2

Sam and Dean mentally retrace their steps from yesterday and quickly focus in on the pawnshop. They've been investigating a rash of weird deaths at the brand new Peyton Dental Health Clinic in downtown Redford, Illinois. An old friend of Dad called them in because apparently it is just not normal for dental patients to fatally OD on laughing gas or get impaled by rogue dental instruments.

When they arrived at the clinic yesterday morning, the decorations in the lobby had immediately raised their suspicions and caused Dean to give a snort of disgust. "Why the hell do people always want to decorate with 'antiques' anyway?" he asked, shaking his head at the stupidity of the common masses.

"Well, some people actually appreciate the value of history," Sam responded dryly, to which Dean rolled his eyes to which Sam responded with "hey, the Impala could be seen as an antique."

This offensive remark caused Dean to stop in his tracks and glare at his little brother. "She's not an antique you dipwad. She's a classic. Huge Difference. Huge."

While Sam smirked, the two walked over to examine the artfully placed antique dental tools which looked a hell of a lot like instruments of torture, especially to Dean, who would have rather faced a ghost or goblin any day than make a trip to the dentist, and took religiously good care of his teeth so that he never ever had to. Fifteen minutes of research on Sam's laptop and, bingo, the boys found that, eighty years ago, there was an especially psycho killer dentist in town by the name of Janus Bell. The doc had been prone to giving his patients special treatments which resulted in very unpleasant fatalities about, oh 100 percent of the time. Even Dean had to wince at some of the shit the guy had pulled.

Upon taking a closer look at the lobby decorations, the boys weren't at all surprised to find the initials J.B. inscribed in the ancient medical bag which was resting tastefully on a glass shelf. A hasty conference with Dad's old buddy and ten minutes later there was a merry little dental bonfire going on in the basement of the clinic. Case closed, they should all be that easy.

Right.

A conversation between Dean and the pretty, young receptionist at the Clinic resulted in the information that the antiques had been purchased from a local pawn shop by one of the interior decorators, who just happened to be her cousin (God Bless small towns and their connections).

So after Dean finished sweet talking the girl, while Sam stood in the background coughing pointedly and tapping on his watch, they stopped by the pawn shop to make sure none of old J.B.'s stuff went to someone else or was still sitting in the shop, just waiting to lure some unwary dental instrument lover to their dental doom (although Dean tried to make the argument that anyone who collected antique dental instruments was probably evil and deserved to die.)

The pawn shop was pretty much a bust, with the skinny guy behind the sales counter swearing that the chick with the glasses bought every last bit of the dentist crap and that he'd bought the stuff from some old dude who came in a few weeks back and, uh, paperwork? He must have lost it. So the boys left and went to a diner near the motel to grab a bite and then headed back to their room where they spent a couple of hours relaxing, watching TV and arguing about who was hotter, Shakira, Christina Aguilera, or Madonna during the 80's phase (with Sam wondering how the hell Dean always pulled him into these stupid conversations) before turning in. It had been one of their more peaceful nights; which led them to this morning.

So now they're sitting in the tiny motel room and Dean, after a moment of frantic recall, remembers looking at an old ornate silver ring that caught his attention in the shop yesterday. He'd even tried it on for a minute which, fuck, what the hell had he been thinking? He knows better than to mess with old shit like that.

Hearing Dean's story, Sam frowns in thought. Dean does know better, they both do, he agrees slowly, thinking it through. "Maybe," he wonders out loud, "maybe there was some sort of compulsion on the ring, to lure its chosen victim into its trap."

The thought of having been compelled without his knowledge pisses Dean off, well, pisses him off more and he stands up, snatching his keys, all for going right now, 'why the hell aren't you moving Sam, let's go!' he orders as he stands impatiently, fists clenched.

"Uh, you need some clothes dude," is Sam's apologetic answer.

Dean looks down at where his nipples are trying to poke a hole through his t-shirt and at the boxers that are hugging his hips and starts swearing all over again.

Dean's regular clothes don't in any size, shape or way fit his new smaller, much curvier female body. Sam's clothes sure as hell aren't going to be a better fit and Dean takes it as a personal insult as he realizes that, while Sammy has insisted on being taller for the past several years, his baby bro is now a freaking mutant giant compared to Dean's new female body which seems to have lost about five inches in translation. So Dean waits in the motel room, fuming, while Sam takes his car out to make a run to the nearest thrift shop.

The kid returns about an hour later with an assortment of pants, a skirt and tops in different guessed sizes. The skirt, Dean holds up in front of him disdainfully while he cocks an accusing eyebrow at Sam, who holds up his arms in defense. "Hey, it's got a stretchy waistband. I figured it would fit."

In response Dean sneers and drops the skirt on the floor, giving it a satisfyingly vicious kick before scooping up the jeans and tops and god the bras and panties and storming into the bathroom to try them on. He quickly throws the panties against the wall, because his boxers will work just fine, while he checks out the rest. Two of the jeans are a decent fit so he settles on the more comfortable one. The tops are basic t-shirts, so he ends up choosing one that's a dark green, sneering at the pink one which joins the panties in the heap on the floor. The B-cup Playtex bra fits, although it's sure as hell not what he'd call comfortable and, Jesus, why do women wear these fucking things anyway? It's not like men would object to women wandering around without them, at least, he sure as hell wouldn't.

