The Unfinished Fic Files #1 - Girl!Dean
I love the fics where one of them turned into a girl. I wasn't sure why it always had to be Sam (when I started, there have been some good girl!Deans since then). I wasn't sure why, when they got turned into a girl, they were suddenly petite. I basically just started writing. The problem with that is that I got halfway through and I didn't know what I was doing, what point I wanted to make, where the hell I was going, with the result that this just stalled and never got started again.
A very special time in a young man's life
Dean turns into a girl... again.
Sam woke to his brother saying, "oh shit" and lumbering into the bathroom.
He rolled over vaguely, wondering if there was a problem, but Dean had sounded more disgusted than panicked.
Then, from the bathroom, "Ah fuck it, not again. God fucking dammit." His voice, Sam thought, sounded a bit higher than normal.
"What's up, man?" he tried, and did, actually, manage to get all the syllables out.
Dean came out of the bathroom in a blur of shadow and flesh, and started rummaging in his bag, muttering, "shit, shit, shit," with the grim determination of the truly unimpressed.
Sam blinked, tried to focus in the half-dark and the half-asleep. And then blinked again, as Dean said, "Have to do," and pulled a t-shirt from his bag. He yanked it on, and Sam said,
"The fuck?" Dean turned to face him, pulling the t-shirt down, the line of it all wrong because, "Dean, you have tits."
"No, really?" Dean said, the whiplash of his sarcasm the final thing Sam needed to knock him full awake.
He sat up, wide-eyed. Because yes, his brother did have tits, a very, very noticable press of them against the t-shirt, which hitched up on one hip, now more curved in Dean's boxers, and beneath that, legs. Still muscled, still undeniably Dean's, but now also undeniably female. More shapely. Nice legs, in fact, albeit hairy ones.
His brother was a girl. The fuck?
Sam swung out of bed as Dean shoved stuff back in his bag, muttering, "Can't believe this, the bitch." Still sounded like his brother. Still looked like his brother, for fuck's sake. This was surreal.
"This is surreal," Sam said.
"You should try it from in here," Dean said, curt and clipped. He shoved his bag away. "Right, I'll need you to go get something for me to wear. I can't go out like this. Just... I dunno, jeans, a t-shirt. Size 12, or a large will do. Don't worry about the underwear, I'll get that later."
Sam was keeping further than arm's length away, but he couldn't help the slow fascinated circle he seemed to be doing. "Hang on, you know what size you are?" And then something else occurred to him, returned by a very helpful brain. "And what did you mean, not again?"
Dean just looked at him.
"This has happened before?" Yes, Sam was having trouble with this. Seeing your brother as a girl was bothering enough without finding out it was a habit.
"Last year, ran into this witch up in South Dakota." Dean grit his teeth. "She had a fucking vicious sense of humour."
Sam couldn't believe it. "And you didn't tell me?"
Dean glared at him. "You were a week off law school with a full ride; you ever planning on telling us that?"
Sam swallowed. "I would have, if I'd got it."
"Well," Dean said, "if it'd been permanent, we would've told you too." He ran his hand through his hair. "It went away, I didn't know it was going to fucking come back. Fuck." And he kicked the base of the bed, hard enough to jostle it against the wall.
Seeing Dean less composed helped Sam somehow. "Right," he said, reaching for his bag, pulling out a t-shirt of his own. "How long?"
"A month." Dean stood, hands on hips, and shrugged. "Twenty-eight days."
"Moon cycle."
"Yeah, that's what we figured."
We. Him and Dad. That must've been fun. Sam pulled on his jeans. "Jeans, t-shirt. I'll get the underwear too."
"You don't have to."
"It's fine," Sam said, forcing his feet into his shoes. "What's your cup-size?"
Dean hesitated. "This is so weird."
Sam looked up from lacing. "This is weird? I had a girlfriend, Dean. I bought her lingerie." Once. But he learned a lot. Mostly that he was never going to do it again, but that didn't matter here. He didn't need to impress Dean.
"You saucy bitch," Dean said with something like a leer.
"Dean!"
"C." Sam looked at him, and at his chest pointedly, and Dean folded his arms across himself - under his breasts, which didn't really help. "Yeah, alright. D."
Sam grabbed the carkeys and headed out the door, as his brother called after him, "And nothing with lace; it itches!"
By the time Sam got back from the local shopping centre, Dean had found the pertinent parts of the town's history on the website archives of the local paper. Sam scanned the articles while Dean disappeared into the bathroom with his new clothes and a knife grossly overqualified in the blade department for cutting off tags.
