The Time Dean was Sam's Girlfriend...
The title kind of says it all. I couldn't make up my mind whether to write bodyswap or genderswitch so I wrote both. And I can't believe there aren't a million and one fics about the effects of Dean and Jess sharing a birthday!
I should also mention that the majority of this was written over the course of two nights when I couldn't sleep, which may explain the slightly deranged authorial tone.
The Time Dean was Sam's Girlfriend and Jess Entered the Winchester Family Business
(Sam/Dean and Sam/Jess, pg-13, 11041 words, bodyswapping and genderswitching plus crack)
Birthday wishes are special things. They're a form of magic generally dismissed even by the most open-minded of people. Those same people that regularly check their horoscope - or in some cases, hunt the unquiet dead - will laugh off the suggestion that a wish made on the anniversary of one's entry to the world has any power beyond that of a wish made any other day of the year.
So when Dean pauses in the middle of a solo hunt on his twenty-fourth birthday, glances up at the moon and wishes he were with Sam right now, he doesn't expect it to do any good. Same goes with Jess, who at the exact same moment Dean's looking at the moon, is blowing out the candles on her cake and wishing her life would get a little less regular and a little more exciting.
But, as was mentioned earlier, birthday wishes are special things.
:::
The spontaneous transformation into a girl isn't a completely unprecedented event in Dean's life. There was that memorable time in '95, when John suddenly acquired a daughter in place of his eldest boy. Unfortunately, Dean being the age he was, his first time as a girl also included his first period. It was the full package, so to speak. Rather than deal with him (her), John had let Dean spend the time switching between the shower and bed. It had only lasted a week but Dean had learnt enough about female anatomy in that time to stand him in good stead for every single one-night stand he'd ever have.
This second time round though, the problem isn't that Dean's having his period - (he doesn't think) - but that he doesn't seem to simply be a female version of himself, but some whole other girl. He's sitting at a table in a kitchen, with people all around him, a big pink cake with gently smoking candles in front of him, and the sensation of his underwear very different indeed.
His first response is to give a startled shriek and yell, "Ah! Fuck! Hell!"
Among the concerned faces of the people crowding around him, he sees Sam. Nothing for it but to start shrieking again.
:::
In all fairness, Jess's experience is no better. She's never been a boy before but it's doubtful that even if she had it would make her happier about the current situation. Being the possessor of a brand-new penis - brand-new to her at least - is something she'll freak out about later. She has more pressing concerns. One minute she's in her apartment with her friends, getting ready to hit the clubs, the next she's in a cemetery. More specifically, she's in an open grave - one she's apparently digging.
Interestingly, Jess's response is much along the same lines as Dean's. There's a lot of shrieking plus some scrabbling to haul herself out of the grave, off the half-splintered lid of the casket. She's still shrieking and flailing, bouncing about the graves in clumsy panic, when her back pocket starts to vibrate.
It's a little known fact but the call ring of a cellphone actually operates on the same frequencies as the song of the sirens used to in ancient days. It takes iron will to ignore a ringing phone entirely, even if all one does is glance at Caller ID. Jess, however, has no intention of ignoring it. She clings onto it as an artefact from a world she understands. Whoever it is on the other end of the line, is going to explain this. They're going to explain this and Jess is going to realise she's not going mad at all and this is all some birthday prank or bizarre marketing ploy. Those marketing types come up with some really crazy ideas to promote their products, she's heard.
It's her on the other end of the line. She recognises that number. Oh God, it's her and if it's her then she's not going to be able to explain this. Because Jess has no idea what the fuck is happening and it's making her head hurt.
She answers the phone with a good loud, "What the hell?"
"Hi! Uh, calm down! I'm guessing that's… uh, not me, so…. Jess? Is your name Jess? Please God let your name be Jess and this just be a simple swap because I cannot be playing Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon right now."
Jess whimpers and clutches the phone a little closer to her ear.
"Kevin Bacon?"
"You're not…?"
Taking a deep breath and rearranging her new cock in her jeans, because it feels a goddamn reassuring thing to do, Jess firmly commands herself to get a grip.
"No. I'm not Kevin Bacon. I'm Jess. Jessica Moore. Are you… are you in me?"
Whoever it is using her voice uses it to give a laugh and it's very dirty one. Jess wants to complain about it and demand that she get her voice back without so much as a stain on it, when she realises her hand is still over the shape of her new, reassuring cock.
"That sounds a little naughty, Jess, but yeah, I'm currently wearing your body. Man, you're cute. And between you and me, I just love your breasts. They're so…"
"Perky?"
"Totally." There's a pause and Jess thinks her breasts are probably being admired right this minute. "Very."
"Thanks" she says. And then she adds, because it seems only fair, "I haven't seen your face yet but you've got a really great cock."
"You really think so? That's-"
Jess takes another deep breath and resolutely takes her hand off her cock. Instead, she rubs her brow and loudly attempts to get the conversation back on track, because whereas she knows her breasts are awesomely perky, and her new cock feels really good, she's still in a man in a graveyard.
"But I really think we should talk about how the hell you've got my breasts and I've got your cock."
"We might have a more pressing problem."
Oh that's great news! That's just the news Jess was hoping for. Because a problem more pressing than inadvertently becoming someone else in a graveyard in the middle of the night on her birthday is just the kind of thing Jess really needs to motivate her right now.
"See, whereas I'm just hiding in the bathroom in your apartment, freaking out at your friends and, by the way, I covered up all my shrieking by saying I suddenly realised how old I was so if you could act neurotic about your age when we get this fixed, that'd be great… uh, what was I saying?"
"More pressing problem?" Jess prompts.
"Uh, yeah, that's right… you're in a graveyard, right?" He carries on swiftly as Jess snarls out a yes and doesn't give her time to fully express her feelings on being in the graveyard. "Right, Jess, you need to check the coffin. The grave I was in, you need to check the coffin."
He wants her to get back in the grave. He gets to admire her pretty, perky breasts and she gets to climb into a grave. This sucks in manifold ways. She edges back over to the edge of the grave and peers down at the casket. She backs away again.
"Right so, why would I be doing that?"
"Jess, this is really important. Please. Look inside the coffin."
Shaking her head and screwing her eyes shut, Jess slip-slides down, clinging to the damp earth to steady her descent. She drops to her knees, wedging the cell between her head and her shoulder, and carefully pries the lid from the coffin.
Don't want to see, don't want to smell, don't want to touch…. Don't want don't want don't want.
"Jess? Talk to me!"
She opens her eyes and lets out a breath. She licks her lips - and forget her cock, her mouth is awesome - and pulls the phone back into place. She tries to speak but only manages a relieved, breathless giggle that sounds pretty weird in a guy's voice but he's got that awesome awesome mouth so…
"It's empty," she says. "Oh thank God, it's empty."
There's silence on the other end of the line for a long moment and Jess is about to demand to know whether her perky breasts are being played with and that's damn inconsiderate considering she's standing in a fucking open grave, when he speaks again.
"Jess, have you ever used a gun before?"
The non-sequitur throws her a bit but hey, it's a surreal kind of evening so she does her best to rack her brains, which are thankfully still hers and not his because she knows what guys think about and she doesn't want a head full of that, and come up with an answer.
"Not really, no. I mean, maybe at the fairground when I was a kid but-"
"Oookay, right. Now, no panicking, but I need you to get out of that grave." Obediently, and all too willing, Jess scrambles out of the grave. "Walk in the direction of the church. Walk really pretty fast, run if you want to. In fact, yeah, Jess, run." Jess feels inclined to panic despite his order, because fuck him, he's got her breasts and she's got a graveyard. "There's a really nice looking Impala in the parking lot. There are keys in your pocket. Drive to the Golden Dawn motel. Put a dent in that car and you're not getting this body back with all limbs attached. You'll be safe at the motel. And now, I've really gotta go because your friends are trying to knock the door down. And, oh yeah, like I said, run."
:::
Having the breasts of a sixteen-year old had been cool but Dean way prefers this set. They're full and bouncy and they come in the nicest, laciest bra he's seen in a while. It's not like John had done any underwear shopping for Dean while Dean was a girl but he's pretty sure John wouldn't have found anything as pretty as this bra even if he had.
Dean jiggles his breasts in the mirror, watching his blonde curls bounce about his shoulders. He'd like to spend a little more quality with his new breasts but Jess's friends are still hammering away at the door. Shrieking at them had unsettled them, Dean figures. Locking himself in the bathroom with his cellphone had probably not really improved things.
"Jess? Are you okay? Are you ever coming out? We're kind of worried."
And Sammy. Sammy-Sam-Stanford-Sam. Right there. Jess is friends with Sam, Dean likes her already. Okay, so he's a little jealous too. Because it's not like Jess is the only one having a birthday today and oh fucking fuck, what if Sam calls him? Calls Jess? No. That cannot happen. Because Dean cannot have Sam knowing about this. Dean does not need Sam to think that Dean's bodysnatching in order to spend time with him. Because, all right, so Dean might have done something like that if he'd thought of it but he didn't think of it so it's not fair for anyone to think that he did.
"Jess, seriously…" Sam's voice trails off, talking to someone else, and Dean wonders if he's getting ready to kick the door down.
Right, Jess is safe. Dean just has to stick with Sam and give him no chance to call and find out that this has happened. No problem. He gives his breasts one last jiggle then tucks them back into his bra and pulls his top back into place. Then he throws the door wide and gives a dazzling smile.
"Hey! Sorry about that! Just, like I said, I'm so… old. I had to, y'know, apply moisturiser for my wrinkles and shit like that."
He's instantly surrounded in the soft, perfumed embrace of several women who seem determined to press right up close and remind him that he has no cock.
"Oh, sweetie! You're not old! Not one little bit! Tell her, Anthony."
The crowd of clinging women parts like the waves of a very attractive sea and Dean finds himself looking at some guy with spiky hair who's reaching out for him. He flicks a glance at Sam, who's hanging back and biting his lip, then looks back at the guy, who's still trying to get his hands on him.
"Jess," the guy says. "You're gorgeous. You know you are. Would I be going out with you if you weren't?"
The guy breaks into an annoying braying laugh then makes a concerted effort to grab hold of Dean, who's so far managed to evade his grabby hands by sheer virtue of the fact the guy's so hung up on himself and his audience that he's not paying proper attention to where Dean actually is in relation to his hands.
It's instinct, all right, that's what it is. Dean's had years of stupid dicks trying to put their hands on him and he reacts before he considers that maybe Jess likes having this stupid dick in particular put his hands on her - which Dean doesn't believe for one minute because the girl clearly has taste because she's friends with Sam.
Motivation aside, it doesn't change the fact Dean gives the stupid dick - who is more commonly known as Anthony (unless you're talking to the girls in his Art History class who would probably stick with Stupid Dick) - a good sharp shove in the chest, designed to knock him just off balance.
Pacifist to the core (unless he's dealing with his own father in which case he's a goddamn warmonger), Sam darts forward, ready to intervene. The room's gone quiet. Anthony's staring at Dean like he's just seen Elvis - scary Vegas-years Elvis because the Comeback Elvis had been pretty awesome. The girls seem startled but Dean's hoping they'll be inclined to do some more of the cuddling, cooing stuff shortly.
When the silence stretches on a bit, Sam carefully reaches out and lays a hand on Dean's shoulder and that? That's nice. That soothes Dean a little and he can't help looking at Sam, taking in every little difference between him now and him then. His bangs are longer and John'd hate that, they'd get in his eyes and there's enough in this world out to kill you without your own hair siding against you. But he looks good, looks well. Looks happy.
Dean swallows and looks back at Anthony. He tries a smile and wonders whether jiggling his breasts at him would be too obvious a move but hey? A cute girl jiggling her breasts at Dean always makes him feel inclined to forgive her any offence, from bringing him waffles when he's ordered pancakes right up to mass genocide.
"Sorry, baby, I… I feel bad that you're going out with me. When I'm so old."
"Awww, honey," say the girls.
There's the cooing and cuddling again. Just before Dean lets himself be swallowed up in it, he snatches another look at Sam. Sam's looking right back at him. Sam's smiling.
:::
The car's cool. So, this guy, whoever he is, has a cool car and a cock that feels really reassuring when you touch it. His cock's like a lucky charm, like the dusty rabbit's foot her gramma used to carry around in her purse. Only, it's not quite like a rabbit's foot, in the obvious way that it's a cock.
Okay, so, Jess likes the car, likes the cock.
Does not like the graveyard. Does not like running through the graveyard. Really doesn't like the open coffin that makes the guy go all quiet and 'don't panic now, Jess'. And to be honest? She's still not sold on being not-her. Her birthday plans involved a couple of wine-bars, maybe a club and a lay-in with Anthony the next morning. Not the sudden acquisition of a cock, no matter how soothing.
