Steers and Queers, A Winchester Family Reunion

by AlexJanna

For the first time in ten years Sam was going to see his father again. But of course things for the Winchester family can never be simple. No, between the Feds and the gay parade and the secrets revealed Sam's pretty sure this is probably the weirdest family reunion in history. pt. 3 of Sequins Verse

Title: Steers and Queers, A Winchester Family Reunion

Author: alexjanna91

Fandom: Supernatural

Pairing: Sam/Dean, John

Series: Sequins Verse

Rating: NC17

Genre: AU

Warning: wincest, grew up apart, derogatory language, drag queens, crossdressing, semi-graphic m/m sex, John-(sorta)-finds-out, homophobia, stereotypes, angst, humor, family feels

Summary: For the first time in ten years Sam was going to see his father again. But of course things for the Winchester family can never be simple. No, between the Feds and the gay parade and the secrets revealed Sam's pretty sure this is probably the weirdest family reunion in history.

A/N:Sequel to Sequins and Padded Bras Notwithstanding, and Impala, Queen of the Highway. This is the last installment in the Sequins Verse

A/N Pt.2: Partially inspired by the French film, La Cage aux Folles (1978), and the American remake, The Bird Cage (1996).

Title inspired by Gunnery Sergeant Hartman's famous rant in the movie, Full Metal Jacket (1987).

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Where in the hell are you from anyway, private?
Private: Sir, Texas, sir!
Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: Holy dog shit, Texas! Only steers and queers come from Texas, Private Cowboy! And you don't much look like a steer to me so that kinda narrows it down!

---

Sam stepped out of the motel office and into the burning, unforgiving sunlight of far west Texas. The air was hot and so dry he could feel his skin actually baking under the onslaught. In the distance for miles all the eye could see was dry, hard packed rocky ground and looming, sun bleached, cactus peppered mountains.

The seemingly never ending string of uneven, craggy mountains on the horizon would have seemed incongruous with the general desert like atmosphere if Sam hadn't seen the geological map in the office that informed they were in the foothills of the Rocky's.

As it was, interesting geography aside, all Sam really wanted to do was go to their room, turn on the air conditioning and pass out for the foreseeable future. He still ached from where that Woman in White had tossed him against the guardrail back in New Mexico. He knew his back was already one large bruise.

Tearing his eyes away from the burning brightness of the terrain, Sam started toward the Impala where Dean was waiting for him.

Leaning against the car with his ankles crossed, Dean looked for the all world like the heat didn't bother him one bit, though he must already be sweating in his skin tight jeans and fitted shirts. The silver balls and hoops in his ears glinted bright in the sun while he sucked at small red buds from the cluster of flowers in his hand with nectar stained lips.

Glancing toward the sound of Sam's footsteps over the dusty ground, Dean raised an inquiring eyebrow as he brought another bud to his mouth.

"Did you get the room?"

Sam nodded, ignoring the tightening in his gut and in his pants at the vision his brother made. "Yeah, I got a double."

Dean pouted and tossed the spent bud to the dry ground. "But the double beds are never big enough for the two of us."

Rolling his eyes, Sam ignored him and the flush of arousal he felt at his brother's insinuations. "What are you eating?" He nodded toward the bunch of red flowers still sitting in Dean's palm. "I thought Dad taught us not to eat anything we couldn't identify."

"It's ocotillo," Dean answered, rolling his eyes back unimpressed with Sam's attempted scolding. "While you were inside one of the locals rode by on a bicycle and picked a bunch off that cactus. She showed me how to eat them." He gestured toward the cluster of tall green, heavily thorned stalks with bunches of bright red buds clustered at their tops.

"Want one?" Dean asked casually as he lifted another bud to his mouth and wrapped his stained, glistening lips around it. His cheeks hollowed and his eyes slide half-mast as he sucked.

The entire scene was positively obscene and Sam had to push aside the long list of things he wanted to do to Dean in punishment.

Ignoring his brother's deceptively innocent offer he dangled the room key with a deliberately steady hand. "I got the room key."

Dean tossed away the bud and licked his lips torturously slowly as he grinned. "Awesome."

Once the sun went down the temperature had dropped twenty degrees and it was still hot, just barely tolerable with the blissfully cool breeze. It was a good thing the town had more bars per person than any other city in the U.S. because Sam and Dean were both desperate for a cold beer by then.

With a population of approximately two hundred and fifty-seven people in the entire county there was no chance of any kind of fruitful hustling, so Sam and Dean just spent the evening drinking, finally able to decompress from their last three back to back hunts. Both of them were aching from being thrown into various hard surfaces by a variety of supernatural fuglies and it was nice to just sit and lick their wounds. They'd also come into town as lovers so they were able to trade casual touches, lean in close, treat each other with affection and not have to worry about attracting any odd looks.

Of course it probably helped that half the population were old hippies who'd moved out in the middle of nowhere for their "art". Even the desert hardened locals one would assume most likely to cause problems had all lived out in the middle of unforgiving nowhere for too long to be fazed by much of anything that weren't cactus thorns or an angry rattlesnake.

Close to midnight, dizzy with beer and the heat, Sam and Dean stumbled toward their room. Breathless laughter fell from their lips as an endless expanse of stars was spread out above their heads.

Compared to the hot outside, the cool inside the room felt shocking when they finally clumsily jimmied the key in the lock and opened the door.

"Fuck." Dean thrust his hands down the back of Sam's jeans grabbing handfuls of that delicious ass. "So fucking hot." He dragged his parted lips down Sam's throat and nibbled at his Adam's apple.

Sam didn't know whether Dean was talking about the weather or him and at that point, with his brother's erection pressing insistently at his hip and his slick mouth sucking bruises behind his ear, he didn't really care.

Nearly ripping Dean's sweat damped shirts over his head, Sam tried to move them toward the one empty bed. He almost tumbled them both to the floor as their feet got tangled together.

"Shit!" Dean burst into laughter as he tightened his hold on Sam's ass in reflex trying to balance.

Growling with impatience and lust, Sam gripped Dean's hips in heated hands, lifted him off his feet with surprising ease, and tossed him on the bed.

Eyes wide and pupils blown with arousal, Dean sprawled across the mattress staring up at his little brother looming over him. Sam's cheeks were flushed and his gaze was burning. Want seared in his belly at the sight and Dean was sure it should've been impossible to actually get harder.

"Sammy." His fingers were itching to rip through cotton and denim until he got to Sam's skin. "Get your ass over here and fuck me," he demanded.

Sam hurriedly shed his shirts then they both shed their pants. In seconds they were grinding against each other, their sweat made every slick slide of skin that much better.

Dean clawed at his back gasping in pleasure as Sam thrust his fingers deep inside him and twisted them torturously. Wild hair damp with sweat and cock dripping thickly, Sam licked at the freckled expanse of Dean's neck and shoulders trying to distract himself from coming too soon.

Never hesitant to beg when he really needed to, Dean threaded his fingers in Sam's hair and yanked his head up as he continued peppering kisses and bites and licks over any bit of tanned skin he could get at.

"Fuck me. Ah! Now, Sam. Now!" Dean moaned as he curled his hips down on Sam's fingers demanding more.

"Yeah, alright," Sam panted as he slicked up his cock and slotted between Dean's legs, throwing them over his shoulders for leverage. "God, you're beautiful like this."

And he was; face flushed, lips swollen, legs spread, entire body glistening with sweat and want.

Dean yanked Sam down by his hair and slammed their mouths together in a bruising kiss, teeth nipping at lips leaving a delicious sting behind. "Shut up and fuck me," he ordered, his voice a deep growl and so fucking sexy.

Having never benefitted from disobeying that tone in his brother's voice, Sam thrust his tongue into Dean's mouth as he thrust the head of his cock in Dean's hole.

Their hearts pounded. Their fingers pulled hair. Lips, teeth, and tongues licked and bit and nipped. Sam moaned as the heat of Dean's body engulfed him and he didn't stop rolling his hips until he was totally and completely-

"You better watch out! You better not cry. Better not pout. I'm telling you why."

He felt Dean freeze underneath him. The tiny high pitched song was piping up from somewhere on the floor.

"He knows when you are sleeping! He knows when you're awake."

Dean squawked in panic. Before Sam could blink in surprise he was thrown off his brother landing naked, achingly hard, and completely bewildered on the other side of the bed.

"He knows if you've been bad or good. So be good for goodness sake!"

Sam watched as Dean cursed and scrabbled at their discarded clothes until he got to his jeans. He hurriedly untangled his still singing cell from the front pocket. Sam didn't get a chance to even ask 'cause Dean had already snapped the phone open.

"Hello?"

There was silence and Sam watched incredulously as Dean straightened to attention. An unpleasant blush started inching up the back of his brother's neck all the way to his ears.

"Yes, sir," Dean answered the barely audible voice on the other end. Sam's own face turned ten different kinds of red in realization and his erection died a painful, swift death.

"Yes, sir," Dean was saying again while Sam tried to control his panic and mortification. "No, Dad, that won't be a problem… Probably sometime tomorrow afternoon… Do you want to talk to-…Yes, sir… See ya' then."

The phone flipped closed plunging the room into deafening silence.

Suddenly both of them, naked with sweat drying on their skin were tense and avoiding looking at each other. Neither of them exactly wanted to speak first.

Of course, Sam had always had the patience of a squirrel on speed. "So, that was Dad?"

"Yeah." Dean awkwardly glanced over his shoulder at his little brother.

"We're meeting up with him tomorrow," Sam confirmed, sitting up, legs folding Indian style. His hands were fisted anxiously on his knees.

"Yeah," Dean nodded, awkwardly scratching at the back of his neck as he finally turned to look Sam full in the face.

There was a long pause where Sam couldn't tell how he was feeling about this, about finally seeing his dad after a decade of separation. All he could think about was the terrible stiffness in his brother's voice as he talked to their father on the phone, his expressive green eyes turning dull and guarded. The way Dean could barely look him in the eye.

And how, despite the fact that he'd been on the road with Dean for six months and their father hadn't bothered to answer a single one of their messages, he still expected them to hop-to the minute he called.

"Great," Sam gritted out between clenched teeth. "I'll be in the shower." He got off the bed and pointedly didn't stomp his way to the bathroom.

Sam didn't look back at Dean as he shut the door, locking it behind him. He didn't see the pained expression on his brother's face or how his shoulders slumped like he was trying to curl into himself.

---

It was the ass crack of the dawn and the sun was just barely peeking over the mountains when they checked out of their motel. They didn't speak as they packed the car and started on the road toward Austin where their father was driving from Louisiana to meet them.

The stars were still speckling the sky despite the orange glow building on the horizon and Sam couldn't bring himself to still be angry that early in the morning. Especially when he realized that Dean wasn't being quiet because of sleep deprivation.

They'd gone to sleep on that hard as a rock double bed facing away from each other, a foot of space between them. The air had been uncomfortably dry and Sam was sure he'd wake up with a knot the size of Texas between his shoulders from tension radiating between him and his brother.

Instead he woke up with Dean curled around Sam's back, nose pressed to the back of his neck, and an arm thrown unconsciously over his hip. It was comfortable and right and Sam resolved to keep his bad attitude to himself.

He was glad he did, because as the sun rose above them Sam studied his brother worried by what he saw.

Dean's expression was blank except for the tense wrinkle between his brows. His face was clean of any and all traces of make up and his ears were bare of silver cuffs, gold studs, or handmade earrings of brass bullet casings. His nails were scrubbed free of all flecks of polish, his wrists and fingers bore tan lines where his leather beaded bracelets and silver rings were supposed to be.

He was wearing his regular washed out, beat up jeans and his t-shirt and flannel were actually fitted for a man.

Sam realized two hours into the drive, as they pulled into a truly blinding chromed dinner for breakfast, that Dean looked like he'd put on a mask.

Like he'd pulled a heavy, shadowed cloak around himself to cover his bright dancing colors; like he'd grimly, resignedly secured a perfectly sculpted mask to hide his true self.

It wasn't that he hadn't seen Dean in completely masculine clothes before. It was the nature of the job. You couldn't pose as FBI while wearing a miniskirt and Island Shimmer Green eyeshadow. But even when Dean had been completely and utterly masculine, no trace of makeup, nail polish, or jewelry he had still looked like Sam's larger than life drag queen brother.

This creature sitting before him was nothing like Dean. Everything was just a little too normal, too deliberate, too perfectly scuffed and battered and frayed. It was like sitting across from a caricature.

Sam waited until their coffee came before he said anything.

"Dean, you look like shit."

Pulled back from a million miles away, Dean looked at Sam blankly for a moment before his nose wrinkled. He stroked a hand over his day old scruff on his makeup free face and rubbed at one of his bare ears self-consciously.

"Yeah, I know," he agreed.