"Aw man," Dean said from the bathroom. "I thought I said no lace."
"Least lacey option," Sam replied, flicking to the next article. "Feminine is in or something."
"Dammit." Noises emanated from the bathroom. Sam quashed the urge to go and see how he was going. Or offer help. The bra, he'd noticed, fastened at the back, and he was curious to know if Dean could manage that. Sam was pretty sure he couldn't have.
He forced his concentration back to the computer screen. The job. The part of his life that was routine, if it never quite managed 'normal'. Twenty-eight days. Whatever.
Dean came out of the bathroom. "Hey, I think I've lost weight since this time last year, check this out."
Sam looked over, and it was a shock all over again, his brother a girl. He could have forgotten it, just hearing Dean, assuming he was there in all his, y'know, Deanness. Not there in his girly t-shirt with "Princess" written across his breasts in pink letters and his girly drop-waist jeans that he was holding out an inch and a half from his stomach.
He looked up, letting the jeans go. They slumped a little more on his hips. "What?" he asked.
Sam shook his head and flicked the computer screen with a fingernail. "Let's go talk to the daughter."
"Yeah, alright," Dean agreed, pulling on his boots. "What the hell is with this shirt, by the way?"
With a smirk, Sam tossed Dean his jacket. "Don't like it?"
"Ha ha fucking ha."
Sam didn't push his luck by suggesting he should drive.
Normal Dean in a girl's body came across as a complete bitch. Sam had to amp up his own good-cop in response, until the girl was pretty much just talking to him, and trying to pretend Dean didn't exist at all. Dean reacted to this by stalking around the room, looking at things, which wasn't much less aggressive, and frankly, Sam was happy when they were out of there.
"The hell was that?" Dean said, when they were back in the car. "You were practically patting her hand."
"And you were breathing down her neck."
"I didn't do anything!"
And it was true, so Sam couldn't really say anything. He wound down the window and tapped his fingers against the frame. "Whatever. So we salt and burn the father. Easy."
"Easy as that," Dean agreed, pulling up outside their motel. "I'll see you in an hour, and we'll hit it."
Sam glanced over - and he was getting more used to it, but it was still a twitch at the back of his neck - and said, "Huh? Where you going?"
"Shopping. I am not wearing this stupid shirt for the next month."
Sam considered telling him to get some new jeans as well, because whether it was the cut or he had actually lost weight, these ones really did sit pretty low, especially when he bent over. But he just elbowed the door open and said, "Bring back dinner as well."
It was more like an hour and a half, but it wasn't like they had anywhere pressing to be, since Sam liked to do his grave-robbing later rather than earlier (whereas Dean always seemed to think people wouldn't notice and wanted to get it out of the way so he could get a good night's sleep).
On the other hand, Sam was starving. He switched off the documentary he'd been watching when Dean walked in the door with four shopping bags and noodles. Around his first mouthful, Sam asked, "What did you get?"
"Stuff," Dean said helpfully, dumping it all on the bed. "Eat up. We leave soon we can be back before midnight and I won't turn into a pumpkin as well as a girl."
He took a couple of the bags into the bathroom, and Sam switched the television back on. Dean was humming in the bathroom, which seemed adorably girly until you realised it was "Master of Puppets". Sam thought maybe he was getting used to this all the same. He'd barely blinked when Dean came in, and that blink had been mostly just because he was carrying so much stuff. Maybe shopping was a genetic thing. His brother, the girl.
"Hey, man," Sam called. "What do I call you?"
Dean stuck his head around the door and gave him a look like his head was on backwards. "Dean."
Sam rolled his eyes. "You're a girl, dude."
Dean pulled a face. "So what? Girls are called all sorts of weird shit these days. Dale, Apple, Fred, I dunno. I'm not going to answer to some stupid girl name, so lay off."
"Deena," Sam suggested, grinning. "Ooh, Deanne?"
"Fuck off," Dean said, disappearing back into the bathroom.
"How about I call you princess?" Sam called.
"How about I call you dicknose?" Dean shouted back
Sam laughed, eating noodles. And sure, it was way the fuck weird, but Sam was almost settled into it. Only twenty-eight days, after all. And then a year's worth of free shit he could give Dean. He relaxed back on the bed, and shouted, "Stop checking yourself out in the mirror!"
