Warnings: offscreen unsupportive/transphobic John, father estrangement, mentions of misnaming/misgendering, gender dysphoria (past chest dysphoria, current bottom dysphoria), mentions of Sam enjoying both topping and bottoming.

Sam's not really like most guys. For one, he's a goddamn sweetheart (even if sometimes it's kind of a salty-sweetness, or sour-sweetness, or really one of the two). But y'know, they're brothers. Dean wouldn't really expect anything else. On the whole, Sam's a goddamn gift to mankind. He really is.

For two, he knows a lot about himself. Like, a freakish amount of stuff about himself. Sam's level of introspection probably would've sent Dean running for the hills several times over, but, y'know, to each their own, and also - in Sam's case, it was kind of necessary. Dean totally gets why Sam was obligated to do that much soul searching, even if he can't relate (and definitely doesn't envy Sam). Even if Sam probably would've done that much anyway because that's kind of who he is, the friggin… soulful, puppy-eyed asshole.

For three, he suffered through the first fourteen (plus) years of his life being called the wrong fucking name. By everyone, Dean included. Because Dean hadn't known. But Sam was hurting, hurting bad, and Sam had always been the one to visibly show emotion, show anger, show grief, but this was different, this was big. Dean begged him to explain - 'cause Sam had been avoiding it, Sam didn't think he'd be okay with it, and wasn't that a load of bullshit, Dean just wanted him to be fucking happy - and so he had caved, and explained, with broken words and half-sentences and terrified, uncertain pauses... and suddenly, just like that, a hell of a lot of childhood trauma made a hell of a lot of sense.

Dean never called him Samantha again. Dad did, but that was a different fucking story. A story that ended with shouting matches, more tears than he'd care to relive, and them leaving, because fuck that. Fuck that. So they'd left. Dean had taken the Impala, the cash he'd earned from pool sharking and scams, and they'd driven. And driven.

Sam had cried silently through a good three states. Dean made a few bathroom pit stops and made sure Sam didn't see him do the same. He felt hollow and tired and wrung dry, but most of all, he felt vindicated. He didn't have room in him to regret a damn thing; only to love and protect and cherish Sam - to keep him safe, keep him happy - and wasn't that just the way the world spun.

Dean offered him a haircut, when they'd settled into a cheap little hotel in Chesapeake for the night, because he figured that was probably the right way to go here. A good first step. Sam hated everything about himself, he'd said matter-of-factly, had since the first training bra, the first comment thrown his way about his development - and if Dean could, he was going to fix that for him. Somehow. He didn't know the first fucking thing about this, but damn it, he'd try.

Turns out, he had really good intuition. Sam was confused by the offer for roughly half a second - and then his face lit up, hopeful, afraid, disbelieving, almost-

Sam wanted Dean's hairstyle, he'd shyly informed him, once he was properly seated on the rim of the tub. And- goddammit, it was touching, okay? Better men had cried over a lot less; a fierce lump in the throat was nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Dean cut his brother's friggin hair. He did it good, too, and promised to show him how to style it in the morning. And then Sam looked in the mirror, and Sam beamed, for the first time in what must have been months, christ... and then broke down crying, hard.

He apologized for it profusely between gasping, overwhelmed sobs, because boys don't cry. And, y'know, Dean was torn. He was torn for all of two seconds. Then what really mattered kicked in - Sam being happy, Sam feeling loved - and he decided, you know what, fuck that noise. He wrapped his newly christened little brother up in his arms and held him, and told him that if he wanted to cry, then damn right he fucking could. Since when had they ever played by anyone else's rules, anyway?

Sam tried apologizing for everything eventually - for hurting Dean, for putting him in a difficult position, for forcing him to choose sides, for breaking up the family, again, when all they had in the first place was each other - and Dean shot down every single one of them, hard. Because it wasn't Sam's fault. However shitty anyone acted about it was on them, not him. Sam was just… what Sam was going through was hard to begin with, and he'd been doing it alone, and now, on top of it, they didn't have dad to help them through it. That wasn't Sam's fault. It was dad's.

