final corner, Sam had let out a little gasp of glee at the soaring spires of wood, the soft black of tires making a bridge between two structures, the swing set set to the side—and best of all, it was mostly empty. Just a young girl a few years older than Sam herself, and a little boy. Sam didn't even pay attention to the fact that the girl was exactly like the ones she'd been thinking about earlier in the day—just saw those swings and headed straight for them, her braid bouncing as she ran.

Dean watched her go, his eyes lit with amusement, it was nice watching the way she shoved the cuffs of his jacket back over her thin hands and grabbed onto the chains, pushing herself back and forth until she soared off the ground, her head tilted back as she swung. His eyes roved the rest of the park, finding only a girl and her brother, and coming up the road toward them a young couple with a toddler. Dean's eyes meandered back to the girl, her hair falling in light blonde waves down her back, her hands shoved in the pockets of her coat, her eyes darting to him, and away again every few seconds. He smirked and made his way over, keeping Sam in his peripheral vision at all times.

"Hey there," Dean said once he was a few feet away, leaning against the support beams of the monkey bars. The girl looked up at Dean, brown eyes glinting, her lips slicked with pink gloss when she smiled. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Beth." She said, turning her body to face him. "And what's yours, handsome?" She asked, laughing lightly, the sound warm on the bitter cold air.

"Dean." He said, leaning a little closer to her. She flushed lightly as she met his eyes, noticing how pretty they were—bottle green was the closest color she could come up with.

"Well, Dean, it's nice to meet you." Beth said, pulling one hand from her coat pocket and holding it out of him. He grinned his trademark, panty dropping grin and took her small soft hand in his larger one, his eyes crinkling.

Sam let her feet drag on the wood chips, slowing her down, her eyes scanning the playground for Dean, knowing he was here somewhere. Her face was cold, her nose was probably red, but she wanted him to push her on the tire swing, or maybe balance with her on the rocking platform she could see a little ways off. She took great big gusting breaths into her lungs and let them out, enjoying the air—glad to not be stuck in the motel as she hopped off the swings and went up on her tiptoes to look for him. There! Her mind crowed, she saw the back of his light brown head, the collar of their fathers leather jacket popped up in a way that only him and John could pull off, she was convinced. But there, in front of Dean, was a flash of blonde—and suddenly she remembered the girl she'd seen on her way in. Blonde, pretty, exactly the kind of girl she'd compared herself too this morning, and her stomach curled with displeasure.

Dean looked up at the sound of crunching wood chips, pausing in the act of asking Beth what school she went to, having worked up a lie about being new to the area—and saw Sammy making her way over, flushed and adorable in his coat, a sweet smile on her face.

"Hello." Sam said, stopping beside Dean, her voice high and sweet. She observed the girl before her, with her shiny leather boots and practically untouched winter jacket, the white gold of her hair, and pretty brown eyes. Sam's mouth went sour and she had to fight her very hardest to keep up the act.

"Oh, hello." The girl said, smiling at Sam, innocent enough, but with the detachment of someone talking to their neighbors children. "What's your name?" She asked.

"Sam." Sam said, holding out her hand like a good little actress. When the girl replied with 'My names, Beth.' Sam thought of the many ways that she could flip her before she'd finished the sentence. "That's a pretty name." She said, her smile still sweet and young. She could feel Dean's incredulous stare, boring through her skull. She silently vowed to always hate the name Beth.

"Thank you." Beth smiled, her voice fake as the acrylic nails that scraped Sam's palm. "This your sister?" She asked, looking up at Dean, who flashed her his charming smile and nodded. Like that wasn't obvious, whore. Sam thought. "She's cute." Beth smiled shyly up at Dean through her lashes and Sam imagined kicking her so hard her shin would snap.

"Dean." Sam tugged on his sleeve, "Come play with me on the balancing thingy." She said, her eyes hopeful. All her resentment flushed out as she stared up at him, her hands lost in the sleeves of his coat, her eyes wide and soft. He looked down at her, ready to say no, that he was busy, but found himself nodding instead. Damn those eyes.