Dean called back, "Dude, I'm a hot chick!" Sam just laughed, slurping up another noodle, as Dean added, "Plus, these things are perky. Check it out." And came out of the bathroom.
Topless.
Sam inhaled his noodle and started choking. "Fuck, man. Put 'em away!" He tried not to look, which was pretty easy while coughing.
"What, is this weirding you out?" The concept seemed to delight Dean. He put his hands on his hips, which didn't actually do anything to assist Sam's continued respiration.
"You have tits, Dean." Coughing mostly over, Sam turned away. The wall, fascinating. "Yes, it's weirding me out."
"I give you permission to ogle my tits."
"Dean!"
"Fine." The bathroom door slammed shut, and from behind it, Dean shouted, "Prude!"
They went out and dug up a grave. Dean declared the princess shirt good enough for the task, and could still wield a shovel as well as he ever could, and with two of them it was practically no time at all before they were slinging muddy equipment into the trunk and heading back to the motel. They were both smeared with dirt, and there were muddy thumbprints all over Dean's breasts from where he'd been idly tweaking at the bra every two minutes. Sam didn't point it out, but when Dean said, "Shower?" he said, "Ladies first."
Dean flipped him the bird, and took half an hour. By the time he got out, Sam was pretty much asleep. He opened his eyes blearily, blinking in the light, and found his field of vision full of leg, because the hotel towels weren't that wide and Dean had more to cover now. "Dude," he mumbled into the pillow squishing his face, "did you shave your legs?"
"Bathroom's free," Dean said, smacking the back of Sam's thigh on the way past.
He had shaved his legs, because the next day, as they drove out, he kept wriggling in the seat, twitching his knees, and saying, "Wow, this feels weird."
Sam supposed it did.
Dean hadn't got a new pair of jeans; said these ones were comfortable. The princess shirt had been bundled up and slung in the bottom of the bag, "in case we have to do anything else dirty". What he had bought was a trio of new shirts that met his exacting standards. One of those seemed to be showing off a fair whack of skin. One of them had looked short enough that Sam could safely assume it would show midriff, and one didn't seem to have a back at all, though Sam didn't know how the hell that worked. Anyway, Dean was actually wearing the one with practically no sleeves and a neckline so low that when he arched his back, shuffling back and up in the driver's seat, the controversial lace on his bra peeked out.
Sam wasn't sure which top was worse. The problem, of course, was that Dean was a hot girl. No denying it. A strong face, but an attractive one. Sam wasn't sure if the structure had changed any, but surely his mouth hadn't always been that pretty. At their first stop, for coffee, he squinted across the roof of the car at Dean and said, "Are you wearing lipstick?"
"You only just notice?" Dean laughed. "Can't have people thinking I'm not a girl."
Sam shook his head. "You spent half an hour last night checking out your own rack, and you think people might not notice?"
"It wasn't half an hour."
"More like forty-five minutes, you're right."
A finger pointed across the car. "I can still kick your ass."
Dean was still Dean. He still moved with his hips relaxed and his shoulders back, strode rather than walked. He didn't fidget. He still had the short hair, of course, and hadn't really bothered to do anything with it, which should have looked ridiculous but actually looked kinda hot, in a butch way. Then again, there was no getting past the butch, considering that Dean was still six foot of hard muscle. He was toned as a guy, and he seemed even more toned now, though maybe that was just that he was showing off more of it.
He'd turned heads at the coffee place. He turned heads at lunch. When they stopped for gas at half-three, there were a couple of guys heading in as Dean came out, and one of them cackled, and the other swung his hand, and Sam couldn't quite believe he was seeing this, seeing his own brother getting his ass slapped in public.
Dean didn't even break stride, just pivoted on his heel and put his fist through the guy.
He went down hard against his mate, and Sam was already running over, slinging an arm across Dean's shoulders and tugging him backwards as the other guys got their balance back. Easy to tell which one got punched; the one clutching his face and moaning. His friend was swearing.
"Yeah? Fuck you," Dean spat back, and Sam yanked at his elbow.
"We're leaving," Sam said, hands on Dean's shoulders, walking them backwards. "We're on our way."
"Keep your girlfriend under control!" the guy's friend shouted.
Sam shoved Dean around the car. "Come on, honey."
"As if," Dean tossed back, slamming his door. "I could do so much better than you." The tyres squealed as he pulled out. "Can you believe that guy? Fucking asshole." He gave Sam a sidelong glance. "What's that smirk for?"