Sighing, Sam dumped way too much sugar in his coffee and poured too little cream after. "So we're meeting Dad in Austin," he said, taking a sip. He made a face and added more cream. "Did he say what he wanted after not answering our calls for six fucking months?"

Okay, so maybe he was sucky at not copping an attitude.

Dean just raised a vaguely amused eyebrow at him and sipped at his own abnormal bitter black coffee. "I'm sure he had a good reason for the radio silence, Sammy."

"Right," Sam drawled sarcastically. "He had a perfectly good reason for not calling you back when you called to tell him his youngest son was in fact alive and not dead in a ditch somewhere."

They'd tried to contact John after they'd been reunited that fateful night at the drag bar. He hadn't answered. He hadn't answered the ten times they called after that and he hadn't returned any of their messages. Finally, they'd gotten a hold of Bobby Singer in South Dakota and got confirmation that their dad was still alive and kicking and not half digested in the belly of a monster. They stopped calling after that.

That was four months ago.

"Sammy," Dean sighed, sounding ten times as tired as he looked. "I'm sure Dad had a-"

"A good reason for not calling. Yeah, I know," Sam interrupted then they both quieted as the waitress brought their breakfast.

Dean dumped a truly disgusting amount of Tabasco sauce on his eggs and sausage and he sighed again looking up at Sam. "I know he would have called if he could, Sam," he reiterated with that weathered old conviction lacing his words. "I know because whenever we met up after he found me the first thing he would ask was if I'd been able to find you, if I had heard anything about where you might be. If I still thought you were okay, out there somewhere living a good life."

Unable to say anything to that, Sam was quiet. He just watched his brother as he breathed through the old memories of worry and desperation.

"It was tearing him up that he couldn't find you, Sam. He wouldn't have ignored even a scrap of information about you unless he absolutely had to."

Sam remembered big strong arms lifting him out of the back of the Impala in the middle of the night. He remembered a deep rough voice soothing him to sleep, callused hands gently stroking over his fevered forehead. The smell of leather, gun oil, and Dad as he curled up under the leather jacket that Dean now wore like a second skin.

Sam remembered the utter certainty he'd had that his dad would come and get them. He would save them from the negligent foster system and take them home. He held onto that conviction all the way up until Dean had been shipped to another faster home for having "behavior problems" and Sam had been whisked away in the opposite direction leaving him completely and utterly alone.

"Yeah," Sam finally responded around the tightening in his throat. "Alright."

They didn't speak again while they ate until Dean waved for the check.

"Did he tell you why he decided to make contact now?" Sam asked.

"No," Dean answered simply as he counted out his cash. "Just said he needed to see us. It sounded kinda urgent so I didn't argue."

Sam hummed at that and then they were back in the car and driving.

---

John Winchester had been running across three states and still he could feel the hounds nipping at his heels. He knew it was a stupid move, the chance of the call being intercepted was too great, but he couldn't justify keeping his boys in the dark any longer. He'd never gone this long without contact with Dean before and the need to check on his oldest was an ache in his chest.

When he'd listened to Dean's message and heard him deliver desperately hoped for news that ache turned into an almost physical compulsion. Dean said he'd finally found Sam, that he'd finally been reunited with his little brother. John had almost ignored every common sense bone in his body. He'd already been in the driver's seat about to race to his sons when his head finally caught up to his body.

No matter how much he wanted to, he wouldn't risk his boys like that. He had to protect them and keeping distant had been the only way he could think of to do that.

Now, though, now he needed to warn them. A whole mess of trouble was trying to come down on John and he needed his sons to be prepared. He needed them to be ready to go to ground if –when- his trouble finally caught up with him.

He was driving his truck into Austin and trying not to lose his patience with the traffic, trying not to speed, trying not to draw any attention. The city seemed like it was jammed to bursting, it felt as if every person from there to El Paso had decided to cram themselves into the city limits. The streets were full of crazy people without even the slightest idea of how to drive. The sidewalks were flooded with people jaywalking and strolling pretty as you please right into the stream of traffic. There were glittery colors, skimpy costumes, and bright banners every which way you looked. Some of the side streets were even blocked off for food trucks and craft stands.

It was utter chaos. Of course John had to pick the one city in Texas that was holding a festival of some kind. Despite the utter pain in the ass navigating this clusterfuck was going to be it wasn't what had John twitching in his seat, anxious and paranoid trying his damned hardest to stay as forgettable and unobtrusive as possible.

Nope. It was all the fucking cops. They were everywhere blocking off streets, redirecting traffic, riding horses through the crowds, peddling on bicycles in between cars. Each and every one of them was keeping an extra close eye on every person passing through their line of sight looking for any sign of trouble.

All it takes is once, one amateur slip up and suddenly John Winchester would find himself racing across the country again using every trick in the book to stay off the radar of the United States government. All it takes is one overly observant cop and John was beyond screwed.

He was in fear for his life from the long arm of the law and he had a thirty-six hour head start before the lawman would put an end to his running. He just hoped he could warn Dean and Sam before the jig was up and the law finally found him.

---

Dean stared out of the windshield incredulous. "Seriously?" He watched a trail of beefy bears in leather pants skip in front of his car waving a giant earth toned rainbow flag with an animal paw print in the corner.

"Seriously?!"

Sam watched the crowds of people milling around and couldn't help but agree. To the right there was a cluster of honest to God high heeled, big haired, avant-garde drag queens. Crossing the street in front of them was a line of angry looking butch lesbians. To the left was a flouncing flamboyant group of glittered twinks. All around them it was like an explosion of gay stereotypes.

"It's like a freaking pride parade threw up out here."

"Um, Dean." Sam looked over at his brother wide eyed. "I think this is a pride parade."

Dean stared blankly out at the rainbows and the glitter and the gay. He summed up his feelings in three simple words.

"Well, fuck me."

---

It took them forty-five minutes to fight their way through the overflow from the pride parade. Most of downtown was blocked off and the only thing keeping it from being a complete butt-jam were the harassed looking cops directing traffic. By the time they finally got to the motel Dean was ominously silent, his body was tense and his hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

Sam couldn't help himself darting anxious glances at him every few seconds and that wasn't helping Dean keep his cool any either.

They pulled in front of the room of one Burt Aframian and parked next to a monstrous black truck. Dean put the Impala in park and turned off the engine. Sam hadn't thought the air between could get any more tense, but apparently he'd been wrong. Without the rumbling purr of Baby's engine Dean didn't have anything to sooth him and his racing thoughts.

Sam couldn't stand to see his brother like that. He hated the utterly blank mask on Dean's face that did nothing to disguise the roiling emotions reflected in his eyes.

"Dean?"

For a long moment he didn't react. Then Dean released an explosive breath and his entire body seemed to deflate. His mask cracked and Sam's heart ached.

"The one time, Sammy. The one time I can full on dress how I want to dress and actually be with people like me. Be with people that don't look twice at a dude in a miniskirt and makeup." He gave a horrible, humorless chuckle and Sam's stomach turned at the sound.

"The one goddamn time I could really just be my whole self and I can't because I'm so deep in the closet I'm wiping my ass in Narnia." He growled in frustration and slammed his palm against the steering wheel so hard Sam was afraid he'd crack it. "I can't because my dad would shit a fucking brick if he saw me like that."

Dean's breath hitched alarmingly and he tried unsuccessfully to muffle his pained whimper as his throat tightened and his eyes burned.

Fuck it. Sam reached across the seat and yanked Dean into his arms. He couldn't stand it. He couldn't stand to see his wonderful, beautiful, amazing brother, his lover, sit there and try to hold back his pain.

"Sam!" Dean protested in alarm as he was smooshed against his little brother's wide chest. Dad, could see! He could look out his window and see.

"Shut up, Dean." Sam wrapped his arms completely around Dean pressing his head into his shoulder with a gentle hand. "Just shut up and let me hold you."

Releasing a shuddering breath Dean finally melted against his lover's chest. Clenching his hands in the back of Sam's shirts he buried his face deeper against him. "Such a fucking girl, Samantha."

"Yeah, yeah." Sam nuzzled his nose against Dean's temple and tightened his hold. He could stay there for days just listening to Dean breathe; just feeling the steady beat of Dean's heart against his own. He would be perfectly happy with just that.

All too soon Dean was pulling away and Sam reluctantly relinquished his hold. Dean sniffed and rubbed at his face self-consciously hurriedly erasing any evidence of giving in to his emotions. Sam decided to indulge his brother's dignity and averted his eyes.

"Alright." Dean slapped his thigh and shoved his door open. "Let's go see what the old man has to say." His outburst already forgotten never to be mentioned ever again.

Yeah, Sam thought wryly. This should be good.

The brothers got out of the car and they both had to take deep steadying breaths, but for different reasons. Dean was ruthlessly shoving all his anger and hurt way down deep back into its closet. Preparing to face his father and project the macho hunter John would expect from his eldest. Sam was trying to convince himself that it would be a bad idea to see his father for the first time in ten years. Despite still being angry about his radio silence and his unintentional alienation of his oldest son.

It wasn't as hard as he thought trying to moderate his attitude would be. After all, he had missed his dad and he did love him no matter what. It was hard to stay angry when he was finally being reunited with the only other family he had.

Too soon and not soon enough, Dean and Sam were in front of the motel room door. Dean took one last deep breath then he lifted a fist and pounded on the door.

---

John hadn't stopped pacing since he got his motel room and bolted the door behind him. He was anxious about the very real possibility that the FBI had finally caught up to him. He was nervous about the prospect of finally seeing his children together for the first time in years.

Truthfully, while he was busy trying not to wring his hands like an old lady, John couldn't decide which one made him worry more. The prospect of being arrested and thrown in the deepest darkest pit of a super-max prison, or the nagging thought that after being incommunicado for over half a year his sons wouldn't want to see him at all.

Too soon and not soon enough there was a loud pounding at the door and he couldn't fight his amusement. Dean would have made a good cop in another life. He sure as hell knocked like one.

John took the three large steps to the door and peeked through the peephole cautiously, gun at the ready. It never paid to be lax with security when you fought monsters for a living and were hunted by the feds.

His heart skipped a beat. There, fish-eyed through the peephole, were two men he would recognize blind, deaf, and dumb.

The door chain, the deadbolt, and the door handle were unlocked in that order and John pulled the door open far enough to let the men inside. He stayed behind the door, minimizing his exposure to possible witnesses and quickly shut and locked up the entrance after the taller of the two slipped inside.

He felt like he was in slow motion as he turned to finally look his boys in the eye. His breath caught at what he saw.

Dean looked healthier than he'd been since John found him after he got out of the system. He'd lost that gaunt look he got from too few meals and too much physical exertion. His eyes glinted clear and bright. They had been shadowed and dull with grief and longing for his brother, but now they were that bright mischievous green that always reminded him of Mary.

His heart was lightened seeing his oldest son for the first time in almost a year, but it was the other man that made his heart threaten to fly off altogether.

Sam, because it had to be Sam, he would know his stubborn headstrong youngest son anywhere, was so freaking tall. Taller than Dean, taller than John even. His hair was longer than John had ever let him keep it when he was a kid. His eyes were wary as he watched John take him in cataloguing all that was changed and all that was the same.

Ten years made a hell of a difference and at the same time didn't make any difference at all.

"God, Sammy, you got tall," John rasped before he could even think of the words coming out of his mouth. "What were they feeding you in California?"

Dean snorted and Sam gave that massive eye roll he'd started perfecting when they got separated.

"Jeeze, Dad. We haven't seen each other in ten years and that's all you gotta say? 'What have they been feeding me?'"

Sam's broad shoulders were starting to hunch defensively and his brow furrowed in the beginnings of a judgmental scowl.

John could remember trying to keep his blood from boiling the last time he'd seen that look, but now all he could think about was how much he'd missed it.

"Sam, I'm seeing my son changed from a chubby twelve year old to a fully grown man. Forgive me if it takes a minute for me to process."

Sam was working himself up to a righteous indignation and Dean was starting to tense in preparation of having to break up a fight.

It was all so fucking familiar, John couldn't stop his smile. In two bounding steps he grabbed Sam by his wide muscular shoulders and pulled him to his chest, wrapping his arms around his son so tight he heard him release a whoosh air by his ear.

Sam was stiff in his arms for a long surprised moment then he just melted. He brought his hands up gripping his thick jacket in a death grip and buried his face in his neck. Sam felt John's scruff scrape against his temple and it brought such visceral memories to his mind his breath hitched.

John wasn't doing much better. The shape and hardness of the body pressed tight against his chest was different, but it was so familiar too. Soft and short or hard and tall, the feel of his son in his arms was unmistakable.

"I missed you, son," his voice rumbled low in his chest, coming out gravely and rough. "You don't know how much I missed you."