Sam blamed himself like he'd made a choice, coming out like this. Like he'd made a choice, wanting to live like this. Like he'd made some friggin' call that'd doomed the family. Dean was pretty sure he was the only one that saw that it wasn't a choice. Had never been. It had been necessary, 'cause the more he learned the more it became clear that Sam had been dying inside, and now, for maybe the first time, even, Sam was living - and that? That was life or death. That wasn't a fucking choice.

Sam's twenty now, tall, strong, broad chested and beautiful. Well, beautiful in the right ways, that is, because Dean had always thought Sam was beautiful, in every form, in every stage - but now Sam's beauty came with this happiness, this joy, like an unending storm inside him had finally quieted enough for him to see the world beyond himself and love it. And, jesus christ, Dean usually wasn't this poetic. But Sam was Sam, and he deserved sappy shit like this. So, you know, he tried his best to deliver.

(He'd brought Sam home flowers, once - lillies, his favorites - and he hadn't been sure whether it was the right call, or if Sam would take it the right way, or if it'd upset him, even, 'cause he got it, it was kind of a heterosexual thing, kind of a chick thing, but that wasn't what Dean was going for at all. He just knew Sam liked pretty stuff, and always fawned over pretty shit they could never actually buy, and so for once Dean wanted to give him that, price be damned. He wanted to give him something pretty and floral and absolutely, totally unnecessary, 'cause it was a gesture and that was the point.)

((Sam pretty much threw himself at him when he realized they were for him, so, score one, Dean Winchester.))

Sam's twenty now, and a hell of a lot happier. A hell of a lot more comfortable in his body. They still hadn't spoken to dad since that night six years ago and counting - he hadn't called, they hadn't called, and dad had never bothered to hunt them down (which honestly, Dean hadn't been expecting, and he wasn't sure whether the reality made him feel better or worse). But it was better this way. A lot better. Sam could be who he was this way. Sam could friggin' blossom this way, even if that meant settling down, because - as it turns out - hormones and surgeries can be fucking expensive.

So - for the most part, at least - Dean hung up the double-barrel, tossed out the rock salt, and got a job. They found a little apartment in Minneapolis, and it wasn't a lot, it wasn't big and it didn't have much of a view, but it was theirs, and there they called the shots. Plus, Dean had been eighteen, and that meant it was legit. It was legal. For the most part, anyway. Dean still did a few under-the-table odd jobs when he could, but Sam knew, and Sam disapproved, so… you know, they were few and far inbetween.

Sam's twenty now, and they're a hell of a lot closer than they've ever been, too. Because - well, for one, that sort of natural culmination just happens. Dean saw Sam, now, saw him how he was supposed to be seen, in a body that made him so goddamn happy most of the time, and jesus christ, it was honestly a joy to behold. Sam smiled every day now, beaming with those cute-ass dimples of his, Sam laughed now, loud and real, Sam talked more, now, even, cause his voice was deeper, his voice was right, and christ, Dean was freaking smitten. Had been for a while now. And luckily, so fucking luckily, by some miracle of chance - Sam felt the same way.

Dean hadn't been the one to confess first, because how could he be? He was the older one, he was in charge, Sam looked up to him (he hoped) and loved him and wanted to please him like any little brother did, and that was just- if Sam hadn't returned the feelings, what the fuck did Dean even expect him to say to that? What kind of position did that put Sam in? But Sam marching up, and grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket, and kissing him, at 12 A.M. on his 18th birthday, like they were in a freaking romance movie and fireworks were lighting up the sky and the guy got the guy? Dean had no idea where Sam learned to kiss like that, but man, he wasn't complaining.

Dean definitely wasn't complaining either when they discussed boundaries. Because, yeah. Respecting boundaries was important in any relationship, obviously, but with Sam, where one slip of the hand in the wrong place could set him back a couple months or make him feel like shit? Dean wasn't touching anywhere without Sam's ok. So, they started slow.

"Hey, um, Dean." Sam starts, one hot and bright June afternoon, voice gentle and quiet to the point of uncertainty. Sam's twenty now, and he might still need to wear binders but they both have jobs now and hopefully they'll fix that soon. Sam's twenty and they've gone all the way - not with his front parts, as he calls them, on the rare occurrence when he actually acknowledges them, but with every other part. Dean's fucked Sam. Sam's fucked Dean (and holy shit is Sam having a cock for each mood an unexpected bonus. Dean wasn't used to being loud and proud about getting fucked in the ass with dildos, but jesus, when Sam's doing the fucking...)

