DISCLAIMER: I don't own Supernatural or McDonald's
A/N: Wow, this is the longest oneshot I've ever written! I've been working on it for a long while, so please REVIEW! It's Samcentric (and I'm seeing a trend here), and happens two years into his stint at Stanford. A lot of it's inspired by the line Dean said in the canon ("In almost two years I never bothered you, never asked you for a thing"), and also the plotbunny that wanted me to write a Girl!Sam story. It's probably a bit OOC, so tell me if it is!
"Christ."
She put a hand to her face, a hesitant, feather-light touch, as though she was scared of her own reflection. Jade green eyes widened in astonishment as long fingers stroked the soft tan skin, the long, shaggy, chocolate brown hair. It reached halfway down her back, and her long fringe covered her eyes. Her nose was small, as were her ears and mouth, which was made for pouting, a full bottom lip paired with a thinner top one. High cheekbones gave her face an angular look, and she had a narrow jaw with the faintest hint of a cleft chin. Taking a shaky breath, she brushed her bangs aside for a clearer view and leaned towards the mirror until her nose was almost touching the glass.
After a few silent, tense moments of staring, she stepped backwards until she could see the rest of her body in the bathroom mirror. She was very tall for a girl, her frame rather masculine, straight lines and narrow hips instead of soft curves. Her big hands looked huge when attached to such slender wrists, and her clothes were baggy and long, much too big for her. All in all, even though she was twenty, she had the look of a teenager who had just experienced a sudden growth spurt and was trying to get used to her new body.
It wasn't really surprising, because this was a new body. It hadn't been Sam Winchester's intention to turn into a girl overnight.
Okay, first things first, he told himself as soon as he had snapped out of his shocked state, how the fuck did this happen?
He was sitting on the edge of the bed in his small, dingy apartment, bowed head resting in his hands. Or maybe I should be thinking of myself as a she now, he sneered, groaning and grinding the heels of his palms into his eyes. He sat like that for a moment, watching the patterns of light dancing underneath his closed eyelids, before sighing and raising his head once more.
"Think. Have you done something that would warrant you getting turned into a girl? Pissed anyone off?" he mused aloud, voice ricocheting off the walls of the tiny bedroom and bouncing back to smack him in the ears. He winced at the high pitched tone, and considered becoming a selective mute until the curse, or spell, or whatever the fuck it was, was lifted. And it better be. Soon. Just my luck; I miss out on the curves and get the squeaky voice. And how the fuck did his voice get so high pitched anyway? The rest of his characteristics were still there, but changed slightly to more suit a girl. Why wasn't he a girl with a deep voice?
"Oh, Christ," he pitched his voice as low as he possibly could. "I've gotten turned into a girl, and my biggest worry is that my voice is high-pitched?" He gave a bark of laughter (or tried to – it came out as more of a chirp) that sounded suspiciously like a sob. He froze. "Jeez, don't tell me I'm having hysterics?" Nervous laughter. And then, as though on cue, Sam stopped talking, threw himself onto his bed, buried his face into his pillow, and screamed as loud as he possibly could.
A few minutes later and he was standing in front of his wardrobe, trying to find something small enough to fit his new, more petite body (and Sam was trying desperately to forget the screaming incident.) After kneeling and rooting around at the bottom of the closet for nigh on ten minutes, where there was a huge pile of clothes that he hadn't worn in what was probably years, he finally managed to find some clothes that fit. They didn't fit well, per say, but at least they weren't hanging off him. He swiftly stripped down to his boxers (and thank God for elastic waistbands, because he really didn't know what he would do otherwise) and pulled the clothes on as fast as humanly possible, so he wouldn't have the chance to look at his new body. For now, it was easier pretending that everything was as usual. That he was still a guy.
Dressed in a pair of faded, ripped jeans, a black t-shirt washed so many times that it had faded to a dark grey, a pair of once-white sneakers and an old khaki hoodie, Sam went out into the world as a girl for the first, and hopefully the last, time.
By the time Sam had walked a few metres down the street, he knew that he would have to do something about his hair. The first problem was that he couldn't see out from under his damn fringe; the second was that today was particularly windy, and why didn't girls ever mention how annoying long hair was?