Sam tightened his hold just a little bit more. They were holding each other so hard it was almost painful, but neither of them cared.

"Me too, Dad," Sam's voice came out strained. He swallowed thickly, trying to push down the lump in his throat. "I missed you too."

Dean watched the two most important people in his life embracing each other and wiped a lone tear away when it escaped down his cheek. His Sammy and his dad, his family was whole again and his chest felt full to bursting. It was the best kind of painful.

Finally, after a long time, John cleared his throat and pulled away from his youngest son. Sam reluctantly let go and stepped back. Neither of them had dry eyes, but they didn't care. What was a few tears shed between a reunited father and son after all? A small price to pay.

John coughed, trying to loosen his throat back up so his words didn't come out so rough. He was more or less successful.

"You boys look good," he said, looking over the strong young men in front of him. "Look like you've been taking care of each other."

Sam snorted, "Yeah, Dean's a mother hen."

Scowling, Dean elbowed him in the side. "Shad up. You're the one that threw a hissy fit when I had you pop my shoulder back in place."

"Shoulders aren't supposed to look like that, Dean!" Sam protested. "What if I had hurt you worse?"

Dean scoffed and rolled said shoulder around in demonstration. "You did fine. See? Full range of motion and everything."

Their father's deep rusty laugh distracted them from their bickering. John was smiling, his eyes shining, and his dimples flashing. God, it felt so fucking good to have his boys back. He was almost afraid he was going to have a heart attack his heart felt so full.

"You boys haven't changed a bit," he said, grinning.

It was like a splash of cold water and Sam was suddenly reminded just how much he and Dean actually had changed. He was a college dropout and Dean was a drag queen. Not to mention they were in gay incestuous love with each other.

Revealing only one of those three things was unlikely to end in anything other than shouting.

The atmosphere was suddenly sobered and Dean took the initiative.

"Why did you call us now, Dad?" he asked. "You've been radio silent for months."

John sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I know, son, and I'm sorry. If I could have called without putting you two in danger I would have."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Sam demanded frowning. "How could even sending us a freaking text message have put us in danger?"

Suddenly John looked so very tired. He nodded toward the scuffed table in the kitchenette. "Let's take a seat and I'll explain."

Sam wanted to demand answers right then and there, but one glance at Dean's pointed look and he bit his tongue.

The three men pulled up chairs and John slid empty glasses toward them. He pulled out an unopened bottle of whisky, twisted off the cap, and poured them all three fingers.

Dean immediately took a large swallow while John just downed his completely giving himself a refill right after.

Sam watched them disapprovingly, but didn't protest. After all, he had a feeling that they were all going to need the alcohol for this conversation.

John waited for Sam to at least take a sip of his whisky before he started answering their questions.

"What's going on, Dad?" Dean looked at his father. "What kind of trouble are you in?"

"Your old man fucked up." John met his son's gaze gravely. "I didn't cover my tracks good enough on this shifter hunt and the murder investigation caught the Fed's attention."

Sam's eyes widened. "What exactly are you saying?"

"I mean, the son of a bitch framed me for a double homicide."

"Jesus." Sam rubbed at his face disbelievingly.

"Tell me you at least killed it," Dean demanded leaning forward intently.

"Oh, I killed it." John downed the rest of his second glass and poured himself another. "Unfortunately I killed it while it was wearing someone else's face."

"Let me guess, the shifter's one half of that double homicide. That's why you're running from the Feds in the first place." He turned a frown on his dad and the older man kinda wanted to shrink under it. "You are being chased by the Feds, right?"

"Yeah." John nodded shamefully. "Couple of FBI agents have been dogging me the last few months."

"Well, shit, Dad. When were you going to tell us this?" Sam burst out snappishly.

"I'm telling you now, Sam. You didn't need to know before."

Sam could feel his blood pressure rise as old memories of when the phrase "need to know" was all too common place.

"We're not kids anymore, Dad. You can't just-"

"Stop!" Both men snapped their heads around to look at Dean. "Both of you just stop."

Sam wilted shamefaced under the force of his brother's angry scowl. John shifted in his seat and averted his eyes. Dean glared at them both for one long second then spread his hands out on the table in thought.

"Okay. Let's get this straight." He looked at John. "You're wanted for murder by the FBI and they've been hunting you for pretty much the last year."

John grumbled under his breath, but nodded affirmative.

"And how far behind you are they, Dad?" he asked. "How much breathing room do we got, here?"

"About thirty-six hours."

"Thirty-six hours," Dean repeated incredulously. "Thirty-six hours?! Dad!"

"What?" John scowled petulantly. "There was a black dog in Louisiana. I couldn't just let it keep killing people."

"So call Bobby or Pastor Jim!" Dean retorted. "You can't just stop for a hunt when the goddamn Feds are after your ass like a three hundred pound cellmate."

Sam, despite the seriousness of the situation, almost snorted whisky up his nose. He looked at his brother wide eyed. He couldn't believe Dean had just said that to their dad.

Fortunately, John didn't notice Sam's reaction. He was too busy being scolded like a child by his own son.

"Don't use that tone of voice with me, Dean!" John growled angrily.

"I'll use whatever tone of voice I want when I'm the one that's gonna have to break your ass out of the federal pen!"

"Okay!" Sam raised his voice to be heard over the other two men's escalating shouting match. "Okay. Let's all just calm down and think for a second."

They fell into a tense silence, Dean still glaring at his father and John starting in on his fourth whisky. Sam just stared at them a little bemused by the sudden switch in rolls. It used to be him that was butting heads with Dad, not Dean.

Then again, a lot can change in ten years.

"Dad." John lifted his head, looking at Sam when he spoke. "There's a reason you're telling us about all this now."

"Yeah, I needed to make sure you boys can watch yourselves. I'm gonna have to drop off the radar completely to get them off my tail. You need to know what was happening if, God forbid, they come sniffing around asking questions." He wearily rubbed at his graying beard. Sam just then realized that his dad had actually aged.

"That's why you haven't contacted us," Dean noted. "You didn't want to lead them to us."

"No," he shook his head. "You boys need to know to avoid making yourselves targets, so they can't use you to get to me."

"Dad, you have to know we wouldn't ever give you up," Dean's insisted sounding hurt.

"I know, son. Of course I know that," John assured him. "But I also know that there is no way I wouldn't come for you if they got their hands on you."

Sam ached with the sudden fierce love reflected in John's tired hazel eyes. Even when he'd been a rebellious, bratty pre-teen, he'd never been in doubt that John would march into war for them. Regardless of all his faults as a man and a father, it could never be said that John Winchester didn't protect his sons with everything he had.

"Well, we'll just have to make sure they don't ever get ahold of us, then," Dean proclaimed downing the rest of his whisky with finality like just saying it made it so. He reached across John and grabbed the bottle to give himself a refill.

"You make it sound like it's so easy." Sam finished his own whisky, but declined a refill.

Dean grinned sharply. "I've got plenty experience in running from the cops already. Avoiding some Feds shouldn't be too much harder?"

"Wait. What do you mean experience running from the cops?" Sam asked, shocked.

Dean snorted. "Come on, Sammy. You think I've never had to jet from a graveyard after a salt and burn before? Or that I wouldn't get caught breaking-n-entering at least once."

He tilted his head in thought and grinned slyly. "Though there was that time I actually got busted for public indecency. But, you know, it's kinda hard to run from the cops when I've got my panties around my knees and my junk hanging out."

Sam threw his head back and laughed while willing down the flare of arousal the image invoked. The sight of Dean with his lacy panties around his knees was one of his favorite things after all.

"Don't you mean boxers, son?"

All sound abruptly stopped and Sam couldn't help the little spike of panic in his chest or the look he cast Dean. His brother had gone white as a sheet then red in his ears and cheeks.

"Y-yeah, duh," he stumbled over the words, forcing them out through a strained smile. "Isn't that what I said?"

The look on John's face was unreadable, but apparently he'd decided to just brush the slipup away, 'cause he finished off his fourth whisky without another word. Dropping the glass back to the table, he pushed the chair back and stood.

"Well, boys, my stomach thinks my throat's been cut. Bring in your bags and we can figure out a place to get some food."

Sam and Dean grabbed the subject change like a lifeline.

"I'll get the bags," Sam offered already moving toward the door.

"I'll see about getting a roll away from the front office." Dean followed him out, shoulders tense, stiff neutral expression fixed in place.

He barely waited for the door to close, before Sam wrapped a hand around the back of Dean's neck and pulled him close.

"Fucking slipup. Of course that would be the one thing he caught." Dean pressed his face into Sam's shoulder for a long moment then shrugged away from his hold.

Sam frowned determined and grabbed him back for a quick kiss before he let his brother escape again. "It's alright. He's already forgotten about it."

They went their separate ways, Dean to the front office and Sam to the Impala, unlocking the trunk.

He didn't like the stressed pinching around Dean's eyes. He didn't like that his brother had to hide part of himself. He didn't like Dean looking like he wasn't comfortable in his own skin anymore.

He was so fucking glad to be with his dad again, to have his family together again for the first time in ten years. So fucking glad and so fucking angry. He liked the way Dean's eyes glowed lined in black, the way he tasted fruity and slick with lip-gloss, the sight of miles of smooth muscled legs under his miniskirts.

It wasn't like Dean never dressed like a guy, but now the difference seemed so stark, so glaring, it was distracting.

Mind spinning, distracted with uncomfortable thoughts, Sam reached in the trunk without looking and pulled out their duffels. Slamming the trunk closed again, he met Dean at the door and they went back into the room together.

The rollaway cot ended up showing up at their door at the same time the scruffy pizza guy knocked.

Three large pizzas between three large men fed them pretty well, and the stress of the day caught up with all of them.

John was sitting at the kitchenette table hunched over his journal and a map of the whole country. Sam figured he was planning out where he was going to go to ground, but he didn't ask. Plausible deniability and all that.

Sam had volunteered to take the cot. He didn't want to add to Dean's discomfort by making him sleep on a torture device, so he was more than willing to take one for the team. Even though his feet would hang off the end by almost a foot.

Of course he hadn't factored in what a pain in the ass it would be to get the damned thing set up. He was pretty sure it was trying to eat him.

"Hey, Sammy!" Dean called from the bathroom. "I forgot my sweats. Grab them for me?"

He was about to agree, but the cot took the opportunity to spring closed on his arm.

John looked up at his son's cursing a blue streak and shook his head in amusement. Sam tried to free his arm to help Dean, but John just waved him off.

"I got it." He stood up and walked over to Dean's duffle on the bed furthest from the door.

He unzipped it and started digging around not realizing why the contents seemed so off to him until his hand got caught up on a pair of black silk panties. They were soft and skimpy and John stared at them for a long moment uncomprehending. Something else caught his eye, a balled up knot of fishnet tights, then his vision zoomed out and he was seeing the entire contents of his eldest son's duffel bag.

That pair of jeans he'd thought he'd pushed past, weren't jeans at all, but an indecently short skirt. That band t-shirt had a deep v cut into the collar. That clear plastic pouch wasn't filled with spare buttons or cheap tie tacks, it was filled with bracelets and earrings and rings.

Like he was in a daze, he slowly unzipped what should have been a shaving kit only to discover tubes, compacts, brushes, and pencils. Makeup, he realized distantly, faded memories floating to the surface of watching Mary stand at their bathroom mirror fixing her hair and painting up her beautiful face.

He couldn't think. He didn't understand. Why did his son have all this in his duffle? Why was the entire bag filled with women's things? Why were all the clothes in Dean's size?

"Seriously, dude!" Dean called again throwing the bathroom door open and stomping back into the room shirtless and barefoot in just his jeans. "How long does it take to grab some sweatpants?"

John looked at his son and it was like the world slowed and he was seeing everything in stark detail. He suddenly noticed things that wouldn't have even registered on his radar if he hadn't found lipstick in his boy's bag.

Dean's chest was completely hairless, even his armpits, unblemished save for the odd scar. His skin looked smooth and soft. He had stark tan lines around his wrists and fingers. There were tiny holes in his earlobes.

He didn't know what his face was doing, but Dean got a look at it and froze, a frown creasing between his perfectly sculpted eyebrows.

"Dad, you okay?" he asked warily.

No, he was not okay.

"Why do you have makeup in your duffle, Dean?"

Dean sucked in a sharp breath and the sounds of Sam struggling with the cot cut off abruptly. The room was plunged into deafening silence.

"What?" Dean's eyes flicked between him and the bag. John had never seen his son go so pale.

"Why," he gritted out, "do you have skirts and makeup in your duffle bag, Dean?"

Dean stuttered, "I-I don't-"

"Dad," Sam hedged, cautiously inching closer, eyes darting between his father and his brother.

"Tell me why you have fucking panties in your goddamn duffle bag, Dean!" John demanded in a shout, now.