Still, despite her own personal crisis, Jess doesn't hesitate before pulling over when she sees a girl on the street, struggling with something big and grey that's trying to crack her skull open like a boiled egg. It says a lot about the deep down awesomeness of Jess that she's not going to let herself be one of those people who just drives on past when oh my God, the big grey thing is making a definite effort at eating some brains.
Forget that she's a twenty-year old girl with a great cock and no breasts, forget that she's meant to be in some trendy little bar in Palo Alto rather than hightailing it away from a cemetery in the middle of God-knows-where - brain eating is not the kind of thing Jess is going to pretend she didn't see, no matter how fucked up her evening is.
Giving her cock a quick rub for luck, Jess snatches up the spade lying on the back seat and charges into the fray. The big grey brain-eater takes a swift smack round the face with the flat of the spade and Jess is impressed by the power behind the swing. Before she trades back, she definitely needs to know this guy's workout regime. Unless it involves more open graves.
"Help me!" the would-be victim shrills. There's blood running through her blonde hair and down her neck. She keeps trying to cling onto Jess, which makes it really difficult to batter the brain-eating thing. And besides, her squealing is totally unnecessary because it's kind of obvious from the spade-action that Jess isn't there to cheer the brain-eater on.
Right now, Jess needs to concentrate on reducing the big grey thing to a pulp because its reaction to having a spade smashed over its head is closer to annoyance than mortal agony. Still, without finesse but with a whole load of pent-up aggro to work off, Jess keeps on swinging.
Eventually, the brain-eater gives a disgruntled moan and shambles off into the night. Jess is toying with the idea of chasing after it and beating it some more, when she realises she's absolutely terrified. Plus, there's the spineless girl hanging off her arm and snivelling into her shoulder.
Jess is sympathetic, really she is. If she'd just had something try to eat her brain, she'd probably be acting a bit of a wuss too. But she sincerely doubts this girl is having to deal with the trauma of unplanned gender, identity and location reassignment. And it's not like it actually got to eat her brains. If it'd managed to get through her skull, then once again, Jess would be more sympathetic. Currently though, not so much.
"Look," she says. "I'm sure you're feeling kind of delicate right now but I'm having a bit of a stressful evening, so do you think we could pass on… y'know, actually spending any more time with each other? Could you just go home?"
The girl stares at her for a long moment, as if she's waiting for Jess to abruptly relent. Then she gives an irritable huff, flips her off and stalks away towards the nearest bar with lights on. Flips her off, dammit! She should be thanking Jess that she still has the brains to manage to flip someone off. Brainless girls can't flip anyone off at all and that's something she should remember.
It's seeing the girl pull out her cell that reminds Jess that she doesn't have to suffer in silence. There is someone else in this world who can, and should, suffer her pain. When the guy answers her call, and Jess hears the throb of music in the background - music that she was supposed to be listening to, in a club that she was supposed to be in - Jess isn't inclined to go easy on him.
"Unless this is a marketing thing, you have got so much explaining to do," she says by way of greeting.
There's a pause and then his voice comes, a little hesitant and wary.
"Why would this be a marketing thing?"
Jess climbs into the Impala and slams the door shut. She starts up the engine and pulls back onto the road. There is no doubting that she definitely got the worse end of this deal. No cock and no car are worth this.
"I don't know!" she snaps. "Why is this happening? Why is my body currently informing me that the best way to deal with all this rage inside me is a cheeseburger? Why was that thing trying to eat that girl's brain? Life is just One. Big. Mystery, I guess."
"You ran into it then. Uh, you're all right? And the girl? How's my car?"
Jess gestures furiously, even though she knows he can't see her. She kind of hopes though that the stars, trashcans on the street and any passing cats will pick up on her angry vibes and that through some cosmic butterfly effect, the guy will end up feeling the impact of her wrath in the form of some really bad food poisoning or something. Of course, no doubt her luck will run to course and she'll get her body back just in time to suffer it instead.
"We're all fine! Including the brain-eating thing! Now, what the hell is that, who are you, and what's happening?"
There's another long silence and Jess prays for the sake of all humanity that he's trying to think of how to explain it properly and not pausing to chug down some sweet little cocktail concoction that should have been hers because if that's the case, she will not leave even a single infant standing by the time she's done expressing her dissatisfaction.
"Is it… is it a zombie?" she prompts finally. She's very matter-of-fact about it because she's talking about zombies; talking about zombies is bad enough without doing it hysterically.
"No, no, no!" says the guy. "No, don't think zombie. That's… well that's just crazy talk, right?"
She's slightly mollified and rolls her shoulders to ease the ache.
"Really? Because I'm pretty sure it was trying to eat that girl's brain and that's the kind of thing that zombies do. Y'know, so I hear."
"Absolutely. But… no. Not a zombie. Erm, it was… think of it like a virus. Yeah, it's a government virus gone totally wrong. Actually, I work for the government. Yeah! All very hush-hush and secretive. Black suits. Raybans. The whole deal. So, not a zombie. See?"
So Jess accepts a story that sounds more than a little impromptu. She's having a bad night. Give her a break. Maybe some night when she weren't suddenly a guy she might say: hey, are you sure about that? Because that's all come out of nowhere and you're sending out some 'lying-out-of-my-backside' vibes. Probably more polite than that though because Jess is a nice girl and doesn't want to be throwing accusations around.
Instead she lets out a breath and nods.
"Okay," she says. "So that's what you were doing in that grave. Fine. Okay. Uh, I kind of left the grave in a mess back there, is there paperwork I need to fill in?"
"No, no, you're good. The zom- virus-stricken thing will just pull the dirt back on top of itself when it gets back in its grave. Look, Jess, really, this isn't going too last long. I figure twenty-four hours tops. Just hole up at the motel and only answer your cell if it's me. Okay?"
The motel's rising up into sight now and while it's not as nice as Jess's apartment, it's so much more welcoming than the cemetery. Funny how many things Jess can recite off the top of her head right now that are more welcoming than the cemetery. But she can't quite forget the blood down the back of that girl's neck.
"Shouldn't I be doing something about that thing that's not a zombie?" she says.
Bad idea, her lizard brain tells her. Sit in the motel like a good girl-man and see if they're showing 'Mean Girls' on cable. Do not, repeat, do not go after the brain-eating thing. Your brain is perfect right where it is and would not work half so well in some big grey thing's digestive tract.
But then the annoying part of Jess's brain that insists on morals and principles like not cheating in exams or jumping Sam Winchester while she's going out with Anthony reminds her that the girl was going to have her brain eaten had Jess not introduced her spade to the equation. That's a special circumstance.
"No," says the guy. Jess's lizard brain cheers. "You're a civilian. Civilians make big sticky puddles on the ground and then guys like me not only have to worry about hunting down the nasty, but we have to clear up the mess you've made. Really, just stay in the motel."
He hangs up then. No doubt to drink more cocktails, maybe ones with sparklers and umbrellas. Jess scowls at the phone and then smacks it against the dashboard a few times. The butterfly effect better give that guy one hell of a hurricane.
:::
Whatever points Jess gets for being friends with Sam, she loses them and more for going out with an utter prick like Anthony while Sam is really obviously head over heels about her. Dean considers himself an authority on Sam. If Sam has a thought, Dean can be relied upon to tell him what it is first. Okay, so the Stanford thing kind of blindsided him but… Okay, so not an infallible authority but nobody's perfect, right?
But Dean only has to take one look at Sam's face when he's looking at Jess (even if she's currently Dean) to know that Sam's in love with her. It's kind of pathetic how obviously Sam is in love with her. And Jess is a smart girl, he figures. So even if everyone else is oblivious - which apparently they are - Jess should not be going out with Anthony the waste of space when Sam is in love with her.
She shouldn't be going out with Anthony period because he's the kind of guy who badly needs the crap beaten out of him. On a daily basis.
Dean doesn't appreciate having his ass smacked. He doesn't appreciate it when he's trying to walk a bit closer to Sam and someone grabs his wrist, won't let him go and insists on holding his hand instead. And okay, so Dean's preferences run to breasts and curves, usually, but Anthony annoys Dean on this deep down basic level. It's a level so deep it goes past gender and sexual preference and reaches a fundamental point of existence.
In short, Dean is getting sick and fed up of not being able to spend some quality time with his brother because Anthony needs to keep his goddamn hands to himself. If he knew a way to 'accidentally' break someone's arm, you can be sure Anthony would be on his way to the hospital right this second.
Instead, Dean walks along the street with Anthony's arm about his shoulder and Anthony's body in between him and Sam, Sam who's walking in the gutter but keeps looking over anyway. The girls are all right though. Dean likes the girls. And not just because they're cute and not wearing much - thank God for this Californian weather. They're nice to Sam and there's at least one of them, by Dean's practiced reckoning, who'd like to be a whole lot nicer to him. But Sam, poor sappy Sam, only has eyes for Jess.
Still, it's not like Sam seems unhappy or lonely. Or like he regrets leaving at all. They pass plenty of people who clap Sam on the back or stop for a second to laugh and chat with him. Sam fits in here and Dean's so busy honestly not minding that Sam's got a life well away from his family and is freaking well not missing him at all that he almost misses what Anthony whispers in his ear.
"Gonna take such care of you tonight, baby. Gonna fuck you 'til you're screaming my name. Bet you want that, don't you, baby? Bet you're getting wet in your panties right now. Such a slut for my dick, aren't you, baby?"
Dean can't figure out how to answer that one but that's okay, because he thinks Anthony's the kind of guy who'll take his stunned silence for awed agreement. Anthony's probably the kind of guy who could take a punch to the gut and make it into some kind of recognition of his awesome sexual charisma. Testing that theory would go some way to putting a smile on Dean's face.
When they get to the bar, Anthony breaks all the lows of probability and possibility and does something to send himself even lower in Dean's estimation. It's quite a feat really and if Dean weren't so busy wanting to punch his nose out the back of his head, he'd be impressed. What does the little jerk do, with his braying laugh and hand that keeps ending up between Dean's legs and his preppy little popped collar rugby shirt, what does he do but send Sam over to fetch the drinks?
"Why'd you have to be so horrid to him?" says Sophie to Anthony. Dean likes Sophie even if, from the sounds of it, she keeps taking back her dirtbag boyfriend, Paul, who, according to Marissa, has been cheating on her with that redhead TA in Computer Science. Chloe says Marissa doesn't have any proof that Paul's cheating but Dean figures there's no smoke without fire.
"He doesn't mind," says Anthony. "Besides, what else is he gonna do? S'not like he can dance with that freakish, scarecrow body."
There's a low intake of breath from more than one of the girls and Anthony's an idiot because that's such a warning sign and he doesn't pay any attention to it at all. A noise like that says your adoring female audience has turned to an unsympathetic crowd who thinks you're an ass. Dean knows this because he's had the bruises to prove it many many times.
He twirls a blonde curl about his finger and swings his legs idly, enjoying the vivid electric club-light glow over his green spike heels and their diamante buckle. Punching a guy out is satisfying but girls get a whole different range of weapons.
"Yeah," says Dean dreamily, watching Sam lean over at the bar and totally not watching his jeans stretch over his ass because who the hell do you think he is? Some kind of brother's-ass-leering pervert? "But built like that, I bet he's hung like a goddamn horse. Can you imagine riding that? You'd be feeling it for weeks after!"
Chloe covers her hand with her mouth but her eyes are bright with amusement, and Sophie and Marissa don't bother trying to stifle their giggles. As one, their heads turn in Sam's direction. Dean's pleased to note that not a single one of their expressions could be described as anything other than hungry.
When Sam glances over his shoulder and notices he had got a new crew of groupies, he seems a little more taken aback than you'd expect from someone who's from the same genetic material as Dean Winchester, Manwhore Extraordinaire since 1994. Still he flashes a bright, hesitant smile back and Dean manages to miss him being his brother and reprimand himself for being such a fucking girl in the same two seconds.
Of course, the best part is looking over to check Anthony's reaction and seeing his face scrunched up like a soggy roll of toilet paper. His lips are tight and he's practically quivering. Dean pouts at him and leans in close, patting his arm and brushing his lips over his cheek.
"Oh, baby," he coos. "You make the absolute most of what you've got! Really you do!"
Punching guys out is over-rated when you can stamp on their balls without even lifting one prettily-manicured fingernail. There's a long silence where Chloe tries to cover up a sudden fit of the giggles with a lot of coughing. Dean feels pretty damn awesome right now.
Sam's just making it back to the table with the drinks clutched in his huge hands - and has Sam grown yet another inch? - when Anthony grabs Dean's upper-arm. His fingers sink into the flesh and it hurts.
"Why are you being such a little bitch?" he demands. His face is so close Dean feels the spittle hit him.
This seems to kill the atmosphere for everyone else. Not Dean. Dean's still loving it because if Anthony doesn't move his hand in five goddamn seconds, Dean's gonna take that as permission to rip him a new one. And he's got some kickass self-defence techniques.
