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'All That Glitters' - SPN - Dean, girl!Sam | HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Z!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DARLING SAMMYSUCHIL. I tried to write you Dean/girl!Sam, but it ended up being kinda creepy, uh... so maybe that is for another time. Meanwhile, have some Dean&girl!Sam shmoop! Also, have these three songs about Winchesters - "Didn't It Rain" by Songs: Ohia, "The Story of My Life" by Astronautalis, and "Roadside Distraction" by Aaron Parks, which is an instrumental but is totally the background music of Sam and Dean driving down America's highways. Beloved ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
zempasuchil, ilusfm <33 FOR YOU ARE A JOLLY GOOD FELLOW that nobody can denyyyyyy.
All That Glitters
Supernatural. Dean, Sam. PG13.
Set shortly after the pilot. ~780 words
ETA: The wonderfulaugust_monsoon has drawn art for this fic here.
Sam has been taller than you since the tenth grade. You are eye-level with her mouth. Once upon a time, she was small enough to give piggy back rides to, but now - well.
In high school, the other kids called her 'the amazon' or 'the giant' when they weren't ignoring her, and though Sam could give as good as she got, she eventually developed a terrible slouch - the tall person's defense against themselves. She grew her hair long and let her bangs cover her eyes. The Winchesters were weirdos in each new school, but Sam was a weirdo and a girl and smart and big, so you watched her react by convincing herself that she didn't need friends. "They're all fuckers anyway," she said, and you supposed you agreed.
Height and a long reach are advantages when you're a hunter, and Sam is good at what she does. Dad skimped on compliments, so you took it upon yourself to stroke her ego after each successful hunt by way of punching her shoulder and calling her slow. You figured she'd see through your bullshit. Her responses to your indulgence became sullen over time, and in retrospect you should have recognized it as a sign. She didn't like this life either, but you only notice signs if they point to a favorable destination.
Last town you were in, you came back from picking up dinner and found her in the bathroom cutting off her hair, a hard look in her eyes. Her eyes were red, like she'd just been crying. Her hair, once past her shoulders, was chin-length. "It's uneven at the back," you said, so she gave you the scissors. She stood very still. "Don't fuck it up," she said, and, "If I end up bald, I'm cutting your fucking balls off."
"Uh huh." And then – very gently, very carefully – you began to cut her hair.
On the road deep in the heart of the Utah desert, this happens:
"Stop," she says, quietly, and her voice is jarring after miles of silence. You with your eyes on the highway and her fidgeting in the passenger side like she can't get comfortable, tap tap tapping her fingers on her knee.
"Stop?" you echo.
"Stop the car, I--"
"What?"
"Dean, can you stop the car?"
"What's wrong?"
"Dean."
And there's something about her voice, something brittle and trapped, so you stop and Sam gets out, and against all sense and practicality, she runs to the desert. For a few seconds, all you can do is stare.
"Sam!"
She yells over her shoulder, "Don't follow me!"
You're out of the car, too, turning off the engine and leaning against the hood, watching your sister go and go. She's running full-tilt into empty space, pursuing or being pursued, you're not sure. Something in you is insisting you follow, but you decide to go against your instincts and trust in Sam's grief. Her silhouette shrinks as she runs, her head bent, her arms pumping. Then she slows down. Out of batteries, you find yourself thinking. A sprint becomes a run becomes jog, and then she's just walking, stumbling jelly-legged. Then she drops to the ground, and buries her face in her hands.
You start walking.
She's sitting there for some time before she picks herself up and turns to walk back. By that time, you're already halfway to her. You're walking slow, taking your time, and even from this distance you can see the glower on her face. You get closer and you can see the tears. When you're close enough to touch, she doesn't protest when you pull her into a hug.
"I miss him," she gasps, and you don't know if she's talking about Dad or the boyfriend who died burning on the ceiling. Maybe both. Maybe it doesn't matter. The Winchesters wear grief like the desert wears the sun – relentless and golden, bleeding the world red as it sinks, casting long shadows as it wanes and revealing the cold light of stars. She crumples in your arms and clings to you, and you raise your head to press a kiss to her forehead, and she sobs. Little amazon woman who dared to want the world. Maybe some day the world will be brave enough to want her back.