"Sorry, sugar." Dean said, his eyes flashing back up to Beth. "Gotta go." Beth forced a smile on her face, not quite hiding the annoyance in her eyes as Sam dragged Dean away, her voice trailing back until she was out of earshot.

Dean watched Sam scramble up onto the platform, slightly amused despite himself. It was obvious she hadn't liked Beth, the second she'd slapped that sickly sweet smile on her face he'd known, and it was hard to keep his confused face neutral. "C'mon Dean." Sam called, her feet spread a few inches apart to maintain balance.

"Tell me what that was about." Dean said, his tone light, amusement glinting in his eyes. Sam let out a sigh of relief, thanking god that Dean wasn't mad at her for dragging him away from Beth. Still, she made an innocent face, her eyes wide and confused. "Don't give me that." He said, laughing.

Sam stuck her tongue out at him and lunged forward, grabbing his shoulder and hauling him closer to the platform. "Get on." She pouted. She didn't know how to explain the feeling in her gut, the sick, cold, nasty feeling like when you've been in the car too long with nothing to eat. It would sound stupid, so she would just play the possessive little sister card—just like she always did when this happened, hoping that she could stretch it's effect just a little longer. Dean crossed his arms, a smirk pulling at his lips—the message was clear, he wasn't moving until she told him why. "You're supposed to play with me." She said, knowing that she sounded spoiled, but Dean was hers, at the end of the day. She had always had him in the ways that those girls didn't, but it didn't stop the feeling in her stomach when she saw them shift closer to her big brother, all wide eyes and sultry voices that made Dean talk to them and not her. Dean laughed, and finally pulled himself up onto the unsteady slab of wood, making it quake and rock as he found his balance and knocked her off of hers.

"You're right, Sammy. I did come here to be with you." He said, a smile on his face, and Sam couldn't help but smile back, her flushed cheeks and red nose making her look like a five year old. Dean's smile got wider looking at hers, and they lurched back and forth on the shaking platform for a while, throwing fake punches and kicks, shaking the board to make the other fall off, their laughter ringing in the November air.

::

They left around two, Sam finally having to concede defeat to Dean's challenge of who could outlast the other, when her fingers got too numb to hold onto the Monkey bars well enough to keep going, and rode home on Dean's back, her arms wrapped around his shoulders and her chin on his head. The walk was long, the wind colder than before, gusting by them with more force—she nuzzled her cold nose into the back of his head and pressed cold kisses to the short cropped hair. "Cold?" Dean asked, his voice warm and comforting. She nodded, and smiled happily when Dean set her down and picked her up again so that she was facing his collarbone instead of the back of his head. She was instantly warmer, with his breath on the crook of her neck as he walked, but she saw with slight disappointment that they'd be back to the motel soon, and so Sam nuzzled closer, her hair tickling Dean's chin as she laid her face into the crook of his neck.

Dean smiled, knowing that soon she'd be too old for them to do things like this anymore, so he didn't mind her clinging onto him like a monkey for the last little bit he'd enjoy it. He shifted his arms under her more securely, feeling a hole in her pocket as his hands moved under her little butt, and frowned again, thinking about new clothes again. The thought quickly vanished from his mind though, when he felt her shift closer, pressing away from the cold—her fingers like ice against the back of his neck. He sped up his stride when the Motel came into sight, and pressed a wintry kiss to her temple before setting her down to open the door.

The door swung open and Dean shooed her in, his hands on her shoulders. "Are you hungry?" He asked, locking the door again and checking the salt lines. Sam nodded and began unbuttoning the buttons of Dean's coat, her fingers still clumsy with cold. He smirked and bent down to do it for her, but she slapped his hands away.