"Hey," says Sam. His big brow is furrowed with concern and it's probably not the most tactful thing to do in front of your boyfriend to the guy whose cock you've just loudly proclaimed an interest in but Dean can help but give him a dazzling smile. "Is there a problem?"
"Why don't you just fuck off?" Anthony snarls at Sam. "Why don't you just take your fucking loser weirdo self back to the trailer park where you belong because this is nothing to do with you!"
That is so not cool. Everyone at the table thinks it's not cool. So Dean does something he's always wanted to do but never been able to do before, because it's something that looks weird from a guy and he's never been a girl with a boyfriend before: he picks up a drink and empties it over Anthony.
It feels as good as Dean thought it would.
"You're a jerk and we're totally over," he tells him. His cell starts ringing and he hops from the stool. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I gotta go piss. And uh… powder my nose."
:::
The car, the cock and the assurance that the thing that's acting very much like a zombie is not a zombie are not the only bright spots about inhabiting the body of the reincarnated Rambo. Which is lucky because this situation needs floodlights to coax Jess away from the depths of despair. Thanks to the mirror in the motel bathroom, Jess has discovered that she now possesses awesome awesome awesome lips. And that makes her a tiny bit less stressed about the situation than she would be otherwise.
She spends longer in the bathroom than is normal, but nothing about bodyswapping is normal so what the hell! She suspects that the only reason the rightful owner of this body is happy to spend time in graves and going up against non-zombie brain-eaters is because he is so goddamn hot that simply staring at his own reflection for five minutes a day must give him a zen-like belief in the overall brilliance of the world.
His mouth is how every mouth in the world should be but can't be because otherwise no one would ever do anything of a day other than kiss and kiss and kiss. She smacks her lips a couple of times and wonders if it would be very wrong to go to a bar and pick someone up simply so she can feel how it is to kiss someone with lips as utterly perfect as this.
And because she's determined to make the most of this experience, and because it's served as such a reassuring companion so far, his cock is the next up for inspection. It's a very nice cock, just as she expected. After a little tentative touching and exploring, Jess no longer has to rely on anecdotal evidence to know that a handjob, even when one is using one's own borrowed hand, feels really really good.
Stripping off and admiring her temporary body, with all its very attractive male features, is not something Jess will allow herself to feel guilty about. She's got a cock that's much nicer than any other she's had chance to examine, green eyes with stupidly long, dark lashes, and a mouth that is possibly the most kissable, lickable, fuckable mouth in the history of mouths. Her new mouth is lethal.
But still, even as she's mopping up all the come from the self-taught handjob lesson - boys are so messy - Jess can't stop thinking about the non-zombie that's out there. And maybe it didn't get to eat that girl's brain but that doesn't mean it will have lost its appetite. Jess knows from experience that when she's craving mint choc ice cream, one store being out doesn't mean she doesn't try the next one further down the street. It's most likely the same with brains.
There aren't any clues in the room for what she should do about it though. There's an empty pizza box on the table and a duffle bag by the door with a change of clothes in it. Oh yes, and a knife under the pillow on the bed. She's way past being disturbed about little things like the random inclusion of weaponry in cars, beds and clothing. She sits down on the bed and looks at her reflection in the blade of the knife, distractedly blows a few kisses at herself because there is not enough awesome in the world to describe her mouth.
When her cellphone rings, she expects it to be the guy, the guy who's her, so she answers it straight away and without checking Caller ID. See? Siren song. Irresistible.
"Hey, Dean. How's it going? Still your birthday where you are?"
It's a man but it's not the her-man. It's a deep voice. Rough, gravelly and kind of sexy. Jess wonders if he's close by because a voice like that? She'd love to try her new lips out on.
"Yeah," she says. "Still my birthday."
"How's the hunt going?"
Jess frowns and scratches the back of her neck.
"Uh… great. Yeah. Really great."
"You got it yet?"
Now here's the thing. Dean - Dean, she latches onto the name - had implied that his job - which sounded dodgy - was very secret. Did this man know the truth - or what Dean was passing off for the truth at least - or did he think Dean was out here hunting deer or something? This was the kind of complicated question Jess didn't think it was right she should have to deal with on her birthday.
"No," she says at last. "Not yet."
It's the wrong answer. From the tone of the guy's voice, she's not sure Dean could actually give a right answer to that one, aside from yes sir, and I washed and waxed your car while I figured out how to bring about world peace too.
"Damn it, Dean! Why not? People are gonna get hurt!" He sighs, and then says, "You're twenty-four years old, you should be able to handle a gig like this without your father having to come over and hold your hand! Get your act together!"
"Dad!" Jess blurts out, in sudden revelation. She tries to catch herself but it's too late.
"What?"
Jess thinks furiously for a second and then decides to fuck it all because Dean is clearly not his dad's golden boy and if he's his son then there will be no lip-action anyway so there's nothing to lose.
"I'm just not sure how to handle it. Y'know, the most efficient way. If a job's worth doing, like they say. What would you recommend, Dad?"
There's a long silence and Jess starts to wonder whether it's too late to pretend this is a wrong number or whether she could convincingly claim temporary insanity, explain that of course she knows what she's doing and hang up. Preferably never to answer the phone ever again.
"If you can catch it in its grave," the man on the other end says, "fill its mouth with salt and then stitch the lips shut. Otherwise you're in for a knockdown fight. Decapitation works but is damn messy. Nah, catch it in its grave."
"Right. Great. Thanks for that. I'll go… do the salt in the mouth thing. Bye. Love you, Dad."
Jess is about to hang up when the voice stops her. It's sounds more hoarse than before and she wonders what she's said wrong.
"I love you too, Dean. Happy birthday."
The line goes dead and she stares at the cellphone in her hand for a long while. She doesn't know him, knows nothing beyond the fact he's got this gorgeous son who spends his time in graves and motels, but she kind of wishes she could call him back and just chat. Stranger to stranger. And maybe, invite him over to help with the salt in the mouth thing.
Then she takes a deep breath and hooks around in the motel room drawers until she finds the complementary sewing kit. She pulls a particularly wicked looking needle free and tests the point of it on her fingertip. It's not a spade but Jess took Home Science at school and was an ace at embroidery. The not-zombie has met its cross-stitching match.
:::
A small voice in Dean's brain is just tentatively starting to suggest that dumping someone's boyfriend while you're inhabiting their body is perhaps not an all right thing to do, no matter how scummy a boyfriend he is. He toys with the cell in his hand, thinking of Jess curled up in his motel room, with no idea that she is now single.
Going crawling back to Anthony is out of the question. The guy's a scumbag and if Dean were to put his mind to it he'd be able to come up with at least three really convincing pieces of evidence to suggest he's an agent of dark forces and needs to be put down.
No, there's only one way to make this right for Jess. And to prove that it's the right course of action, when Dean comes out of the ladies', Sam's waiting for him. He's got his hands shoved in his pockets and his stupid bangs are falling in his eyes, but he smiles when he sees Dean and so Dean's helpless against smiling back at him.
"You okay?" says Sam. "Uh, Anthony's gone. He, uh…"
"Yeah, he's a prick," says Dean. "Wanna be my boyfriend?"
He's normally much smoother about this sort of thing. Really. Ask any woman between the ages of 18 and 35 from here to New York. Dean can charm the panties off a nun - or he could do if he tried but generally he's inclined to let the nuns keep their panties on. John'd have his hide if he knew Dean were even considering trying to charm the panties off a nun. But still, Dean totally could, if he wanted to. So he puts down the rather fumbled proposition to the side-effect of being in a girl's body, a girl the same age as Sam who's pretty much only a kid really, when you think about it.
Sam's still staring at him and Dean suddenly feels nervous, like he's screwed up. Breast-jiggling is not going to work on Sam because he's too… oblivious to that kind of thing.
"You've got a thing for me, haven't you?" Dean prods.
It's embarrassing, yeah, but it's like doing the laundry and finding, underneath the blood-soaked t-shirts and jeans with caked-on demon-muck, a pair of Sam's underwear with the come dried on and not making a fuss about it. It's part and parcel of being an awesome big brother. It's knowing that, even though he's gonna tease him mercilessly about it if he ever gets chance, Dean is always gonna try to work situations to Sam's advantage if Sam can't do it for himself.
"Yeah," says Sam finally. He grins, that big goofy grin that Dean hasn't seen in years. "I guess I've been kind of obvious."
Dean waves a dismissive hand and then has to look away, over at where the girls are dancing, because he's grinning like an idiot himself, just to see that smile on Sam's face. He did that. Okay, so maybe he did that while wearing Jess's face, but he did that.
And then, trust Sam to complicate things.
"You want to dance?" he says.
Dean freezes.
See, whereas Dean had got as far as getting his Sammy a girlfriend he knew Sammy liked and is, he thinks, a pretty awesome girl in her own right, he hadn't got beyond that. So now, for a few hours at least, he's Sammy's girlfriend. And Sammy wants to dance. Or at least thinks that Jess will want to dance.
Dean doesn't dance. The only kind of dancing Dean does is the euphemistic kind where both partners - sometimes all three or four of them even - are naked. Problem is, of course, that girls dance. The very fact Sam's asking Jess if she wants to dance suggests that Sam's got Jess down as the dancing kind.
"It's okay if you don't want-" Sam's saying but his eyes have gone all puppy-dog and so Dean slaps on a smile.
"Sure! Let's dance!"
Dancing with your brother is weird. Dean can't figure out whether dancing with your brother is weirder when you're a girl or when you're your normal male self. It's easier to think about that than the light touches of Sam's hand on his bare shoulder, on the curve of his waist… easier to think about which is weirder than any number of the fleeting touches and, worse, Dean's reaction to them.
All right, the truth? The weirdest truth of all? Dean doesn't hate it. He doesn’t want to curl up and die from the embarrassment overload. Full truth: Dean kind of likes it. It's freaky having Sam look at him like that but if you leave aside all the horniness and uncertainty - the two things Dean remembers most about Sam the teenager - then you've got Dean as the centre of Sam's world, just for a little bit. Even if it's a lie, deep down.
"What are you thinking?" says Sam.
"Uh… nothing, not really." Sam goes on watching him. His fingertips flutter over Dean's neck, brushing his pulse point as he pushes back a stray blonde curl. Dean does not - does not does not does not - tremble at the touch. "I was wondering why it'd taken you so long to do something about you and me."
Sam shrugs and Dean thinks he can see the first hint of a flush in his cheeks.
"You were with Anthony-"
"Who's a prick."
"Yeah," says Sam with a laugh. "But you were with him and I thought, thought this was going to be another of my doomed unrequited love affairs."
Oh, that catches Dean's attention! It catches his attention quicker than a nun without panties would catch his attention and he seriously doesn't have a thing about nuns because John would. Kick. His. Ass. The look on Sam's face clearly says he doesn't want to talk about it. Which is a shame because Dean is totally going to force him to.
"Come on, gimme some details!"
Sam shakes his head, still laughing, then glances back and laughs some more at Dean's bloodhound expression.
"Just… you ever fallen for someone you know there's no chance of you ever having? And it doesn't matter that you know it's not right - I mean, you know it's not going to happen - but you can't help wanting it anyway?" The laughter's died away and he's looking awkward and uncomfortable. "You either put up and shut up or…"
"Or what?"
Sam looks straight at him and grins but it's something very different to the other grin, the grin that makes Dean want to pinch his cheeks and then maybe spit in a napkin and wipe dirt off Sammy's face. This is the kind of grin that makes Dean think of John, and not in the capable Hero of the World kind of way, but the getting to the bottom of a bottle and still finding nothing but misery way.
"You get out," says Sam.
"What was her name?"
Sam shakes his head and strokes at Dean's hair again, tangling his fingers into the curls and brushing his knuckles against his neck.
"Isn't discussing old relationships one of the big 'Don't's of a date?"
"C'mon," says Dean, leaning in close because he just can't leave it alone. "Tell me, what was her name?"
And then Sam totally cheats, plays completely unfair and breaks every single rule in the Winchester handbook and kisses him. He actually kisses him. His tongue is in Dean's mouth - well, Jess's mouth but that's beside the point. Sam's big hands are cupping Dean's (yes, okay, Jess's) face and his mouth is covering his and Dean is being kissed by his geeky kid brother. Only, it doesn't feel like it because that's not the kind of kiss you get from geeky kids (leaving aside the brother part for now because everything is complicated enough as it is.)
Sam kisses Dean like he's the most beautiful, precious, loved thing in the world. Like he knows what he's doing, like he's been thinking about just how he'd kiss Dean since the very first moment he met him.
Except it's Jess. He's kissing Jess.
But that's totally okay, Dean says to himself, because it's how it should be. Christ, it'd be traumatising beyond words if Sam and Dean were actually kissing without all of this bodyswapping genderswitching freakiness going on. It would. It'd be traumatising. Dean would be very very traumatised. Yes he would.
