fic: Blonde on Blonde (Supernatural; girl!Sam/Dean; adult)
Blonde on Blonde
Supernatural; girl!Sam/Dean, girl!Sam/Jess; AU; adult; 3,930 words
Sam is fifteen the first time she dyes her hair.
AU in which Sam is and always has been a girl. Thanks to luzdeestrellas for the beta, and to hwmitzy for helping out with the ending.
~*~
Blonde on Blonde
fifteen
Sam is fifteen the first time she dyes her hair. Dad and Dean are off on a hunt--she's on her period, so she got to stay home, one of the rare times Dad's been willing to leave her alone, even though she's fifteen and totally capable of taking care of herself (after all, he trained her, didn't he?), and possibly the only time she's grateful for the cramps and the misery her period brings with it. When she's in Walgreen's restocking her tampon supply, she stops in the hair care aisle, picks out a box of L'Oreal Light Ash Blonde, feeling the same secret thrill she gets from reading under the covers after lights out, or from knowing the answer in class when no one else does.
She doesn't know why she thinks it will make everything better--will make her fit in, the way nothing else has in this town--but she does.
It smells terrible, and she worries that it will turn her hair green, which isn't what she wants at all, but when she's done, her hair is bright and fair and looks like the color of Mom's in the one picture she's seen of her family together. She feels pretty, which is new, and she likes it. When the girl who sits behind her in English says, "That's a great color for you," Sam feels like she's won something. After school, two guys who've never noticed her before whistle when she walks by, and she feels like her face might break from smiling.
Dad and Dean come dragging in two days later, the rumble of the Impala's engine interrupting the light doze she's fallen into on the couch, her copy of O Pioneers splayed open on her chest.
They come stomping in--for two men who can move as quietly as they can on the hunt, they make a lot of noise when they come home, especially after the time she nearly shot Dean when she was twelve and he was sneaking back into the house in the middle of the night. No one is yelling for her to hurry up, goddammit, Samantha, your brother's bleeding here, so things probably went well, and their voices are pitched low and even.
"Hey," she says, slipping into the kitchen and smiling, the tension in her shoulders and neck whenever one or both of them are gone easing at their safe return.
"Hey," Dean says, voice muffled because he's already got his head in the fridge, looking for a drink. Dad's half bent over, mumbling curses at the laces of his boots.
"You get it?" she asks.
"Yeah." Dean raises a bottle of water to his mouth, looks up as he takes a drink, and chokes. "Jesus, Sammy, what the fuck did you do?"
Dad looks up then, too, and the weight of his gaze makes her raise a hand to her hair, open her mouth in defense.
But Dad doesn't yell. He doesn't say anything at all for a long time. He just gives her this half-smile that makes her want to cry, and touches her cheek gently.
"Sammy," he says finally, kissing her forehead. "Time for bed."
He heads down the short hallway to the bathroom, leaving her and Dean staring at each other in shock.
"Dude," Dean says after another long, weird silence, "it's your hair."
"Yeah," she says, "it is."
*
sixteen
Sam knows she can't keep Dean. Knows she shouldn't have him in the first place, that she should feel dirty or wrong for wanting him, but she doesn't. She feels bad sometimes that he feels guilty--she wants to reassure him that he's not hurting her, that she knows he'd never hurt her, and that's what makes it all right, but he doesn't believe her when she says it, so she's stopped trying.
She sees how other girls look at him, how their heads turn and their eyes flash invitations, and she sees him looking back, his mouth curved in a half-smile that makes her want to kiss him. Sometimes it's all too much, like she has no skin, is nothing but exposed nerves, hot ache between her legs and tightness in her chest when he looks at her, touches her, and she wants it all the time, can't bear to see his gaze turn elsewhere, can't stand the thought of him touching other girls, even though she knows he wants to, knows he probably should.
She also knows the kind of girls he likes: girls with lots of curves--big breasts and swaying hips--and she's all planes and angles, a carpenter's dream, doesn't even need to wear a bra most of the time, and her hips are slim enough to be a boy's, her jeans slipping down uncomfortably unless she wears a belt.
He tells her she's beautiful, and she can see it in the way he looks at her, feel it in the way he kisses her, but she can't see what he sees when she looks in the mirror--all she sees is a scrawny girl whose roots need to be touched up, and he's--God, it hurts sometimes to look at him, eyes and lips and hands too beautiful to be real, and she aches with wanting him.
The night of his twenty-first birthday, Dad lets her come with them to the bar, and she watches the cute blonde waitress thrust her tits in Dean's face when she takes their order, her cupid's bow mouth painted bright pink, and her hips swaying as she walks away, little skirt flapping back and forth like an invitation. Sam can see Dean's appreciation, the thoughtful twist of his mouth as he imagines undressing her and fucking her, not even trying to hide it.
