When Dean hit his pillow that night, he did so with the utmost intention of waking up seconds later to find that the entire day had been a dream. Sam assured him more than once of the reality of it all, and far be it from Dean to be closed-minded, but this was straight-up LSD, acid trip, freaky shit. Weird even by their standards, leprechauns and unicorns accounted for. So it's got to be a dream.

Except Dean wanders out of his room the next morning, and there's Sam in nothing but loose briefs and a too-long undershirt, and he's still a she.

"What the hell, Sam! Pants, damn it!"

Sam turns with her forehead all wrinkled up like somebody's pulling a thread out of the middle of it, and Dean has to do his very best not to let his eyes fall below her neck, 'cause damn, that shirt's tight in all the right places. Except they're the wrong places, because this is his fucking kid brother.

"Seriously, Dean? We've been living together for how many years and you're doing this?"

Dean throws an extravagant gesture at Sam's legs, all 18 barenaked miles of them. "Lady parts, man!"

Marvelous eyeroll. "I think you've seen a woman in underwear before."

"That ain't quite the same as my snot-nosed, asshole brother doing pinup shit in the kitchen." Sam looks all scandalized and Dean can't muster up a fuck to give about it. He thrusts a pointing finger in the direction of Sam's room. "Seriously, pants!"

Sam groans. "Dean! Making cereal isn't 'pinup shit.' I'm just trying to—" She breaks off, does that obnoxious huffing thing where her nostrils flare. "I'm trying to get comfortable, okay?"

Dean squints. Did she just say— "Comfortable?"

Another huff from Sam as she tries to cross her arms, only to decide her chest area is a hindrance, resulting in her hands dangling awkwardly at her sides. "Yeah, comfortable inside my own body. You got a problem with that?"

"You sound like a damn soap commercial!" Dean bites. "You sure you didn't want this curse, Samantha?"

Sam discovers in that moment that her hands can rest quite imposingly on her hips. "Look, Dean, after the massive amount of nothing we found out yesterday, we need to get used to the idea that maybe I'm going to be like this for a while. This isn't even near the worst curse we've ever dealt with, so the best thing to do is calm the hell down and deal with it."

"'Not the worst'—?" Dean turns, scoffing, toward the table. Maybe, just maybe, when he turns back around, Sam's head won't be firmly planted up her ass. He spins and finds that, no, the kid's still aligned with the world's bitchiest attitude, sharp in her grimace and in the overbearing kind of way she's got her left hip cocked.

"Sam," Dean implores, "are you forgetting that friggin' creepy vision you had? Come to me and shit?"

Sam's bangs fan high above her face with a sharp sigh. "I've experienced every kind of possible vision, hallucination, and head trip that you could ever imagine, Dean, and probably a bunch that you couldn't. Getting worried over that episode yesterday would be like watching me string out on heroin for my whole life and then worrying I'm gonna die when I inhale secondhand cigarette smoke." Her eyebrows pinch up in the middle and her voice does that soft, strained thing it's prone to when she's patting the back of someone whose spouse has become vampire floss. "I've handled worse. This is really nothing to be worried about."

Dean is reminded, like a swift kick to the solar plexus, how precious little Sam has ever imparted to him about those days in detox, or those months of Tuesdays, or all those years of Lucifer in the pit. It makes his shoulders feel heavy and his stomach go tight that, no, he probably can't imagine half that shit, and even if he could, he couldn't make it go away.

A sigh comes unbidden and heavy on his throat. "So," he grunts, "we're not gonna worry about Come to me?"

Sam shrugs. "Not unless you think I'm gonna go to it."

With a push of bare feet, Dean vaults himself up onto the counter, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with still-standing Sam. Not that he'll ever admit it, but he's irked beyond words that he's still the short one. Sam taller as a man? He never cared much; genes do what they want. But Sam taller as a woman? The universe is obviously saying "fuck you."

Sighing again, Dean draws a hand over his face. "If it tries some kind of mind control mojo?"

"You'll have to keep me here," Sam murmurs, leaning against him. Her shoulders are broad for a woman's but so much smaller than they're supposed to be, sending an odd kind of impulse through Dean, something in his tricep, maybe, that urges him to wrap his arm around her.

He huffs and hops off the counter. "Let's break this curse before it comes to that, yeah?"

"I'm starting to wonder if this is actually a curse," Sam says, all cautious-like, and Dean spins on his heel.

"What?"

"No, forget it." Sam's turning back to the counter, tipping a cereal box over into a bowl.