At least his experience in taking them off of women helps him deal with getting it on and he's spared the total humiliation of asking Sammy for help. Actually, if he wasn't so pissed off at every single thing in the world right now, Dean might be amused at the thought of Sammy having to buy a bra 'cause he can totally picture the blush on the kid's face as he conscientiously tried to pick just the right one. But having to actually wear said bra kind of ruins the amusement factor so instead he just glares at his newly clothed image in the small mirror above the sink.

The part of him not furious and freaked coolly catalogues the image. Dean's spent years admiring, and putting the make on, the female form so he's more than qualified to recognize that he's hot as a girl. Seriously hot. 'At least my looks translated' he thinks. Then the same part of him that assesses a room for marks when he's looking to hustle pool or assesses strategies when he's planning a hunt thinks 'I can use this to my advantage if I need to.' Then furious and freaked wins out again and all he feels is the sudden urge to put his fist through the mirror.

He takes a moment to reestablish control over his emotions and then strides out of the bathroom in his new, used clothes and glares at Sammy, silently daring him to speak. But Sammy proves that he did, in fact, learn something at that fancy ass college 'cause he doesn't say a word just stands up, grabs his backpack and heads towards the door.

As they approach the Impala, Dean holds out a hand for the keys. When they're not immediately handed over, he turns an impatient glare on Sam who hesitates.

"Uh, it might be better for me to drive," Sam says cautiously.

Dean gives him an incredulous look. "Dude, it's my car; I'm driving. End of discussion."

"I'm just saying," Sam says as he raises his hands again in defense. "Who knows what side effects you could be suffering right now…"

"You mean other than that I'm a girl?" Dean asks incredulously before scowling. "The side effects are pretty clear Sammy. It doesn't mean I can't freaking drive."

Sam makes a helpless/frustrated/annoyed shrug. "I just mean, what if you pass out or something or…you start to change back while you're driving or…"

"Gee Sammy, or maybe I'll get cramps," Dean adds, sarcasm dripping from every word. "Dude…give me the fucking keys!"

Sam gives up and throws the keys over in an easy underhanded toss that Dean misses because he expects his reach to be about half a foot longer. Sam blinks in shock, somehow more stunned by this than Dean turning into a girl, because Dean...Dean doesn't miss. Dean looks down at the offending keys lying in the dust at his feet and feels his control crumble and for one heart pounding moment he feels tears start to burn behind his eyes 'cause this just sucks so very much. So he closes his eyes and breathes; deep, calming breaths and repeats a litany to himself to 'suck it up, just suck it up Dean. You will get through this. You will not fall apart. You will not go psycho and you sure as hell will not start crying like a little girl just because you now are one. You are still a soldier and this is just one more battle to win. So suck it up.'

When the red haze finally recedes from behind his eyeballs Dean opens dry eyes and reaches down to snag the keys from the ground. As he straightens he eyes Sammy, not sure what he'll do if his brother makes a smart ass remark right now. But the kid shows the Winchester survival instincts are still working because he gets in the car in complete, wide-eyed silence.

Dean grits his teeth as he finds himself having to adjust the seat way the hell forward, more forward than it's ever fucking been before and, finally settled, he starts the car, jacking up the music of Metallica, the soothing lullaby of hard rock acting as a balm to his jagged nerves.

He pulls the car out of the motel lot and they drive in silence for a moment but Dean figures it's not going to last 'cause he can practically feel the thoughts percolating through Sam's overdeveloped brain. Sure enough, after another moment of silence, Sam hesitantly says, "Hey Dean?"

"What?"

"You don't…" there's a very weird undercurrent in Sammy's voice and it causes Dean to look over at his brother, raising an eyebrow as he sees the oddest expression on Sammy's face.

Sam swallows hard and says haltingly. "You don't think you could actually get a period do you? I mean…when you said cramps it made me think of…and…I mean…menstruating. I mean…dude…" There is true horror in Sam's voice at this terrible, terrible thought.

And Dean panics. Dean has been shot, stabbed, burned, electrocuted, had broken bones, sprains and countless painful bruises and faced it all with a warrior's stoicism. But Sam's question shoots a bolt of pure, white, brain melting panic through him because…fuck. Oh fuck, oh fuck. His brain refuses to even finish processing the thought because it's not going to happen. Just…no. Fuck no.

"Sammy?" his voice comes out a strangled hiss as he tries to kills his brother with the strength of his glare.

"Yeah?" is the wary response.

"I really, really hate you right now. I just want you to know that."

Sam hunches his shoulders self-consciously. "No, dude, it's just…when you said cramps it made me think of…"

"Sammy!"

"Yeah?"

"Shut…the fuck…up! Dude seriously! Just…"

"Okay," chastened, Sam sinks back against the seat, brooding.

Dean floors it.