Sam tried to quell it, but it just turned into a grin. "Just wondered how many women have thought that about you."
"Hey," Dean said, holding up a hand, "I have never slapped a woman's ass."
Grin remaining, Sam just watched him.
"Unless I knew her," Dean qualified.
A very special time in a young man's life
Dean turns into a girl... again.
Sam woke to his brother saying, "oh shit" and lumbering into the bathroom.
He rolled over vaguely, wondering if there was a problem, but Dean had sounded more disgusted than panicked.
Then, from the bathroom, "Ah fuck it, not again. God fucking dammit." His voice, Sam thought, sounded a bit higher than normal.
"What's up, man?" he tried, and did, actually, manage to get all the syllables out.
Dean came out of the bathroom in a blur of shadow and flesh, and started rummaging in his bag, muttering, "shit, shit, shit," with the grim determination of the truly unimpressed.
Sam blinked, tried to focus in the half-dark and the half-asleep. And then blinked again, as Dean said, "Have to do," and pulled a t-shirt from his bag. He yanked it on, and Sam said,
"The fuck?" Dean turned to face him, pulling the t-shirt down, the line of it all wrong because, "Dean, you have tits."
"No, really?" Dean said, the whiplash of his sarcasm the final thing Sam needed to knock him full awake.
He sat up, wide-eyed. Because yes, his brother did have tits, a very, very noticable press of them against the t-shirt, which hitched up on one hip, now more curved in Dean's boxers, and beneath that, legs. Still muscled, still undeniably Dean's, but now also undeniably female. More shapely. Nice legs, in fact, albeit hairy ones.
His brother was a girl. The fuck?
Sam swung out of bed as Dean shoved stuff back in his bag, muttering, "Can't believe this, the bitch." Still sounded like his brother. Still looked like his brother, for fuck's sake. This was surreal.
"This is surreal," Sam said.
"You should try it from in here," Dean said, curt and clipped. He shoved his bag away. "Right, I'll need you to go get something for me to wear. I can't go out like this. Just... I dunno, jeans, a t-shirt. Size 12, or a large will do. Don't worry about the underwear, I'll get that later."
Sam was keeping further than arm's length away, but he couldn't help the slow fascinated circle he seemed to be doing. "Hang on, you know what size you are?" And then something else occurred to him, returned by a very helpful brain. "And what did you mean, not again?"
Dean just looked at him.
"This has happened before?" Yes, Sam was having trouble with this. Seeing your brother as a girl was bothering enough without finding out it was a habit.
"Last year, ran into this witch up in South Dakota." Dean grit his teeth. "She had a fucking vicious sense of humour."
Sam couldn't believe it. "And you didn't tell me?"
Dean glared at him. "You were a week off law school with a full ride; you ever planning on telling us that?"
Sam swallowed. "I would have, if I'd got it."
"Well," Dean said, "if it'd been permanent, we would've told you too." He ran his hand through his hair. "It went away, I didn't know it was going to fucking come back. Fuck." And he kicked the base of the bed, hard enough to jostle it against the wall.
Seeing Dean less composed helped Sam somehow. "Right," he said, reaching for his bag, pulling out a t-shirt of his own. "How long?"
"A month." Dean stood, hands on hips, and shrugged. "Twenty-eight days."
"Moon cycle."
"Yeah, that's what we figured."
We. Him and Dad. That must've been fun. Sam pulled on his jeans. "Jeans, t-shirt. I'll get the underwear too."
"You don't have to."
"It's fine," Sam said, forcing his feet into his shoes. "What's your cup-size?"
Dean hesitated. "This is so weird."
Sam looked up from lacing. "This is weird? I had a girlfriend, Dean. I bought her lingerie." Once. But he learned a lot. Mostly that he was never going to do it again, but that didn't matter here. He didn't need to impress Dean.
"You saucy bitch," Dean said with something like a leer.
"Dean!"
"C." Sam looked at him, and at his chest pointedly, and Dean folded his arms across himself - under his breasts, which didn't really help. "Yeah, alright. D."
Sam grabbed the carkeys and headed out the door, as his brother called after him, "And nothing with lace; it itches!"
By the time Sam got back from the local shopping centre, Dean had found the pertinent parts of the town's history on the website archives of the local paper. Sam scanned the articles while Dean disappeared into the bathroom with his new clothes and a knife grossly overqualified in the blade department for cutting off tags.
"Aw man," Dean said from the bathroom. "I thought I said no lace."