"If it's not a curse, what the hell is it? Gabriel's dead and this ain't a djinn thing, unless you have a fantasy you've never told me about, or we're in somebody's wet dream."

"Ew, no. I don't mean it's not real." Cereal box under her arm, Sam turns toward Dean but doesn't look up from the bowl in her hand. "I'm just saying, you know, that curses are usually pretty bad. You die of fear, or bad luck, or whatever. But it's been almost 24 hours and I'm..." She looks up and— oh, hell, is she blushing? "I actually feel pretty great."

Dean squints, makes a noise. Is—? No. Surely not. "Please don't tell me you're into this."

She pulls a terrible-looking grimace. "It's not like that, it's—"

"The hell it isn't! You like it!"

The cereal bowl drops to the counter with a sharp bang. Sam's hands are on her hips again. "Look, if you woke up one day in the body of a beautiful woman—"

Dean scoffs. "Jesus, Sam!"

"Aw, come on, Dean! Look at this." Sam gestures to herself like fucking Vanna White. "Are you seriously telling me you wouldn't find some way to enjoy this?"

"Of course I would! I'd shack up in my room and make it a damn bank holiday! But I wouldn't go saying it's not a curse! These things always start out great before they go to shit, and you know it. And if you can't see that past your tits, even with the whole Come to me thing, you're—" he breaks off, scowls. "Let's just get back to figuring out in the hell what this is before you get any more screwed up."

Sam whips out a glare that could cut a man down at the knees. "Fine. Whatever." She stalks off in the direction of her room, presumably to get some pants. As she goes, Dean gives a sidelong glance at her backside and… okay, yeah.

He calls after her, "I'll give you this: those Winchester genes are fine!"

"Gross, Dean!" echoes high-pitched back down the hall, and he snorts. Still the exact same flavor of bitch.

"That sucked."

Dean looks up from bandaging his hand and grimaces at the scent of burnt hair Sam's brought with her from the library. He ties off the gauze. "You goin' for understatement of the year?"

Falling on a deep sigh, Sam plants herself next to Dean on his bed. "It really seemed like it'd work." There's an angry cut on her temple and a chunk of hair hanging out of her ponytail, cut unevenly at the courtesy of Dean's knife.

The ritual was at least a bit promising; a lock of hair and a tablespoon of tears from the afflicted, a couple of paragraphs of Latin, a few symbols painted on the floor in blood. One of the simpler ones they tried, but it came from one of Bobby's old books and seemed more trustworthy than the countless remedies offered by the faceless Men of Letters.

So Dean pulled out his knife went about creating the symbols while Sam vanished into her room to conjure up a tablespoon of tears. When she returned red-eyed and slick-lashed, Dean didn't ask, just sliced off some of her hair ("Dean! We don't need that much!") and put it in a bowl with the tears. The staccato chant of Latin ran low from Sam's lips, strangely more melodic on a female tongue, and then the room fell dark for a long moment, and Dean thought that was it. He was so sure, when the lights turned back on, that he'd be staring at his brother.

Instead the lights came up with a stench of ozone and the bowl of hair and tears burst into flames, then shattered ; the Winchesters hit the floor, full of Corelle Ware. It was, by far, their most spectacular failure of the ordeal.

So now, Dean's got a sliced-up hand and a disillusioned kid brother (sister? Yeah, sister. Fuck it).

"I need a drink," Sam groans, "out of a tap, in a bar," and Dean hasn't heard anything so good in two days.

"I'll get my coat."

The air in the Impala is sullen, Sam's so down. She's slouched in her seat, clutching her overlarge jacket tight around her, glaring out the window. Dean hasn't seen that look since their dad told Sam to get rid of that stupid dog— Chester? Charlie? something— and the sulking had gone on for days. Now, he's not quite sure what the deal is. This morning Sam was the poster child for embracing the situation, and now she looks positively wrecked over it. He'd attribute the moodswings to lady hormones, but moodiness is one of the staples of Sam's personality. No, this is par for the course; Dean just wishes he knew what was driving the roller coaster this time.

In lieu of voicing any of that, he snaps, "Stop bitching."

Sam shoots up straight in her seat. "I'm not even talking!"

"I'm talking about your face. God, you look like you've got a kink in your vagina." That gets a sharp look, and Dean can't keep himself from smirking. "What's that like, by the way?"

"What?"

"You know what I mean. You were droppin' some pretty heavy hints this morning. How's things on the other side of the fence? Being the glove instead of the hand?"

