Prologue
Shit, put that light out. Sam sluggishly stuffed his fists against his eyes, attempting to block out the hideous glow that sent a splash of pain bouncing around the cavern of his skull. He cracked open his lips, chapped and dry as the Sahara, and groaned, "mmhDean? Y'there?"
Ugh, what died in his mouth last night? Last night. Oh, god. Vague pieces of iconic memory floated to the peak of his consciousness: bar fight, tipsy women, the neon blur of taillights, the cracked pavement whirring beneath his feet. Sam picked himself off the couch- when had he even returned to the motel?- and hissed at the aching swell that the action caused in his brain.
Bzzst. The ray of early morning light peeking through the window gouged through Sam's eyeballs. He stumbled over to the window and swished the curtains shut, perhaps a little harder than necessary. Good. He then proceeded to flounder his way over to the bathroom, tripping over every damn piece of furniture in the place as he went. Freakin' alcohol. Never again would Sam drink more than two beers in one sitting. To hell with Dean's "celebratory measures". What reason did they have to celebrate, anyway? Killing a shtriga wasn't exactly a mind-boggling accomplishment. They did gain a teensy victory in that there were no (juvenile) casualties this time around, but Sam was sure Dean had just wanted an opportunity to get stone-cold drunk.
"Screw you, ash'ole", Sam mumbled at his feet, his tongue sliding around his mouth with all the delicacy of a block of lead. He stuck his arm into the gloomy hollow of what he thought was the bathroom doorway, and after a bit of fiddling and swearing, he entered the dank space. Some fanfare and confetti would be well-deserved.
He could barely just make out his reflection in the mirror, and what he could see of himself wasn't pretty. Looked like death warmed over: sweaty hair, puffy eyelids, sallow cheeks- the works. And he was shirtless, for whatever reason. Not his typical sleepwear. As Sam was blearily rubbing water over his face, he heard the tell-tale sounds of Dean's primitive morning routine. "G'na kill 'im", he mumbled under his breath. He closed the tap and made as if to exit the bathroom, but something about his obscure reflection caught his eye. He redirected his focus at the mirror, and- what the hell? Sam quickly flipped the light switch, squinted painfully as his pupils adjusted, and stared. A girl with effulgent eyes and terrific tits stared back at him. Um.
He lifted his arm in a daze, meaning to reach out and touch her, affirm her physical presence or whatever. (Yeah, it was stupid. But he felt so screwed in the head at the moment that he didn't want to take any chances.) His hand connected with cool glass. Her hand connected with cool glass. Sam gulped nervously, dread beginning to seep into the pit of his stomach. He tilted his head and frowned. She tilted and frowned in perfect unison. Wait, wait, WAIT.
Sam's foggy brain set into brisk activity, trying to come up with any semi-logical explanation for this bare-breasted glass girl. Spiritual portal, befuddled ghost, haunted mirror, shadow mist, light distortion... Hey, anything was acceptable. Anything, of course, besides the most glaringly obvious conclusion, which was that Sam had mysteriously metamorphosed into a babe. No way, right? Sam forced the idea out of his mind with a grimace (noting that the chick in the mirror reciprocated the motion flawlessly) and tried to reason with himself.
What reason would anything have for endowing humble Sammy Winchester with a pair of hooters? Yes, he'd defiled a few graves in his time, staked a couple tricksters, shot some witches...but it wasn't like he'd run over some lady's cat or anything; he did his sanguine best to stay on the good (operatively-speaking) side of whatever beings-human or otherwise-he and Dean came across. So yeah, it was most likely a simple case of Haunted Bathroom Mirror. The door swung open, then, and his older brother walked in, toothbrush in place. "Sam, know where I put the, uh..." Dean trailed off, his red-rimmed eyes pointed squarely at Sam's upper torso. What? Sam groaned inwardly and finally chanced to look down at what he'd been subconsciously avoiding since Ghost Girl had flitted across his periphery: his own body. Damn. I have boobs.