"I can do it, De." She pouted and turned away, finally popping the buttons and shrugging it off her shoulders. "I'm not a baby anymore." She said, tossing the coat (that she claimed now) onto her bed and sitting down to undo her boots.

Dean paused for a minute. He wished she wouldn't say that—but she was right. She was 12 years old, on the precipice of being a "big kid" and he had forgotten, momentarily. "You're right." He said, throwing a smile on his face as she turned around. "Forgive me, big girl." He toed off his boots and made his way to the kitchen. "Do you want a Grilled cheese?" He asked, plugging in the toaster.

"We don't have butter." She said, leaning against the wall watching him.

"I know. We'd have to make it Dad style." He said, turning to find her raking her fingers through her hair, which she'd pulled from the braid. She glanced up at him, wrinkling her nose but nodding anyway. Dad style was toasted bread with hardly melted cheese in the middle. It wasn't her favorite, but it was warm and would hold her off until dinner. Dean smirked and popped two slices of bread in the toaster before turning back to Sam. "So. Big girl, What now?" Sam narrowed her eyes at him, hoping that "big girl" wouldn't stick like Sammy had.

She shrugged—knowing she wouldn't be able to get him to sit still through a movie. There wasn't anything to do—except train. She knew Dean would crack when John got back, and tell him that they hadn't trained that morning—it was just the way Dean was. He was the good little soldier, and she was expected to go along and fight with him. "We should train." She sighed, pushing her slightly less tangled hair back over her shoulder. It wasn't that training was hard, because it wasn't, not anymore. It was more brain work now because her body knew all the moves by heart. It didn't matter that she was a girl, John expected her to know it all, expected her to be on par, because she was a Winchester, which meant that young or not, she was a hunter already.

Dean nodded, turning back to the toaster as the slices of bread popped up. He quickly assembled the sandwich and wrapped it in a paper towel for her. She accepted it, not complaining that the cheese wasn't melted or the bread was too dry—she chewed thoughtfully for a few minutes, watching as he puttered around the kitchen, grabbing an apple as lunch and then putting away the mess from her lunch. It struck her that he was really the only family she had. She knew that John was her father, but he wasn't around, Dean always was. He'd changed her diapers, combed her hair, made her food, read her stories and sang her to sleep when she was scared, held her hand when she learned how to walk—his name was her first word. At the end of the day, to her, John didn't count nearly as much as Dean did.

Sammy finished her sandwich, moving back to her bed to pull on her boots and an extra sweater, seeing as the coat would get in the way if she tried to spar with it on. She pulled her hair back into a tight bun—keeping the bangs out of her face by twisting them and tucking them under strands of her hair. Dean watched as she got ready, her movements quick, sure, not at all like a child. It had been years since she'd toddled around, slow and unsteady, now she sometimes even bested John in a fight—though it was rare. Samantha was a good fighter, and someday she'd be a good Hunter.

Sam waited as Dean slipped his boots back on and did up his coat, grabbing a bottle of water in case they got thirsty. He smiled at her, slipping the gun back into the back of his pants and moving to the door. She jogged around the back of the Motel as she waited for him to lock the door, her feet crunching in the dead grass—her muscles stretching and pulling as she bent forward, her fingers brushing the ground, then back, her back bending in a way that never failed to make Dean wince. She jumped up as Dean came around the back of the motel, his arms already over his head, starting his stretches.

They positioned themselves on the field, the noise from the road muted back here, the wind whipping their cheeks into a rosy red. She didn't remember who made the first move, because as soon as it happened, they were already in full swing—her body moving without her having to think, blocking his kick, jabbing sharply into his side, never hard enough to break, only to bruise. The lunged, back and forth, legs sweeping, fists flying, until his nose was bloody and she'd have a nice bruise on her cheek in the morning.

Dean grunted, sending a roundhouse kick towards her chest, a blow that would knock her back and give him the advantage—but she grabbed his ankle and pulled, using his momentum and weight against him. He stumbled forward, landing in an awkward lunge, and then her knee was pressing into his spine, forcing him to the ground. He felt his body being pressed into the ground, the frozen grass tickling his face. "Give up?" Sam's voice taunted from above him.