Heaving a frustrated sigh, he whirled around and jogged back into his apartment building. It was a huge structure that had an abandoned, unloved feel to it, and when he ran up the stairs the whole place creaked, so much so that Sam was afraid it would fall down. Dodging around the bucket that stood in the middle of the hall, directly in front of his door (because a place wasn't truly crappy unless it leaked all the damn time, and in the most inconvenient of places), he entered his room, careful not to open the door too far. He didn't want the repeat of time where he had knocked the bucket, causing it to go flying down the hall, but not before emptying its load of icy cold water all over him.
Finding a pair of scissors and a rubber band, he went to work. When he exited his apartment for what was hopefully the last time that day, it was with a fringe that was just long enough to brush his eyelashes, and long hair that was tied back in a ponytail. He'd ended up having to use three rubber bands to get the damn thing tight and stable enough. He would have cut it, but he didn't want to mess with his hair too much; he didn't want it to be really short when he was turned back into a guy.
"Okay, so what am I doing?" he muttered under his breath as he walked down the road, thanking every deity he could think of that he hadn't seen anyone he knew. "First of all, I'm talking to myself in public." He rolled his eyes. "Second, I'm going to visit all the places I went yesterday, get some clues as to why the fuck this happened." Satisfied that he was doing something about the curse, he nodded to himself once, firmly, and strode down the street with renewed confidence.
Thankfully, yesterday had been Sunday. He was unable to suppress a shudder when he imagined going to university and interviewing every student in all of his classes, to see whether any of them had some sort of grudge against him. What a nightmare that would be. He was missing his classes right now, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He had changed gender. That warranted a day off, surely?
So, yesterday. He had slept late after going to a party on Saturday night; it had been a small one, only around ten people, and to his surprise, he had been invited to it by a girl that he hadn't ever said more than 'hello' to. She wasn't even an acquaintance, and Sam had been confused as to why she had invited him; until he found out the reason when she had gotten drunk at the party and attempted, clumsily, to get into his pants. He'd been pretty willing at first, but when she stopped halfway through making out with him to run to the bathroom to throw up, he had decided that it was time he took his leave.
I suppose she might have done this. Why, though? Why turn me into a girl He scowled at the pavement as he walked by a group of wayward students, trying not to make eye contact with any of them. If she's trying to annoy the hell out of me, congratulations to her. He risked looking up; the students had walked past him, and he glanced over his shoulder to see the tail end of the gang entering a café. Well, if I can't find anything else, I suppose I'll just have to track her down.
After waking up at twelve thirty he had eaten a brunch of a packet of chips he had nicked from the party and some leftovers from Friday's dinner of pasta. If there was one dish he could make without fail, it was boiled pasta. Sometimes he felt like it was the only thing he ate; pasta with parmesan cheese. Every now and then he went wild and actually grated some cheese himself instead of using the packet stuff. After brunch he had watched television and read a novel for a while, too lazy to go out and actually do something. Actually, the only time he had ventured outside on Sunday was when he had gone to get some dinner from the nearby McDonalds (and man, that had been a nice change.) Nothing happened there, though. I hardly talked to anyone.
It seemed that the girl was his best bet. Alison Browning was her name, I think. He distinctly remembered her saying that: "I'm Alison Browning, okay? But you can call me Ally." She had introduced herself when she was inviting him, laying a perfectly manicured hand on his arm and leaning in, standing on tiptoes, to purr the words in his ear. She had made it obvious that she wanted him, but Sam hadn't realised. God, I'm naïve.
The McDonalds was only a five minute walk down the road, so he decided to check it out just in case. He walked as fast as he possibly could, not wanting to spend a second more than he needed to as a girl; he also felt as though everyone was staring at him, that someone would just stop him in the middle of the footpath and yell out "Hey, aren't you that Sam Winchester guy?" He knew he was just being paranoid, but he simply couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. What if Dean sees me like this? He gave a nervous, hysterical shrill of laughter; the guy he was walking past gave him a weird look. He blushed, ducking his head, and sped up, jogging the rest of the way.