Dean flinched like he'd hit him, shrinking away from him. In glaring contrast, Sam bowed up looking every inch his six-plus feet tall and almost two hundred pounds of muscle. The protective scowl on his face was fierce.

John stared at Dean. He just kept staring at Dean. Kept looking into his son's panicked fearful green eyes. John had never felt like this before. He didn't even know how he was feeling. It was like he couldn't think past the dozens of suddenly blaringly obvious clues in front of him.

He didn't want to know. He didn't want to know the answer to the questions screaming his head like a banshee. He didn't, but he had to.

"Tell me, Dean," John growled. "Tell me why you-"

"Because I like it!" Dean burst out cutting him off. The room was plunged into silence again, while Dean breathed harshly, his eyes burning with determination.

"I dress like a chick, 'cause I fucking like it," he confessed angrily, like a challenge to his rapt, horrified father. "I put on makeup, and fingernail polish, and wear skirts and jewelry 'cause I fucking like it, okay."

John couldn't believe what was coming out of his eldest's mouth, and apparently he wasn't finished.

"I like the taste of lip gloss and the smell of perfume and the way silk feels against my dick."

John's stomach twisted nauseatingly.

"I like feeling pretty and I like other people thinking I'm pretty."

"Jesus, Dean!" John jolted like he could escape his son's words.

"I like dressing like a chick. I like it all. And you know what, Dad?" He still wasn't finished yet. John had demanded answers and by God, Dean was going to give it to him. Go out with a bang, Dean thought cynically, he was on this train now and there was no getting off.

"I even like taking it up the ass, too."

John jerked his eyes away, no longer able to even look at him. It was all too much. His son was a goddamn queer. A fucking faggot that liked dressing up in women's clothes and bending over for other men.

"No." John shook his head and pinned his son with a look that used to make him stand at attention when he was an obedient sixteen year-old. "No, Dean. You're going to throw all this crap away. You're going to stop this right now."

Dean let out in an unpleasant humorless laugh. "Really, Dad? You're just going to order me to stop dressing in drag?"

"Damn right I am!" John shouted, eyes blazing with anger. "I am you father and you'll do what I tell you."

"I'm not a fucking kid anymore!" Dean shouted back. "I'm twenty-six and you haven't been in a position to be handing out orders for ten years."

John saw red. His mind was clouded with rage and confusion. His head was so turned around he didn't even know what was happening until it was already done. The words came bursting out of his mouth and he almost didn't even want to take them back.

"I won't have a son that's a fucking crossdressing fag!"

They fell like a bomb in the room and left all three men's ears ringing. John was panting, his teeth bared, and heart pounding. Sam was bright red in anger and his glare could have burned the flesh from his bones.

Dean was completely and totally still, his face so blank it looked like a mask.

Sam took a large step next to his brother his eyes never leaving his father. His voice was deep and rumbling out of his chest when he spoke.

"You don't get to speak to Dean that way."

John's eyes snapped to his youngest, and he felt betrayed. "You knew about this," he realized. "You knew your brother was a-"

"Don't you dare finish that sentence," Sam warned darkly.

"You knew," John repeated unheeding. "How can you condone this?"

"Because he's my brother and I love him," Sam responded passionately. "He's my brother and he's your son. How can you not accept who he is?"

John turned his eyes back on Dean. His expression hadn't changed, but his eyes were the windows to his soul.

"Because no son of mine would ever do something like this," John answered looking at Dean like he didn't even recognize his own child.

He saw Dean's heart break in his eyes. In a single blink all emotion was wiped away and his eyes were just as blank as his face.

John regretted the words the moment they were out of his mouth, but what was said cannot be unsaid.

"Get out." Dean's voice was rough and lifeless. "Get out now."

Heart aching, anger and confusion still battling in his mind, John looked at his sons, tall and grown and strangers to him, and he didn't even try to protest. He just walked out the door.

---

John didn't stop walking until he didn't even recognize where he was anymore. He'd been to Austin several times, on a hunt and passing through on the way to one, so he had the city pretty well mapped out. He had it mapped out when it wasn't butt jammed with thousands of people all walking around down town for some festival or other. John couldn't be cussed to pay too much attention to what all the fuss was about. He was too busy dwelling on how his oldest son was apparently a crossdressing fag.

A group of people tumbled out of a bar onto the sidewalk blocking his path. John took one whiff of the reek of alcohol seeping off them and immediately turned the way they'd come.

The bar was just as butt jammed as the rest of the city but John was a big rough man and he muscled his way through the crowd to the bar. He practically elbowed another patron off their barstool so he could collapse onto it like his strings had been cut.

"Double whisky, straight."

The bartender appeared before him and wasted no time filling his order. Apparently he looked like he needed it pretty badly because it was on the bar then in his hand and in his gut almost before he could blink.

Slamming the glass down, he swallowed thickly around the burn. "Another."

The whisky bottle's metal spigot tapped the glass, the sound disappearing into the raucous noise of the full to bursting bar.

"Bad day, I take it?"

John sighed tiredly after he downed the second double, the bartender filling it up again without being asked. "Yeah, you could say that."

"Well," the bartender said, waving hand in invitation, the motion just visible in John's peripheral as he continued staring blanking at the bar top. "Let's hear it. What's got you so glum?"

"My son." John lifted his third glass and took a swallow. He didn't want to down this one just yet. "I think I just disowned my son."

"Ah." The bartender was quiet for a moment, his fingers tapping on the sticky wooden bar in thought. "Found something out you wish you hadn't?"

John scoffed and swallowed the rest of his third whisky. "Found some lady's panties and makeup."

"And this came as a complete surprise?" he asked curiously.

"Of course it is! He's my son! He's the best shot I've ever seen. He's one of the best fighters I know. He's the best driver. He loves guns and cars and women. I just don't understand how my son could be queer!" John groaned and dragged the whisky bottle over refilling his glass himself. "I started catching him with girls in the back of my car when he was fourteen for god's sake."

It was quiet between bartender and drinker for a moment. John sipped halfheartedly at his fourth whisky in the last ten minutes.

"Did you actually talk to your son after you found out?" the bartender inquired neutrally. There was something off in his voice, but John was too miserable and confused to pay attention.

"No," he answered and grimaced. "I pretty much just found the girly shit and demanded he put a stop to it. Then he told me he likes taking it up the ass. My youngest defended him after I yelled some things. And I said he was no son of mine. That's when he kicked me out of our motel room."

The bartender hummed in thought. "I take it this is something you regret since you're in here drinking for the record and looking miserable."

Rubbing his roughened palm over his scruffy face John nodded. "We got separated for a couple years and when we found each other again it was like those years had never happened. But he'd grown up without me. I remember this cocky sixteen year-old strutting around in my old leather jacket and suddenly he's a grown man. He's smart, real smart, definitely smarter than me. And strong and kind and damn good at his job."

He trailed off and stared sadly down into his drink for a moment. "He's my son and I love my son."

"Then, what's the problem?"

"My kid strutting around in lacy panties and lipstick doesn't sound like a problem to you?" John demanded incredulously, still scowling into his liquor.

"Not really." The bartender's unconcerned shrug was audible. "He sounds like a good man. And you are obviously very proud of him. So what's a little crossdressing in comparison to all that?"

"It's- I…" John opened and closed his mouth as he frowned trying to think around this perfect stranger's frustratingly sound logic. Finally he had to admit defeat, because really. Dean was his son and he loved him and when he got past the utterly terrifying shock of him being queer, Dean was still his perfect, intelligent, green eyed and freckled, grinning son.

"You're right," John muttered willing to admit when he was wrong even if his male pride chaffed at it. "Dean's still my son, even if he," he wrinkled his nose and grimaced, "likes to wear women's clothes."

"And sleep with other men," the bartender prompted.

John sighed put upon, then grudgingly added, "And sleep with other men."

"There! Feel better? Now you just gotta go apologize and everything will be fine."

"Yeah. Yeah, I think I will." John stood up from his stool and reached in his back pocket for his wallet. "Thanks for, you know," he waved a finger around at his half full glass and the half empty bottle then between himself and the bartender, "for the talk."

"No, problem. Gotta put my half a psychology degree to good use somehow."

Huffing in amusement, John finally lifted his head to look at his bar side counselor for the first time. And almost choked on air.

The man was tall and buff and shirtless, his chest was covered in body glitter and his nipples were pierced with rainbow barbells.

The bartender, "Chad" read the sparkly pink nametag stuck to his left pectoral, grinned at him.

"Hope you enjoy the rest of your night, sir," Chad offered brightly, turning to a different customer.

John blinked in utter shock then slowly turned his attention to the rest of the bar. It looked like a glittery rainbow threw up in there. There were flags hanging from the ceiling and on the walls and gay pride slogans left right and center and the other bar patrons…

Older hairy men in leather, almost too young men in tight clothes and eyeliner, butch women locking lips with other women, and big –he assumed- men dressed head to toe in drag. There was the occasional relatively normal looking person mixed in there, milling around sipping on beers.

"What the fuck."

"First pride weekend?"

John jumped and spun around to see a scrawny, barely legal kid with styled hair, bare midriff, and lip gloss batting his eyelashes at him.

"Um…"

"Buy me a drink and I'll be your tour guide." The boy started to run a finger up and down the back of John's hand, leaning casually against the bar trying to appear sultry.

"Um!" John was sure his eyes were going to pop out of his head and his was going to slip a disk with how far he was trying to lean back away from the kid. Jerking his hand away, he frantically looked around for the exit. He had to get out of there.

"Leave the man alone." Chad's voice carried over the din catching John's and his sparkly pursuer's attention.

The kid scowled and started to protest, but Chad cut him off.

"Trust me, sweetie, you aren't his type," he said with a conspiratorial grin at John and a sternly raised eyebrow at the kid.

"Hmph!" The kid pouted his glittering bright pink lips and gave John one more longing once over. He sighed dramatically, "Your loss," then flounced off back into the crowd.

John just stood there frozen on the spot. His eyes were wide and a little bit panicked darting around the crowd as if watching for another ambush.

"Don't you have somewhere to be?"

John jerked his gaze back to Chad standing behind the bar still topless and pierced and sprinkled with glitter and looking at him with an amused grin.

"Right, yeah. I mean, yes! I do," John stumbled out the reply as he finally unstuck his feet. Trying to make himself as low profile as possible so he wouldn't get bumped or rubbed up on by the crushing crowd, John prepared to move toward the door. "Thanks again!" he called over the noise in a still bewildered and slightly strained voice.

"Sure thing, honey. Come back and see me sometime!" Chad returned with a flirty wink in a good natured parting shot. He chuckled as the big, rough and tough, alpha-male man made a strangled scared rabbit noise and hurried out the door.

---

Dean's stoic unaffected exterior lasted until Sam forcibly engulfed him in a near suffocating embrace. Then he broke. Crumbling inward he clutched at his little brother's shirt and hid his face in a wide shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam murmured into Dean's shower damp hair. "I'm so sorry. I didn't realize I grabbed the wrong duffle. It's my fault."

"No," Dean rasped then his whole chest jerked alarmingly with a hiccupped inhale. "Not your fault, Sammy. Shoulda told him earlier. I shouldn't've kept it secret this long." He let out a horribly hopeless laugh, the few tears he couldn't hold back staining his brother's shirt. "Probably wouldn't feel this bad if he'd kicked me out years ago."

Scowling, Sam growled, "Not your fault Dad's a dick. He had no right to say that shit to you."

Dean's fingers flexed against Sam's chest tightening in his wrinkled t-shirt. "'E's not wrong, though. I am a queer freak."

"Stop it!" Sam hissed angrily. He grabbed Dean's arms and held him away from his chest so he could meet his sad, damp green eyes. "You're not a freak, Dean. You're awesome." He gave his brother a small insistent shake. "You're smart, and strong, and so fucking beautiful. God, Dean." Sam's fierce expression softened and his grip turned gentle and caressing on Dean's skin.

"You're perfect," he murmured lowly leaning down to touch their foreheads together. "You're perfect and I love you so much it's crazy."

Dean tried to scoff dismissively, but the pleased blush pinking his cheeks and ears gave away how his heart always fluttered when he heard his brother say those words.

"Stop, Sammy," he protested weakly.

"Nope," Sam refused with the beginnings or a light grin on his lips. "All true." He gave Dean's slightly parted lips a light kiss. "You're beautiful," his grin grew as he kissed his brother again. "And wonderful, and smart, and funny, and gorgeous," his kisses between each statement got longer and deeper and more heated.

Tears dry and aching heart soothed for now, Dean huffed in exasperation and grabbed his lover by the back of his neck yanking him down the three inches separating them. "Shut the fuck up and kiss me, Sam."