Sam flushes hot with anger and jealousy and need. She goes to the jukebox because she can't bear to listen to them flirt, and even the promise of learning to drive--learning to drive in the Impala--doesn't lighten her mood, because she and Dad are going home, and Dean is staying, and that means he wants the waitress as much as she wants him.
Dean grabs her hand as she gets up, but she can't read his face, hates that he can hide from her, so she jerks her hand away and frowns, angry at him, at herself, at the world. She'd had plans for tonight; even though they don't usually fool around when Dad's in the house, she'd hoped tonight would be an exception, a gift for his birthday. He's obviously got other ideas.
She doesn't sleep well, too keyed up with anger and need, and she can't get herself off, the image of Dean and the waitress playing out in her mind like the bad porn he watches sometimes when he thinks she's asleep, and even imagining herself in the waitress's place doesn't help. She slips in and out of a doze listening for him to come home, and it makes her even angrier (he would say she's cranky, but that makes it sound like she's a baby and she's not; she's not), because she knows what he and that waitress are doing while she's tossing and turning, and it's much worse than the nights she used to wait for him to come home, smelling like some other girl, and imagine what it'd be like to be with him, because now she knows how good it feels.
She's still in a bad mood in the morning, leaves for school without even acknowledging his existence. She has a special tryout for the track team today--anger makes her run faster, and running burns the anger out, though she's still annoyed with him, and wants to make sure he knows it. When she gets home, Dean's waiting with a movie, like she's a little kid, and that hurts, too, makes her determined to prove she's not.
She goes to the mall after school with her friends, spends what money she has (money Dean gives her, because Dad won't allow her to get a job) on trashy red lingerie she thinks he'll like. Her friends giggle, and she makes up a boyfriend from Alabama who's coming to visit for a few days, because she can't tell them the truth. She can't tell anyone but Dean the truth about anything, and that thought makes her want to cry.
Two nights later, she puts on her new red baby doll pajamas, frowning at the way the cheap lace itches (she usually sleeps in an old t-shirt and a pair of Dean's boxers), and sneaks into his room.
When she climbs into his lap, he looks startled instead of pleased. He touches the lace of her top and says, "This isn't you, Sammy."
"It could be, if you wanted it to be," she answers, leaning in to nip at his earlobe, his neck, smiling when he gasps in response--she's spent the past few month paying attention, learning what he likes, and she knows how to use it.
"That's not what I want," he manages, but she can feel his erection through the thin material of his boxers and her panties.
"You sure? 'Cause that's not what it feels like to me." She kisses him, hot and wet, the way he taught her, a promise of everything she wants to do tonight. Forever, if he'll let her.
"Sam, Sam, Sammy," he says when she finally relents, lets him pull away for air. "Don't make me go all Afterschool Special on your ass."
She grinds down against him, enjoying the way it makes him close his eyes and take a deep breath. "Is that really what you want to do with my ass?" He doesn't answer right away, takes long enough that she starts to feel sick to her stomach in a way the supposed wrongness of what they're doing has never made her feel. She leans back, sits on his knees, trying not to cry, to show how much his rejection hurts. She knows he loves her, has never doubted that, but she wants more, wants this, and if he doesn't-- "Or do you not want me at all? Is that it?"
He cups her cheek, his thumb brushing over her lower lip, which is not quivering, dammit, and says, "It's not that. It's that I want you, not--" he tugs at the camisole again "--this."
"Does it not look good?" She looks down at herself, touches her breasts, barely covered by the wispy material. "I know I don't look like that--" waitress, she thinks, but stops herself from saying, "--like the girls you like. I'm kind of skinny and not very--"
"I didn't--I haven't--" He growls in frustration, and she tries to figure out what he means, if he's saying what she thinks he is, telling her she was wrong not to trust him, that she's always trusted him before, and he's never betrayed her. He pulls her close for a kiss. "You're perfect. You're Sam," he says against her mouth, the words vibrating through her.
He's done with talking, uses his mouth and his hands and his dick to make her come, and she knows that's his way of telling her that he thinks she's pretty, that he wants her.
It's easy to believe him when he's moving inside her, making the whole world disappear, but when she's lying alone in bed after he sends her back to her room, it's hard to hold onto that certainty.
The next afternoon, she's home before Dean and Dad, and she spends some quality time with a box of L'Oreal, because maybe she's not built like that waitress, but she's been taught to make the most of every advantage she has. She's sure that girl's hair color came from a box, too, and at least Sam can remember when her hair was naturally blonde.
*
twenty-one
Sam still isn't sure about this, but Jess is so excited, chattering about manicures and pedicures and facials, that Sam doesn't have the heart to tell her that she only ever painted her own nails, and that her father and brother would have freaked the fuck out if she'd told them she was going for a massage.