When he finally got inside the sanctuary that was the McDonalds, he leant back against the wall with a sigh, running the back of his hand over his eyelids. After a few seconds he opened his eyes, spreading his fingers a little and peering through the cracks to so he could see his surroundings. Thankfully, the place was almost empty, and there was only one bored, washed out looking woman leaning on the counter, smacking bubblegum with her tongue. The guy who had served Sam yesterday was nowhere to be seen. He sighed, planting his face in his palms, frustrated at how useless this all was. He was still a girl. He was still no closer to any answers.
The door he was standing by was abruptly thrust open; Sam jumped and turned his back, desperately hoping that whoever it was hadn't seen him in his despondent state. He already felt embarrassed enough.
And then the warm weight of a large, strong hand was thumping lightly down onto his shoulder, and a familiar voice was asking "Hey, you alright?"
Oh. My. God.
Dean.
"Uh, yeah, I'm totally fine," he squeaked, blushing right to the tips of his ears when he added a nervous little laugh to the horrible little sentence. Oh god. Do I sound like an annoying ditz or what?
"You sure? Cause you didn't look fine from outside. Ya know, before you turned around and tried to pretend you were invisible?" Cocky bastard. Why do girls like him so damn much anyway?
"Yes, yes I am fucking well sure, okay?" Sam's embarrassment had suddenly morphed into rage, and it was directed at the source of his discomfort. He managed to get his voice low enough to growl the words out. God, I sound really mean. Really… catty. Great. Now he just felt even more horrible.
The hand was removed from his shoulder. He almost missed it. "Jeez, sorry I asked."
"Well… good," Sam said lamely. Giving a groan of frustration (seriously, how stupid did he sound? Like a freaking petulant child), he turned on his heel and shoved the door open, pushing past Dean, not caring if his brother saw him. This was all just too. Fucking. Much. I'm going INSANE! He yelled at himself as he ran out into the car park and around the side of the building. He needed to be someplace quiet, deserted, where he could throw a soundless, violent tantrum. He needed to vent, to rant, because he was majorly pissed off, and his frustration was just enhanced by the fact that he wasn't sure what he was so angry at.
"GuaRRRgghh!!" It was a strangled (growl? yell?) something of frustration. Sam kicked the brittle, dry bushes that grew up against the brick back wall of the building, blocking his path. "Idiots who only bother to tidy up the sides of the building that FACE THE FUCKING STEET!" He gave another roar and walked straight into the huge clump of bushes. The dead limbs of the plants gave way under his feet, snapping, stirring up clouds of gnats. He batted at the gnats and kept walking around until all the bushes in the area were flattened, cussing all the while. When he was done, he stood in the middle of the battlefield, panting, a dark scowl scrawled over his face.
"Ah-hem." Sam whirled around to glare at the throat-clearer. Dean stood there, slouching slightly, looking the same as he always had, except a little more worn, a little rougher around the edges. There were lines on his face that Sam was sure weren't there before, and was that a grey hair? He wore the same old ripped jeans, the same old leather jacket. Sam wasn't sure if he was going to yell for the joy of seeing his beloved brother again, or run away and pretend that he didn't have a sibling. I have been doing that for the past two years. When he was leaving for Stanford, caught up in the argument with father, caught up in the giddy joy of going against authority and winning, he hadn't really thought about the consequences of his actions. Never had it occurred to him that he might not see Dean again. He and Dean had always been together, had always been as close as two people could possibly be, and Sam had naively assumed that it would be that way forever.
Or maybe he wasn't so naïve, because here was Dean, in the flesh. Sam was either extremely lucky, or extremely unlucky. "You sure you're okay?" Dean grinned when Sam's scowl deepened. "Sorry, sorry. What're you so pissed for, anyway?"
That was a question he would only answer under extreme duress. "Why did you follow me anyway?"
Dean shifted slightly, moving his weight from leg to leg. Anyone else wouldn't have noticed the almost non-existent movement, the only evidence that Dean was feeling uncomfortable. Sam felt a thrill of joy go through him at how in tune he still was with his brother, and almost immediately the joy was followed by anger and guilt. Anger, because he had managed to all but forget about Dean for two years and this was messing it all up. Guilt, because what right did he have to read Dean so easily when he was the one who had butchered their relationship? "Dunno. You just… look like someone I know."
Sam's heart skipped a beat, and he blinked rapidly to clear suddenly burning eyes, because this was Dean, damnit, his brother, the guy who was once his fucking hero. "Who… who is it?"