He pulls away because Sam's hand is right in the middle of his back and Sam's face is right there and Sam is just way too close right now. Too close.
"Uh… I need air. Yeah. Be right back," says Dean, before turning and wobbling from the club as fast as his four-inch heels will allow.
:::
If you drew it on a graph, you'd see that there is a direct relationship between how close Jess gets to the cemetery and her enthusiasm levels. In fact, you'd see the correlation is almost exact. One more meter towards the cemetery and one more notch down from enthusiasm to terror.
Dean's call is a welcome respite from thinking about which stitch is the most appropriate when sewing a not-zombie's mouth shut. A buttonhole stitch is a good strong stitch but Mrs Higgins always said that when in doubt a simple running stitch was best.
Her relief at hearing from him is remarkably short-lived once he actually gets talking.
"I've got some bad news."
"Yeah?" Jess says. This whole evening has been bad news as far as she's concerned but she's hoping that Dean's referring to bad news like he's spilt martini down her skirt. Maybe that's what he's going to say. It doesn't have to actually be really bad news. Please? "I could really not do with that right now."
"Don't worry, I've got good news too! But first, uh, you just broke up with your boyfriend."
So no, it actually is bad news. At least it's following the theme of the evening.
"Anthony? Oh my God, why? We've been dating since high school!"
"The guy's a dick."
"Yeah, but we've been dating since high school! Oh my God, you broke up with Anthony!"
Even caught up in the first shock of losing her boyfriend, Jess can't debate that Anthony is dick. Anthony's a dick and it's not like he's the lovable kind of dick. But to Jess, he's like her cracked Papa Smurf mug: its tendency to leak may render it completely unsuitable for the task for which it was designed (to drink out of) but she's had it since she was a little girl and therefore, it cannot be discarded. It is part of her history. Anthony is a dick but he was the first boy to ever ask her out and it's a wrench to throw that away. Or have that thrown away by someone who has no right to be throwing anything of Jess's around.
Then she has to start worrying about her Papa Smurf mug and if she finds it in the trash when she gets back, she is going to hunt him down and skin him.
"Don't worry. I got you a new boyfriend."
Her heart stops, which is not the sort of thing hearts should do. She gets the impression though that if she were to spend more than ten minutes together with Dean, her heart would be stopping on a regular basis. And for once, she's not thinking of his super-awesome mouth.
"Oh my God, is this the good news?"
"Yeah. You'll love this. You're going out with Sam. Sam Winchester."
"Sam. I mean… really? Sam?"
"What's wrong with Sam?"
There's a distinct warning note in the question and Jess remembers the trunk full of guns and sharp objects and the fact that Dean is apparently not at all fazed about spending his birthday in an open grave. Besides, she thinks of Sam with his tallness and blinding smile and quiet sense of humour and his tallness and can't properly come up with an answer that seems adequate.
"Nothing. He's… I like Sam. I really really do. He's just…. A little too wholesome. Y'know?"
Dean snorts and it's such an inelegant thing for her voice to be doing that Jess toys with the idea of making sure Dean gets his body back with painted toenails or bad dye-job.
"Sam?" says Dean. "Are you kidding me? That guy… he's got layers. Depth. Totally not wholesome."
"Yeah? How do you know?"
"Trust me. Guys know. Hang on-" There's a pause and then Dean's back on the line, his voice dropped to a whisper. "Fuck, he's coming over! Gotta go!"
And that's it: Dean's dumped Anthony and picked up with Sam Winchester. Sam's adorable. He really is. But he's so… vanilla. He never gets in fights, seems to have no problem settling down to studying and he's always so sensible with risk assessment. These are all good things but a girl likes a sense of danger, doesn't she? Unless, of course, she's driving to a cemetery in order to dig up some kind of bizarre plague victim, fill its mouth with salt and then sew it shut again.
Put it like that…
Maybe, if a girl's honest, she's not that keen on a sense of danger. She prefers a sense of popcorn and fluffy slippers right now. Maybe a sense of some rom-com too.
Taking a deep breath, Jess parks in the church lot, climbs out and strides across the graveyard. She's got her spade, her embroidery kit and her lucky cock: she's going to be just fine.
:::
"I just don't get you tonight," says Sam.
Well, he wouldn't, would he? Sam's smart but it'd take a certain Dali-esque kind of brain to figure out that the reason your new girlfriend is acting so oddly is because she's actually swapped bodies with your estranged brother. It's not the leap of intuition that comes naturally for even the smartest.
"You're really jumpy and erratic and I don't know what you're going to do next and yet…"
Dean's still refusing to look at him. He's keeping his gaze firmly fixed on the Laundromat across the street, watching whether the old guy's gonna strip down completely because tonight's the kind of night Dean thinks he'll get his brain scarred with that sort of image. Bodyswaps, incestuous confusion and naked old guys would make a killer combination for this evening.
Sam's hand comes down lightly on his shoulder and Dean can't help being turned around to look at him because hey, it's Sammy! It figures that Sammy's in full wide-eyed, emotive, caring-and-sharing mode. Can't just have a beer and watch the game and pretend nothing's off, oh no, not with Sammy how he is right now.
"I feel like we've really connected tonight. It's weird, I can't explain it. Just, deep down, it's like- There's something about you I just can't-"
Sam breaks off again and looks at Dean. Really looks at him. And wouldn't it be just like Sammy to have that one in a million brain that would leap to crazy conclusions involving bodyswaps? Dean can't have the conversation that would no doubt follow that little revelation. He just can't.
Then Sam gives a small smile and says, "Y'know, if you've changed your mind, you'd only have to crook your finger at Anthony and he'd come running. If you've changed your mind, that's…"
Still so stupid, that's his Sammy. And it's all still Jess. He's looking at Dean and only seeing Jess. It's best that way. Really it is. So Dean pushes up onto his toes, grabs Sam's face and kisses him, quick and hard.
"Still be my boyfriend in the morning, right?"
Sam nods blankly, still looking a little dazed from the kiss (as well he might because Dean's kisses are dynamite, regardless of whose tongue he's using).
"Great. See you tomorrow, Sammy."
:::
One good thing about corpses, Jess has learnt, is that their teeth are really pretty wobbly in their gums. So if, say, you're holding their jaws open while you fill their mouths with salt, and you lose your grip, you don't have to worry about being bitten because the teeth snap clean out of the skull.
It means, she realises with disgust, that once it had cracked that girl's head open, it was going to have sucked her brains out. Really, any brain-consumption is on the icky side of eww! But for some reason, sucking brains just strikes Jess as unnecessarily revolting.
She's about two-thirds done with her stitching - and she's pleased to see her embroidery expertise hasn't dulled with the passing of time - when she feels the warmth of coming morning on her back. She risks glancing over her shoulder because the thing's only twitched a couple of times since she dug it up. The sky is soft and grey. There are birds singing in the trees that loom above the graves. It's almost dawn.
:::
Dean treats Jess's things carefully. Glides his fingertips over the calendar and the randomly scribbled dates on it: Starbucks, 6, Chloe and Dentist, 9:40. Lingers at the cracked Papa Smurf mug on the shelf. Furtively explores the lace, silk and ribbon of her underwear drawer, as if expecting Jess's hands to turn against him and strangle him at any minute.
This is the girl Sam's fallen in love with.
There's a group photo pinned to the fridge. Anthony's wrapped about Jess and she's beaming at the camera. Dean recognises Chloe and Marissa too. And there's Sam, not at the back or off to the side. He's right there, with his friends. Like he fits there. Looking at him, no one would guess he knows how to exorcise a demon or field-strip a shotgun. No one would guess he's Dean's brother.
Dean slumps into a chair by the window to watch the sun come up. It shimmers up over the horizon, its light bleeding through the hazy clouds. It's the morning of the next day, no denying it. Jess lets out a breath and stretches her arms above her head. She yawns and then realises she can see the diamante buckle of her sandals. And her leg, shapely and hair-free. Further exploration reveals she no longer has a cock but she has no time to miss it because she's too busy thanking God for breasts, more specifically, her own.
She snatches up her cell because she needs to call someone right now and share in the glory of a return to female, Jessica Moore form. Her first thought is Anthony, then she decides that not only is it probably a bad idea to call one's recently dumped boyfriend and brag about one's breasts but he wouldn't understand anyway. Her eyes flicker over to the photo on the fridge, to Sam. Her new boyfriend. She studies him a moment longer then makes a pleased noise in the back of her throat. She's definitely interested to see how that works out. But she can't think how she'd explain this to him.
Really, there's only one person who'll understand.
:::
"And it takes ages to dig a grave but I think the fact you'd already dug it up once and the virus-thing had moved the dirt around too made the earth all soft, plus you're really strong which helps, like when I was fighting it off with the spade..."
Dean finishes off the last off the stitches as Jess gabbles in his ear. His stitches aren't anywhere near as neat as hers but they'll do the job just as well. Her stitching is nearly ridiculously perfect, come to think of it. Dean's stitches go all over the place, broad stripes of cotton. Jess's, though, are this tidy little line that wouldn't look out of place on a sampler. If Dean were the kind of guy who'd ever seen a sampler, that is. He's usually too busy with ghouls, demons and Oprah to look at pussy things like samplers.
"And she got all pissy with me just because I didn't want to hang around and chat but she was squealing in my ear and pressing right up close and-"
"That's one of the perks of the job. The chicks who swoon and drop at your feet."
"You have lousy, sucktastic perks. In fact, you have a lousy, sucktastic job, Dean."
Dean smiles at the zombie's stitched up mouth, then leans in close to snap the thread with his teeth.
"Yeah," he says. "I know."
"I meant to say, uh, thanks. For Sam. I'm going to drag him out for a coffee this morning and see how it goes. But… he's got to be better than Anthony, right?"
"He is. Take it as a birthday present from me."
Jess laughs and Dean grins at the sound.
"But I didn't get you anything."
"Sure you did. You gave me the chance to-" Spend my birthday with my geeky kid brother and to mean something to him again? Nah, Jess is too far away for it to be worth the sympathetic cuddling and cooing. "Spend some time out of a grave and in decent civilisation again. Plus, I got playtime with your awesome breasts! I'm good."
Jess laughs again and Dean knows, right there and then, that Sam's in good hands. It's worth it for that. It totally is.
Thanks for everything, she says before she goes. 'Everything' in this case being the open grave and the undead. Not to mention the crash-course in zombie-management she must have received at some point because Dean is pretty sure he remembers telling her to hole up in the motel.
Oh she's going to be just perfect for Sam.
He's still musing on how awesome the universe is to find the one girl stubborn enough to give his brother a run for his money when his cell goes again.
"Hey," says Sam. "I… uh… Happy birthday."
Dean hauls himself out of the grave and sits on the edge. Sun's creeping steadily higher in the sky and it's not going to be too long before someone passes by and notices that one of their graves has had a fair bit of tampering during the night, especially if Dean doesn't get around to filling it back in soonish. It's always tough explaining open graves to people.
But he can take time for Sam. He can always take time for Sam.
"For yesterday," he says.
"Yeah. Sorry." Dean thinks Sam's going to stick to the art of monosyllabic conversation when Sam blurts out. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to forget. I was just… I was having a really good time."
It’s kind of a tactless thing to say. In fact, if Dean hadn't been the person right there, with Sam while he was having his really good time, he'd be tempted to drive down to Stanford and beat the shit out of him. Instead he just grins and swipes a hand at a fly buzzing about his face.
"S'all right. I forgive you. Still, better have been a really good time for you to forget your only brother's birthday. Was it?"
There's a silence and it's stupid but Dean's wondering what he did wrong that Sam has to think about whether he had a good evening or not. Should Dean have put out? Jess didn't strike him as the type that would on first date, and Dean really suspected that sex with his brother while accidentally pretending to be someone else was a new low but… why is Sam still thinking about it?
"Yeah," says Sam, sounding dazed. "Yeah. It was. Something happened that I didn't think was ever… never mind."
Dean thinks of that nameless, faceless bitch who'd been lucky enough to have Sam fall in love with her and who'd been stupid enough not to snatch him up close and keep him forever.
"You deserve to have what you want, Sammy."
Sam goes quiet at that and Dean can't figure out if he's done this caring-and-sharing thing wrong. He's not very well-practised at it - which is a minor point of pride for him - but he thought the way it worked was that he said something pansy about his feelings and then Sam said something back.
Instead of something wussy and heartfelt, Sam just makes this choked noise and says, "Whatever. Happy Birthday, Dean," and hangs up.
That's not much of an incentive for Dean to try caring-and-sharing again.
Dean kicks idly at the soil and sends a small shower of dirt into the grave. Sunlight's spreading across the graveyard, clear and white. It's going to be a nice day. Dean gazes out across the cemetery and toys with his cell phone in his hand.
A thought creeps across him, no doubt prompted by the masochistic part of him that likes to make him suffer: John always calls on his birthday.