"It's going to be so relaxing, Sam, just what you need after finals," Jess is saying. "And once we're all prettied up, I'm going to take you out and show you off." Which makes Sam laugh, because if anyone turns heads, it's Jess, not her. She's still amazed, sometimes, that Jess even gives her the time of day, let alone allows her to touch and kiss and fuck her. She's filled out a little in the past couple of years, but she still sees Sam Winchester, scrawny geek with too-long legs and no boobs to speak of. Jess makes her feel beautiful, but she isn't, really, and maybe now that they've moved in together, and Jess has seen her at her worst, is living with her dishes in the sink and her hair in the drain and her complete inability to cook anything beyond macaroni and cheese, she's finally noticed.
She puts it out of her mind when she's lying on the massage table, and the manicurist is very chatty, so she doesn't really think about it then, either, though when she's waiting to get her hair cut, she flips through the brochure and has to put it down, because the amount of money Jess is spending on her today is ridiculous, and Sam knows it doesn't come from credit card fraud or hustling pool; she saw the financial history Jess provided when they signed the lease on their apartment, but she still can't believe that Jess's family has money. It's just one more way Sam doesn't fit, and while Jess says it doesn't matter, Sam's been at Stanford long enough to know that it could. That it probably should, and that someday, it definitely will, as much as she doesn't want it to.
By the time she finally sits down in front of the mirror, she's thought herself into a funk (Dean always did say thinking too much was the cause of all her problems), and when the hairdresser makes a soft tsking noise as he examines her flat, mousy hair, all those fears congeal into a hard knot in her belly. With working and studying for finals and moving into the apartment, she hasn't really had time to keep up with her hair--she'd cut it short a few months ago, finally got rid of the last bits of blonde lingering at the ends, and hasn't bothered to dye it since then.
She's reminded of the fact when the guy says, "What are we doing today, Samantha? Maybe some subtle highlights? Or something bold? We could go red, or blonde." He runs his fingers through her hair and she shivers. "You were blonde as a child, weren't you?"
She remembers the way her hair would turn straw yellow from sunlight and chlorine in the summer, and how it was the color of honey in the winter, before it darkened to dishwater brown when she hit puberty. "Yeah. How can you--"
He gives her a secret smile. "It's my job. Blonde again?"
She smiles back despite herself. "Yeah, I'd like that."
When he's done, her hair is bright and golden, falling over her ears like a halo. She'll probably never be able to make it look this good again, but she doesn't really care, because when she looks in the mirror, she likes what she sees.
Jess does, as well. "Oh my God, Sam," she says, and she looks gorgeous, too, hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders, down her back, tanned skin radiating a relaxed glow from the massage. "You look fabulous."
"Yeah, I guess I kind of let myself go," she mumbles, ducking her head, hearing the hidden criticism in the compliment.
Jess frowns. "What?"
"I--don't know?" Sam makes it a question, realizing that maybe she's misunderstood after all. She rubs the back of her neck, embarrassed.
Jess tips her face up so they're eye to eye, never lets her hide, even when she wants to, which is one of the things Sam loves about her, and says, "I just thought it would be fun after all the stress of finals and moving. If you didn't want to do this, you should have said something."
"God, no, Jess, it's all right. It's better than all right. I--God, I'm really fucking this up." She feels like an ungrateful tool. "I did, I know I'm not, I mean, I liked it. I liked it a lot. And I like how it makes me feel. Thank you."
"You're very welcome." Jess leans in and places a soft kiss on Sam's lips, the touch light as sunshine and a hundred times warmer. Sam kisses her back, blinking away tears and a tight ache in her chest, and wonders again how she got so lucky.
*
twenty-three
Sam's in the bathroom, eyeing the box of hair dye like a problem she hasn't yet solved, when Dean pushes his way in, stands behind her, hands coming to rest on her shoulders.
"You okay?"
She can see the concern in his eyes in the mirror and gives him a small, tight smile. "Yeah."
He kneads her shoulders gently, and she lets her head fall forward, relaxing into the touch, letting him ease the strain, though she knows what he's carrying--what she's asked him to carry--is worse. He keeps up the massage, leans in and presses his mouth to her neck, licking and sucking until she's pressing back against him and clutching the chipped porcelain sink with white-knuckled hands. He wraps one arm around her waist--she can feel his erection against her ass--and slides a hand down into her underwear.
"This good?" he murmurs, voice whiskey rough and full of need, fingers stroking against her aching flesh.
"God, yeah."