His quippy retort of, "I thought I was," got smothered by Dean's soft plush lips and teasing tongue. Not that Sam minded. That's pretty much what he was aiming for anyway.

The two brothers, two lovers got lost in their slow moving lips and tongues and their caressing hands. The feel of their bodies pressed together from thighs to chest. The familiar heat built between them and smothered the aches and insecurities and hopelessness that had plagued them so recently.

Dean forgot the angry hurtful words of the man he'd idolized nearly his entire life. Sam forgot the burning anger urging him to punch their asshole father in his face for making his brother cry.

When they eventually came back to the present, Dean's hair was dry, Sam's lips were red and swollen and they'd somehow migrated to the bed furthest from the door, laying down tightly wrapped around each other.

Dean's bright green eyes fluttered open and he looked into his brother's deep hazel gaze. The love Sam had for him was clear as day in his expression and Dean was getting the hang of reveling in the butterflies in his belly instead of shoving them away. Of course, he was sure judging by the pleased grin on Sam's face, he could see through any of Dean's masks to the fierce love beneath just fine.

All too soon, they realized it was time to face the world again.

"You want to pack up and leave?" Sam asked quietly, stroking a soothing hand down Dean's bare side.

He thought about it for a long moment. Finally he sighed in resignation and nodded. "Yeah. Think we should be gone before he gets back."

Anger darkened Sam's expression again for a second until Dean leaned forward and kissed it away.

Pulling back, Dean sat up and shoved at his little brother's shoulder. "Come on. Let's get our shit packed."

Since his drag bag was already there, Dean just tugged on his low cut Metallica shirt over his regular men's jeans. His jewelry bag caught his eye and he spent a long second staring at it. Then he thought, fuck it, and unzipped it.

His bull's head amulet already around his neck, Dean stacked some of his beaded and leather bracelets, slipped his silver ring on right ring finger, and a pair of simple silver studs in his ears.

For the first time since he'd gotten the call twenty-four hours ago, Dean felt like himself. Judging by the relieved, pleased grin on Sam's face, he looked like himself again too.

"I'll go load these in the car," Sam said gesturing to the two duffle bags in his hands.

Dean hummed in acknowledgment as he sat on the edge of the bed leaning down to tie his boots.

That was when the door suddenly opened.

Jerking his head up, Dean saw their father standing in the open doorway looking unsure and hesitant for the first time in his life. They all froze. Dean still half bent with his fingers looped in his laces, Sam mid step toward the door, and John blocking the way with his big awkwardly shifting frame.

Eyes darting between his sons, John took in the sight. Sam had a truly impressive expression of anger on his face, his hands fisted white-knuckled on the handles of their duffels and Dean… Swallowing thickly John let himself take a moment to really look at his son.

It was jarring, he wasn't gonna deny it, to see Dean dressed like that. The jeans and boots were the same he'd showed up in, but the rest of it. The rest was what John was a little stuck on.

That shirt was showing entirely too much chest for his comfort and the earrings seemed out of place next to Dean's short hair and day old scruff. In comparison the bracelets and ring weren't nearly as eye-catching.

At least he's not wearing any makeup, John thought dimly then felt a little guilty for it. He knew he would have twice as much trouble having this conversation if he had to see that colored powder stuff on his boy's eyes and shiny lip gloss on his mouth. He'd have to get used to it sooner or later, but John could be honest and say he wasn't quite ready for that yet.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sam shift on his feet and draw himself up aggressively.

Face hardening in preparation for the fight he thought was coming, Sam growled, "Dad-"

"Sam," John cut him off before he could no doubt threaten him again. "I'm not here to fight."

"What are you here for then?" Sam demanded suspiciously. "You seemed pretty clear on your opinion earlier."

John looked away for a second with a grimace on his face. "I wanna talk to Dean."

"Bullshit," Sam retorted, "I'm not leaving you alone with him after the crap you said."

Flexing his hands and taking a deep breath John resolved not to let Sam goad him into a fight. Surprisingly the flashbacks he was getting to the beginnings of his youngest's teenage rebellion helped keep his calm.

"Please, Sam. I just want to talk to Dean," he repeated with previously unforeseen patience. "I promise that's all. Just talking."

Sam opened his mouth to put up more angry roadblocks, but Dean's deep voice stilled his tongue.

"Sam." Both men's eyes snapped to Dean. "It's alright," he said with an unreadable look on his face. "Go grab a couple sodas or something. I'll be fine."

"Dean," Sam started to protest, but Dean just stood up and shot his brother a quelling look. Huffing in displeasure, "Fine," Sam dropped the duffels where he stood and stomped toward the door and John.

Pausing next to his father, Sam made one last threat before stepping out the door. "If you hurt him again, I'll break your face."

Swallowing down his pride and his kneejerk demand for respect, John nodded. "I don't plan on it."

Sam just grumbled unhappily and slammed the door passive aggressively behind him.

Left alone for the first time in nearly a year, John and Dean both felt smothered by the tense atmosphere. When his son didn't move to break the silence John figured since he was the one that fucked up he would have to be the one to start.

"So," he hedged taking a couple more steps into the room "This is –uh- you dressed like a woman."

Hand snapping up to his ears as if just remembering he wasn't dressed exactly normal, Dean fingered his earring then flicked the gaping collar of his shirt nervously.

"Not," he started, biting his lower lip, "not all of it."

Clearing his throat, John nodded awkwardly. "Figured," he said trying to sound neutral at least, if not totally accepting. "No makeup. And –uh-," not quite able to suppress a grimace, "no skirt."

Defensively crossing his arm over his partially exposed chest, Dean muttered, "Don't always wear skirts." He paused then added, "Can't really dig up graves in a mini-skirt."

It took John perhaps too long to see the hesitant glint of humor in his son's green eyes, but when he did a great bit knot unfurled in his gut. "So, this isn't an all the time thing, then?"

Biting his lip again, Dean shifted his weight to one hip and tapped his fingers nervously against one arm. "Dad, you didn't come back to ask me about my fashion sense." He met John's eyes with a serious gaze. "Why are you here?"

Blowing out a heavy breath, John felt his heart begin to race with anxiety. "I went to a bar," he said and though Dean's expression darkened in disapproval he didn't interrupt, "and talked to the bartender."

Rubbing at the back of his neck, John continued wryly, "He made me realize some things."

"What things?" Dean prompted when he paused too long.

Gathering his resolve and battered courage, John decided to be totally and completely honest about his feelings for the first time probably in his life.

"Dean, you are my son. My oldest son," he began, gathering momentum. "I know I haven't done right by you in a lot of ways. That I wasn't been there for as you grew up, when you needed me the most. But you became an amazing man all on your own, with no help from me."

Dean opened his mouth like he was going to protest, but John just steamrolled on.

"You have," he insisted. "You are a strong, intelligent, good man and I couldn't be more proud of you." The expression on his son's face was impossible to decipher so many emotions were flickering across it, but John didn't stop.

"That bartender reminded me of that and I realized that it didn't matter. Whether you wear dresses or jeans. Whether you like pussy or-," he couldn't really help uncomfortable face he made at this, "or dick. It doesn't matter, because you're my son and I love you."

Shoulders slumping, a weight rising from them now that he'd said his piece, John watched his son, waiting.

Dean's chest rose and fell rapidly as a myriad of emotions swirled around inside him. There were numerous ways he could respond to this unprecedented display of feelings from his stoic father speeding through his mind. None made it past his lips.

When he finally spoke his voice was tight and rough, "You said I wasn't your son anymore," it came out almost as a whisper. "That no son of yours would ever do those things."

Heart aching now that he could see just how much he had hurt his child, John swallowed thickly and nodded solemnly. "I did. And I was wrong. I'm so sorry, son. I was wrong."

A strangled exclamation of relief burst out of Dean and he couldn't help looking at his father with hope. "You mean that? You're okay with me," he gestured to himself in full, "like this?"

John answered honestly. "Not okay exactly," he admitted. "It's gonna take me a while to get used to this. To really be okay with it, but yeah." Looking at his son he knew the love he had for him was plain on his face. "You're still my son. No matter what."

If he didn't fight preternaturally strong creatures of the night on a daily basis, John was sure the force with which Dean slammed into him would have put him on his ass. As it was, his son was strong and John was sure he was going to have bruises on his shoulder and ribs where Dean was squeezing him in possibly the tightest hug he'd ever gotten.

Not like John wasn't holding him back just as fiercely. He pressed his face into the side of Dean's head and breathed in his familiar natural scent buried beneath his strawberry shampoo.

Yeah, that was going to take a while to get used to, but John could feel Dean's heart beating against his own and he knew he'd get there eventually.

"I guess everything's good now?"

Pulling back just far enough to turn their heads toward the door, Dean and John saw Sam standing there with a hesitant smile. Almost shocked by how relieved he was to no longer see that anger growing into hatred in his youngest's eyes, John just nodded silently.

"Yeah, Sam," Dean said, voice still a little rough, but he gave his brother a bright grin. "We're good."

On the fly, John let go of Dean with one arm and held it out toward Sam. "Come on." Sam just looked at the inviting limb in confusion. "Get in here, Sammy."

"It's Sam," he corrected absently then yelped as Dean snagged him by the front of his shirt and yanked him into their hug.

It was a little awkward physically. All three of them were big guys, each of them over six feet tall and around two hundred pounds of muscle. A group hug like this was bound to be uncoordinated.

Not that John cared. For the first time ten years he had his sons in his arms again.

They stayed like that a few long comforting moments, before their natural sense of personal space won out over emotional demonstrations. Smacking a kiss to both his sons' temples before he finally let them go, John let their grumbles and whines of protest wash over him with a wide smile on his face.

"Come on, boys," he gripped them both by the shoulder giving them a reassuring squeeze. "I saw a twenty-four hour diner a couple blocks away. What do you say we get some pancakes?"

"Fuck, yes!" Dean exclaimed darting away to grab his wallet and cell. "I'm starving."

"We just ate like two hours ago, Dean," Sam reminded him in exasperation. "How are you hungry again?"

"Never say no to pancakes, Sammy." Dean punched his brother in the arm on his way out the door, an excited skip in his step.

"Ow, jerk," Sam whined rubbing at his arm as he jogged after his brother already half way down the sidewalk. "Hey, wait up!"

Locking up the room, John turned and watched his boys jostling and teasing each other as they walked on ahead of him. For a moment there he saw them as they'd been the last they were all together as a family. Sammy, a head shorter than his brother, still soft with baby fat, and Dean, lanky in his growing limbs, swamped in John's old leather jacket.

Then he blinked and they were grown men again. Sam with long hair, several inches taller than his brother, and at least ten pounds heavier in muscle, grown into a man. And Dean, filled out and strong, confidence in every step even with his snug revealing t-shirt and feminine jewelry.

It hurt, John thought, to feel this much love. He knew, though, as he followed after them, that he wouldn't trade this pain for the world.

---

When the Winchesters woke up the next day after a late night –really early morning- drinking whisky and relearning how to be a family, the sun was already up and John was actually nursing a hangover. It's been a long time since he'd drunk enough to make him feel it the next morning.

Unfortunately, that wasn't a testament on his moderation. It was an illustration of his alcohol tolerance.

When John cracked his eyes open the bright late morning sun blasted him in the eyes and the sound of Sam bouncing around the room sent his head aching. Groaning miserably, he lifted his head enough to see his youngest bright eyed and bushy tailed, typing away on a laptop and, with a miniscule turn of the head, he could see his oldest still sprawled out on the other bed, mouth open, left arm and leg hanging precariously off the mattress.

Apparently, even after ten years some things just didn't change.

"Morning, Dad."

Grunting, John looked back at Sam and squinted at him. "How are you so cheerful this morning?"

Sam shrugged and John could see humor glinting in his eyes. "Unlike you and Dean, I don't drink for the record as a matter of course."

The only true response to that was another unamused grunt. Dropping his head back on the flattened motel pillow, John rubbed at his face with a rough hand. "What time is it?"

"Enough time to catch a shower before we get lunch and get out of here," Sam answered his tone more serious.

Pushing himself to sit up John threw his legs over the side of the bed and realized he'd fallen asleep with his boots and belt on. No wonder his ankles were aching and his gut felt bruised.

"You saying I stink that bad?" He sent his son a gritty eyed, but teasing glare.

"I'm saying the Feds were thirty-six hours behind you twenty-four hours ago and it's gonna take us at least an hour and a half to fight our way out of town with all the festival crap clogging up the streets."

Yeah, his Sam had always been a bit of worrywart.

"It'll be fine, Sam," grumbled John as he tried to talk himself into bending over to untie his boots.

