He rolled over and nestled deeper into the scratchy motel blankets. A gap in the curtains unapologetically dumped shards of the new day into the room and Sam sighed. Nope. They finished a job last night, and a finished job meant sleeping in. So fuck you, sun.

A rustling of sheets and a creaking of springs floated over from Dean's bed, then silence. Rustling again, this time louder. The rustling turned to frantic kicking, and Sam rolled over to look, barely awake enough to muster up some concern for his brother. Probably just a nightmare. What he saw was only mildly surprising – a disheveled but still striking girl with almost-blond hair, sitting upright on Dean's bed. What made Sam take notice was the look on her face as she stared into his: total confusion, bordering on panic. Her jaw worked but she made no sound. Poor thing. She must not have remembered (or ever known?) that Sam was in the room. Thanks, Dean, he thought miserably. How drunk was this girl when Dean brought her in last night, anyway? And despite his legendary lack of shame at his own salaciousness, Dean rarely brought girls into the rooms the brothers shared. Sam bid his blessed sleep goodbye and sighed again.

"Where's Dean?" he asked. But it wasn't his voice that asked it. Was it? He tried again: "What the hell?" No, something was definitely wrong. He propped himself on his elbows, reaching for his neck.

The girl on Dean's bed was looking at him with eyes like dinner plates, jaw now just hanging loosely open. "Dude," she said, "I am Dean!" At that, she flew off the bed, slamming on the lights as she ran straight to the full-length mirror on the outside of the bathroom door, just out of his view. She was wearing, Sam vaguely noticed as he sat up, Dean's boxers and tee shirt.

But Sam didn't take the time to notice any more than that. He was too busy realizing that he wasn't himself. The voice that had come out of him was unmistakably female, as were the two lumps he saw under his own tee shirt when he looked down. Familiar, but never from quite this angle. He grabbed them in horror. Yup, definitely real, and definitely attached to him. "Dean?" he shouted, his voice thin and pale to his ears.

"Sam…?" The blond girl's voice rounded the corner just before she did, eyes still wide with disbelief.

Sam still sat on the bed, clutching his—her breasts. "Yeah, but—"

"Sammy," the girl said, taking a moment to look Sam up and down, spreading her hands out at her sides for emphasis. "We're chicks."

Now it was Sam's turn to fly out of bed, kicking madly at the covers that insisted on wrapping themselves around his ankles. He barreled past the girl – Dean – and stopped in front of the mirror. "Oh my god," he said in a girl's voice, while the lips of the girl in the mirror moved in synch. He stepped closer, felt his hand lift as he watched hers rise up to touch her face. He was, indeed, a she. She said, "Oh. Shit." The girl in the mirror was…pretty, at least. Her eyes were the familiar deep stormy-ocean color of Sam's, but the lashes surrounding them were thicker. Her hair was the same coffee-colored waves, but now it fell past her shoulders. Sam smiled at her and she smiled back. Dimples were still there, too.

"You make a pretty hot chick, Sammy," came Dean's new voice. "But wow, man, you need to shave."

"What?" Sam squinted into the mirror, rubbing the baby smoothness of the mirror girl's chin.

"No," said the Dean-girl, pointing at Sam's legs. "You really are a sasquatch."

Sam looked down to find legs covered with a shaggy carpet of black hair. It didn't feel weird, but when she saw them in the mirror, she gasped.

"But then, I could use a razor myself," Dean said thoughtfully. "What the hell? Is this normal?"

Sam looked over at Dean to find the girl bent over, running a hand gingerly up and down her shin, through her own soft forest of brown.

"Yes, it's normal."

The Dean-girl made a disgusted face. "You're shittin' me. Like...this is how they all are? Really?" She blinked at Sam repeatedly, looked back down and plucked at the hairs. "Ow!"

Sam-girl put on Sam's bitch-face. "Yes, Dean, really. And shaving is the least of our worries right now." She sauntered back to her bed and plunked herself down dejectedly.

Dean-girl shuffled back to her own bed, sat down slowly on the edge, and then lifted her arm and peeked into the sleeve of her tee shirt. "Eeegh," she said in disgust, slamming her arm back down to her side. She sat still a moment and then, casting a sideways glance at her stewing sibling, pulled the waist of her boxers out and peered inside. Her eyebrows shot up and she released the elastic band, which flopped loosely back to her belly. "Yeah there's no way my measly razor's gettin' rid of all this hair."