She watches herself in the mirror, pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed, with Dean's hair, the color of copper in the fluorescent light, sticking up at all angles and tickling her skin, his mouth pressed to the side of her throat, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His fingers slowly circle her clit while his other hand slides up beneath her tank top to play with her nipples, peaked and aching for the touch, heat arcing to her cunt when he rolls one and then the other between his fingers.
Her hips jerk forward against his hand and he laughs. "You like that."
"You know I do." She's breathless, wet, and aching, and she needs more than his fingers inside her. "Fuck me," she says, pushing back against him and leaning forward over the sink, widening her stance.
"I don't need to be told twice," he says, grinning as he shoves down her underwear and then his own, and thank God, she's on the pill, because she doesn't think she'd have the patience to wait for him to find and put on a condom.
He slides inside her in one smooth stroke, and she can't help it, she moans at how good it feels. His left hand is tight on her hip and his right ghosts over her belly, making her shiver, before dipping down between her legs to work at her clit again. She looks up into the mirror, sees the concentration on his face as he thrusts, the tip of his tongue peeking out between his saliva-slick lips, his eyes dark with need and love. She sees what she thinks he sees, what he's always seen, Sam and Dean, beautiful and whole, together, as if she's seeing it--believing it--for the first time. That, as much as the way he's fucking her, makes hot pleasure rise inside her, so good she almost can't breathe from it.
"God, baby," he manages, leaning forward to bite her shoulder, which makes her shiver, "you're so fucking hot, so beautiful." He says all sorts of shit when they're fucking that he'd never say otherwise, and she's always wanted to believe it and always been afraid it was nothing more than his mouth on autopilot, disconnected from his brain and babbling nonsense (isn't he the one who told her once to never believe a man who says, I love you before, during or after he comes?). His gaze meets and holds hers in the mirror. "You with me here, Sammy? Or you thinking too much again?"
She laughs and ducks her head, caught, and thrusts back against him. "I'm here," she answers, "right here with you, Dean."
"Good." He thrusts harder, and she's so close now she can practically taste it, fingers going numb from gripping the sink to hold herself up. And then she's coming, heat and pleasure pulsing through her, making her whole body tremble. He's still watching when her eyes flutter closed, and when she opens them again, he's looking at her like she's the most precious thing in the world. "That's my girl," he murmurs and comes with a low, hoarse grunt and the sharp sting of his teeth on her shoulder. They stay bent over the sink for a couple of minutes, riding it out, as close as two people can be, closer, even, because they're them.
They spend a few minutes cleaning up, and then she turns and throws her arms around his neck, kissing him hungrily. He holds her close, laughing into her mouth.
When she pulls back to breathe, he says, "Goddamn, woman, you look good." She laughs in disbelief but he says, "No, I mean it. Seriously, Sam." He pushes her hair off her forehead gently, runs his thumb over the her cheek. "You're so hot and you don't even know it."
She turns back to the mirror and likes what she sees, though her hair is a mess and she's got stubble-burn on her throat. "Thank you." She grabs his hand, kisses it in thanks, unable to stop smiling. "I'll be done in about forty-five minutes, and then we can see about dinner."
He wrinkles his nose and jerks his chin at the box on the toilet tank. "I hate the way that shit smells."
She rolls her eyes. They go through this every time. "Then it's a good thing we're not dyeing your hair."
"Blondes don't really have more fun, Sammy. I think we're proof of that."
She can't help but grin at that. "Yeah, we are. That's so not the point."
"I mean," he looks uncomfortably sincere, but he holds her gaze, "you don't have to do it on my account."
She laughs again, through the sudden tightness in her chest. "Who says I do it for you?" The look of chagrin on his face is priceless. "It's just--It makes me happy."
"Oh. Okay, then. But don't take all night, 'cause I'm hungry."
"The longer you stand there, the longer it's going to take."
He grumbles, but leaves her alone. She can hear the bedsprings squeak as he flops down onto the bed, and then the muted voices of newscasters when he turns on the television.
She's got the plastic gloves on and is ready to start slathering the stuff in her hair when he sticks his head back into the bathroom. "No, seriously, you don't have to do it for me."
She flaps a hand at him, not wanting to be distracted, and she can't stop smiling, but she's completely serious when she says, "I know," because she does.
end
~*~
Notes: Much (possibly all?) of the dialogue in the sixteen section comes from "Beggars Would Ride," and that section is basically Sam's take on the events on and after Dean's 21st birthday.
This story arose out of comments from a few people questioning why I made girl!Sam a blonde. And I have to admit, I originally didn't think about her dying her hair - she's just always been blonde in my head. But then I started thinking about it, and how a number of women I've known whose hair is the approximate color of canon!Sam's were blonde as children and dyed their hair back to blonde as teenagers/adults, and it seemed like an interesting way to explore the character. So. Story.
Also, in my head, this takes place between Playthings and Nightshifter.