Fast as lighting, Dean rolled to the side, grabbing onto her supporting ankle and tugging it out from under her. She grunted and collapsed, her legs sliding into a split. "Never." Dean winked, and rolled into a crouch. Sam growled, low in her throat scrambling to her feet. She ducked low, pushing her body into Dean's shoving with all the force her skinny limbs contained. Dean grunted, surprise evident as his fingers scrabbled over her back, searching for a hold to drag her back. She shoved one last time, and sent him toppling back onto the ground. As he fell, he grabbed onto the front of her sweater and she groaned as she followed him down, landing once again, across his chest.

"Ugh. That hurts." Sam said, rolling off him holding her hands to her chest. Dean snorted, lifting himself up on his elbows. "Shut up!" She said to his mocking expression. Her face flushing as she dropped her hands to her lap.

"Ok, ok." He said, rolling onto his knees. "I think that's enough for today." He said, wiping under this nose, his hand coming away red. Sam nodded, tilting her head back to judge the time—shocking herself to find that the sun was setting. They'd been out here for hours and somehow they hadn't noticed. The sky was cast with a vibrant pink and orange, and as Dean clambered to his feet, he became a silhouette, and for a second Sam could just look at him, the sun setting behind him, tall and strong, his face all sharp angles and shadowed eyes. He was beautiful. "Come on, Sammy. It's time for dinner."

She scrambled to her feet, her face flushing as she shook the thought from her mind, trotting along behind her brother as he made his way back around the front of the building.

::

Darkness fell quickly after that, as Sam and Dean argued over who got the shower first—she won. He always was terrible at rock paper scissors. She ran into the bathroom with her bag, cackling with glee and made sure to be extra obnoxious with her song choice, practically yelling instead of singing until finally, when she deemed she'd taken up enough of the hot water, she climbed out and back into sleep clothes—another old shirt of Dean's and a pair of loose fitting sweat pants. She left her hair down and walked back into the main room to find Dean absorbed in a movie on the TV. She clambered over the back of the couch and tugged at him, "Shower. You stink." He ruffled her wet hair and stood to go.

Her eyes slid back to the TV, taking in the scene—local news. He was most likely scanning for news of their father, looking for recent deaths or disappearances or mentions of strange men with big guns. Her thoughts strayed to one of the few hunt's she'd been dragged along on, what should've been an easy Salt and Burn, but turned out to be almost disastrous. It had been the ghost of a child who'd died of sickness in the 1800's, and her soul had gone slowly mad from the anger over being ignored, never realizing she'd died. The girl had seen Sam, then only eight, wandering the Graveyard as her father and brother had dug for her bones and wanted to play. Sam shivered, remembering the blood that had crusted around the little girl's mouth, the sunken eyes that had been filled with hope for a friend. She'd been so afraid, so scared of this little girl who just wanted to be seen. So, she'd taken pity on her. They'd run around the graveyard, playing hide and seek, until they'd strayed too close to where her father and Dean were digging—and then there had been chaos. The girl had screamed in betrayal, her eyes burning with hatred—darting to Sam hands around her throat all at once. She remembered Dean only 12, lurching out of the hole, nearly completed clutching the iron shovel and swinging it through her bloated, mist like body. He'd grabbed her up, running for the car, and she'd been there, shadowing every step, and Sam'd tripped—her body flying forward, her foot catching on a broken tomb stone, tumbling and then the agonizing snap of her leg, her screaming and then, little Emily Cartwright going up in flames as their father finished the job.

Dean had fought with their father, screaming until he had no voice the next morning, her leg held in place all the way to Bobby's, where he'd made a stiff cast. After that, Sam was never allowed to go on another hunt—and she was perfectly okay with that.