The scowl goes all deer-eyes. "Dean—"

"Just asking, man! S'not every day I can ask these questions without gettin' slapped."

"Yeah, whatever," Sam growls and pulls her loose ponytail tighter. "Don't be so sure."

"Sure, Brandon Teena. But seriously, what's it like having piping?"

A snort, and Sam looks out the window. "Not that different."

"Not that—?" Dean rolls his eyes. "Seriously, man? You gotta give me more than that."

Sam shrugs. "Well, multiple orgasms are pretty intense."

If Dean almost veers off the road, that's really not his fault. "The hell!"

Now Sam's giggling under her breath, and Dean's pretty torn between feeling gratified that he cracked the bitchface and leaning over to slap that grin off of her. He's certainly not going to admit that her smile is really, honestly beautiful.

"You asked, Dean."

"Yeah, but I was going for helpful tips and tricks, not your damn sex diary. Plus, come on, multiples?" He'd impressed more than one fine lady that way, thank you very much. "I knew that."

Sam's smirking. "Not firsthand."

"Oh, hell, don't brag about it. You're cursed, remember." He really hadn't meant to ruin the mood, but there Sam goes, long-faced again, no more of that winning smile Dean didn't want to like.

"Yeah, you don't have to remind me."

"Apparently someone has to," Dean grumbles, and that's it: Sam's silent for the rest of the ride. She shoves out of the car with vehemence when they arrive at the bar, then slams the Impala's door behind her.

Dean bristles. "Hey, gentle!"

Sam doesn't even look back.

As they push through the front doors, Dean says, "Don't go picking up any boys, now, Samantha." She parts from him with a glower and heads straight for the bar.

The air inside is heavy with smoke and conversation, classic to their usual haunts. A moment of deliberation passes as Dean glances from a gaggle of blondes at the bar to the bustling pool table on the other side of the room. He could use some serious tension relief, but picking up a chick under Sam's current condition would probably prove dangerous, and they could use some extra cash…

"You boys playin' 8 Ball?" he asks as he approaches the pool table. He smirks under the judging looks the players give him, and in no time he's "lost" 240 dollars over two games.

Just as he's breaking open his wallet to fund his last "loss" before he wipes the floor with their asses, he catches a glimpse of Sam at the bar. So far he's been deliberately removing himself from her situation, focusing on screwing over every shot just so, but he sees now that there's a man leaning into her space and can't help but chuckle into his collar. He's gonna give her a hell of a time about that when they leave.

"You gonna go, or what?"

He turns to the gruff voice next to him with a twirl of chalk on cue. "Keep your shirt on, precious. I'm gettin' in the zone."

But his gaze slips back to Sam as he bends down to shoot, just in time to see her push away the drink the guy seems to be offering her. Something stirs in his gut, rising like bile in his throat and stale when it hits his tongue, something familiar and old. He's reminded, very distinctly, of the first time he witnessed Sam struck by a bully, the first time he thought he might be capable of killing a human.

The cue snaps against the ball and Dean gets a 9 in the corner pocket. He stands, eyes sharp on Sam. She says something that makes the man back away; Dean's body uncurls around him. A glance down finds his fist white around his stick.

Sam seems to order another drink, and Dean's not quite sure whether that should worry him.

"You got your eye on that one?" One of the players, a bearded fortysomething in a fishing hat, leans all conspiratorial-like over the table, nodding in Sam's direction. "She's fine, inn't she?"

The other player, older and missing one of his front teeth, shakes his head. "Nah, look at her! That's a lesbian if I ever seen one."

Fishing Hat whistles. "Oh, that'd be a cryin' shame."

"You wanna bet on it?" Dean's asked it quite before he knows what he's doing. There's something in his brain screeching, No! Turn back! but Bad Teeth and Fishing Hat are giving him their full attention, and Dean's mouth keeps going. "$500 I can walk out of here with that girl on my arm."

The two men give each other knowing glances and Fishing Hat says, "You're on."

So, with that utterly shitty decision made, Dean heads for the bar and takes a seat on the stool next to Sam. She gives him a long, soggy glance, yet doesn't say anything. Dean can't quite tell for the change in gender, but he's fairly sure he hasn't seen the kid this wasted since the incident with the mini-bar after their dad warned them some Cain and Abel shit might be on the table.

But that's just painful to remember, so he cuts to the chase: "Sam, act like you're into me."

She gives him a distant, squinting look. "What?"