July 3, 2007
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~
Supernatural; girl!Sam/Dean, girl!Sam/Jess; AU; adult; 3,930 words
Sam is fifteen the first time she dyes her hair.
AU in which Sam is and always has been a girl. Thanks to luzdeestrellas for the beta, and to hwmitzy for helping out with the ending.
~*~
Blonde on Blonde
fifteen
Sam is fifteen the first time she dyes her hair. Dad and Dean are off on a hunt--she's on her period, so she got to stay home, one of the rare times Dad's been willing to leave her alone, even though she's fifteen and totally capable of taking care of herself (after all, he trained her, didn't he?), and possibly the only time she's grateful for the cramps and the misery her period brings with it. When she's in Walgreen's restocking her tampon supply, she stops in the hair care aisle, picks out a box of L'Oreal Light Ash Blonde, feeling the same secret thrill she gets from reading under the covers after lights out, or from knowing the answer in class when no one else does.
She doesn't know why she thinks it will make everything better--will make her fit in, the way nothing else has in this town--but she does.
It smells terrible, and she worries that it will turn her hair green, which isn't what she wants at all, but when she's done, her hair is bright and fair and looks like the color of Mom's in the one picture she's seen of her family together. She feels pretty, which is new, and she likes it. When the girl who sits behind her in English says, "That's a great color for you," Sam feels like she's won something. After school, two guys who've never noticed her before whistle when she walks by, and she feels like her face might break from smiling.
Dad and Dean come dragging in two days later, the rumble of the Impala's engine interrupting the light doze she's fallen into on the couch, her copy of O Pioneers splayed open on her chest.
They come stomping in--for two men who can move as quietly as they can on the hunt, they make a lot of noise when they come home, especially after the time she nearly shot Dean when she was twelve and he was sneaking back into the house in the middle of the night. No one is yelling for her to hurry up, goddammit, Samantha, your brother's bleeding here, so things probably went well, and their voices are pitched low and even.
"Hey," she says, slipping into the kitchen and smiling, the tension in her shoulders and neck whenever one or both of them are gone easing at their safe return.
"Hey," Dean says, voice muffled because he's already got his head in the fridge, looking for a drink. Dad's half bent over, mumbling curses at the laces of his boots.
"You get it?" she asks.
"Yeah." Dean raises a bottle of water to his mouth, looks up as he takes a drink, and chokes. "Jesus, Sammy, what the fuck did you do?"
Dad looks up then, too, and the weight of his gaze makes her raise a hand to her hair, open her mouth in defense.
But Dad doesn't yell. He doesn't say anything at all for a long time. He just gives her this half-smile that makes her want to cry, and touches her cheek gently.
"Sammy," he says finally, kissing her forehead. "Time for bed."
He heads down the short hallway to the bathroom, leaving her and Dean staring at each other in shock.
"Dude," Dean says after another long, weird silence, "it's your hair."
"Yeah," she says, "it is."
*
sixteen
Sam knows she can't keep Dean. Knows she shouldn't have him in the first place, that she should feel dirty or wrong for wanting him, but she doesn't. She feels bad sometimes that he feels guilty--she wants to reassure him that he's not hurting her, that she knows he'd never hurt her, and that's what makes it all right, but he doesn't believe her when she says it, so she's stopped trying.
She sees how other girls look at him, how their heads turn and their eyes flash invitations, and she sees him looking back, his mouth curved in a half-smile that makes her want to kiss him. Sometimes it's all too much, like she has no skin, is nothing but exposed nerves, hot ache between her legs and tightness in her chest when he looks at her, touches her, and she wants it all the time, can't bear to see his gaze turn elsewhere, can't stand the thought of him touching other girls, even though she knows he wants to, knows he probably should.
She also knows the kind of girls he likes: girls with lots of curves--big breasts and swaying hips--and she's all planes and angles, a carpenter's dream, doesn't even need to wear a bra most of the time, and her hips are slim enough to be a boy's, her jeans slipping down uncomfortably unless she wears a belt.
He tells her she's beautiful, and she can see it in the way he looks at her, feel it in the way he kisses her, but she can't see what he sees when she looks in the mirror--all she sees is a scrawny girl whose roots need to be touched up, and he's--God, it hurts sometimes to look at him, eyes and lips and hands too beautiful to be real, and she aches with wanting him.
The night of his twenty-first birthday, Dad lets her come with them to the bar, and she watches the cute blonde waitress thrust her tits in Dean's face when she takes their order, her cupid's bow mouth painted bright pink, and her hips swaying as she walks away, little skirt flapping back and forth like an invitation. Sam can see Dean's appreciation, the thoughtful twist of his mouth as he imagines undressing her and fucking her, not even trying to hide it.