"Fuck this shit," she mumbles, and you try to think of some joke, some distraction, but you can't think of a goddamn thing, so you just hold her tight and stroke her hair and tell her everything's going to be okay.
"Dean," she sobs, and you say, "Sammy," and around you, the desert wind blows.
zempasuchil, ilusfm <33 FOR YOU ARE A JOLLY GOOD FELLOW that nobody can denyyyyyy.All That Glitters
Supernatural. Dean, Sam. PG13.
Set shortly after the pilot. ~780 words
ETA: The wonderful
august_monsoon has drawn art for this fic here.Sam has been taller than you since the tenth grade. You are eye-level with her mouth. Once upon a time, she was small enough to give piggy back rides to, but now - well.
In high school, the other kids called her 'the amazon' or 'the giant' when they weren't ignoring her, and though Sam could give as good as she got, she eventually developed a terrible slouch - the tall person's defense against themselves. She grew her hair long and let her bangs cover her eyes. The Winchesters were weirdos in each new school, but Sam was a weirdo and a girl and smart and big, so you watched her react by convincing herself that she didn't need friends. "They're all fuckers anyway," she said, and you supposed you agreed.
Height and a long reach are advantages when you're a hunter, and Sam is good at what she does. Dad skimped on compliments, so you took it upon yourself to stroke her ego after each successful hunt by way of punching her shoulder and calling her slow. You figured she'd see through your bullshit. Her responses to your indulgence became sullen over time, and in retrospect you should have recognized it as a sign. She didn't like this life either, but you only notice signs if they point to a favorable destination.
Last town you were in, you came back from picking up dinner and found her in the bathroom cutting off her hair, a hard look in her eyes. Her eyes were red, like she'd just been crying. Her hair, once past her shoulders, was chin-length. "It's uneven at the back," you said, so she gave you the scissors. She stood very still. "Don't fuck it up," she said, and, "If I end up bald, I'm cutting your fucking balls off."
"Uh huh." And then – very gently, very carefully – you began to cut her hair.
On the road deep in the heart of the Utah desert, this happens:
"Stop," she says, quietly, and her voice is jarring after miles of silence. You with your eyes on the highway and her fidgeting in the passenger side like she can't get comfortable, tap tap tapping her fingers on her knee.
"Stop?" you echo.
"Stop the car, I--"
"What?"
"Dean, can you stop the car?"
"What's wrong?"
"Dean."
And there's something about her voice, something brittle and trapped, so you stop and Sam gets out, and against all sense and practicality, she runs to the desert. For a few seconds, all you can do is stare.
"Sam!"
She yells over her shoulder, "Don't follow me!"
You're out of the car, too, turning off the engine and leaning against the hood, watching your sister go and go. She's running full-tilt into empty space, pursuing or being pursued, you're not sure. Something in you is insisting you follow, but you decide to go against your instincts and trust in Sam's grief. Her silhouette shrinks as she runs, her head bent, her arms pumping. Then she slows down. Out of batteries, you find yourself thinking. A sprint becomes a run becomes jog, and then she's just walking, stumbling jelly-legged. Then she drops to the ground, and buries her face in her hands.
You start walking.
She's sitting there for some time before she picks herself up and turns to walk back. By that time, you're already halfway to her. You're walking slow, taking your time, and even from this distance you can see the glower on her face. You get closer and you can see the tears. When you're close enough to touch, she doesn't protest when you pull her into a hug.
"I miss him," she gasps, and you don't know if she's talking about Dad or the boyfriend who died burning on the ceiling. Maybe both. Maybe it doesn't matter. The Winchesters wear grief like the desert wears the sun – relentless and golden, bleeding the world red as it sinks, casting long shadows as it wanes and revealing the cold light of stars. She crumples in your arms and clings to you, and you raise your head to press a kiss to her forehead, and she sobs. Little amazon woman who dared to want the world. Maybe some day the world will be brave enough to want her back.
"Fuck this shit," she mumbles, and you try to think of some joke, some distraction, but you can't think of a goddamn thing, so you just hold her tight and stroke her hair and tell her everything's going to be okay.
"Dean," she sobs, and you say, "Sammy," and around you, the desert wind blows.