:::
Birthday wishes are special things but Dean and Jess are ready for it next year.
~end
I should also mention that the majority of this was written over the course of two nights when I couldn't sleep, which may explain the slightly deranged authorial tone.
The Time Dean was Sam's Girlfriend and Jess Entered the Winchester Family Business
(Sam/Dean and Sam/Jess, pg-13, 11041 words, bodyswapping and genderswitching plus crack)
Birthday wishes are special things. They're a form of magic generally dismissed even by the most open-minded of people. Those same people that regularly check their horoscope - or in some cases, hunt the unquiet dead - will laugh off the suggestion that a wish made on the anniversary of one's entry to the world has any power beyond that of a wish made any other day of the year.
So when Dean pauses in the middle of a solo hunt on his twenty-fourth birthday, glances up at the moon and wishes he were with Sam right now, he doesn't expect it to do any good. Same goes with Jess, who at the exact same moment Dean's looking at the moon, is blowing out the candles on her cake and wishing her life would get a little less regular and a little more exciting.
But, as was mentioned earlier, birthday wishes are special things.
:::
The spontaneous transformation into a girl isn't a completely unprecedented event in Dean's life. There was that memorable time in '95, when John suddenly acquired a daughter in place of his eldest boy. Unfortunately, Dean being the age he was, his first time as a girl also included his first period. It was the full package, so to speak. Rather than deal with him (her), John had let Dean spend the time switching between the shower and bed. It had only lasted a week but Dean had learnt enough about female anatomy in that time to stand him in good stead for every single one-night stand he'd ever have.
This second time round though, the problem isn't that Dean's having his period - (he doesn't think) - but that he doesn't seem to simply be a female version of himself, but some whole other girl. He's sitting at a table in a kitchen, with people all around him, a big pink cake with gently smoking candles in front of him, and the sensation of his underwear very different indeed.
His first response is to give a startled shriek and yell, "Ah! Fuck! Hell!"
Among the concerned faces of the people crowding around him, he sees Sam. Nothing for it but to start shrieking again.
:::
In all fairness, Jess's experience is no better. She's never been a boy before but it's doubtful that even if she had it would make her happier about the current situation. Being the possessor of a brand-new penis - brand-new to her at least - is something she'll freak out about later. She has more pressing concerns. One minute she's in her apartment with her friends, getting ready to hit the clubs, the next she's in a cemetery. More specifically, she's in an open grave - one she's apparently digging.
Interestingly, Jess's response is much along the same lines as Dean's. There's a lot of shrieking plus some scrabbling to haul herself out of the grave, off the half-splintered lid of the casket. She's still shrieking and flailing, bouncing about the graves in clumsy panic, when her back pocket starts to vibrate.
It's a little known fact but the call ring of a cellphone actually operates on the same frequencies as the song of the sirens used to in ancient days. It takes iron will to ignore a ringing phone entirely, even if all one does is glance at Caller ID. Jess, however, has no intention of ignoring it. She clings onto it as an artefact from a world she understands. Whoever it is on the other end of the line, is going to explain this. They're going to explain this and Jess is going to realise she's not going mad at all and this is all some birthday prank or bizarre marketing ploy. Those marketing types come up with some really crazy ideas to promote their products, she's heard.
It's her on the other end of the line. She recognises that number. Oh God, it's her and if it's her then she's not going to be able to explain this. Because Jess has no idea what the fuck is happening and it's making her head hurt.
She answers the phone with a good loud, "What the hell?"
"Hi! Uh, calm down! I'm guessing that's… uh, not me, so…. Jess? Is your name Jess? Please God let your name be Jess and this just be a simple swap because I cannot be playing Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon right now."
Jess whimpers and clutches the phone a little closer to her ear.
"Kevin Bacon?"
"You're not…?"
Taking a deep breath and rearranging her new cock in her jeans, because it feels a goddamn reassuring thing to do, Jess firmly commands herself to get a grip.
"No. I'm not Kevin Bacon. I'm Jess. Jessica Moore. Are you… are you in me?"
Whoever it is using her voice uses it to give a laugh and it's very dirty one. Jess wants to complain about it and demand that she get her voice back without so much as a stain on it, when she realises her hand is still over the shape of her new, reassuring cock.
"That sounds a little naughty, Jess, but yeah, I'm currently wearing your body. Man, you're cute. And between you and me, I just love your breasts. They're so…"
"Perky?"
"Totally." There's a pause and Jess thinks her breasts are probably being admired right this minute. "Very."
"Thanks" she says. And then she adds, because it seems only fair, "I haven't seen your face yet but you've got a really great cock."
"You really think so? That's-"
Jess takes another deep breath and resolutely takes her hand off her cock. Instead, she rubs her brow and loudly attempts to get the conversation back on track, because whereas she knows her breasts are awesomely perky, and her new cock feels really good, she's still in a man in a graveyard.
"But I really think we should talk about how the hell you've got my breasts and I've got your cock."
"We might have a more pressing problem."
Oh that's great news! That's just the news Jess was hoping for. Because a problem more pressing than inadvertently becoming someone else in a graveyard in the middle of the night on her birthday is just the kind of thing Jess really needs to motivate her right now.
"See, whereas I'm just hiding in the bathroom in your apartment, freaking out at your friends and, by the way, I covered up all my shrieking by saying I suddenly realised how old I was so if you could act neurotic about your age when we get this fixed, that'd be great… uh, what was I saying?"
"More pressing problem?" Jess prompts.
"Uh, yeah, that's right… you're in a graveyard, right?" He carries on swiftly as Jess snarls out a yes and doesn't give her time to fully express her feelings on being in the graveyard. "Right, Jess, you need to check the coffin. The grave I was in, you need to check the coffin."
He wants her to get back in the grave. He gets to admire her pretty, perky breasts and she gets to climb into a grave. This sucks in manifold ways. She edges back over to the edge of the grave and peers down at the casket. She backs away again.
"Right so, why would I be doing that?"
"Jess, this is really important. Please. Look inside the coffin."
Shaking her head and screwing her eyes shut, Jess slip-slides down, clinging to the damp earth to steady her descent. She drops to her knees, wedging the cell between her head and her shoulder, and carefully pries the lid from the coffin.
Don't want to see, don't want to smell, don't want to touch…. Don't want don't want don't want.
"Jess? Talk to me!"
She opens her eyes and lets out a breath. She licks her lips - and forget her cock, her mouth is awesome - and pulls the phone back into place. She tries to speak but only manages a relieved, breathless giggle that sounds pretty weird in a guy's voice but he's got that awesome awesome mouth so…
"It's empty," she says. "Oh thank God, it's empty."
There's silence on the other end of the line for a long moment and Jess is about to demand to know whether her perky breasts are being played with and that's damn inconsiderate considering she's standing in a fucking open grave, when he speaks again.
"Jess, have you ever used a gun before?"
The non-sequitur throws her a bit but hey, it's a surreal kind of evening so she does her best to rack her brains, which are thankfully still hers and not his because she knows what guys think about and she doesn't want a head full of that, and come up with an answer.
"Not really, no. I mean, maybe at the fairground when I was a kid but-"
"Oookay, right. Now, no panicking, but I need you to get out of that grave." Obediently, and all too willing, Jess scrambles out of the grave. "Walk in the direction of the church. Walk really pretty fast, run if you want to. In fact, yeah, Jess, run." Jess feels inclined to panic despite his order, because fuck him, he's got her breasts and she's got a graveyard. "There's a really nice looking Impala in the parking lot. There are keys in your pocket. Drive to the Golden Dawn motel. Put a dent in that car and you're not getting this body back with all limbs attached. You'll be safe at the motel. And now, I've really gotta go because your friends are trying to knock the door down. And, oh yeah, like I said, run."
:::
Having the breasts of a sixteen-year old had been cool but Dean way prefers this set. They're full and bouncy and they come in the nicest, laciest bra he's seen in a while. It's not like John had done any underwear shopping for Dean while Dean was a girl but he's pretty sure John wouldn't have found anything as pretty as this bra even if he had.
Dean jiggles his breasts in the mirror, watching his blonde curls bounce about his shoulders. He'd like to spend a little more quality with his new breasts but Jess's friends are still hammering away at the door. Shrieking at them had unsettled them, Dean figures. Locking himself in the bathroom with his cellphone had probably not really improved things.
"Jess? Are you okay? Are you ever coming out? We're kind of worried."
And Sammy. Sammy-Sam-Stanford-Sam. Right there. Jess is friends with Sam, Dean likes her already. Okay, so he's a little jealous too. Because it's not like Jess is the only one having a birthday today and oh fucking fuck, what if Sam calls him? Calls Jess? No. That cannot happen. Because Dean cannot have Sam knowing about this. Dean does not need Sam to think that Dean's bodysnatching in order to spend time with him. Because, all right, so Dean might have done something like that if he'd thought of it but he didn't think of it so it's not fair for anyone to think that he did.
"Jess, seriously…" Sam's voice trails off, talking to someone else, and Dean wonders if he's getting ready to kick the door down.
Right, Jess is safe. Dean just has to stick with Sam and give him no chance to call and find out that this has happened. No problem. He gives his breasts one last jiggle then tucks them back into his bra and pulls his top back into place. Then he throws the door wide and gives a dazzling smile.
"Hey! Sorry about that! Just, like I said, I'm so… old. I had to, y'know, apply moisturiser for my wrinkles and shit like that."
He's instantly surrounded in the soft, perfumed embrace of several women who seem determined to press right up close and remind him that he has no cock.
"Oh, sweetie! You're not old! Not one little bit! Tell her, Anthony."
The crowd of clinging women parts like the waves of a very attractive sea and Dean finds himself looking at some guy with spiky hair who's reaching out for him. He flicks a glance at Sam, who's hanging back and biting his lip, then looks back at the guy, who's still trying to get his hands on him.
"Jess," the guy says. "You're gorgeous. You know you are. Would I be going out with you if you weren't?"
The guy breaks into an annoying braying laugh then makes a concerted effort to grab hold of Dean, who's so far managed to evade his grabby hands by sheer virtue of the fact the guy's so hung up on himself and his audience that he's not paying proper attention to where Dean actually is in relation to his hands.
It's instinct, all right, that's what it is. Dean's had years of stupid dicks trying to put their hands on him and he reacts before he considers that maybe Jess likes having this stupid dick in particular put his hands on her - which Dean doesn't believe for one minute because the girl clearly has taste because she's friends with Sam.
Motivation aside, it doesn't change the fact Dean gives the stupid dick - who is more commonly known as Anthony (unless you're talking to the girls in his Art History class who would probably stick with Stupid Dick) - a good sharp shove in the chest, designed to knock him just off balance.
Pacifist to the core (unless he's dealing with his own father in which case he's a goddamn warmonger), Sam darts forward, ready to intervene. The room's gone quiet. Anthony's staring at Dean like he's just seen Elvis - scary Vegas-years Elvis because the Comeback Elvis had been pretty awesome. The girls seem startled but Dean's hoping they'll be inclined to do some more of the cuddling, cooing stuff shortly.
When the silence stretches on a bit, Sam carefully reaches out and lays a hand on Dean's shoulder and that? That's nice. That soothes Dean a little and he can't help looking at Sam, taking in every little difference between him now and him then. His bangs are longer and John'd hate that, they'd get in his eyes and there's enough in this world out to kill you without your own hair siding against you. But he looks good, looks well. Looks happy.
Dean swallows and looks back at Anthony. He tries a smile and wonders whether jiggling his breasts at him would be too obvious a move but hey? A cute girl jiggling her breasts at Dean always makes him feel inclined to forgive her any offence, from bringing him waffles when he's ordered pancakes right up to mass genocide.
"Sorry, baby, I… I feel bad that you're going out with me. When I'm so old."
"Awww, honey," say the girls.
There's the cooing and cuddling again. Just before Dean lets himself be swallowed up in it, he snatches another look at Sam. Sam's looking right back at him. Sam's smiling.
:::
The car's cool. So, this guy, whoever he is, has a cool car and a cock that feels really reassuring when you touch it. His cock's like a lucky charm, like the dusty rabbit's foot her gramma used to carry around in her purse. Only, it's not quite like a rabbit's foot, in the obvious way that it's a cock.
Okay, so, Jess likes the car, likes the cock.
Does not like the graveyard. Does not like running through the graveyard. Really doesn't like the open coffin that makes the guy go all quiet and 'don't panic now, Jess'. And to be honest? She's still not sold on being not-her. Her birthday plans involved a couple of wine-bars, maybe a club and a lay-in with Anthony the next morning. Not the sudden acquisition of a cock, no matter how soothing.
Still, despite her own personal crisis, Jess doesn't hesitate before pulling over when she sees a girl on the street, struggling with something big and grey that's trying to crack her skull open like a boiled egg. It says a lot about the deep down awesomeness of Jess that she's not going to let herself be one of those people who just drives on past when oh my God, the big grey thing is making a definite effort at eating some brains.