Sam flushes hot with anger and jealousy and need. She goes to the jukebox because she can't bear to listen to them flirt, and even the promise of learning to drive--learning to drive in the Impala--doesn't lighten her mood, because she and Dad are going home, and Dean is staying, and that means he wants the waitress as much as she wants him.
Dean grabs her hand as she gets up, but she can't read his face, hates that he can hide from her, so she jerks her hand away and frowns, angry at him, at herself, at the world. She'd had plans for tonight; even though they don't usually fool around when Dad's in the house, she'd hoped tonight would be an exception, a gift for his birthday. He's obviously got other ideas.
She doesn't sleep well, too keyed up with anger and need, and she can't get herself off, the image of Dean and the waitress playing out in her mind like the bad porn he watches sometimes when he thinks she's asleep, and even imagining herself in the waitress's place doesn't help. She slips in and out of a doze listening for him to come home, and it makes her even angrier (he would say she's cranky, but that makes it sound like she's a baby and she's not; she's not), because she knows what he and that waitress are doing while she's tossing and turning, and it's much worse than the nights she used to wait for him to come home, smelling like some other girl, and imagine what it'd be like to be with him, because now she knows how good it feels.
She's still in a bad mood in the morning, leaves for school without even acknowledging his existence. She has a special tryout for the track team today--anger makes her run faster, and running burns the anger out, though she's still annoyed with him, and wants to make sure he knows it. When she gets home, Dean's waiting with a movie, like she's a little kid, and that hurts, too, makes her determined to prove she's not.
She goes to the mall after school with her friends, spends what money she has (money Dean gives her, because Dad won't allow her to get a job) on trashy red lingerie she thinks he'll like. Her friends giggle, and she makes up a boyfriend from Alabama who's coming to visit for a few days, because she can't tell them the truth. She can't tell anyone but Dean the truth about anything, and that thought makes her want to cry.
Two nights later, she puts on her new red baby doll pajamas, frowning at the way the cheap lace itches (she usually sleeps in an old t-shirt and a pair of Dean's boxers), and sneaks into his room.
When she climbs into his lap, he looks startled instead of pleased. He touches the lace of her top and says, "This isn't you, Sammy."
"It could be, if you wanted it to be," she answers, leaning in to nip at his earlobe, his neck, smiling when he gasps in response--she's spent the past few month paying attention, learning what he likes, and she knows how to use it.
"That's not what I want," he manages, but she can feel his erection through the thin material of his boxers and her panties.
"You sure? 'Cause that's not what it feels like to me." She kisses him, hot and wet, the way he taught her, a promise of everything she wants to do tonight. Forever, if he'll let her.
"Sam, Sam, Sammy," he says when she finally relents, lets him pull away for air. "Don't make me go all Afterschool Special on your ass."
She grinds down against him, enjoying the way it makes him close his eyes and take a deep breath. "Is that really what you want to do with my ass?" He doesn't answer right away, takes long enough that she starts to feel sick to her stomach in a way the supposed wrongness of what they're doing has never made her feel. She leans back, sits on his knees, trying not to cry, to show how much his rejection hurts. She knows he loves her, has never doubted that, but she wants more, wants this, and if he doesn't-- "Or do you not want me at all? Is that it?"
He cups her cheek, his thumb brushing over her lower lip, which is not quivering, dammit, and says, "It's not that. It's that I want you, not--" he tugs at the camisole again "--this."
"Does it not look good?" She looks down at herself, touches her breasts, barely covered by the wispy material. "I know I don't look like that--" waitress, she thinks, but stops herself from saying, "--like the girls you like. I'm kind of skinny and not very--"
"I didn't--I haven't--" He growls in frustration, and she tries to figure out what he means, if he's saying what she thinks he is, telling her she was wrong not to trust him, that she's always trusted him before, and he's never betrayed her. He pulls her close for a kiss. "You're perfect. You're Sam," he says against her mouth, the words vibrating through her.
He's done with talking, uses his mouth and his hands and his dick to make her come, and she knows that's his way of telling her that he thinks she's pretty, that he wants her.
It's easy to believe him when he's moving inside her, making the whole world disappear, but when she's lying alone in bed after he sends her back to her room, it's hard to hold onto that certainty.
The next afternoon, she's home before Dean and Dad, and she spends some quality time with a box of L'Oreal, because maybe she's not built like that waitress, but she's been taught to make the most of every advantage she has. She's sure that girl's hair color came from a box, too, and at least Sam can remember when her hair was naturally blonde.
*
twenty-one
Sam still isn't sure about this, but Jess is so excited, chattering about manicures and pedicures and facials, that Sam doesn't have the heart to tell her that she only ever painted her own nails, and that her father and brother would have freaked the fuck out if she'd told them she was going for a massage.