Sam-girl exhaled sharply in annoyance. "Dean, come on. This is serious."

Dean-girl made a face, grabbed her breasts and bounced them, looking down with a half-smile on her face. "I know it is, but…I have boobs. You've gotta admit that's pretty awesome."

"No, it's not awesome," Sam-girl sighed. "It's wrong. This is seriously fucked up, and we need to fix it."

"Uuugh!" his…her…sister exclaimed, flopping onto her back, arms above her head. Sam-girl noticed the bobbing of her boobs, and then noticed herself noticing and looked away quickly.

"Christ," she mumbled, kneading her smooth brow with surprisingly soft fingers.

"What?" Dean-girl asked.

Sam-girl ventured a glance back over at her. "Your…boobs," she said sheepishly. "They bounce."

"I know!" Dean-girl replied, propping herself up on one elbow. "That's what I'm sayin'. Pretty great, huh?" She grabbed them again, shook them.

"NO!" Sam-girl shouted, her voice lacking the authoritative volume she was used to. "No! None of this is great! I don't want to be checking out my brother's boobs! What the hell is wrong with you, Dean?!"

Dean-girl laughed then, a twinkling, softer version of Dean's usual laugh. "I can't help it, man. I mean, who gets to do this? Who gets to really know what it's like?" She sat back up, Dean's green eyes shining mischievously out from under impossibly long lashes, familiar freckles now sprinkled across a more delicate nose. She grinned. "I bet yours bounce, too."

Sam-girl sighed and rolled her eyes, but her sister's enthusiasm was actually a little infectious. She shook herself, side to side. Her new additions kept shaking after she'd stopped. She smirked.

"See? Fun, isn't it?"

"Yeah, well. We still need to figure this out. It won't be fun forever." She grabbed her laptop and opened it, switching it on and settling back against the headboard.

Dean-girl sat watching her for a minute, silent. "You get started on that, Sammy," her sister said, standing up and walking across the room. "I have some research of my own to do." And with that, she shut the bathroom door.

"What—oh. God! Gross!" Sam-girl called. "I do not want to hear anything! Dean?! I mean it!"

Her request was met with silence that she could only hope would continue. She rolled her eyes. "Great."

She busied herself with figuring out what could have done this to them and why – a curse from an angry spirit? A spell? Some ancient god? – and about half an hour later, the bathroom door opened. Dean-girl emerged, cheeks flushed to a bright pink and eyes glassy – physical signs Sam recognized on a girl – but the look on her face was a disconcerting mix of lecherous pride and innocent amazement. "Holy shit, dude," she breathed. "You have got to try that. I am so serious." She flopped back on her bed with a sigh. "Wow, just…wow."

After the initial glance up from her laptop, Sam-girl kept her eyes dutifully trained on her research. "Reeeally don't wanna hear about it," she snapped, clacking the keys angrily.

Her sister rolled onto her belly, rested her chin on her hands. "No, seriously. Think about it: it's the best of both worlds! It's like the most incredible porn you can imagine. You can feel—"

"STOP!" Sam-girl's yell was furious.

"Come on, S—" Dean-girl started again.

"SHUT! UP!" Sam-girl slammed the laptop closed and tossed it onto the bed. She stood up and hurried over to her suitcase, flung it open with a vengeance and started rummaging through it.

Dean-girl watched her. "Nothing's going to fit, dude."

"I said shut up," she whispered icily. She scooped up her pile of chosen clothing, whirled to shoot daggers out of her eyes at her sister, and stomped into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

On her bed, Dean-girl rolled her eyes. "Bitch," she mumbled, and then snickered, standing up to get the laptop. Obviously Sammy hadn't found anything worthwhile. Maybe she could dig something up herself.

The sounds of the shower running went on for what seemed like forever, and Dean-girl was sure the room's tiny water heater was almost drained. The bathroom door finally unlocked and opened, and Sam-girl stepped out, followed by a swoosh of steam. She was wearing Sam's jeans, bunched tightly at the waist by a belt, the bottoms rolled up with ridiculously large cuffs. She had on one of his gigantic (on her, anyway) tee shirts, and a navy blue hoodie over it. Her hair hung in wavy wet strings down her shoulders, making little dark spots on the hoodie. She sniffed and glanced at Dean-girl, then walked to her suitcase again and dug out a comb. She perched on her bed and began carefully if not a little awkwardly dragging it through her hair.

Dean-girl said nothing, just watched. Partly in awe, partly in amusement, partly in fear.