"Yeah? What's up?" Dean happily drops the forms he'd been working on - insurance, which, much like taxes, is the bane of his fucking existence - and turns to Sam. Sam fidgets. Takes a breath. Fidgets some more. Dean's kind of on high alert by the end of the fidgeting. "Sam?" He asks, voice as gentle as he can manage despite his sudden, prickling uneasiness at his brother's discomfort.

"I've been… more comfortable with my body lately, you know? A lot more." And, yeah, Dean knew. Dean could see it in how he carried himself; how he presented (he'd grown his hair out recently, even). Sam was happy, tentatively, consistently, for the first time in a long time, and jesus fucking christ was that an awesome thing to witness. "And we've done… a lot. And it's been awesome. Really awesome." Which, yeah. Hell yeah. But Sam looked cagey. Sam looked uncomfortable.

"Sam?" He asked again. "You actually mean that, right? 'Cause man, if I've been doing anything wrong, you know all you need to do is-"

"No- Dean! It's- we're great, I promise. Things are great. It's just- listen. Please." Which - yeah, okay. Okay, fine. Dean could do that. Definitely. Sam swallowed, fidgeted some more - christ, was he blushing too? - and went on. "I kind of… I was thinking about maybe trying something new? But it's- fuck." Ah, yes, 'fuck'. That sure was descriptive. And Sam had told him to listen, but he was also pretty sure that was his cue to intervene before Sam lost his nerve here, because jesus christ was he tense over this.

"You wanna try something else?" He prodded. "Okay. What is it? You've actually got to tell me, though, Sammy." He grinned, teasing. "I'm pretty sure there's some rule somewhere where if you can't say it, you're not mature enough to do it." And, y'know, Sam gave a weak chuckle to humor him, but Dean was a big enough boy to tell when a joke fell flat. He tried again. "Sam. C'mon, man. Talk to me."

So Sam did.

"I want- I mean, I think I might like at least trying… stuff. Like… y'know. Like you would with a. With a, um. With-"

And, oh. Oh. Oh. Fucking-

Dean got it. Dean got what Sam was asking.

"Sam." Sam very nearly winced at the tone of his voice, and christ, wasn't that just a boot to the gut. He wasn't mad, he wasn't even annoyed, just… christ, for all the freaking introspection in the world that Sam did, his little brother was a dick to himself sometimes. Not that Dean could really talk.

"Sam, look, man." He started again. He was pretty damn sure Sam already knew all this, but whatever; Dean knew how it was, sometimes. You can know things, but actually putting them into practice? Ain't that a different monster all together. "You're you, regardless of whatever the hell we do, okay? I'm never gonna fuck you - or do whatever to you - like you're a girl, 'cause I can't, cause you're not a girl." Because that was important, and that summed up the crux of roughly 99% of Sam's issues. And sure enough, as soon as he says it, Sam breaths in, slow and sharp, and looks away, blinking back wetness.

"Thanks," is all he can manage back. Dean knows he means it.

Dean blinks down at Sam. He's… rigid. There's no other way to describe it.

"Look, man." Dean asks gently. "I'm down for anything, you know that, but if you're this… edgy about it? Maybe it's not such a good idea." Because yeah, Sam liked pushing himself - but he was pretty sure his brother looking this uncomfortable was a red flag to hold the hell up.

"I'm just nervous." Sam lied. When Dean's face dropped into something thoroughly unimpressed and a little bit offended, Sam swallowed, and amended. "It's not that, okay? It's not- it's you." Which-

"What?" It was like something in his chest had plummeted, hard. Which Sam realized, immediately.

"Not- no! Not like that. I mean, whenever we're in bed, you treat me like a dude-"

"'Cause you are a dude!"

"You know what I mean!"

"No, actually, I don't." Because, hey, if Sam wanted to be stubborn about this? Two could play at that game. "You're my brother."

"Mmm, yeah, say it again, next time while I'm fucking you."

Dean snorted.

"Shut up, man. Look - you've told me all of this before. You've shouted it at assholes on the street. You know this stuff. What's got you so upset?" When Sam looked away evasively and didn't answer, it clicked.

"Oh. Dysphoria stuff again?"