"It's going to be so relaxing, Sam, just what you need after finals," Jess is saying. "And once we're all prettied up, I'm going to take you out and show you off." Which makes Sam laugh, because if anyone turns heads, it's Jess, not her. She's still amazed, sometimes, that Jess even gives her the time of day, let alone allows her to touch and kiss and fuck her. She's filled out a little in the past couple of years, but she still sees Sam Winchester, scrawny geek with too-long legs and no boobs to speak of. Jess makes her feel beautiful, but she isn't, really, and maybe now that they've moved in together, and Jess has seen her at her worst, is living with her dishes in the sink and her hair in the drain and her complete inability to cook anything beyond macaroni and cheese, she's finally noticed.
She puts it out of her mind when she's lying on the massage table, and the manicurist is very chatty, so she doesn't really think about it then, either, though when she's waiting to get her hair cut, she flips through the brochure and has to put it down, because the amount of money Jess is spending on her today is ridiculous, and Sam knows it doesn't come from credit card fraud or hustling pool; she saw the financial history Jess provided when they signed the lease on their apartment, but she still can't believe that Jess's family has money. It's just one more way Sam doesn't fit, and while Jess says it doesn't matter, Sam's been at Stanford long enough to know that it could. That it probably should, and that someday, it definitely will, as much as she doesn't want it to.
By the time she finally sits down in front of the mirror, she's thought herself into a funk (Dean always did say thinking too much was the cause of all her problems), and when the hairdresser makes a soft tsking noise as he examines her flat, mousy hair, all those fears congeal into a hard knot in her belly. With working and studying for finals and moving into the apartment, she hasn't really had time to keep up with her hair--she'd cut it short a few months ago, finally got rid of the last bits of blonde lingering at the ends, and hasn't bothered to dye it since then.
She's reminded of the fact when the guy says, "What are we doing today, Samantha? Maybe some subtle highlights? Or something bold? We could go red, or blonde." He runs his fingers through her hair and she shivers. "You were blonde as a child, weren't you?"
She remembers the way her hair would turn straw yellow from sunlight and chlorine in the summer, and how it was the color of honey in the winter, before it darkened to dishwater brown when she hit puberty. "Yeah. How can you--"
He gives her a secret smile. "It's my job. Blonde again?"
She smiles back despite herself. "Yeah, I'd like that."
When he's done, her hair is bright and golden, falling over her ears like a halo. She'll probably never be able to make it look this good again, but she doesn't really care, because when she looks in the mirror, she likes what she sees.
Jess does, as well. "Oh my God, Sam," she says, and she looks gorgeous, too, hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders, down her back, tanned skin radiating a relaxed glow from the massage. "You look fabulous."
"Yeah, I guess I kind of let myself go," she mumbles, ducking her head, hearing the hidden criticism in the compliment.
Jess frowns. "What?"
"I--don't know?" Sam makes it a question, realizing that maybe she's misunderstood after all. She rubs the back of her neck, embarrassed.
Jess tips her face up so they're eye to eye, never lets her hide, even when she wants to, which is one of the things Sam loves about her, and says, "I just thought it would be fun after all the stress of finals and moving. If you didn't want to do this, you should have said something."
"God, no, Jess, it's all right. It's better than all right. I--God, I'm really fucking this up." She feels like an ungrateful tool. "I did, I know I'm not, I mean, I liked it. I liked it a lot. And I like how it makes me feel. Thank you."
"You're very welcome." Jess leans in and places a soft kiss on Sam's lips, the touch light as sunshine and a hundred times warmer. Sam kisses her back, blinking away tears and a tight ache in her chest, and wonders again how she got so lucky.
*
twenty-three
Sam's in the bathroom, eyeing the box of hair dye like a problem she hasn't yet solved, when Dean pushes his way in, stands behind her, hands coming to rest on her shoulders.
"You okay?"
She can see the concern in his eyes in the mirror and gives him a small, tight smile. "Yeah."
He kneads her shoulders gently, and she lets her head fall forward, relaxing into the touch, letting him ease the strain, though she knows what he's carrying--what she's asked him to carry--is worse. He keeps up the massage, leans in and presses his mouth to her neck, licking and sucking until she's pressing back against him and clutching the chipped porcelain sink with white-knuckled hands. He wraps one arm around her waist--she can feel his erection against her ass--and slides a hand down into her underwear.
"This good?" he murmurs, voice whiskey rough and full of need, fingers stroking against her aching flesh.
"God, yeah."
She watches herself in the mirror, pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed, with Dean's hair, the color of copper in the fluorescent light, sticking up at all angles and tickling her skin, his mouth pressed to the side of her throat, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His fingers slowly circle her clit while his other hand slides up beneath her tank top to play with her nipples, peaked and aching for the touch, heat arcing to her cunt when he rolls one and then the other between his fingers.