The news lady finished her report—nothing unusual. She signed off with a smile and Sam sighed. "Anything?" She stifled a shriek and jumped around to find Dean standing behind the couch, jeans slung low on his hips, towel still rubbing the moisture from his hair.

"N-no." She said, her hand pressed to her chest. Her eyes traveled up his chest to the fresh tattoo their father had paid for—and anti-possession symbol, still dark and shiny against his skin. Eyes trailing back down to his hard muscled chest and stomach, the slightly bulging muscles of his upper arms, Sam felt a little lost, like looking out at the ocean and realizing how big it was. She felt small, as though she was standing on a rocking surface, ready to tip over the edge. Dean sighed and tossed the towel back onto his bed, turning to the kitchen to make them dinner and Sam shook her head, her mind clearing like fog disappearing slowly by the heat of the sun.

"Well, I guess that's a good thing." Dean called back. Sam nodded absently and began to pull her hair back, the action a familiar one, soothing the uneasiness in her stomach. Her fingers combed through the thick waves, pulling them behind her head into a messy bun before sliding off the couch and walking up behind Dean as he pulled out two Hungry man meals. One steak, the other Chicken. She hopped up onto the table, letting her legs swing over the edge as he shoved one meal into the microwave, his back just as muscled as his front.

"You already look like one." She said—again her mouth running away from her. She blushed hotly, biting down on her lip as he turned back to her, one eyebrow raised. She needed to learn how to filter herself.

"What?" Dean asked, his face twisted into an expression of surprise. Sam flushed brighter, her eyes dropping to her hands, clasped tightly around the edge of her T-shirt. She didn't want to tell him, because to her the thought of her big brother looking like a Hunter already was nauseating. The look of a hunter came to those who death would follow like an eager dog, whose life would be filled with danger and blood and loss, to someone who would surely die before their time. But to Dean, who had always wanted to be like their father, who still held memories of the mother she'd never known, and most importantly, the night she'd died, the thought of looking like a hunter would be something to be proud of. As it was, he wore their fathers coat, the same jeans and heavy boots that clomped the ground, the same t-shirts and plaid over shirts—he was practically a doll of their father as it was, following his moves carefully because he wanted to be a hero like John. She wanted Dean to never be anything like their dad, as much as she loved their father—he wasn't nearly as dear to her as Dean and she knew with some small part of her that John would die before his time, and that wasn't the fate she wanted for her brother.

"You look like a hunter." She breathed, her eyes staring intensely at the scrapes on her fingers. Sam could hear him shifting forward, standing in front of her knees, his eyes on her. "You walk like one, you move like one, you're already all muscled up—you're just a kid and you already look like Dad and Bobby and the others. I.." She sighed, her eyes flitting up to his, the green of them momentarily robbing her of thought. "I don't like it." She finished, her mouth twisting in displeasure.

Dean knew she wouldn't, he could see the shaky fear in her eyes, the sadness that hovered low over her, pushing her into a slumped position. He reached out and pulled her close to him, her face pressing into the curve of his neck, her arms wrapped around his bare torso. She was so small in his arms, it was hard to remember the fact that not even an hour ago she'd been kicking his ass out on the field—harder even to imagine that someday she'd be hunting along with him and his father. The thought made his blood go cold, remembering the scream she'd given when she'd broken her leg tripping over a broken headstone. She was so young, so delicate still, just barley beginning to change from child to young lady, still small enough, young enough to want to play on the swings, to drag him away from girls because he was supposed to play with her, young enough to be carried home, her small face pressed into the curve of his neck. And soon she would have the same look as he did, strong, confident and danger chased.

"Hey, it's alright." Dean said, pulling her chin up to meet her eyes. "I know you think that's a bad thing, I know it scares you—but I swore that I'd always be here to watch over you didn't I?" He waited until she nodded and then gave her a smile. "Well, I'm not going anywhere—because I promised, and what kind of big brother would I be if I broke a promise?"