"Act like you're into me then follow me out." At her continued confusion, he leans closer and whispers, "I've got a bet with those guys over at the pool table."

Sam's eyebrows vanish up into her bangs and she gives a loud tsh. "Screw yourself, Dean."

Dean gets in closer. "Sam! It's an easy 500 bucks!"

"No."

"We could really use—"

"No," hisses Sam, and her breath is all alcohol and barely contained yelling.

Sighing low, Dean puts a hand on her shoulder. "Sam, c'mon, just—"

"S'this what I am to you now?" She shakes off his hand. "Some kinda… I dunno, your racehorse? You're betting on me? Jesus." Her voice goes pitchy over her Lord and Savior's blasphemed name. "Just… no. Get outta here, Dean."

He puts a hand on hers, speaks with all the urgency he can get at a whisper. "Sam, don't be like this. You've had enough, anyway. Just— head out and wait by the car, and I'll—"

"No!" Sam tosses up all eight miles of her arms, pushing Dean back. "Fuck off," she barks, and he slides off his stool with his hands lifted in surrender.

"Okay, okay. Fine. I'm going." He backpedals under her glare, then turns, hunched and swearing, back to the grinning pair at the pool table.

"Good thing you've got your looks," says Bad Teeth. Fishing Hat snickers and Dean zings them with his best I hope you're castrated in a tragic accident look.

"She's just not ready to leave," he grumbles, fishing out his wallet. "Nothing personal." He forks over the $500 under the heavy mantra of his father calling him a damn fool somewhere in the pit of his brain.

Fishing Hat snorts over his winnings, counting them with a satisfied tick to one corner of his mouth. "Looked personal to me. Ain't no girl that drunk who's not ready to leave with a looker like you. Know what it's all about?" A didactic gesture with the mess of bills in his hand. "Charm. Watch and learn some, boy."

And again, Dean is reminded of his capacity for murder as he watches the scumbag slink over to his little sister. Sam hardly glances up when Fishing Hat takes a seat on the stool Dean just vacated, just ignores him and tosses back another drink. Leaning on the counter with a jutting elbow, Fishing Hat talks on for a few moments, and Dean's ready to believe Sam's drunk enough for the encounter to pass without incident. Her ponytail's starting to bob as her head does that intoxicated weaving thing she's vulnerable to after the fifth drink. Her shoulders are beginning to slump, too. Sooner rather than later, Fishing Hat's going to give up. Either that or Dean's going to rake the floor with the guy's teeth, because hell, his stomach hasn't churned over Sam quite this way since high school.

Then, quick, candid, Fishing Hat slides a hand into Sam's jacket. For a moment, she doesn't seem to notice. Dean tenses up, then nearly busts a blood vessel when he glimpses a slide of thumb over breast.

Sam's eyes snap wide. Fishing Hat's back hits the bar with a rattling bang, a pair of hands throttling him with fury to rival that of hell.

"Don't fucking touch me!"

Dean's there in a moment, cracking fist into nose with such force that the stupid hat goes tumbling over the bar. Dean snatches the lapels from Sam's hands and lands another blow, two, three, four, until blood speckles his fist and the ringing in his ears hits white-hot volume.

"You son of a bitch!" he all but screams, then there's hands on his shoulder, strangers pulling him off. People are starting to turn and ask questions, and the bartender's reaching for the phone, and Sam's clinging to the bar looking like she's about to vomit. It's time to split.

"C'mon, Sammy." Dean snatches Sam by the arm and drags her out; she's pliant under his hand, wavering on her feet.

"Coulda handled that," she mumbles, and Dean's unsure whether it's comforting that, even plastered, she's right. They push into the bracing chill outside, and Dean's body doesn't get any cooler. He's burning, not quite sure why, only that he's danced this dance before and that the sting across his knuckles is bittersweet.

Sam clings to his jacket as he tries to get her into the Impala. "Gonna puke," she mumbles.

Dean pushes her head down to get her in. "You're fine." He rounds the car, gets in and wrenches the keys into the ignition. They peel into the street, a sharp turn that sends Sam slumping over into his lap.

"Hey," Dean snaps, but it's too late. Sam may be in the wrong body, but it's still a gigantor body, and there's no way he's moving that bag of bricks without losing control of the car. Huffing, he pushes her hair out of her face and gives her cheek an antagonistic pat. "Don't puke."

Sam's lips waver around something like fuck you. She's asleep in minutes.