Her hips jerk forward against his hand and he laughs. "You like that."
"You know I do." She's breathless, wet, and aching, and she needs more than his fingers inside her. "Fuck me," she says, pushing back against him and leaning forward over the sink, widening her stance.
"I don't need to be told twice," he says, grinning as he shoves down her underwear and then his own, and thank God, she's on the pill, because she doesn't think she'd have the patience to wait for him to find and put on a condom.
He slides inside her in one smooth stroke, and she can't help it, she moans at how good it feels. His left hand is tight on her hip and his right ghosts over her belly, making her shiver, before dipping down between her legs to work at her clit again. She looks up into the mirror, sees the concentration on his face as he thrusts, the tip of his tongue peeking out between his saliva-slick lips, his eyes dark with need and love. She sees what she thinks he sees, what he's always seen, Sam and Dean, beautiful and whole, together, as if she's seeing it--believing it--for the first time. That, as much as the way he's fucking her, makes hot pleasure rise inside her, so good she almost can't breathe from it.
"God, baby," he manages, leaning forward to bite her shoulder, which makes her shiver, "you're so fucking hot, so beautiful." He says all sorts of shit when they're fucking that he'd never say otherwise, and she's always wanted to believe it and always been afraid it was nothing more than his mouth on autopilot, disconnected from his brain and babbling nonsense (isn't he the one who told her once to never believe a man who says, I love you before, during or after he comes?). His gaze meets and holds hers in the mirror. "You with me here, Sammy? Or you thinking too much again?"
She laughs and ducks her head, caught, and thrusts back against him. "I'm here," she answers, "right here with you, Dean."
"Good." He thrusts harder, and she's so close now she can practically taste it, fingers going numb from gripping the sink to hold herself up. And then she's coming, heat and pleasure pulsing through her, making her whole body tremble. He's still watching when her eyes flutter closed, and when she opens them again, he's looking at her like she's the most precious thing in the world. "That's my girl," he murmurs and comes with a low, hoarse grunt and the sharp sting of his teeth on her shoulder. They stay bent over the sink for a couple of minutes, riding it out, as close as two people can be, closer, even, because they're them.
They spend a few minutes cleaning up, and then she turns and throws her arms around his neck, kissing him hungrily. He holds her close, laughing into her mouth.
When she pulls back to breathe, he says, "Goddamn, woman, you look good." She laughs in disbelief but he says, "No, I mean it. Seriously, Sam." He pushes her hair off her forehead gently, runs his thumb over the her cheek. "You're so hot and you don't even know it."
She turns back to the mirror and likes what she sees, though her hair is a mess and she's got stubble-burn on her throat. "Thank you." She grabs his hand, kisses it in thanks, unable to stop smiling. "I'll be done in about forty-five minutes, and then we can see about dinner."
He wrinkles his nose and jerks his chin at the box on the toilet tank. "I hate the way that shit smells."
She rolls her eyes. They go through this every time. "Then it's a good thing we're not dyeing your hair."
"Blondes don't really have more fun, Sammy. I think we're proof of that."
She can't help but grin at that. "Yeah, we are. That's so not the point."
"I mean," he looks uncomfortably sincere, but he holds her gaze, "you don't have to do it on my account."
She laughs again, through the sudden tightness in her chest. "Who says I do it for you?" The look of chagrin on his face is priceless. "It's just--It makes me happy."
"Oh. Okay, then. But don't take all night, 'cause I'm hungry."
"The longer you stand there, the longer it's going to take."
He grumbles, but leaves her alone. She can hear the bedsprings squeak as he flops down onto the bed, and then the muted voices of newscasters when he turns on the television.
She's got the plastic gloves on and is ready to start slathering the stuff in her hair when he sticks his head back into the bathroom. "No, seriously, you don't have to do it for me."
She flaps a hand at him, not wanting to be distracted, and she can't stop smiling, but she's completely serious when she says, "I know," because she does.
end
~*~
Notes: Much (possibly all?) of the dialogue in the sixteen section comes from "Beggars Would Ride," and that section is basically Sam's take on the events on and after Dean's 21st birthday.
This story arose out of comments from a few people questioning why I made girl!Sam a blonde. And I have to admit, I originally didn't think about her dying her hair - she's just always been blonde in my head. But then I started thinking about it, and how a number of women I've known whose hair is the approximate color of canon!Sam's were blonde as children and dyed their hair back to blonde as teenagers/adults, and it seemed like an interesting way to explore the character. So. Story.
Also, in my head, this takes place between Playthings and Nightshifter.
July 3, 2007
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~