Sam relaxed into him, letting the warm scent of gunpowder and apples that always seemed to emanate from his skin calm her. Dean ran his hands up and down her small back, feeling the knobs of her spine, trying to ignore the slight bump where her training bra covered her skin. She pressed her face into his shoulder, laying a kiss against his warm skin. Dean smiled, dropping his face into her hair, letting himself relax like he never could around anyone else. Her hands were small and warm against his back, her arms tight around him and her hair smelled like lemons and sea air.

The beep of the microwave jerked them apart, and Dean spun around to pull her dinner from the microwave. She slid off the table and onto one of the chairs, he set her meal down and turned around to put his own in the microwave. When she licked her lips she could taste Gun powder and Apples.

::

Later that night, she crawled into her own bed, shivering at the chill that crept through the thin cotton sheets. It was late, nearly one, and she knew she should've gone to bed earlier, but her stomach hurt and Starwars had been on, and honestly who was she to pass up watching Starwars with her big brother?

Sam fell into an uneasy sleep, the increasing pain in her stomach only won over by the heaviness of her eyelids and the steady rhythm of Dean's breath from the next bed.

::

She's laying down—held in place by some invisible force, surrounded by pale silvery light, and soft warm blankets that brushed her skin. She stares at the ceiling, pale and smooth, clean. Sam shifts her eyes to the side, her breathing beginning to become slow and even, a soft voice seeping through the walls. Some part of Sam knows it's her mother singing, and so she lays very still, soaking it in, closing her eyes, just listening to the words—and now, she knows the name of the song she's singing. It floats into her mind, the answer already there before she needs to search for it. Hey Jude.

The song cuts off with a choked scream of "You!" and Sam's eyes flash open, panicked—there's a searing pain in her stomach, bitter liquid seeping into her mouth and there's nothing she can do but swallow, and there—above her, are glowing yellow eyes. They burn into her, searing with hate and evil, and Sam wants to scream, want's to lash out, to get away—but she knows, somehow, what's next.

Fire, fire everywhere—and a writhing form on the ceiling, she can't even see the face, but she doesn't need to. She knows who it is, as the voice from before screams her name, and then there are arms around her, jerking motion and finally, blessed blackness.

::

Sam woke screaming.

The sound jerked Dean from his sleep, his hands already gripping the knife he keeps under his pillow—and Sam's still screaming, only now it's more sobs than anything, one hand gripping her stomach, the other gripping her head. Dean lurched out of bed, his feet tangling in duffel bags and the blankets he'd kicked off the bed, nearly falling into her he grabbed her cheeks, turning her head to look at him.

"Sammy, Sammy baby it's ok, stop screaming baby." He pulled her face into his shoulder, he pulled away the blankets to lift her out of bed and cursed. "Dammit." He lifted her up, out of the rapidly pooling puddle of blood forming under her. He ignored the sticky wet warmth that leaked into his shirt and over his arms, focusing on getting Sam into the bathroom.

She'd begun to quiet, now she cried softly, her cries punctuated by confused whimpers. As he set her down on the edge of the tub Sam realized something was really very wrong. "Dean why are you covered in blood?!" An edge of hysteria crept into her voice and Dean knew she'd start screaming again if she looked down. Her thin hands gripped the edge of the tub, staring at the deep red that was identifiable even in the moonlight. Her stomach ached and she felt like she was burning inside—the images from her dream seared into her brain. "Dean—"

"Sammy it's ok, I'm not hurt and neither are you I promise." Dean's eyes looked panicked, they were wide and he hadn't put his hands down, instead they were held away from his body as though he was looking for something to do. "Look, you're on something called a period. It makes you bleed."

"DON'T TELL ME I'M NOT HURT DEAN WINCHESTER, BECAUSE I FEEL LIKE THERES A DEMON IN MY STOMACH EATING ME, SO JUST SHUT UP AND TELL ME HOW TO MAKE IT STOP!" Sam yelled—agonizing pain suddenly making her seize up. Dean cursed and ran from the bathroom—his hands fumbling for the phone on the bedside table.