Forget that she's a twenty-year old girl with a great cock and no breasts, forget that she's meant to be in some trendy little bar in Palo Alto rather than hightailing it away from a cemetery in the middle of God-knows-where - brain eating is not the kind of thing Jess is going to pretend she didn't see, no matter how fucked up her evening is.
Giving her cock a quick rub for luck, Jess snatches up the spade lying on the back seat and charges into the fray. The big grey brain-eater takes a swift smack round the face with the flat of the spade and Jess is impressed by the power behind the swing. Before she trades back, she definitely needs to know this guy's workout regime. Unless it involves more open graves.
"Help me!" the would-be victim shrills. There's blood running through her blonde hair and down her neck. She keeps trying to cling onto Jess, which makes it really difficult to batter the brain-eating thing. And besides, her squealing is totally unnecessary because it's kind of obvious from the spade-action that Jess isn't there to cheer the brain-eater on.
Right now, Jess needs to concentrate on reducing the big grey thing to a pulp because its reaction to having a spade smashed over its head is closer to annoyance than mortal agony. Still, without finesse but with a whole load of pent-up aggro to work off, Jess keeps on swinging.
Eventually, the brain-eater gives a disgruntled moan and shambles off into the night. Jess is toying with the idea of chasing after it and beating it some more, when she realises she's absolutely terrified. Plus, there's the spineless girl hanging off her arm and snivelling into her shoulder.
Jess is sympathetic, really she is. If she'd just had something try to eat her brain, she'd probably be acting a bit of a wuss too. But she sincerely doubts this girl is having to deal with the trauma of unplanned gender, identity and location reassignment. And it's not like it actually got to eat her brains. If it'd managed to get through her skull, then once again, Jess would be more sympathetic. Currently though, not so much.
"Look," she says. "I'm sure you're feeling kind of delicate right now but I'm having a bit of a stressful evening, so do you think we could pass on… y'know, actually spending any more time with each other? Could you just go home?"
The girl stares at her for a long moment, as if she's waiting for Jess to abruptly relent. Then she gives an irritable huff, flips her off and stalks away towards the nearest bar with lights on. Flips her off, dammit! She should be thanking Jess that she still has the brains to manage to flip someone off. Brainless girls can't flip anyone off at all and that's something she should remember.
It's seeing the girl pull out her cell that reminds Jess that she doesn't have to suffer in silence. There is someone else in this world who can, and should, suffer her pain. When the guy answers her call, and Jess hears the throb of music in the background - music that she was supposed to be listening to, in a club that she was supposed to be in - Jess isn't inclined to go easy on him.
"Unless this is a marketing thing, you have got so much explaining to do," she says by way of greeting.
There's a pause and then his voice comes, a little hesitant and wary.
"Why would this be a marketing thing?"
Jess climbs into the Impala and slams the door shut. She starts up the engine and pulls back onto the road. There is no doubting that she definitely got the worse end of this deal. No cock and no car are worth this.
"I don't know!" she snaps. "Why is this happening? Why is my body currently informing me that the best way to deal with all this rage inside me is a cheeseburger? Why was that thing trying to eat that girl's brain? Life is just One. Big. Mystery, I guess."
"You ran into it then. Uh, you're all right? And the girl? How's my car?"
Jess gestures furiously, even though she knows he can't see her. She kind of hopes though that the stars, trashcans on the street and any passing cats will pick up on her angry vibes and that through some cosmic butterfly effect, the guy will end up feeling the impact of her wrath in the form of some really bad food poisoning or something. Of course, no doubt her luck will run to course and she'll get her body back just in time to suffer it instead.
"We're all fine! Including the brain-eating thing! Now, what the hell is that, who are you, and what's happening?"
There's another long silence and Jess prays for the sake of all humanity that he's trying to think of how to explain it properly and not pausing to chug down some sweet little cocktail concoction that should have been hers because if that's the case, she will not leave even a single infant standing by the time she's done expressing her dissatisfaction.
"Is it… is it a zombie?" she prompts finally. She's very matter-of-fact about it because she's talking about zombies; talking about zombies is bad enough without doing it hysterically.
"No, no, no!" says the guy. "No, don't think zombie. That's… well that's just crazy talk, right?"
She's slightly mollified and rolls her shoulders to ease the ache.
"Really? Because I'm pretty sure it was trying to eat that girl's brain and that's the kind of thing that zombies do. Y'know, so I hear."
"Absolutely. But… no. Not a zombie. Erm, it was… think of it like a virus. Yeah, it's a government virus gone totally wrong. Actually, I work for the government. Yeah! All very hush-hush and secretive. Black suits. Raybans. The whole deal. So, not a zombie. See?"
So Jess accepts a story that sounds more than a little impromptu. She's having a bad night. Give her a break. Maybe some night when she weren't suddenly a guy she might say: hey, are you sure about that? Because that's all come out of nowhere and you're sending out some 'lying-out-of-my-backside' vibes. Probably more polite than that though because Jess is a nice girl and doesn't want to be throwing accusations around.
Instead she lets out a breath and nods.
"Okay," she says. "So that's what you were doing in that grave. Fine. Okay. Uh, I kind of left the grave in a mess back there, is there paperwork I need to fill in?"
"No, no, you're good. The zom- virus-stricken thing will just pull the dirt back on top of itself when it gets back in its grave. Look, Jess, really, this isn't going too last long. I figure twenty-four hours tops. Just hole up at the motel and only answer your cell if it's me. Okay?"
The motel's rising up into sight now and while it's not as nice as Jess's apartment, it's so much more welcoming than the cemetery. Funny how many things Jess can recite off the top of her head right now that are more welcoming than the cemetery. But she can't quite forget the blood down the back of that girl's neck.
"Shouldn't I be doing something about that thing that's not a zombie?" she says.
Bad idea, her lizard brain tells her. Sit in the motel like a good girl-man and see if they're showing 'Mean Girls' on cable. Do not, repeat, do not go after the brain-eating thing. Your brain is perfect right where it is and would not work half so well in some big grey thing's digestive tract.
But then the annoying part of Jess's brain that insists on morals and principles like not cheating in exams or jumping Sam Winchester while she's going out with Anthony reminds her that the girl was going to have her brain eaten had Jess not introduced her spade to the equation. That's a special circumstance.
"No," says the guy. Jess's lizard brain cheers. "You're a civilian. Civilians make big sticky puddles on the ground and then guys like me not only have to worry about hunting down the nasty, but we have to clear up the mess you've made. Really, just stay in the motel."
He hangs up then. No doubt to drink more cocktails, maybe ones with sparklers and umbrellas. Jess scowls at the phone and then smacks it against the dashboard a few times. The butterfly effect better give that guy one hell of a hurricane.
:::
Whatever points Jess gets for being friends with Sam, she loses them and more for going out with an utter prick like Anthony while Sam is really obviously head over heels about her. Dean considers himself an authority on Sam. If Sam has a thought, Dean can be relied upon to tell him what it is first. Okay, so the Stanford thing kind of blindsided him but… Okay, so not an infallible authority but nobody's perfect, right?
But Dean only has to take one look at Sam's face when he's looking at Jess (even if she's currently Dean) to know that Sam's in love with her. It's kind of pathetic how obviously Sam is in love with her. And Jess is a smart girl, he figures. So even if everyone else is oblivious - which apparently they are - Jess should not be going out with Anthony the waste of space when Sam is in love with her.
She shouldn't be going out with Anthony period because he's the kind of guy who badly needs the crap beaten out of him. On a daily basis.
Dean doesn't appreciate having his ass smacked. He doesn't appreciate it when he's trying to walk a bit closer to Sam and someone grabs his wrist, won't let him go and insists on holding his hand instead. And okay, so Dean's preferences run to breasts and curves, usually, but Anthony annoys Dean on this deep down basic level. It's a level so deep it goes past gender and sexual preference and reaches a fundamental point of existence.
In short, Dean is getting sick and fed up of not being able to spend some quality time with his brother because Anthony needs to keep his goddamn hands to himself. If he knew a way to 'accidentally' break someone's arm, you can be sure Anthony would be on his way to the hospital right this second.
Instead, Dean walks along the street with Anthony's arm about his shoulder and Anthony's body in between him and Sam, Sam who's walking in the gutter but keeps looking over anyway. The girls are all right though. Dean likes the girls. And not just because they're cute and not wearing much - thank God for this Californian weather. They're nice to Sam and there's at least one of them, by Dean's practiced reckoning, who'd like to be a whole lot nicer to him. But Sam, poor sappy Sam, only has eyes for Jess.
Still, it's not like Sam seems unhappy or lonely. Or like he regrets leaving at all. They pass plenty of people who clap Sam on the back or stop for a second to laugh and chat with him. Sam fits in here and Dean's so busy honestly not minding that Sam's got a life well away from his family and is freaking well not missing him at all that he almost misses what Anthony whispers in his ear.
"Gonna take such care of you tonight, baby. Gonna fuck you 'til you're screaming my name. Bet you want that, don't you, baby? Bet you're getting wet in your panties right now. Such a slut for my dick, aren't you, baby?"
Dean can't figure out how to answer that one but that's okay, because he thinks Anthony's the kind of guy who'll take his stunned silence for awed agreement. Anthony's probably the kind of guy who could take a punch to the gut and make it into some kind of recognition of his awesome sexual charisma. Testing that theory would go some way to putting a smile on Dean's face.
When they get to the bar, Anthony breaks all the lows of probability and possibility and does something to send himself even lower in Dean's estimation. It's quite a feat really and if Dean weren't so busy wanting to punch his nose out the back of his head, he'd be impressed. What does the little jerk do, with his braying laugh and hand that keeps ending up between Dean's legs and his preppy little popped collar rugby shirt, what does he do but send Sam over to fetch the drinks?
"Why'd you have to be so horrid to him?" says Sophie to Anthony. Dean likes Sophie even if, from the sounds of it, she keeps taking back her dirtbag boyfriend, Paul, who, according to Marissa, has been cheating on her with that redhead TA in Computer Science. Chloe says Marissa doesn't have any proof that Paul's cheating but Dean figures there's no smoke without fire.
"He doesn't mind," says Anthony. "Besides, what else is he gonna do? S'not like he can dance with that freakish, scarecrow body."
There's a low intake of breath from more than one of the girls and Anthony's an idiot because that's such a warning sign and he doesn't pay any attention to it at all. A noise like that says your adoring female audience has turned to an unsympathetic crowd who thinks you're an ass. Dean knows this because he's had the bruises to prove it many many times.
He twirls a blonde curl about his finger and swings his legs idly, enjoying the vivid electric club-light glow over his green spike heels and their diamante buckle. Punching a guy out is satisfying but girls get a whole different range of weapons.
"Yeah," says Dean dreamily, watching Sam lean over at the bar and totally not watching his jeans stretch over his ass because who the hell do you think he is? Some kind of brother's-ass-leering pervert? "But built like that, I bet he's hung like a goddamn horse. Can you imagine riding that? You'd be feeling it for weeks after!"
Chloe covers her hand with her mouth but her eyes are bright with amusement, and Sophie and Marissa don't bother trying to stifle their giggles. As one, their heads turn in Sam's direction. Dean's pleased to note that not a single one of their expressions could be described as anything other than hungry.
When Sam glances over his shoulder and notices he had got a new crew of groupies, he seems a little more taken aback than you'd expect from someone who's from the same genetic material as Dean Winchester, Manwhore Extraordinaire since 1994. Still he flashes a bright, hesitant smile back and Dean manages to miss him being his brother and reprimand himself for being such a fucking girl in the same two seconds.
Of course, the best part is looking over to check Anthony's reaction and seeing his face scrunched up like a soggy roll of toilet paper. His lips are tight and he's practically quivering. Dean pouts at him and leans in close, patting his arm and brushing his lips over his cheek.
"Oh, baby," he coos. "You make the absolute most of what you've got! Really you do!"
Punching guys out is over-rated when you can stamp on their balls without even lifting one prettily-manicured fingernail. There's a long silence where Chloe tries to cover up a sudden fit of the giggles with a lot of coughing. Dean feels pretty damn awesome right now.
Sam's just making it back to the table with the drinks clutched in his huge hands - and has Sam grown yet another inch? - when Anthony grabs Dean's upper-arm. His fingers sink into the flesh and it hurts.
"Why are you being such a little bitch?" he demands. His face is so close Dean feels the spittle hit him.
This seems to kill the atmosphere for everyone else. Not Dean. Dean's still loving it because if Anthony doesn't move his hand in five goddamn seconds, Dean's gonna take that as permission to rip him a new one. And he's got some kickass self-defence techniques.