When Sam-girl was done with her hair, she stood and walked over to the two pairs of boots by the door. She looked down at them quietly, both determination and embarrassment flashing across her features. Finally, she spoke. "Can I wear your boots?" she asked. "They're a little smaller than mine."

"Where are you going?" Dean-girl asked. "Did you think of something?"

"No. But we need to get some clothes that fit," she said, taking Dean-girl's lack of response as tacit agreement and slipping her bare feet into the boots. They were still too roomy, and made her look like a cartoon character. "Including shoes. Then we can actually go figure this out."

Dean-girl blanched. "Go? Out in public?"

Her sister considered her expression. "Yeah, Dean, out in public. It's not like anyone knows we're in the wrong bodies. We're just a couple of girls," she said, screwing up her face. Saying it out loud somehow made it seem even more real. "Don't worry, you don't have to go out yet. I'll pick up some basics. There's a Wal-Mart just down the street. No one will notice me, even in your boots."

She slipped the chain out of the lock and turned the bolt. As she opened the door, she turned to face her sister again. "And okay, you were right: it was pretty amazing." Before her sister even had a chance to smile, Sam-girl was gone.

As she walked the few blocks to Wal-Mart, Sam-girl dredged back into her memory and pulled out the files on Jess and her grooming habits, realizing that Dean would have no clue what to buy if he was the one making the supply run. Sure, Dean had seen more than his share of bras and underwear, but Sam doubted he'd ever sat in a bathroom, transfixed, as he watched a girl shave her legs, or heard a dissertation on the necessity of conditioner. A smile edged cautiously onto Sam-girl's lips. Who would have thought that information would someday prove indispensable?

Dean's boots were already chafing her heels by the time she entered the over-air-conditioned store and picked up a basket. She stopped near the entrance, trying to decide which department to search first, counting out the items in her mental list. A pair of young men – maybe about Sam's age – walked past her and smiled a smile that Sam had never had directed at him before. Not by men, anyway. It wasn't pushy or "creepy," as Jess called guys overtly on the prowl, but...appreciative. Sam-girl flustered, put her head down, and turned to walk quickly in the opposite direction. "If you only knew," she mumbled as she headed toward the pharmacy section.

She had little trouble finding multiple multi-packs of multi-bladed razors and a can of women's shaving cream. She managed to find one labeled "for sensitive skin" that was unscented. She had no desire to smell like "Raspberry Bliss" or "Flirty Mango" and was pretty sure Dean would agree.

The shampoo aisle was daunting – Sam was used to picking up the same shampoo every time and ignoring the rows upon rows of brightly colored bottles. It didn't take long, though, to find the brand that Jess had used. She was re-daunted when she discovered how many variations were made: moisturizing, strengthening, clarifying, for colored hair, de-frizzing, volumizing. She settled on a conditioner "for normal hair," just one bottle, and decided that the motel shampoos would work fine. They probably only needed to get by for a day or two; no need to get too carried away.

She was on her way out of the aisle when a row of hair ties hanging down the side of the endcap caught her eye. Oh, yeah! They definitely needed those. Just the slight breeze on the walk over had been enough to send tendrils of damp hair reaching across her face, tickling her eyes and nose. She grabbed a package of black ones and threw them in her basket.

Next she tracked down the shoe department and went straight to the men's section, determined to not have to buy women's shoes. After a few trials, she found that she could still fit into men's shoes, albeit much smaller ones. She found a pair of boots similar to Sam's usual and put them in her basket (which was already heading toward full, but she refused to push around a cart, dammit). Dean's feet were about two sizes smaller than Sam's, so she used that formula in the hunt for She-Dean footwear. She discovered that the right size was near the very smallest of men's shoe sizes, and found herself with an extremely limited selection. After entirely too much consideration given the paltry options, she finally found a pair that Dean probably wouldn't bitch about too much. She'd just have to remind him...her that she could have easily bought some flip-flops or ballet flats instead.

The next stop was women's clothing. She realized as she passed the lingerie section that she would be avoiding that inevitability for as long as possible. She had no desire to go lurking around in the "Intimates" section, even if she did just look like a girl with wet hair wearing ill-fitting clothes. Starting with a hunt for shirts, she was quickly annoyed at the abundance of strappy tank tops and gauzy blouses, and came very close to just giving up and going to the men's shirts; they made smaller tees that would look just fine, and no one ever judged girls for wearing guys' clothes. What was the difference in tee shirts, anyway? But after finding the Hanes section, it was a piece of cake. She picked out a few plain, normal tee shirts in greys and blues and blacks, and tried on a new hoodie, choosing an identical one in a size smaller for her sister.