"Least lacey option," Sam replied, flicking to the next article. "Feminine is in or something."
"Dammit." Noises emanated from the bathroom. Sam quashed the urge to go and see how he was going. Or offer help. The bra, he'd noticed, fastened at the back, and he was curious to know if Dean could manage that. Sam was pretty sure he couldn't have.
He forced his concentration back to the computer screen. The job. The part of his life that was routine, if it never quite managed 'normal'. Twenty-eight days. Whatever.
Dean came out of the bathroom. "Hey, I think I've lost weight since this time last year, check this out."
Sam looked over, and it was a shock all over again, his brother a girl. He could have forgotten it, just hearing Dean, assuming he was there in all his, y'know, Deanness. Not there in his girly t-shirt with "Princess" written across his breasts in pink letters and his girly drop-waist jeans that he was holding out an inch and a half from his stomach.
He looked up, letting the jeans go. They slumped a little more on his hips. "What?" he asked.
Sam shook his head and flicked the computer screen with a fingernail. "Let's go talk to the daughter."
"Yeah, alright," Dean agreed, pulling on his boots. "What the hell is with this shirt, by the way?"
With a smirk, Sam tossed Dean his jacket. "Don't like it?"
"Ha ha fucking ha."
Sam didn't push his luck by suggesting he should drive.
Normal Dean in a girl's body came across as a complete bitch. Sam had to amp up his own good-cop in response, until the girl was pretty much just talking to him, and trying to pretend Dean didn't exist at all. Dean reacted to this by stalking around the room, looking at things, which wasn't much less aggressive, and frankly, Sam was happy when they were out of there.
"The hell was that?" Dean said, when they were back in the car. "You were practically patting her hand."
"And you were breathing down her neck."
"I didn't do anything!"
And it was true, so Sam couldn't really say anything. He wound down the window and tapped his fingers against the frame. "Whatever. So we salt and burn the father. Easy."
"Easy as that," Dean agreed, pulling up outside their motel. "I'll see you in an hour, and we'll hit it."
Sam glanced over - and he was getting more used to it, but it was still a twitch at the back of his neck - and said, "Huh? Where you going?"
"Shopping. I am not wearing this stupid shirt for the next month."
Sam considered telling him to get some new jeans as well, because whether it was the cut or he had actually lost weight, these ones really did sit pretty low, especially when he bent over. But he just elbowed the door open and said, "Bring back dinner as well."
It was more like an hour and a half, but it wasn't like they had anywhere pressing to be, since Sam liked to do his grave-robbing later rather than earlier (whereas Dean always seemed to think people wouldn't notice and wanted to get it out of the way so he could get a good night's sleep).
On the other hand, Sam was starving. He switched off the documentary he'd been watching when Dean walked in the door with four shopping bags and noodles. Around his first mouthful, Sam asked, "What did you get?"
"Stuff," Dean said helpfully, dumping it all on the bed. "Eat up. We leave soon we can be back before midnight and I won't turn into a pumpkin as well as a girl."
He took a couple of the bags into the bathroom, and Sam switched the television back on. Dean was humming in the bathroom, which seemed adorably girly until you realised it was "Master of Puppets". Sam thought maybe he was getting used to this all the same. He'd barely blinked when Dean came in, and that blink had been mostly just because he was carrying so much stuff. Maybe shopping was a genetic thing. His brother, the girl.
"Hey, man," Sam called. "What do I call you?"
Dean stuck his head around the door and gave him a look like his head was on backwards. "Dean."
Sam rolled his eyes. "You're a girl, dude."
Dean pulled a face. "So what? Girls are called all sorts of weird shit these days. Dale, Apple, Fred, I dunno. I'm not going to answer to some stupid girl name, so lay off."
"Deena," Sam suggested, grinning. "Ooh, Deanne?"
"Fuck off," Dean said, disappearing back into the bathroom.
"How about I call you princess?" Sam called.
"How about I call you dicknose?" Dean shouted back
Sam laughed, eating noodles. And sure, it was way the fuck weird, but Sam was almost settled into it. Only twenty-eight days, after all. And then a year's worth of free shit he could give Dean. He relaxed back on the bed, and shouted, "Stop checking yourself out in the mirror!"
Dean called back, "Dude, I'm a hot chick!" Sam just laughed, slurping up another noodle, as Dean added, "Plus, these things are perky. Check it out." And came out of the bathroom.
Topless.
Sam inhaled his noodle and started choking. "Fuck, man. Put 'em away!" He tried not to look, which was pretty easy while coughing.