"Hey," says Sam. His big brow is furrowed with concern and it's probably not the most tactful thing to do in front of your boyfriend to the guy whose cock you've just loudly proclaimed an interest in but Dean can help but give him a dazzling smile. "Is there a problem?"
"Why don't you just fuck off?" Anthony snarls at Sam. "Why don't you just take your fucking loser weirdo self back to the trailer park where you belong because this is nothing to do with you!"
That is so not cool. Everyone at the table thinks it's not cool. So Dean does something he's always wanted to do but never been able to do before, because it's something that looks weird from a guy and he's never been a girl with a boyfriend before: he picks up a drink and empties it over Anthony.
It feels as good as Dean thought it would.
"You're a jerk and we're totally over," he tells him. His cell starts ringing and he hops from the stool. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I gotta go piss. And uh… powder my nose."
:::
The car, the cock and the assurance that the thing that's acting very much like a zombie is not a zombie are not the only bright spots about inhabiting the body of the reincarnated Rambo. Which is lucky because this situation needs floodlights to coax Jess away from the depths of despair. Thanks to the mirror in the motel bathroom, Jess has discovered that she now possesses awesome awesome awesome lips. And that makes her a tiny bit less stressed about the situation than she would be otherwise.
She spends longer in the bathroom than is normal, but nothing about bodyswapping is normal so what the hell! She suspects that the only reason the rightful owner of this body is happy to spend time in graves and going up against non-zombie brain-eaters is because he is so goddamn hot that simply staring at his own reflection for five minutes a day must give him a zen-like belief in the overall brilliance of the world.
His mouth is how every mouth in the world should be but can't be because otherwise no one would ever do anything of a day other than kiss and kiss and kiss. She smacks her lips a couple of times and wonders if it would be very wrong to go to a bar and pick someone up simply so she can feel how it is to kiss someone with lips as utterly perfect as this.
And because she's determined to make the most of this experience, and because it's served as such a reassuring companion so far, his cock is the next up for inspection. It's a very nice cock, just as she expected. After a little tentative touching and exploring, Jess no longer has to rely on anecdotal evidence to know that a handjob, even when one is using one's own borrowed hand, feels really really good.
Stripping off and admiring her temporary body, with all its very attractive male features, is not something Jess will allow herself to feel guilty about. She's got a cock that's much nicer than any other she's had chance to examine, green eyes with stupidly long, dark lashes, and a mouth that is possibly the most kissable, lickable, fuckable mouth in the history of mouths. Her new mouth is lethal.
But still, even as she's mopping up all the come from the self-taught handjob lesson - boys are so messy - Jess can't stop thinking about the non-zombie that's out there. And maybe it didn't get to eat that girl's brain but that doesn't mean it will have lost its appetite. Jess knows from experience that when she's craving mint choc ice cream, one store being out doesn't mean she doesn't try the next one further down the street. It's most likely the same with brains.
There aren't any clues in the room for what she should do about it though. There's an empty pizza box on the table and a duffle bag by the door with a change of clothes in it. Oh yes, and a knife under the pillow on the bed. She's way past being disturbed about little things like the random inclusion of weaponry in cars, beds and clothing. She sits down on the bed and looks at her reflection in the blade of the knife, distractedly blows a few kisses at herself because there is not enough awesome in the world to describe her mouth.
When her cellphone rings, she expects it to be the guy, the guy who's her, so she answers it straight away and without checking Caller ID. See? Siren song. Irresistible.
"Hey, Dean. How's it going? Still your birthday where you are?"
It's a man but it's not the her-man. It's a deep voice. Rough, gravelly and kind of sexy. Jess wonders if he's close by because a voice like that? She'd love to try her new lips out on.
"Yeah," she says. "Still my birthday."
"How's the hunt going?"
Jess frowns and scratches the back of her neck.
"Uh… great. Yeah. Really great."
"You got it yet?"
Now here's the thing. Dean - Dean, she latches onto the name - had implied that his job - which sounded dodgy - was very secret. Did this man know the truth - or what Dean was passing off for the truth at least - or did he think Dean was out here hunting deer or something? This was the kind of complicated question Jess didn't think it was right she should have to deal with on her birthday.
"No," she says at last. "Not yet."
It's the wrong answer. From the tone of the guy's voice, she's not sure Dean could actually give a right answer to that one, aside from yes sir, and I washed and waxed your car while I figured out how to bring about world peace too.
"Damn it, Dean! Why not? People are gonna get hurt!" He sighs, and then says, "You're twenty-four years old, you should be able to handle a gig like this without your father having to come over and hold your hand! Get your act together!"
"Dad!" Jess blurts out, in sudden revelation. She tries to catch herself but it's too late.
"What?"
Jess thinks furiously for a second and then decides to fuck it all because Dean is clearly not his dad's golden boy and if he's his son then there will be no lip-action anyway so there's nothing to lose.
"I'm just not sure how to handle it. Y'know, the most efficient way. If a job's worth doing, like they say. What would you recommend, Dad?"
There's a long silence and Jess starts to wonder whether it's too late to pretend this is a wrong number or whether she could convincingly claim temporary insanity, explain that of course she knows what she's doing and hang up. Preferably never to answer the phone ever again.
"If you can catch it in its grave," the man on the other end says, "fill its mouth with salt and then stitch the lips shut. Otherwise you're in for a knockdown fight. Decapitation works but is damn messy. Nah, catch it in its grave."
"Right. Great. Thanks for that. I'll go… do the salt in the mouth thing. Bye. Love you, Dad."
Jess is about to hang up when the voice stops her. It's sounds more hoarse than before and she wonders what she's said wrong.
"I love you too, Dean. Happy birthday."
The line goes dead and she stares at the cellphone in her hand for a long while. She doesn't know him, knows nothing beyond the fact he's got this gorgeous son who spends his time in graves and motels, but she kind of wishes she could call him back and just chat. Stranger to stranger. And maybe, invite him over to help with the salt in the mouth thing.
Then she takes a deep breath and hooks around in the motel room drawers until she finds the complementary sewing kit. She pulls a particularly wicked looking needle free and tests the point of it on her fingertip. It's not a spade but Jess took Home Science at school and was an ace at embroidery. The not-zombie has met its cross-stitching match.
:::
A small voice in Dean's brain is just tentatively starting to suggest that dumping someone's boyfriend while you're inhabiting their body is perhaps not an all right thing to do, no matter how scummy a boyfriend he is. He toys with the cell in his hand, thinking of Jess curled up in his motel room, with no idea that she is now single.
Going crawling back to Anthony is out of the question. The guy's a scumbag and if Dean were to put his mind to it he'd be able to come up with at least three really convincing pieces of evidence to suggest he's an agent of dark forces and needs to be put down.
No, there's only one way to make this right for Jess. And to prove that it's the right course of action, when Dean comes out of the ladies', Sam's waiting for him. He's got his hands shoved in his pockets and his stupid bangs are falling in his eyes, but he smiles when he sees Dean and so Dean's helpless against smiling back at him.
"You okay?" says Sam. "Uh, Anthony's gone. He, uh…"
"Yeah, he's a prick," says Dean. "Wanna be my boyfriend?"
He's normally much smoother about this sort of thing. Really. Ask any woman between the ages of 18 and 35 from here to New York. Dean can charm the panties off a nun - or he could do if he tried but generally he's inclined to let the nuns keep their panties on. John'd have his hide if he knew Dean were even considering trying to charm the panties off a nun. But still, Dean totally could, if he wanted to. So he puts down the rather fumbled proposition to the side-effect of being in a girl's body, a girl the same age as Sam who's pretty much only a kid really, when you think about it.
Sam's still staring at him and Dean suddenly feels nervous, like he's screwed up. Breast-jiggling is not going to work on Sam because he's too… oblivious to that kind of thing.
"You've got a thing for me, haven't you?" Dean prods.
It's embarrassing, yeah, but it's like doing the laundry and finding, underneath the blood-soaked t-shirts and jeans with caked-on demon-muck, a pair of Sam's underwear with the come dried on and not making a fuss about it. It's part and parcel of being an awesome big brother. It's knowing that, even though he's gonna tease him mercilessly about it if he ever gets chance, Dean is always gonna try to work situations to Sam's advantage if Sam can't do it for himself.
"Yeah," says Sam finally. He grins, that big goofy grin that Dean hasn't seen in years. "I guess I've been kind of obvious."
Dean waves a dismissive hand and then has to look away, over at where the girls are dancing, because he's grinning like an idiot himself, just to see that smile on Sam's face. He did that. Okay, so maybe he did that while wearing Jess's face, but he did that.
And then, trust Sam to complicate things.
"You want to dance?" he says.
Dean freezes.
See, whereas Dean had got as far as getting his Sammy a girlfriend he knew Sammy liked and is, he thinks, a pretty awesome girl in her own right, he hadn't got beyond that. So now, for a few hours at least, he's Sammy's girlfriend. And Sammy wants to dance. Or at least thinks that Jess will want to dance.
Dean doesn't dance. The only kind of dancing Dean does is the euphemistic kind where both partners - sometimes all three or four of them even - are naked. Problem is, of course, that girls dance. The very fact Sam's asking Jess if she wants to dance suggests that Sam's got Jess down as the dancing kind.
"It's okay if you don't want-" Sam's saying but his eyes have gone all puppy-dog and so Dean slaps on a smile.
"Sure! Let's dance!"
Dancing with your brother is weird. Dean can't figure out whether dancing with your brother is weirder when you're a girl or when you're your normal male self. It's easier to think about that than the light touches of Sam's hand on his bare shoulder, on the curve of his waist… easier to think about which is weirder than any number of the fleeting touches and, worse, Dean's reaction to them.
All right, the truth? The weirdest truth of all? Dean doesn't hate it. He doesn’t want to curl up and die from the embarrassment overload. Full truth: Dean kind of likes it. It's freaky having Sam look at him like that but if you leave aside all the horniness and uncertainty - the two things Dean remembers most about Sam the teenager - then you've got Dean as the centre of Sam's world, just for a little bit. Even if it's a lie, deep down.
"What are you thinking?" says Sam.
"Uh… nothing, not really." Sam goes on watching him. His fingertips flutter over Dean's neck, brushing his pulse point as he pushes back a stray blonde curl. Dean does not - does not does not does not - tremble at the touch. "I was wondering why it'd taken you so long to do something about you and me."
Sam shrugs and Dean thinks he can see the first hint of a flush in his cheeks.
"You were with Anthony-"
"Who's a prick."
"Yeah," says Sam with a laugh. "But you were with him and I thought, thought this was going to be another of my doomed unrequited love affairs."
Oh, that catches Dean's attention! It catches his attention quicker than a nun without panties would catch his attention and he seriously doesn't have a thing about nuns because John would. Kick. His. Ass. The look on Sam's face clearly says he doesn't want to talk about it. Which is a shame because Dean is totally going to force him to.
"Come on, gimme some details!"
Sam shakes his head, still laughing, then glances back and laughs some more at Dean's bloodhound expression.
"Just… you ever fallen for someone you know there's no chance of you ever having? And it doesn't matter that you know it's not right - I mean, you know it's not going to happen - but you can't help wanting it anyway?" The laughter's died away and he's looking awkward and uncomfortable. "You either put up and shut up or…"
"Or what?"
Sam looks straight at him and grins but it's something very different to the other grin, the grin that makes Dean want to pinch his cheeks and then maybe spit in a napkin and wipe dirt off Sammy's face. This is the kind of grin that makes Dean think of John, and not in the capable Hero of the World kind of way, but the getting to the bottom of a bottle and still finding nothing but misery way.
"You get out," says Sam.
"What was her name?"
Sam shakes his head and strokes at Dean's hair again, tangling his fingers into the curls and brushing his knuckles against his neck.
"Isn't discussing old relationships one of the big 'Don't's of a date?"
"C'mon," says Dean, leaning in close because he just can't leave it alone. "Tell me, what was her name?"
And then Sam totally cheats, plays completely unfair and breaks every single rule in the Winchester handbook and kisses him. He actually kisses him. His tongue is in Dean's mouth - well, Jess's mouth but that's beside the point. Sam's big hands are cupping Dean's (yes, okay, Jess's) face and his mouth is covering his and Dean is being kissed by his geeky kid brother. Only, it doesn't feel like it because that's not the kind of kiss you get from geeky kids (leaving aside the brother part for now because everything is complicated enough as it is.)
Sam kisses Dean like he's the most beautiful, precious, loved thing in the world. Like he knows what he's doing, like he's been thinking about just how he'd kiss Dean since the very first moment he met him.
Except it's Jess. He's kissing Jess.
But that's totally okay, Dean says to himself, because it's how it should be. Christ, it'd be traumatising beyond words if Sam and Dean were actually kissing without all of this bodyswapping genderswitching freakiness going on. It would. It'd be traumatising. Dean would be very very traumatised. Yes he would.
He pulls away because Sam's hand is right in the middle of his back and Sam's face is right there and Sam is just way too close right now. Too close.