And all of a sudden, Dean closed up, the little emotion that he was showing wiped from his face. Stretching his lips into an obviously forced cheery grin, he chuckled quietly, self-deprecating. "Doesn't matter. I haven't seen them in ages." The grin faltered a little. "Wishful thinking." It was muttered under his breath, and Sam knew that Dean was speaking to himself more than anyone. "Sorry about bugging you so much. I can see that you ah… have things on your mind."
Dean was going to turn around, drive away, disappear for another interminable amount of time. And suddenly every fibre of Sam's being was shouting at him to get Dean to stay, damnit, talk to him. Tell him that you need his help. Dean had already walked a whole five metres away when Sam finally found the courage to shout. "Wait, Dean!"
Dean froze. Sam's heart thundered in his ears, deafeningly loud in the silence. Surely Dean could hear it; surely Dean could sense how nervous he was. How scared. Still with his back to Sam, Dean spoke, voice weak, breathy. "You know my name. How do you know my name?" You already know it's me, Dean. You just can't believe it.
Sam searched desperately for the right thing to say, something that would make this conversation easier. Something light, joking, because the atmosphere was way too tense, filled with too much unspoken thoughts, hidden emotions. "Uhm, have you ever been turned into a girl, Dean? Cause it sorta happened to me and I don't know why…" Lame. Lame, lame, lame.
"Sam?" Dean still stood there, staring out into the parking lot.
"Yes?"
"You have the most high-pitched voice I've ever heard. Worse than a fucking banshee."
It was certainly far from the funniest or wittiest comment that Dean had ever made, but Sam still felt like laughing until he cried.
"So let me get this straight. You woke up this morning as a girl, and you have no idea why."
"Yep, that's the story." Sam leaned back in the passengers' seat of the Impala with a sigh. He had been so tense ever since he had woken up, and now his tired body was melting into the seat. Funny, he had never really liked the Impala that much before. Now it felt like a sanctuary, a haven filled with everything that was Dean. Everything good in the world. The thought was only half sarcastic, and it caused Sam to shift minutely, suddenly uncomfortable.
Dean was silent. He sat in the drivers' seat, drumming on the steering wheel with restless fingers. From the corner of his eye, Sam was witness to that rare event; one of the moments when Dean let his true emotions show on his face. It was a collage of nervousness, love, worry, and anger. And was that fear? No way.
"Trouble always manages to find you, eh, little brother?" Dean finally spoke, heaving his own sigh and rubbing his eyes with a fist.
"Dean…"
"Shut up. Judging by your outburst at the McDonald's, you've been brooding about this way too much." For the first time that day, Dean's face was adorned by a genuine grin. "If it's true - like you say - that you're not a girl, you've got me suspicious, Sam. You were certainly acting the part."
"Shut up," Sam squeaked, glaring daggers at his brother, "and don't ever speak of this again, okay? I'm-"
"We're-"
"Yeah, yeah, let me finish! Okay, we're gonna go find this Alison Browning bitch, and make her change me back. End of story. All forgotten."
"But you make such a cute girl, Samantha," Dean leered at him, leaning over to tug on his ponytail. "It'd be such a shame to turn you into a boring old guy again."
Sam yelped and swept his hair out of Dean's reach, clutching it protectively. "That hurt! And if you dare prevent me from turning back into a guy…"
"Blah blah blah," Dean mocked in a sing song voice, making his tone as high as he possibly could. "Like, omigod, Dean, don't touch my hair! I, like, totally just washed it! Eww, man cooties!"
"I don't sound like that!" When Sam's screeched words had no effect on his brother, he pouted, stretching his eyes as wide he possibly could. If I'm gonna be a 'cute' girl, I might as well take advantage of it. Dean trailed off into silence. "Please, Dean. I don't wanna be a girl. Please, don't tease me, okay? Just lets' find Alison. Okay?" When Dean still looked torn, Sam brought out the big guns. His eyes sparkled with unshed tears, and his bottom lip started to tremble. At that, Dean turned away abruptly, reaching over and turning the key that was stuck in the ignition with a flick of his wrist.
"Okay." Sam couldn't keep the smug smirk off his face. Hook, line, and sinker. "And, by the way, I was lying when I said you were cute. You're not."