Sam wrapped her arms around her middle—leaning down and suddenly seeing the streaks of blood coming from her body and leaking down the white of the tub, dripping onto the tiles. She groaned low in her throat and tried to breathe only through her mouth. Every time she closed her eyes she could see the yellow eyes that had haunted her childhood, and the burning body on the ceiling—the images making her nauseous and hot, she could feel her hair sticking to her forehead and neck. She wanted to get up and puke into the toilet but she couldn't, the pain in her stomach kept her immobile.

Dean's fingers kept hitting the wrong buttons and he could hear Sammy whimpering in the bathroom. "FUCK!" He yelled.

"Whoa. Don't use that word." John's voice came from behind him, and he whipped around, relief flooding through him. The eldest Winchester dropped his bag by the door and rubbed his hands over his face, not seeing how his son's mouth worked, searching for words. John sighed and looked back into the room, spotting what he'd missed before and his blood went cold. "Where's Sam?" His fathers voice had gone deathly quiet and Dean followed his eyes to the blood stain.

"She's in the bathroom." Dean spun back to the doorway and took in the sight of Sam curled over her arms tight around her stomach, her hair sticking to her sweating skin. Dean's face flushed, taking in the puddle of blood slowly forming at the base of the tub.

"Dean.." She groaned, hearing him enter the bathroom. "Make it stop it hurts so bad.." She glanced up and saw John entering the cramped bathroom behind Dean. She breathed a heavy sigh of relief. "Daddy, what do I do?" She asked—her eyes budding with tears.

"Oh, dammit Sam." John said, heading back to the room, his head spinning. He should've been more prepared, but it was supposed to be Mary's job, not his, and somehow, when they'd come back from the embarrassing shopping trip, the words just didn't come. He came back into the room with a bottle of extra strength Tylenol, and a glass of water. "Here, Sammy. Take these. Dean, go take the sheets off the bed, and find her new underwear and pants—" Dean left the room before John could finish, but that didn't matter, he'd tell him what was next later. When Sam had swallowed the pills he lifted her from the edge of the tub, trying not to look at the pool of blood where she'd been sitting, and set her down in the well of the tub, he pulled the curtain closed and told her to take off her pants and underwear and throw them over the top. She did and waited for the pain medicine to kick in.

"What now dad?" Dean asked, his voice still a little freaked. She listened to him and tried to focus on his voice and not the pain in her stomach.

"I have to go to the store and get stuff for Sam. Clean up the blood on the floor and then sit with her. I'll be back soon." Johns voice suddenly sounded like he'd aged a million years, and Sam realized what was happening. This was "her body changing in earnest". It was what they'd begun to teach in health class at the last school they'd been too, only to have them be jerked out the day they started the section. She wished they'd stayed longer, so she would've known what to expect. Another wave of pain rolled over her and she whimpered.

Dean pulled a towel from the rack, keeping his breaths slow and even, like his father had taught him to do when the breath was knocked out of him—because that's exactly what he felt like. Just earlier that day, he'd been thinking about this, about how it was right around the corner, and now it was here. Behind the thin plastic curtain, his little Sammy was suddenly different. She wasn't quite so little now.

"Dean.." Sam's stomach began to relax, the pain going from crippling to dull, and finally she was able to think clearly about the images rushing through her head. She'd never asked how her mother died, and so no one had told her. She'd always assumed it was a possession or something along those lines, but now she wasn't sure. The pictures behind her eyes, the fire, the strangled yell, the intense yellow eyes.. none of it matched up to anything she'd ever heard before.

"Yeah, Sammy?" She heard his movement pause, could feel the tension in him, the fear that something else was wrong.

"There was a fire, wasn't there." It's not a question.

Dean doesn't answer.