Looking up at his son, John wasn't surprised to see a pinched look on his son's face. Sam opened his mouth to start arguing in the face of his father's dismissive attitude and John was a little guiltily glad he missed most of those rebellious teenage years. They had always been too much alike, butting heads on all sorts of trivial shit. John felt a bit like he dodged a bullet, imagining the no doubt epic fights he and his youngest son would have had.

A plaintive nose from the other bed cut off whatever displeased response Sam was about to unleash.

"Somebody tell me there's coffee." Dean groaned and clumsily rolled over onto his back, dropping a forearm over his eyes. "And remind me to never drink that much whisky again."

"You said that the last dozen times you got shitfaced?" Sam pointed out unsympathetically.

John saw a cocky grin curl at Dean's hangover dry lips. "Yeah, still worth it."

Rolling his eyes, Sam stood up and grabbed his wallet off the table. "I'm gonna to pick up some coffee and some newspapers. You to get showered and dressed then we can hit the dinner for lunch and get on the road."

Hungover, and maybe still the tiniest bit a little drink, John felt his hackles rise, chafing under his son tossing out orders. He was about to bow-up out of his slouch and demand some damn respect, when Dean's morning rough chuckle distracted him.

"Ooh, I like it when you get all bossy, Sammy." Dean grinned at his brother. His eyes were bright green in the sun coming through the windows and glinting with mischief.

Sam spluttered flicking a panicked glance at their dad. John raised an eyebrow as he watched his all grown up son flush up his neck to the tips of ears and cheeks.

Huffing indignantly, Sam forced his expression into a scowl at his still grinning brother. "Shut up, Dean."

Another flash of mischief glinted in Dean's eyes. He propped himself up on his elbows casually exposing a bare expanse of chest through his deep v on his shirt. He raised a challenging eyebrow at his thoroughly unamused little brother.

"Make me."

Sam made a choked noise in the back of his throat flicking a split second frantic look at their father again. Then he just threw his hands up in forfeit and hurried to the door like he was being chased.

"You're a jerk!" He threw over his shoulder yanking the door open. The blush had expanded to his the back of his neck by the time he was slamming the door behind hm.

"Bitch!" Dean shouted after him just before the door slammed shut and he dissolved into laughter.

Feeling like he was missing something, but amused by the teasing between his boys nonetheless, John asked, "What was that about?"

"Oh, nothing," Dean waved him off, still lightly chuckling under his breath. "Sam's just too easy sometimes."

"Right." John still felt on the outside of a joke, but let it go. A whiff of himself hit his nose and he grimaced. "I call first shower."

Pouting, Dean flopped back on the bed and sighed dramatically. "Fine, but there better be hot water left. I haven't shaved in a few days and I get razor burn in cold water."

Pausing in the doorway of the bathroom, John looked back at his son. He had a feeling that Dean wasn't talking about the scruff on his jaw. He promptly decided that he was, a: too hungover, and b: still the tiniest bit too in denial, to think about it too deeply.

Shaking the slightly traumatizing implications from his tired brain, John hurried into the bathroom and into the shower. He'll deal with anything else once he couldn't smell himself anymore.

---

Sam decided it wasn't worth the hassle to navigate the Impala through the festival crowd and so walked the three blocks to the nearest coffee place. Which happened to be a Starbucks, but that worked out fine. Dean liked their frozen caramel, chocolate, hazelnut coffee abominations, and Sam had a craving for a blueberry muffin.

Unfortunately, the line was nearly out the door so he resigned himself to a long wait to order and a long wait to pick up. At least there was a stand by the door with free newspapers. He snagged one of each and entertained himself scanning through obits and crime articles.

The line moved steadily and by the time Sam was done with the first newspaper, he was second from the register.

He was just starting on the obits in the Dallas city newspaper when snatches of conversation caught his ear.

"Are we sure Winchester's in the city?"

"A toll camera caught his pick-up on the highway coming in around noon yesterday. We chased him nonstop through Oklahoma, no way he hasn't stopped for a rest by now."

Keeping the paper hiding most of his face from view, Sam eyed the two men not ten feet away from him.

They were both in fairly good shape, average to just above in height, one had light brown hair and one had black. He couldn't see their eye color at this distance, but what he could definitely see was the government issue handguns holstered on their belts right next to the law-enforcement grade mace and solid metal handcuffs. One of the men turned just enough that Sam caught a glimpse at the shiny badge hooked on the front of his belt. It was a shiny gold shield with a shiny gold eagle on top.

FBI.

Sam kept himself perfectly calm. He turned a page in the paper still blocking his face and strained over the noise in the coffee shop to hear what they were saying.

"Have we got cooperation from the APD?" the Fed with light brown hair asked his partner.

The one with black hair nodded, but there was a displeased frown on his face. "We have their go-ahead to do whatever we need to do. They put an APB out on his truck and have people calling around to the motels in the area looking for any of his aliases. I wouldn't expect any help from boots on the ground though, they're spread thin working crowd control for the pride parade today."

Light Brown, scoffed. "You'd think the locals should be able to keep a bunch of fairies in line."

Black shot his partner a glare. "There are tens of thousands of people here. Gays or not that's a challenge for any department."

"Whatever." Light Brown rolled his eyes. "At least we know Winchester will keep out of that mess. The profilers said he most likely views all minorities as less than human and won't mix with them. Apparently that's par for course with the white supremacist, paramilitary nut jobs."

Sam had to stamp down on the surge of anger in his belly. As much as he wanted to punch the asshole in the mouth, he couldn't afford to draw attention to himself. He needed to learn as much as he could about the Fed's plans before he got back to Dean and his Dad.

"What have the tech guys pulled up on the sons so far?"

Light Brown snapped his phone off his belt and started scrolling through the intel.

"Dean and Samuel were taken by CPS about ten years ago," he answered summarizing the data the tech geeks dug up. "They moved around a few foster houses together before somehow they got separated and Samuel dropped off the radar completely."

"Kidnapped by the father?" Black Hair asked.

"Nah, says here they found some kind of discrepancy in the paperwork. Apparently between one foster home and the next there was kind of fuck up and Samuel Winchester disappeared from any future records." Light Brown shrugged. "It was thorough enough that the agents investigating Winchester at the time lost track of the kid altogether."

Black Hair made a thoughtful noise then asked, "And the older one? Dean?"

"A couple charges of petty theft as a teen, some minor vandalism, and his social worker wrote her reports like he was the spawn of Satan. Nothing real serious until adulthood, though. He's been arrested once for a b-n-e at a museum, three counts of grave desecration, multiple assault charges for involvement in bar fights, and-" he squinted at his scream, brow furrowed in puzzlement. "And one count of indecent exposure."

Seemingly unfazed, Black Hair inquired, "Any indication that Winchester has had contact with his sons?"

"Nothing concrete. He didn't contact Dean while he was in the system and, like I said, Samuel disappeared completely."

"How are we on tracking them down?"

Sam couldn't resolve any of the alarming implications of that question, because the bored purple haired barista called out his name with his order.

Grabbing up the three coffees –two coffees and an abomination- and bag of pastries, Sam kept the Feds in the corner of his eye as he made his way through the crowd. They never once turned in his direction which was good. Great even, 'cause now he had at least a little bit of time to get back to Dean and Dad and warn them that the law was about to come down on them in a big way.

---

When Sam burst into the motel room John and Dean were both dressed and already most of the way finished packing up, erasing their presence from the room.

"We got a problem." Sam set the coffee and pastries on the kitchenette table and met his family's questioning stares grimly. "I was just in the Starbucks a couples blocks from here," he began, "and overheard two Feds discussing how they had the city pretty well locked down searching for John Winchester."

There was a moment of silence then, "Fuck!"

John turned to his duffle and started just tossing his crap inside. No time for military packing like he normally did. He needed to get the hell out of Dodge.

"Wait, Dad," Dean said, a frown on his brow. "You can't leave."

"What do you mean, 'I can't leave'?" he demanded, "You heard Sam. The Feds are in town searching for me. I gotta get outta here."

"Yeah, I heard Sam," Dean shot back, "I heard him say they had the city pretty well locked down. There's no way you're getting out without getting caught."

"They said they have an APB out on your truck and Austin police basically gave them free reign," Sam added in agreement with his brother. "They're calling around to all the cheap motels and asking about your aliases, too."

"Then I really can't stay here," John asserted, disregarding his sons' arguments. "I paid with my Aframian card. I've had it a couple months already. They'll have clocked it by now."

"No one's saying you should stay," Sam insisted, placating. "We're saying the moment you try to pull out on the street they're gonna be on you like bees on honey."

"Well, what do you suggest then," John demanded in frustration. "I can't stay without getting caught. I can't leave without getting caught. I'm screwed either way."

Sam blew out a breath and rubbed a hand down face. "I don't know."

Dean snorted and dropped down on his bed exasperated. "If we don't figure out how to get you out of town pretty damn soon they're gonna throw you jail and then you're really gonna be screwed."

John gave his oldest a glare. "Real helpful, Dean."

"I try." Dean tossed his unamused father a cheeky grin, trying to lighten a shitty situation.

Rolling his eyes at his brother's antics, Sam leaned his hip on the table. "About the only thing in our favor is the pride parade," he said catching their attention, Dean's especially. "They got Dad pegged as some kinda homophobic, backwoods asshole so they're concentrating the search away from the festival."

Dean perked up, a suddenly intent look on his face. "What did you say?"

Meeting his gaze curiously, Sam repeated, "They think Dad's a homophobe and will want to avoid the pride festival like the plague."

"Yhatzee!" Dean jumped up and grabbed his duffle upending it on the bedspread.

John saw a gleam in his son's green eyes and a feeling of dread started in his gut. "What?" He looked from son to son seeing that Sam didn't have any idea what Dean meant either. "What do you mean?"

Turning to his Dad and brother, Dean had a slightly disconcerting gleam in his eyes. "The Feds don't think you could possibly want to be anywhere near the parade, right?"

"Yeah," John nodded warily, not sure he was gonna like where this was going. "So?"

"So," Dean grinned almost manically, "that's exactly how we're gonna get you out of town."

"Dean, what are you talking about?" Sam demanded, confused, not seeing where his brother was going with this anymore than his father.

"The big parade is today," Dean explained. "It goes straight downtown ending only about half a block away from the access road to the interstate. They let vehicles into the parade, too. All we gotta do is decorate up your truck and sneak into the lineup. We can take the parade all the way to the access road and it's free sailing from there."

Sam smiled in realization and nodded eagerly. "Yeah! The Feds wouldn't see that coming at all."

"Exactly," Dean met his brother's excited gaze with bright eyes.

John looked at his sons' conspiratorial expressions and shook his head. "It won't work."

"What?" Sam turned to his father surprised. "Why not? It's perfect."

"The cops doing crowd control are gonna have my picture," John reminded them. "They'll recognize me driving a big black truck, whether it's covered in glitter or streamers or whatever or not."

Dean scoffed and waved a hand lazily, dismissing his dad's argument. "Not gonna be a problem."

"How exactly you gonna get around that?" John challenged, dubiously.

"Easy," Dean replied and held up a clear zippered bag stuffed full of compacts, brushes, pencils. "We give you a disguise."

It took a second, but when he finally got it John knew his face was ghost pale and he felt a little light headed.

His panicked bark of, "No!" was only met with his son's gleeful grin and a deep drawling,

"Oh, yes."

---

Once John stopped hyperventilating, everything moved fast.

Sam went to the front office and signed them out of their current room, the one under John's compromised alias. He paid for another room on one of his and Dean's cards. Then he found to the nearest party supply place holding a shopping list for car decorations written in Dean's spidery pint.

While he was doing that, Dean forced their father into the bathroom of their new room and demanded he shave the scrub brush off his face. John was having a hard time not slicing open his own throat 'cause the entire time he was at the sink Dean was measuring up his collection of female clothes against his back. It was distracting and disconcerting and when John saw just how short the skirt was that his son was sizing up against his ass he put his foot down.

"No."

Huffing, Dean tossed the skimpy article through the doorway back onto the bed. "It wouldn't fit you anyway. Your hips are wider than mine." He eyed his father up and down with a critical look. "Pretty sure you're bigger than me all around."

Not sure if he should be insulted or not, John just rinsed his newly whisker free cheeks. "I guess, the plan's scrapped then, isn't?" he said hopefully.

"Nope," Dean shot that down ruthlessly. "There's a secondhand store not far from here. When Sam gets back I'll go raid their selection and find something that'll work."

Shoulders slumping in defeat, John grumbled, "Great."

Sam got back quickly and he got to work disguising John's truckzilla as much as was possible with a massive, overcompensating piece of machinery. Dean hopped in the Impala and sped to the secondhand store. And John sat in the motel room feeling like he was getting ready to walk to the gallows.

Much too soon for his liking, Dean was waltzing back into the motel room with a large plastic shopping bag stuffed to the brim.