Sam rolled his eyes and kept silent.
Sam leaned against the Impala's passenger door, trying to his best not to make eye contact with any of the students that were milling around the campus. Dean was in the head office (after Sam had refused to go inside in fear of being recognised), finding out where Alison Browning lived. But now he was thinking he should have gone inside – anything was better than the curious stares of students as they walked past him. If anyone recognises me…
Before Sam could muster up more than the beginnings of a panic, Dean strode out of the building. He looked uncomfortable too, obviously feeling out of place among the hordes of students, and the speed with which he ushered Sam into the Impala and drove away was testament to that fact.
"Well?" Sam demanded as soon as they were safely off Stanford's grounds. Dean was silent, seeming strangely subdued. Sam gave him a curious stare, and Dean replied by staring stonily out of the windscreen and reeling off the address in a monotone voice. When Sam heard the familiar name of Alison's apartment building, he gave a snort of laughter, almost simultaneously groaning in frustration. The combination produced a strange, strangled moan. The corner of Dean's mouth twitched.
"God, she lives in the same fucking apartment building as me. Just a floor above." Dean's head snapped around, and Sam blinked, taken aback, assaulted by the sudden, unwanted urge to laugh. Well, that certainly ruined his façade. He waited for Dean to say something, to explain his reaction, but all he got was a shrug. Dean then turned back to the windscreen, leaving Sam to stare at the side of his head, bewildered.
It only took them ten minutes to reach the apartment building. Dean knew where it was, which was strange. Maybe that's why he acted so weird. But Sam knew it was something more, and his suspicions were confirmed when Dean grabbed his arm as he was about to get out of the car.
"Sam, this place is a fucking hovel." His voice was cold, emotionless.
"Well, duh. I do live here, you know. The fact hasn't escaped my notice."
"Damn it, Sam, why did you leave us just so you could go live alone in some dump?" Dean's mouth was twisted into a grimace, and Sam could see the hurt and betrayal in his eyes. Ignoring the guilt that suddenly flared up inside of him, churning his stomach, he scowled, shaking Dean's arm off his own and getting out of the car.
"Because I didn't want to fight for a cause that wasn't important to me." When Dean's eyes flashed with anger, Sam quickly tried to soften the blow. "I know she's important to you and Dad, but I didn't know her, Dean, and hunting the demon's not gonna bring her back. I was sick of that hunting lifestyle. And if, to get out of it, I have to become a hobo, I'll do it."
Dean was silent. The mask was back in place, hiding his reaction to Sam's words, but Sam still knew how much he had hurt his brother when he left. How much he was still hurting him. "You'd rather live on the streets than with your family? With me?"
"Dean…"
"Ya know what, Sam, I don't wanna hear it." The Impala came to life with a throaty roar. "I won't bother you again."
And then Dean was gone, swerving out of the parking space and flooring it out of Palo Alto. Out of Sam's life. That's how badly he wants to get away from you, buddy, a voice sneered. Sam whirled around, striding into the building and slamming the door shut behind him, so hard that the frame around it started cracking. He hates you, you know. And you're never gonna see him again. He's gone, for good.
Choking back a sob, Sam stumbled up the stairs, eyes burning, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. He didn't stop running until he was banging on Alison's door, panting with exertion, tears streaming freely down his cheeks. He stuck a fist in his mouth and bit down, hard, to keep from sobbing; because once he started he feared he would never stop.
Through a blur of tears, he saw the door open, saw Alison frowning at him in consternation. Her mouth was moving, but the ringing in Sam's ears prevented him from hearing what she was saying. He managed to choke out "Please, change me back," and then Alison was gripping his arm and leading him into her apartment, sitting him down on what he thought was a couch; he couldn't tell. Didn't care.
And then she was trying to make him drink something, and Sam was pushing the bottle away; then the word 'antidote' somehow managed to reach his ears, so he drank it down as if it were the nectar of the gods, somehow managing not to choke on it. And then he was crying, crying again, and sobbing now too, and he felt broken, and he just didn't care about anything anymore, not even about the pain he felt as his body changed, as his clothes ripped, much too small for him now.
And before a sudden darkness claimed him, before he fell to the side, fainted on the floor, the word Dean rang through his head.