Summary: Sam's got some lingering habits left over from a peculiar childhood.
Characters: Sam, Dean
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.
Original story: Dimples, Dresses, Braids by slob_child
So, Dean kind of forgot about that whole ‘dressing Sammy up as a girl’ thing, to tell you the truth. In all fairness it was a hell of a long time ago, and no one had really talked about it once it’d passed. He wasn’t even sure Sam remembered, and Dad hadn’t ever quite wanted to bring it up. More so after that hunter they’d met up with in
So anyway, Dean had pretty much forgotten about that whole thing until he ducked into a mall with Sam to try and find a new pair of shoes (“Mine probably help us hunt,” he’d grumbled, “they’re all holey…” but Sam, of course, hadn’t laughed). He’d only turned away for a second to inspect a pretty rocking AC/DC T-shirt in a store window, but when he’d turned back to grab Sam the big idiot was already fifty feet away, gazing at a window in fascination. And it wasn’t even like it was one of those giant windows with the ten-foot-tall lingerie models, oh no. No, it contained a headless mannequin posing with an elegant green silk dress on, all off the shoulder and baring just a hint of plastic bosom.
“Okay,” Dean had said, wandering up behind him. “That’s not creepy at all. You know those things aren’t actually hot, right?”
Sam had blushed sharply and turned away, shrugging. “I just like the dress, is all.”
And Dean had left it at that because hey, well, maybe it reminded him of Jess and that was territory Dean wouldn’t go near with a fifty-foot pole. And it wasn’t until they’d gone back to the motel room and Sam was in the bathroom that he remembered the year of cross-dressing.
And that look on Sam’s face when he’d seen the dress, the look he’d seen on his Dad’s face whenever he’d looked at a particularly fine new shotgun or the look he’d seen on his own face in the mirror whenever he spotted a nice looking chick walking down the street in tight jeans. It was, plain and simple, a look of wanting.
Sam had wanted that dress.
That had been about the time Dean had scribbled a note and left for the nearest bar, intent on drinking himself into oblivion and forgetting all about his giant baby brother wanting a dress.
And, of course, very carefully and through liberal applications of alcohol erasing every possibly mental picture of Sam in it.
Dean stumbled in at around half-two, not really any more then pleasantly buzzed but liking it, flopping cheerfully onto his own bed without bothering to turn on the lights, kicking his shoes off and rolling over to glance at Sam, checking to see if he was still asleep.
Or, he seemed to be. As Dean’s eyes adjusted to the dark and he realized he could hear Sam’s breathing, it struck him that there was something a little peculiar about the faint outline of his brother. For one thing, he didn’t appear to be under the sheets.
For another, he was wearing the weirdest nightshirt ever. And his breathing sounded too even, too forced, like it did back when he was seventeen and faking sleep to pretend he wasn’t jerking off.
“Sam?” His voice was cautious, hesitant.
“Mmhmm?” Sam’s voice, on the other hand, sounded too high. Almost strangled. A lot like it did back when he was seventeen and having a love affair with his right hand.
“You okay, Sam?”
“’m fine!” Now he sounded desperately embarrassed, and – oh, yeah, right there, burying his head under the pillow. This was classic. Any minute now, he’d curl up into a ball.
“You sure?” And right there, yes, bringing his knees up to his chest. Damn but Dean knew him well.
And, you know, was always one to exploit a potentially embarrassing situation. He snuck his hand over to the lamp on the bedside table, sitting up and flicking the on switch before Sam could say a word.
The light filled the room. Sam yelped, and jerked upright, diving for the blankets and yanking them up over himself. But not, unfortunately, before Dean saw what he was covering up.
It was the dress. That green silk, off the shoulder, bosom-baring dress that they’d seen in the store window. It looked hideous on Sam, probably because it’d been designed for someone with the figure of a stick and the breasts of a fertility goddess. It stretched painfully across the tops of his hips, and hung loose over certain areas of his chest before looking practically glued to others. It hugged him, sure, but in all the wrong places. And it did not look good with leg hair.
“…um,” Dean said, finally finding his voice. “Okay, that was. Um. Sam. Uh. That’s a – you know, I never – okay, well…” He finally shut up when he realized that no matter how many times he tried, he wasn’t actually going to be able to make any words come out of his mouth.
“This is all your fault,” Sam said, and reached back with one long arm to yank down the zipper. “You should know that.” He shimmied awkwardly out of the dress, a movement bringing to mind someone who’s just discovered they’ve put both feet down one leg of their jeans, and tossed it to one side, face crimson. “Anyway, it was on clearance. And I only spent my money.”
“…yes,” Dean said, “yes, okay, and that was – um, Sam, that was a dress.”
There was a long, incredulous pause. Finally, Sam huffed a sigh.
“…okay,” Dean said. “I’m just. Going to go back to bed now, okay? And we’re never going to speak of this again.”
“Right.” Sam had already lay back down, tugging the sheets over him. “Never again.”
Dean opened his mouth to speak, decided there was no way he was going to continue this, and switched the light off.
So, so not drunk enough.
“…and you cannot tell me that you planned for this, Sam. This is a one in a million kind of thing!”
“Freaky psychic powers, remember?”
“So what, you just happened to have a vision of you wearing a dress in order to try and trap some freaky ghost with a thing for men in women’s clothing?”
“That’s pretty much it, Dean.”
“…well, thank god for that. I thought for a moment you were – well, you know.”
“You guys didn’t scar me that badly.”
There is a long pause.
“But we can keep the dress, Dean, right?”