"For such a tiny place they had a surprisingly good selection," Dean said to the room at large as he dumped the entire bag on the bed.

Swallowing thickly, John girded his loins and stood up to get a look at his son's haul. "That's a lot of stuff. You really think I need all that?"

"Nah," Dean grinned wide at his father. "Most of that's for me. I just couldn't pass it up. Do you know how hard it is the find blouses that fit my shoulders?"

No, he didn't, John thought glumly. He didn't wear blouses.

By the time Sam was finished writing pro LGBT slogans on John's truck in window marker and stenciling glittery magenta pink flowers on every available inch of black steel, Dean had dragged John back into the bathroom.

"Is this strictly necessary?" John whined as he stood in the bathtub in nothing but his boxers.

Shaking a can of shaving cream in one hand, Dean answered with a simple, "Yep."

John jumped when the can gave an ominous hiss and a giant clump of white foam was sprayed on his leg. "I mean, how many people are really gonna be looking that close?"

Dean snorted. "Believe me, you walk out there in drag with hairy legs and the queens will notice. Now spread that around."

Grimacing, John did as his son ordered and messily wiped the cream from ankle to just above his knee. "Can't I just wear pants?"

"There's no way we're gonna find feminine pants that fit you in the next hour and a half," Dean explained no nonsense, picking up the disposable razor and holding it out to his father, unyielding. "Skirt's easier to fit a man with minimal altering.

"Now," he said in a tone that was reminiscent of the voice John used on the boys when he was teaching them a new skill, "it's a little different from shaving your face. Careful around the knee, they're easy to skin if you don't watch it. Your hair's so thick the blade's gonna clog easy, so you're gonna have to rinse it every stroke. I'll help when you get to the back of your leg, 'cause there's nothing less attractive than a giant patch of hair on a mostly smooth calf."

Dean sat back on his heels and looked at John expectantly. "Well, hurry up. We're on a time crunch here."

Hesitating for another long second, John scowled in consternation from his cream white leg to the disposable razor in his hand then he clenched in jaw. He was a grown man, a retired Marine, a goddamn hunter. He can shave his damn legs if he had to, no problem. It can't possibly be harder than roasting a wendigo.

Twenty minutes later, John was cursing up a storm and about ready to give it all up and just turn himself in. The Federal pen would probably be less of a pain in the ass than this shit.

Dean snorted with a slight amused curve to his lips, completely unsympathetic when John said just that. "Be glad I'm not making you shave your pits or chest. Legs are a cake walk compared to."

Looking up from his nicked and bleeding shin, John stared at his son in horror. "For the love of all that's holy, please no."

Chuckling at the look on his father's face, Dean shook his head, "I said I wasn't."

Eventually, John was hairless from the knee down and had only sliced himself up a handful of times. That was when the real fun began. If you asked Dean, that is. If you asked John, he would say it was another round of torture.

He never realized his son was a sadist. Where did he go wrong with him?

In the end, John was dressed in some kinda knee length flowy, blue, flower print skirt. It had an elastic waist band with a zipper in the back that Dean had to safety pin closed around John's muscular waist.

"Ow! Watch it!" John jolted when he got pricked for the third time.

"Stop moving then!" Dean scolded around the safety pins held between his lips. He was knelt behind his father trying to make sure the skirt wouldn't fall off him.

Sam was busy sipping at his cold coffee and struggling to smother his laughter as he watched the scene.

"Shut up, Sam!" Dean and John shouted at him when he failed.

To go with the skirt Dean shoved John into a cream colored long sleeved blouse with a collar that fell into two long ribbons meant to tie in a bow at the neck. Perfect since there was no way Dean was gonna get John to shave his chest so he could wear anything v-necked. Since John's arms were about two and a half inches too long Dean was forced to roll the sleeves up to three-quarters length and cleverly secure the cuffs to hide the safety pins.

To finish off the outfit, Dean wrapped a thick belt around John's waist to hide the awkward fit of the skirt and the blouse tucked into it, not to mention the safety pins holding the whole thing together. He also forced his father to wedge his size eleven feet into a large pair of mat black women's loafers that had seen better days.

After that it was just the finishing touches.

"It's lucky you've let your hair get so long," Dean commented as he stood behind his seated father with a comb in one hand and an assortment of hair accessories scattered on the table next to them. "Trying to find you a wig would have been a pain of ass and you can't pull off a butch hair style in drag like I can."

Not for the first time since this snafu started, John wasn't sure if he should be insulted or not.

"How much can you really do with it?" John asked, morbidly curious. His hair was just curling around his ears, he didn't look like a hippy or anything.

"You'd be surprised," Dean answered distractedly as he parted John's hair to the side. He started doing something complicated and unfathomable with it involving lots of twisting and strategically placed bobby pins. There was an especially sharp tug on a stubborn lock of hair and John winced.

"Alright," Dean said as he shoved in the last pin, "now close your eyes."

John warily eyed the shiny aerosol can in his son's hand. "What's that?"

"Hair spray," Dean answered simply giving the can a couple sharp shakes then aiming it at John with all the precision he usually employed with a gun.

Snapping his eyes shut, John scrunched his face up in displeasure as he felt flammable liquid chemicals misting all over his head.

When the sputtering of the spray tapered off, John peeked his eyes open one at a time. Both his sons were standing in front of him examining Dean's handiwork critically.

"Huh." Sam had a vaguely impressed look on his face. "Not bad."

Snorting, Dean punched his brother in the arm. "Not bad," he scoffed. "Not bad. It's freaking awesome."

"Meh, it's alright." Sam shrugged, faux blasé. He earned himself another punch in the shoulder. Then Dean picked up the big hand mirror he kept floating around in the trunk and held it up for John.

Looking at his hair this way and that, John had to acknowledge it was actually pretty impressive. Somehow Dean had managed to fix his usually shaggy waves into a neat twist that wrapped around the crown of his head. It was made all the more impressive by the illusion the style was held together by nothing but its own merit. The bobby pins were completely invisible and the small pearl clips slipped in here and there didn't appear to make any contribution to the hairdo's stability.

It was unmistakably feminine. And though it made John mildly uncomfortable, he had to admit that it did something to soften his features and downplay his decidedly masculine bone structure.

All that was left was the makeup. John put up more of a protest to that even than the shaving, but Dean was the one that put his foot down then.

"You'll never be believable as a drag queen without it," Dean said, sitting in front of his father with a tube of skin colored something in one hand and an immovable expression on his face. "Your features are too masculine to go without it."

"Come on, Dad. It's not that bad," Sam threw in, still watching the proceedings utterly fascinated by his father's transformation.

John turned to him, surprised. "You've done this before?"

Shrugging nonchalantly, Sam leaned back in his seat. "Figured you never know when you might need to put on makeup for some reason." He gave his dad a pointed look. "Like now, for instance."

Sighing, resigned, John just threw his arms open and threw himself upon his son's mercy. "Fine, do your worst."

Rolling his eyes at the dramatics, Dean squeezed a small dollop of skin colored cream onto his fingers and began the monumental task of turning his rough, weathered dad into a pretty, pretty drag queen.

John followed all of Dean's direction to the best of his ability. "Look up and hold still." "Blink a couple times." "Pout for me." "Stop complaining, your eyebrows need a good plucking."

By the time Dean handed him the hand mirror again, John had pretty much accepted that he was going to come out looking like a dude wearing makeup, but when he actually looked at his reflection he was stunned silent.

It was like a completely different person was staring back at him. A fairly attractive, feminine person. Truthfully, if John didn't already know himself he would have been hard pressed to guess if the person staring back at him was a man or a woman.

The makeup was subtle but effective. His lips were a light rose color and looked pouty and full. His complection was smooth and even and he had a delicate blush to his cheeks. Whatever Dean had done with the black lines around his eyes, the goo on his lashes, and the colored powder on his lids turned his hazel eyes an eye catching golden green.

"Damn, Dean," Sam muttered in awe. "Dad actually looks good."

Dean smirked smugly. "Damn right he does. I'm like freaking Batman with a powder brush."

Chuckling, Sam gave his brother a fond look and nudged him with an elbow in the side. "Yeah, yeah. You're a miracle worker."

"What do you think, Dad?" Dean asked, drawing John's attention away from the admittedly attractive stranger in the mirror.

His son was watching him intently and John realized he was actually nervous for his judgment.

"It's," he started then paused glancing at himself again. Looked back up at his son, he replied honestly, "It's really good, son. Really good."

Dean's smile widened, pleased with the praise. "Well, you're not all that hard to look at in the first place. Made my job easier."

Snorting, John put the mirror down and gave his son a wry look. "Thanks, Dean. Appreciate it."

"Any time," Dean grinned teasingly.

---

The sound John made when he stepped out the motel room and saw his truck for the first time was a little embarrassing. Then again seeing the blasphemy Sam had perpetuated on his '86 GMC was embarrassing all on its own.

"Please tell me it washes off." For love of God let it wash off, John prayed as he stood in his unbelievably uncomfortable women's shoes and clothes in broad daylight.

Sam smiled sheepishly and shrugged his wide plaid covered shoulders. "It'll take a couple washes, but it should come off." He bit his lip uncertainly and John felt his eye twitch. "At least that's what the packaging said."

"I dunno," Dean drawled from next to John as he looked the truck over. "I think it suits it. You know, they say pink is the new black."

His eye twitched again and John groaned beleaguered. Where did he get such smartasses for sons? He was blaming Mary.

A headache was beginning to pinch behind his eyes and he raised his hand to rub at his face.

"Stop that." Dean sharply slapped his dad's hand back down. "You'll smear your makeup."

"God forbid," John grumbled sardonically, but did drop his hand back to his side.

"I worked hard on it," Dean reminded him warningly. "And I won't be pleased if I have to redo it already."

John believed it too. He'd already been scolded multiple times before even they left the room for fiddling with his outfit. The belt around his waist was a little tight, the shoes were torture implements, and he was uncomfortable with the constant gusts of wind up his balls, but Dean was like a damn psychic. He seemed to know when John was even thinking about shifting something around and would jump on his ass before he even got the chance.

Glancing over at his son in the light of day, John wasn't sure how to feel about what he saw. Other than stunned, that is. He was seeing his son in full on drag for the first time since he'd been blindsided with the revelation that his boy was both a crossdresser and a catcher for the other team.

Dean's makeup was more dramatic than John's, darkly shadowed eyes, bright red lips, and freckles accentuated by his rouged cheeks as opposed to covered up. He was also wearing earrings, big dangly things with purple sparkles. On his wrists he had rhinestone bracelets stacked up on one and a thick studded leather cuff on the other. His fingers were decorated too, with numerous rings and a shiny dark purple nail polish.

And hadn't that been weird, watching his son paint his nails with the same precision he used to copy sigils and ritual circles.

Apparently purple and blue were the theme of the day because, unlike John with his conservative cream blouse, Dean was wearing an off the shoulder tank top covered entirely in blue sequins. It glittered near blindingly in the sunlight and would definitely draw attention.

It was a comfort, John realized, to see the familiar leather cord disappearing into Dean's neckline. Even looking like a near completely foreign creature, he could still count on Dean wearing his ever present amulet.

Despite how odd the sequined shirt and jewelry were, John would readily confess that the part of Dean's outfit that made him the most uncomfortable was the tiny-ass black leather miniskirt. He'd never wanted to see that much upper thigh on his own child. Of course the black, thigh-high, high heeled leather boots made him just as if not more uneasy. Dean had called them his "Kinky Boots" and John couldn't figure out if that was a brand name or description and he didn't want to know.

Either way he'd almost choked when Dean pulled them out of the trunk. He'd only seen strippers and hookers wear anything like that but his son had just laughed at his indignant spluttering.

Despite his reservations about the whole situation in general John had to admit that Dean looked good. He made the clothes and makeup and jewelry work for him and even though he was in full drag, John could still see his son's sense of style as apparent as when he was dressed like a man. Watching the transformation had been an experience and he realized that he was proud that Dean strived for the same mastery in everything he did, whether it was roasting a rugaru or applying eyeliner.

All in all, John had to acknowledge that his strong, badass hunting son actually pulled off dressing like a chick better than a lot of actual females he'd seen. Certainly better than John himself.

"Alright, let's get this show on the road." Dean clapped his hands together and drew John's attention back to the present situation. "The parade starts in forty-five minutes and we need to get to the starting point if we want to get in the lineup."

John didn't argue even if he had a ball of embarrassment heavy in his gut. He just stepped off the curb and walked around his pink sparkle violated truck to the passenger side. No way was he taking the backseat. His pride could only take so much.

Maybe his truck was a little bigger than necessary, John thought reluctantly as he struggled to get into the cab. It was jacked up tall enough he hiked up his skirt in order to get his foot on the running board to heft himself inside. Finally seated in the passenger seat he looked out the windshield to see what was taking his sons so long.