When they arrive back at the compound, Dean sits in the idling Impala for maybe a few moments too long, staring at the lax face in his lap. Sleep sits gentle on her brow, glints in the bits of saliva congregated at the corners of her parted lips. She's ridiculous in the way she's lounging, a mess of languid limbs and hair that's come out of her ponytail. It should be weird, after these last couple of years, after the constant push and pull they've endured, being each other's brothersenemieslifelines. It shouldn't feel so right to be so close to Sam, not after Sam abandoned him for a year, not after Sam hasn't fallen asleep on him in ages, not while Sam's all Freaky-Fridayed and cursed. But it is. It's good and quiet and really, honestly okay, and Dean doesn't want to move.

But then Sam shifts, mumbles, and Dean knows it's time to go.

"Alright, Ghidorah. C'mon." He squirms out from under her, guiding her head gently to the leather lest it drop and jar her awake. It takes a few moments to rouse her, but finally he's able to drag her out of the car, drape her arm over his shoulder. She leans into him, every bit as heavy as usual, and now with more hair to get caught in Dean's mouth as he tries to direct her: "Those are stairs." "Dude, you gotta move your feet to walk." "Okay. Bed. Get down there."

When Dean guides her toward the bed, Sam's fingers uncurl from his jacket haltingly, but finally, she lays down. Dean manhandles all her excessive limbs onto the blankets, perhaps a bit unsettled by the unfamiliar curves of her, but not allowing himself to acknowledge it. He pulls off her jacket and her too-big boots, then attempts to get her under the covers, but it's no good; she's breathing deep with slumber.

Dean stands back, arms crossed. He sighs. "'Night, Sam."

He's just flicking out the light when Sam screams. Dean turns on his heel, and hell— she's thrashing, reaching out. "Sam? Sam!" He kneels by her and suddenly she's clutching at him, nails in his face, eyes torn wide.

"S'calling, Dean!" She says it on an inward breath, sucking and hellish, like something drowning in its own blood. "I can hear it— It wantsme— oh, fuck, fuck—" Dean tries to hold her still but she's thrashing, sluggish yet strong. He can hardly keep her and finally gives up, just letting her convulse. Her hands are so tight in his hair and on his jacket that he thinks she's going to rip something.

"You're fine," he barks. "Sam, listen, you're okay. I'm here." He clutches her wrists, feels her pulse thunder against his palm. "I'm here, Sammy."

Gasps rattle her, quick and uneven, then slower, deeper puffs of alcohol break over Dean's face. She blinks heavy like her eyelashes are made of lead, then she slumps back on a long moan. "Itwantsme," she slurs.

Dean presses the belly of his wrist against her forehead, then his cheek to be sure. She's feverish as all hell. He's reminded of her ravings a year ago, the running away and the unconsciousness and the insanity she's never fully described to him.

"Don' lettit," she moans. "Don' lettit get in."

"I won't, Sammy, I won't." He peels her hair away from her sweaty forehead. "You're okay. I've got you."

An odd look pinches her nostrils and her lips, pulling at her unfocused eyes. A hand lifts, and she seems to be reaching out for him, but her fingers tangle instead into the blankets. Dean, in a desperate thought that any other man would call a prayer, hopes that there's nothing curled up in the kid's brain that doesn't belong there except the alcohol.

"Don' leave me," Sam whispers, and Dean doesn't even think twice about swinging his legs onto the bed and wrapping himself around her.

"I won't."

It's been ages since they've found themselves here. And, well, if the dramatic curves and soft breasts pressed up against him are strange, he's a big boy and he gets over it. He focuses on the fact that Sam's still taller than him— little shit— but she's smaller in ways, the breadth of her shoulders, the size of her hands. One of those hands rests on Dean's arm, and he's forced back to years passed, the last time he let the kid crawl under his arm in bed, sweat-slick and shaking after some unspoken nightmare.

After that night, he felt the nudges at his elbow or heard the hushed, hopeful "Dean? You awake?" and it had been all, "We're too old," or "You're too big," which was only half-true; though Sam had shot up into limbs like trees, they would never be too old for that, not really. Just too scared. Too clinging to the facade of internal strength, when really they needed each other, desperately, and were too ashamed to admit that curling up like old times would have been a blessing.

Now something in Dean aches because this is very much the same as that last night. This is the same Sam, even the smell, the day-old clothes and the tang of sweat. There is something gratifying about holding Sam safe and close, even if the body's not the same. Sam is Sam is Sam, and it's not like this is the worst model so far (he'll take this over the demon blood and the lack of soul, thanks).

He falls asleep thinking that he's missed this.