"Uh… I need air. Yeah. Be right back," says Dean, before turning and wobbling from the club as fast as his four-inch heels will allow.
:::
If you drew it on a graph, you'd see that there is a direct relationship between how close Jess gets to the cemetery and her enthusiasm levels. In fact, you'd see the correlation is almost exact. One more meter towards the cemetery and one more notch down from enthusiasm to terror.
Dean's call is a welcome respite from thinking about which stitch is the most appropriate when sewing a not-zombie's mouth shut. A buttonhole stitch is a good strong stitch but Mrs Higgins always said that when in doubt a simple running stitch was best.
Her relief at hearing from him is remarkably short-lived once he actually gets talking.
"I've got some bad news."
"Yeah?" Jess says. This whole evening has been bad news as far as she's concerned but she's hoping that Dean's referring to bad news like he's spilt martini down her skirt. Maybe that's what he's going to say. It doesn't have to actually be really bad news. Please? "I could really not do with that right now."
"Don't worry, I've got good news too! But first, uh, you just broke up with your boyfriend."
So no, it actually is bad news. At least it's following the theme of the evening.
"Anthony? Oh my God, why? We've been dating since high school!"
"The guy's a dick."
"Yeah, but we've been dating since high school! Oh my God, you broke up with Anthony!"
Even caught up in the first shock of losing her boyfriend, Jess can't debate that Anthony is dick. Anthony's a dick and it's not like he's the lovable kind of dick. But to Jess, he's like her cracked Papa Smurf mug: its tendency to leak may render it completely unsuitable for the task for which it was designed (to drink out of) but she's had it since she was a little girl and therefore, it cannot be discarded. It is part of her history. Anthony is a dick but he was the first boy to ever ask her out and it's a wrench to throw that away. Or have that thrown away by someone who has no right to be throwing anything of Jess's around.
Then she has to start worrying about her Papa Smurf mug and if she finds it in the trash when she gets back, she is going to hunt him down and skin him.
"Don't worry. I got you a new boyfriend."
Her heart stops, which is not the sort of thing hearts should do. She gets the impression though that if she were to spend more than ten minutes together with Dean, her heart would be stopping on a regular basis. And for once, she's not thinking of his super-awesome mouth.
"Oh my God, is this the good news?"
"Yeah. You'll love this. You're going out with Sam. Sam Winchester."
"Sam. I mean… really? Sam?"
"What's wrong with Sam?"
There's a distinct warning note in the question and Jess remembers the trunk full of guns and sharp objects and the fact that Dean is apparently not at all fazed about spending his birthday in an open grave. Besides, she thinks of Sam with his tallness and blinding smile and quiet sense of humour and his tallness and can't properly come up with an answer that seems adequate.
"Nothing. He's… I like Sam. I really really do. He's just…. A little too wholesome. Y'know?"
Dean snorts and it's such an inelegant thing for her voice to be doing that Jess toys with the idea of making sure Dean gets his body back with painted toenails or bad dye-job.
"Sam?" says Dean. "Are you kidding me? That guy… he's got layers. Depth. Totally not wholesome."
"Yeah? How do you know?"
"Trust me. Guys know. Hang on-" There's a pause and then Dean's back on the line, his voice dropped to a whisper. "Fuck, he's coming over! Gotta go!"
And that's it: Dean's dumped Anthony and picked up with Sam Winchester. Sam's adorable. He really is. But he's so… vanilla. He never gets in fights, seems to have no problem settling down to studying and he's always so sensible with risk assessment. These are all good things but a girl likes a sense of danger, doesn't she? Unless, of course, she's driving to a cemetery in order to dig up some kind of bizarre plague victim, fill its mouth with salt and then sew it shut again.
Put it like that…
Maybe, if a girl's honest, she's not that keen on a sense of danger. She prefers a sense of popcorn and fluffy slippers right now. Maybe a sense of some rom-com too.
Taking a deep breath, Jess parks in the church lot, climbs out and strides across the graveyard. She's got her spade, her embroidery kit and her lucky cock: she's going to be just fine.
:::
"I just don't get you tonight," says Sam.
Well, he wouldn't, would he? Sam's smart but it'd take a certain Dali-esque kind of brain to figure out that the reason your new girlfriend is acting so oddly is because she's actually swapped bodies with your estranged brother. It's not the leap of intuition that comes naturally for even the smartest.
"You're really jumpy and erratic and I don't know what you're going to do next and yet…"
Dean's still refusing to look at him. He's keeping his gaze firmly fixed on the Laundromat across the street, watching whether the old guy's gonna strip down completely because tonight's the kind of night Dean thinks he'll get his brain scarred with that sort of image. Bodyswaps, incestuous confusion and naked old guys would make a killer combination for this evening.
Sam's hand comes down lightly on his shoulder and Dean can't help being turned around to look at him because hey, it's Sammy! It figures that Sammy's in full wide-eyed, emotive, caring-and-sharing mode. Can't just have a beer and watch the game and pretend nothing's off, oh no, not with Sammy how he is right now.
"I feel like we've really connected tonight. It's weird, I can't explain it. Just, deep down, it's like- There's something about you I just can't-"
Sam breaks off again and looks at Dean. Really looks at him. And wouldn't it be just like Sammy to have that one in a million brain that would leap to crazy conclusions involving bodyswaps? Dean can't have the conversation that would no doubt follow that little revelation. He just can't.
Then Sam gives a small smile and says, "Y'know, if you've changed your mind, you'd only have to crook your finger at Anthony and he'd come running. If you've changed your mind, that's…"
Still so stupid, that's his Sammy. And it's all still Jess. He's looking at Dean and only seeing Jess. It's best that way. Really it is. So Dean pushes up onto his toes, grabs Sam's face and kisses him, quick and hard.
"Still be my boyfriend in the morning, right?"
Sam nods blankly, still looking a little dazed from the kiss (as well he might because Dean's kisses are dynamite, regardless of whose tongue he's using).
"Great. See you tomorrow, Sammy."
:::
One good thing about corpses, Jess has learnt, is that their teeth are really pretty wobbly in their gums. So if, say, you're holding their jaws open while you fill their mouths with salt, and you lose your grip, you don't have to worry about being bitten because the teeth snap clean out of the skull.
It means, she realises with disgust, that once it had cracked that girl's head open, it was going to have sucked her brains out. Really, any brain-consumption is on the icky side of eww! But for some reason, sucking brains just strikes Jess as unnecessarily revolting.
She's about two-thirds done with her stitching - and she's pleased to see her embroidery expertise hasn't dulled with the passing of time - when she feels the warmth of coming morning on her back. She risks glancing over her shoulder because the thing's only twitched a couple of times since she dug it up. The sky is soft and grey. There are birds singing in the trees that loom above the graves. It's almost dawn.
:::
Dean treats Jess's things carefully. Glides his fingertips over the calendar and the randomly scribbled dates on it: Starbucks, 6, Chloe and Dentist, 9:40. Lingers at the cracked Papa Smurf mug on the shelf. Furtively explores the lace, silk and ribbon of her underwear drawer, as if expecting Jess's hands to turn against him and strangle him at any minute.
This is the girl Sam's fallen in love with.
There's a group photo pinned to the fridge. Anthony's wrapped about Jess and she's beaming at the camera. Dean recognises Chloe and Marissa too. And there's Sam, not at the back or off to the side. He's right there, with his friends. Like he fits there. Looking at him, no one would guess he knows how to exorcise a demon or field-strip a shotgun. No one would guess he's Dean's brother.
Dean slumps into a chair by the window to watch the sun come up. It shimmers up over the horizon, its light bleeding through the hazy clouds. It's the morning of the next day, no denying it. Jess lets out a breath and stretches her arms above her head. She yawns and then realises she can see the diamante buckle of her sandals. And her leg, shapely and hair-free. Further exploration reveals she no longer has a cock but she has no time to miss it because she's too busy thanking God for breasts, more specifically, her own.
She snatches up her cell because she needs to call someone right now and share in the glory of a return to female, Jessica Moore form. Her first thought is Anthony, then she decides that not only is it probably a bad idea to call one's recently dumped boyfriend and brag about one's breasts but he wouldn't understand anyway. Her eyes flicker over to the photo on the fridge, to Sam. Her new boyfriend. She studies him a moment longer then makes a pleased noise in the back of her throat. She's definitely interested to see how that works out. But she can't think how she'd explain this to him.
Really, there's only one person who'll understand.
:::
"And it takes ages to dig a grave but I think the fact you'd already dug it up once and the virus-thing had moved the dirt around too made the earth all soft, plus you're really strong which helps, like when I was fighting it off with the spade..."
Dean finishes off the last off the stitches as Jess gabbles in his ear. His stitches aren't anywhere near as neat as hers but they'll do the job just as well. Her stitching is nearly ridiculously perfect, come to think of it. Dean's stitches go all over the place, broad stripes of cotton. Jess's, though, are this tidy little line that wouldn't look out of place on a sampler. If Dean were the kind of guy who'd ever seen a sampler, that is. He's usually too busy with ghouls, demons and Oprah to look at pussy things like samplers.
"And she got all pissy with me just because I didn't want to hang around and chat but she was squealing in my ear and pressing right up close and-"
"That's one of the perks of the job. The chicks who swoon and drop at your feet."
"You have lousy, sucktastic perks. In fact, you have a lousy, sucktastic job, Dean."
Dean smiles at the zombie's stitched up mouth, then leans in close to snap the thread with his teeth.
"Yeah," he says. "I know."
"I meant to say, uh, thanks. For Sam. I'm going to drag him out for a coffee this morning and see how it goes. But… he's got to be better than Anthony, right?"
"He is. Take it as a birthday present from me."
Jess laughs and Dean grins at the sound.
"But I didn't get you anything."
"Sure you did. You gave me the chance to-" Spend my birthday with my geeky kid brother and to mean something to him again? Nah, Jess is too far away for it to be worth the sympathetic cuddling and cooing. "Spend some time out of a grave and in decent civilisation again. Plus, I got playtime with your awesome breasts! I'm good."
Jess laughs again and Dean knows, right there and then, that Sam's in good hands. It's worth it for that. It totally is.
Thanks for everything, she says before she goes. 'Everything' in this case being the open grave and the undead. Not to mention the crash-course in zombie-management she must have received at some point because Dean is pretty sure he remembers telling her to hole up in the motel.
Oh she's going to be just perfect for Sam.
He's still musing on how awesome the universe is to find the one girl stubborn enough to give his brother a run for his money when his cell goes again.
"Hey," says Sam. "I… uh… Happy birthday."
Dean hauls himself out of the grave and sits on the edge. Sun's creeping steadily higher in the sky and it's not going to be too long before someone passes by and notices that one of their graves has had a fair bit of tampering during the night, especially if Dean doesn't get around to filling it back in soonish. It's always tough explaining open graves to people.
But he can take time for Sam. He can always take time for Sam.
"For yesterday," he says.
"Yeah. Sorry." Dean thinks Sam's going to stick to the art of monosyllabic conversation when Sam blurts out. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to forget. I was just… I was having a really good time."
It’s kind of a tactless thing to say. In fact, if Dean hadn't been the person right there, with Sam while he was having his really good time, he'd be tempted to drive down to Stanford and beat the shit out of him. Instead he just grins and swipes a hand at a fly buzzing about his face.
"S'all right. I forgive you. Still, better have been a really good time for you to forget your only brother's birthday. Was it?"
There's a silence and it's stupid but Dean's wondering what he did wrong that Sam has to think about whether he had a good evening or not. Should Dean have put out? Jess didn't strike him as the type that would on first date, and Dean really suspected that sex with his brother while accidentally pretending to be someone else was a new low but… why is Sam still thinking about it?
"Yeah," says Sam, sounding dazed. "Yeah. It was. Something happened that I didn't think was ever… never mind."
Dean thinks of that nameless, faceless bitch who'd been lucky enough to have Sam fall in love with her and who'd been stupid enough not to snatch him up close and keep him forever.
"You deserve to have what you want, Sammy."
Sam goes quiet at that and Dean can't figure out if he's done this caring-and-sharing thing wrong. He's not very well-practised at it - which is a minor point of pride for him - but he thought the way it worked was that he said something pansy about his feelings and then Sam said something back.
Instead of something wussy and heartfelt, Sam just makes this choked noise and says, "Whatever. Happy Birthday, Dean," and hangs up.
That's not much of an incentive for Dean to try caring-and-sharing again.
Dean kicks idly at the soil and sends a small shower of dirt into the grave. Sunlight's spreading across the graveyard, clear and white. It's going to be a nice day. Dean gazes out across the cemetery and toys with his cell phone in his hand.
A thought creeps across him, no doubt prompted by the masochistic part of him that likes to make him suffer: John always calls on his birthday.
:::
Birthday wishes are special things but Dean and Jess are ready for it next year.
~end