"What, is this weirding you out?" The concept seemed to delight Dean. He put his hands on his hips, which didn't actually do anything to assist Sam's continued respiration.
"You have tits, Dean." Coughing mostly over, Sam turned away. The wall, fascinating. "Yes, it's weirding me out."
"I give you permission to ogle my tits."
"Dean!"
"Fine." The bathroom door slammed shut, and from behind it, Dean shouted, "Prude!"
They went out and dug up a grave. Dean declared the princess shirt good enough for the task, and could still wield a shovel as well as he ever could, and with two of them it was practically no time at all before they were slinging muddy equipment into the trunk and heading back to the motel. They were both smeared with dirt, and there were muddy thumbprints all over Dean's breasts from where he'd been idly tweaking at the bra every two minutes. Sam didn't point it out, but when Dean said, "Shower?" he said, "Ladies first."
Dean flipped him the bird, and took half an hour. By the time he got out, Sam was pretty much asleep. He opened his eyes blearily, blinking in the light, and found his field of vision full of leg, because the hotel towels weren't that wide and Dean had more to cover now. "Dude," he mumbled into the pillow squishing his face, "did you shave your legs?"
"Bathroom's free," Dean said, smacking the back of Sam's thigh on the way past.
He had shaved his legs, because the next day, as they drove out, he kept wriggling in the seat, twitching his knees, and saying, "Wow, this feels weird."
Sam supposed it did.
Dean hadn't got a new pair of jeans; said these ones were comfortable. The princess shirt had been bundled up and slung in the bottom of the bag, "in case we have to do anything else dirty". What he had bought was a trio of new shirts that met his exacting standards. One of those seemed to be showing off a fair whack of skin. One of them had looked short enough that Sam could safely assume it would show midriff, and one didn't seem to have a back at all, though Sam didn't know how the hell that worked. Anyway, Dean was actually wearing the one with practically no sleeves and a neckline so low that when he arched his back, shuffling back and up in the driver's seat, the controversial lace on his bra peeked out.
Sam wasn't sure which top was worse. The problem, of course, was that Dean was a hot girl. No denying it. A strong face, but an attractive one. Sam wasn't sure if the structure had changed any, but surely his mouth hadn't always been that pretty. At their first stop, for coffee, he squinted across the roof of the car at Dean and said, "Are you wearing lipstick?"
"You only just notice?" Dean laughed. "Can't have people thinking I'm not a girl."
Sam shook his head. "You spent half an hour last night checking out your own rack, and you think people might not notice?"
"It wasn't half an hour."
"More like forty-five minutes, you're right."
A finger pointed across the car. "I can still kick your ass."
Dean was still Dean. He still moved with his hips relaxed and his shoulders back, strode rather than walked. He didn't fidget. He still had the short hair, of course, and hadn't really bothered to do anything with it, which should have looked ridiculous but actually looked kinda hot, in a butch way. Then again, there was no getting past the butch, considering that Dean was still six foot of hard muscle. He was toned as a guy, and he seemed even more toned now, though maybe that was just that he was showing off more of it.
He'd turned heads at the coffee place. He turned heads at lunch. When they stopped for gas at half-three, there were a couple of guys heading in as Dean came out, and one of them cackled, and the other swung his hand, and Sam couldn't quite believe he was seeing this, seeing his own brother getting his ass slapped in public.
Dean didn't even break stride, just pivoted on his heel and put his fist through the guy.
He went down hard against his mate, and Sam was already running over, slinging an arm across Dean's shoulders and tugging him backwards as the other guys got their balance back. Easy to tell which one got punched; the one clutching his face and moaning. His friend was swearing.
"Yeah? Fuck you," Dean spat back, and Sam yanked at his elbow.
"We're leaving," Sam said, hands on Dean's shoulders, walking them backwards. "We're on our way."
"Keep your girlfriend under control!" the guy's friend shouted.
Sam shoved Dean around the car. "Come on, honey."
"As if," Dean tossed back, slamming his door. "I could do so much better than you." The tyres squealed as he pulled out. "Can you believe that guy? Fucking asshole." He gave Sam a sidelong glance. "What's that smirk for?"
Sam tried to quell it, but it just turned into a grin. "Just wondered how many women have thought that about you."
"Hey," Dean said, holding up a hand, "I have never slapped a woman's ass."
Grin remaining, Sam just watched him.
"Unless I knew her," Dean qualified.