Outside on the sidewalk Sam had come up next to his brother and thrown an arm around his shoulders murmuring something in his ornamented ear. John noted absently that with the high heels Dean was actually just as tall as his giant brother.

Whatever Sam was saying must have been funny, because Dean suddenly threw his head back in laugher. The smirk he had on his bright red lips when he paused laughing was positively wicked and he said something that had Sam grinning back before they were separating and started moving toward the truck.

Seeing the exchange John just sighed resigned again and decided he didn't even want to know. He just wanted to get this day over with.

Previously, outside on the sidewalk, Sam came up behind his brother wrapped an arm around his bare shoulders.

Leaning close to Dean's jeweled ear he murmured low, "You look so fucking sexy and when this is all over I'm gonna strip you naked and fuck you hard in nothing but those damn boots."

Dean felt a delicious shiver go down his spine even as he threw his head back and laughed in delight. Turning to see the heavy, heated look on his brother's face, Dean murmured back, "You say the nicest things, Sammy. I can't wait."

He heard Sam give off a low, belly quivering growl as he stepped out from under his arm and sauntered toward the truck. Glancing over his shoulder, Dean sent his lover a teasing smirk, "You coming, or what?"

Sam grit his teeth and wrestled with his control until he was sure he wasn't going to just say fuck it and jump his brother in parking lot anyway. Eventually he followed after Dean and climbed up into the driver's seat and not another minute later they were on their way.

---

John looked around at the crowd pressing in on him and Dean and swallowed nervously.

"Why can't we just ride in the truck, again?"

"'Cause you're too conspicuous paired with your truckzilla and the point is for you not to get recognized," Dean replied pointedly.

"Oh, yeah." John grimaced at his son's sound logic.

Dean snorted and rolled his eyes. Leaning around John he called up to Sam sitting in the driver's seat idling waiting for the parade to start. "What's the timing like, Sam?"

Glancing at the clock on the dashboard, Sam called back, "Less than ten."

"Thank God," John mumbled as he shifted on his already aching feet. These shoes were actual hell.

"Why can't I wear my boots, again?" he asked Dean with definitely no hint of a whine in his voice.

"'Cause no self-respecting queen would be caught dead wearing work boots with that outfit," Dean answered dryly. "Now, suck it up, already. The parade's about to start."

Sure enough not five minutes later, movement had reached them and they were ambling along next to Sam leisurely rolling the truck forward. He set his easy pace to the chartreuse microbus creeping along in front of him. Which John figured was good, 'cause any faster and he was sure he would be crippled by the end of this whole ordeal.

"Wave to the crowd, Dad," Dean instructed as he grinned bright and flashy at the cheering happy people clustered fifteen deep on either side of the street watching the precession wander by. "You're a happy drag queen, remember? Stop looking like I'm holding you at gun point."

Right, John thought with a grimace, he was supposed to be excited. Hesitantly, he lifted a hand and gave the crowd a wave. He was a little surprised to get pleasant smiles and waves in return. Huh, this isn't so bad.

After that, when John realized the crowd wasn't going to do anything more threatening than toss out of season Mardi Gras beads and confetti at them he started to kinda get into it. He especially didn't mind smiling and waving at the surprising number of little kids scattered around. He figured they didn't really get what the parade was actually about, they just liked the colors and sounds and general excitement in air.

Fifteen minutes in John started to relax and, if you twisted his arm, have fun. Dean sure seemed to be having a good time. He was skipping and prancing along catching beads out of the air and tossing them back into the crowd, mostly to the kids watching. Sam got in the spirit, too, honking the horn and blasting the drag queen favorites mixed tape he pulled out of the Impala.

All around them were glitter splattered clusters of other subgroups, twinks and bears and dykes. Men John's size and bigger decked out in the craziest costume's he'd ever seen off a stage. Rainbow flags were everywhere with LGBT banners and pro-gay slogans. Men and women both were dressed up and bouncing and jogging back and forth through the parade of people tossing glitter, confetti, and silk flowers all over.

John had to admit it wasn't bad. Not bad at all.

The trouble came about halfway through when he got assaulted by a big hairy shirtless dude wearing a leather vest and chaps. The guy slapped John's ass and shouted something crudely suggestive over the din of the crowd.

It was reflex. Really it was. He didn't even think about it, one second he was being felt up and the next John had laid the asshole out on the asphalt with one punch.

"Whoa! Dad!" Dean exclaimed and rushed back to John from where he'd skipped ahead. Gearing up to smooth things over before the strategically placed cops caught wind of it.

He failed 'cause almost before he reached his dad a young cop was jogging out to them.

"What's the problem here?" he demanded eyeing the situation sternly.

Dean had positioned himself between John and the cop and the asshole rolling around on the ground holding his bleeding nose.

"I hope you saw that, Officer. That dick just bad touched my friend. It was totally self-defense," Dean jumped in immediately drawing the cop's attention almost completely to him. In his heels Dean was a couple inches taller than John and standing in front him was almost totally cutting off view of him.

He also got up into the cop's personal space. He was taller and more muscular than the cop and he was using his size to further grab attention. A picture perfect misdirection technique.

"I can't believe the nerve of him. Asshole, you should be ashamed of yourself. Thank you so much, Officer, for being so quick. We feel much safer with you here." Dean didn't stop bombarding the cop until John could see the poor guy's eyes start to widen overwhelmed.

"Sir!" the cop tried to cut in, as Dean rolled over him with more verbal nonsense. "Sir! It's alright. I have everything under control, now."

"Oh, I know. Of course." Dean gave the guy a bright smile, one John had seen him use while flirting with chicks in bars and waitresses. "You're doing a wonderful job. Keep up the good work."

Then to John's utter shock, Dean leaned in and gave the confused cop a big smacking kiss on the cheek. "Thank you, so much, for protecting us, Officer. You do it so well." He gave the now spluttering cop a wink and turned grabbing John's hand and yanking him away from the scene.

"Come on, Joan. Let's catch up with Sammy."

Still stuck on his son's actions he stuck looking back long enough to see the poor, flustered young cop was blushing from his forehead all the way down his neck past the bright red imprint of lips on his cheek.

"What the fuck," John mumbled as he eyed his son in bewilderment.

"Misdirection," Dean said with a showy swoop of his hand. He went back to waving at the spectators. "He'll be so preoccupied with fact he got smooched on by a drag queen he won't realize he didn't get our statements."

"Huh." John looked forward again and thought on that for a second. "What about the Joan part?"

Dean gave his father a mischievous grin. "A classy chick like you couldn't be called John, now could you?"

Scowling at this cheeky kid, John shot back, "Why don't I just call you Deanna, then? I doubt anyone in that short a skirt would go by Dean."

Glaring now, too, Dean warned, "Try it and I'll kick your ass."

Snorting, dubiously, John looked his son up and down pointedly. "Not in those boots you won't."

Dean's grin was full of confident challenge. "Want to bet?"

Thinking about how Dean had been practically prancing down the street for the last thirty minutes without a hint of discomfort or misbalancing, John wasn't so certain anymore.

He didn't take the bet.

After wordlessly signaling the all clear to a concerned Sam, John went back waving and smiling and surreptitiously eyeing the law-enforcement officers he could pick out in the crush of people. One thing their little brush with the cop earlier had told him, other than the fact that his son was a hell of a conman, was that the drag disguise actually worked. Though, it still always paid to be vigilant anyway.

Finally after an hour, they reached the end of the parade and John caught his first sight of the access road on the interstate.

Sam surreptitiously separated out from the motorcade turning onto the street leading onto the access road. John and Dean followed behind at a much quicker pace than they'd kept while in the parade.

Pulling up to a stop, Sam threw open the door and jumped down from the cab. John suddenly realized that this was it. He was going to get in his big, sparkly graffitied truck and probably not see his boys again for a long while.

He looked at Sam, tall and grown and so smart. He looked at Dean, strong and confident and a good man. And he felt that now familiar swell of love for his children.

"It's been so good to see you boys," he said, sincerely.

"It's been good to see you too, Dad," Sam returned genuinely with a smile. "I've missed you."

"Maybe don't go totally incommunicado for a whole year, next time," Dean suggested wryly with a hopeful quirk to his mouth.

Chuckling, John nodded, fully intending to follow through. "How about I call you when I clear the state line? That work for you?"

His boys traded considering looks before they both turned back to him and nodded, agreeing, "Sounds good."

Glancing around John realized that the parade was beginning to trickle to a stop and his time was up.

"I gotta go," he nodded toward the thinning crowd. "Before the cops aren't so distracted anymore."

Accepting the inevitable, Dean stepped forward first and grabbed his dad up and a tight hug. He buried his face in John's shoulder and took in that leather, gun oil, smoky scent that meant safety and comfort his entire life.

"Love you, Dad," he mumbled into the silk blouse covering his dad's shoulder.

Taking a deep pleasantly aching breath, John turned his face and pressed a kiss –a little sticky and rose tinted from the lipstick he still wore- to his oldest son's temple.

"Love you, too, son." He pulled back, gripping Dean's shoulders once last time before letting him go all together. "Be careful, okay?"

"I'm always careful," Dean returned cheekily stepping back.

His arms weren't empty for half a moment before John was being wrapped up in Sam's long arms and squeezed.

Sam clenched his eyes shut and tried to memorize the feel of his one and only parent's comforting embrace. He didn't realize how much he'd missed being held by his dad until he experienced it again after ten years.

"Be careful, yourself, Dad," Sam demanded solemnly. "You're the one on the Feds' most wanted list."

A breath was forced from his lungs as his son squeezed again, and John let out a gasping chuckle. "I will, I promise." Planting a kiss on his youngest son's temple as well, John affirmed, "Love you, Sammy."

Sam mumbled his reciprocation into John's satiny shoulder. He let his father go only after he gasped out, "Need to breathe, Sam."

Standing back and taking one last long look at his boys, John was so proud to call them his sons.

"Stay out of trouble, you two," he ordered. "And take care of each other."

"Of course," Sam said, as he stood next to his brother. They watched their father haltingly move toward his truck about to leave them again for an unforeseeable time.

"We'll be fine, Dad," Dean assured his reluctant father. "Now, get going. You need to be gone like yesterday."

Chuckling, John finally stopped procrastinating and hiked his skirt up again as he climbed up into his truck. Kicking his devil's shoes, John put his bare feet to the pedals and stuck his head out the window.

"See ya'll around!" he called putting the truck in drive then sped on to his freedom with one last wave to his pride and joys, his boys. He watched Dean and Sam in the rearview mirror until he couldn't see them through the traffic anymore.

As their dad's truck disappeared, Dean leaned against his brother and groaned. "Who'd of thought a gay pride parade would be so freaking stressful."

Snorting, Sam wrapped his arm around his brother's shoulders and pulled him closer to his side. "That run in with that cop was pretty close."

Huffing, Dean shook his head. "Tell me about it. At least Dad wasn't packing or I'm sure he woulda shot that handsy asshole in the face."

They definitely dodged a bullet with that one, so to speak.

"At least, Dad's safe now," Sam said.

Sighing, Dean truly relaxed for the first time since Sam had busted in the motel room that morning heralding trouble. Their dad was free to hunt another day and the Winchesters had pulled another fast one on Uncle Sam.

"Come on, I could use a drink," Dean demanded, pulling away from Sam and grabbing his hand to tow him back into the crowd in search of a bar.

Sam let his brother tug him along, but not without some obligatory resistance.

"Come on," Dean wheedled, "The parade's over the real party's about to start. Let's have some fun."

Suddenly a sly, mischievous came over Dean's face and he sidled back up to his lover. Lips coming to a hair's breadth from the sensitive skin on Sam's ear he murmured deep and suggestive, "And afterward we can find that motel room and you can fuck me in nothing but my boots just like you suggested before."

A shiver went down Sam's spine and his belly began to burn with anticipation. "You're a damn tease," he growled.

"Not if I plan to follow through," Dean returned with a grin. He pulled Sam further into the crush to resume the search for a bar.

Sam watched the muscles of his brother's back shift and move underneath his sequined top, the flex and clench of his ass in that sorry excuse for a skirt. He gazed into the bright happy gleam in those arresting green eyes and took in the scent of leather, gun oil, and sharply rich floral perfume. Not for the first or last time, Sam thought that his brother was beautiful and sexy and amazing in all his glory.

Tugging Dean to a sharp stop, Sam pulled him into a deep kiss and savored in the feel of his plush lips and the taste of his mouth, the heat of his body and his soft skin. He reveled in the anonymity of the crowd that gave him the freedom to touch his brother like he craved, like the lovers they were.

Dean returned the kiss wholeheartedly and Sam thought that he was utterly in love with his amazing brother. And he was perfectly happy with that.

---

END.