"Yeah." He admitted quietly. Which- fuck, man.

"...You wanna talk about it?"

"No."

"Okay."

Except then Sam's face was crumpling a little, and-

"Hey, hey, come here." Dean's voice was inextricably gentle as he shifted to Sam's side and held out his arms, beckoning. Asking. Sam hesitated, at first, and then he was moving himself closer, pressing close, curling himself against his brother and pressing his face into Dean's neck. He let out a slow, shuddery breath. Dean nuzzled his nose into Sam's hair and breathed, and, yeah, there was his little brother.

"Sometimes I don't know how you see me like you do, is all."

Dean gave it a few seconds of thought.

"It's not that hard. You've got a really hot ass," he placidly explained. Sam snickered. He went on. "Really, though. I don't care. You're you. You're just a dude with… modest dude parts." Which earned him a bitchface. Sam's face might be pressed flush against his neck, but when Sam's your brother, you can feel that shit. Dean went on again, because come on. "Seriously, dude! I'm serious. They're just- they're yours, so… doesn't that by default kind of make them dude parts? Just. Smaller."

"Dean!"

"What? It's not the size, it's how you use it. So I've heard." A muffled, suppressed snort of laughter from Sam. Hell yeah.

"You're such an asshole!" Sam snaps, instead.

"Mmm, yeah, work it, baby."

Sam laughs for real this time, and Dean friggin' glows in it.

"Jerk," is Sam's equally placid response, once he's stopped laughing.

"...Bigger jerk." Dean replies. Sam smiles.

"You can call me bitch, Dean. I'm not feeling that shitty."

"Hey, better safe than sorry..." A pause. "Bitch." At that, Sam purrs against Dean's neck. Dean stifles a lopsided grin as his brother nuzzles even closer. "Man, you've got some seriously interesting kinks."

"Maybe you should suck my dick," Sam hums back smoothly.

"Hey, man, I'm tryin'. I would love to suck your dick."

"...Yeah?" And, y'know, he sounds interested again, but he's also got that same thread of uncertainty creeping back into his voice.

"Yeah. But we'll do this another time, okay?" Dean clarifies, lifting a hand to run it through Sam's silky smooth hair. "When you're all for it. When you're sure you'll like it." Sam huffs out a laugh, and he knows what that means - sure, like that'll ever happen - but you know what Dean thinks? He thinks that's bullshit. Dean's pretty sure this is one of those things that you can't imagine 'till it happens (for Sam, at least). And, yeah, he's not the most observant person in the bunch, he'll give Sam that, but you know how he knows?

'Cause he's seen Sam grow up. He's seen him change. And each and every friggin' time Sam reached some new milestone - hips that were slim enough, shoulders that were broad enough, a face that immediately got read as male - Sam told him something along the lines of that he'd never actually expected it to happen. Didn't think he'd actually get there; didn't think it was really in the cards for him. And Dean got it, 'cause really, how the hell were you supposed to visualize yourself feeling a way that you had no previous concept of?

And yet. And freaking yet.

"...You wanna bust out your dick collection, though? 'Cause I'm kind of in the mood for the eight incher."

"Oh my god, Dean."

"Come on, man. I'm raring and ready to go. Ram it up there, babe."

"Dean!" Sam laughs again, so Dean kisses him.

They didn't end up busting out the eight incher, but they did end up falling asleep wrapped up close, curled around each other with legs intertwined and soft breath mingling like the other was the only thing they had - the only thing they needed - to weather through the storm of life.

See, the thing was, some guys didn't like blowjobs (he'd met a guy, and it'd rocked his perception of things even further), and that was fine, even if Dean didn't personally get it. If Sam never got used to it, never liked it, never felt comfortable with the idea - then that was okay. He was just… a guy who didn't like blowjobs, in that case.

But what Dean knew was that if the issue stemmed from gender issues - which it did, he knew it did, because he knew Sam - then Dean knew he'd get there (they'd talked about surgery in the past, and it wasn't that Sam didn't want a dick like his brother's, it was that - very fucking reasonably, Dean thought - Sam wasn't comfortable with the surgical options currently available to him).

And so, Dean knew he'd get there. And regardless of anything and everything, he'd damn well be there loving him, every step of the way.