Jeans posed a new problem: she was going to have to try them on. She had very limited knowledge of women's pants sizes. All she knew was that Jess had been a size 6, and she always had to get "tall" jeans. Gauging from the height of the other women in the clothing section, not to mention Man-Sam's usual towering height, it seemed like Sam-girl would probably have to go for those "tall" ones, too.

She searched through all the various washes and styles, wondering how much of a difference there really was between men's and women's, and longing to just go get some real jeans. She ended up finding some in a decent cut and color that actually came in both "tall" and "average." The plan was to get the same ones for Dean in "average" once she found a good size. If they didn't quite fit Dean-girl's ass, too freakin' bad. She picked up three different sizes, betting one would fit, and looked around for the fitting rooms. Turned out they were smack in the middle of the dreaded lingerie section. Well, shit. She decided she might as well get that over with, too, and only have to go into the dressing rooms once.

With a sigh, she headed in. She paused immediately, overwhelmed by the options. Okay, bras first.

Bras!

She stifled a giddily nervous laugh as she walked toward the racks lined with them. Never in his life would Sam have thought he'd be looking for bras for himself. Or for Dean, for that matter! Sam-girl stopped in an aisle and studied the rows before her. Sam had spent his entire life avoiding looking too closely at anything in this department – as a boy, he hadn't understood what any of it really was, but saw it all as mysterious and strange; as a teenager, he'd kept his eyes studiously averted and was embarrassed to even glance at lingerie departments, despite desperately wanting to learn all their secrets; since being an adult, he'd of course become much more mature about it: he still wanted to scrutinize every item, but had enough self-control and real-life, hands-on experience that he could notice a lot while walking by, but never look like he was noticing.

But now Sam-girl had to find something that fit, and the bras were even more daunting than the shampoo aisle. They all looked really small. Not that Sam-girl was Dolly Parton or anything, but her boobs were definitely bigger than any of these could hold. It took her a minute to realize that they were organized by size, and the bigger ones were behind the smaller ones. She started rifling through the ones within arm's length. Black. Satin. Padded. Oh hell no. She was flipping through bras for what seemed like forever. When another shopper entered the aisle she was in, Sam-girl startled, remembered herself, and smiled at the woman, who smiled vaguely back and continued her own search, completely unaware that her fellow bra shopper was an imposter. Utterly befuddled and frankly quite terrified by the sizing system – having only a vague idea of how it worked and having even less of an idea which of those sizes her new body was, she was rather excessively relieved when she entered a different aisle and found bras in sizes – small, medium, large, extra-large. She picked one of each, made out of what felt like stretchy tee-shirt material, and headed to the fitting rooms.

After an uncomfortable minute of being so nervous that the woman behind the fitting room counter had to take the clothing from her basket and count it out for her before handing over the little plastic tag with a "7" on it, Sam-girl hurried down the aisle of open doors, her heart thumping in her ears. She locked herself in the little stall as fast as she could and took a deep breath. She felt like she had a neon PERVERT sign flashing above her head.

Trying on the jeans was relatively painless, all fucked-up things considered. The size 8 fit fairly well, and Sam-girl found herself gawking at her womanly figure before putting Sam's baggy jeans back on and cinching up the waist again.

The bras, however, were a different story. Oh, one of them ended up fitting, but it took her entirely too long to come to that conclusion. First there was the discovery that this type of bra didn't even have those little hook thingies. She decided that was probably a good thing, since Sam had never been particularly skilled with them. But then came the matter of trying them on. Starting with the smallest and working her way up seemed like a logical plan of attack. However, once she was pretzeled halfway into the size "small," arms in the air willy-nilly and head at a frighteningly unnatural angle, she realized that the hooks might have their benefits after all. It took some pulling, squirming, and even a couple frustrated jumps (during which she quickly learned the value of these contraptions) before she escaped its clutches. Disgusted, she threw it on the floor in a twisted ball and went for the one marked "large." This one was fairly easy to get into – more like a tank top – but it gapped oddly in places, and her new boobs still seemed to be hanging more than they should. With a frustrated sigh, she pulled that one off, too, and took the size "medium" off its hanger. Now this one, while still a pain in the ass to fold herself and her new boobs into, actually seemed to fit. Just like Goldilocks, she thought wryly. She turned from side to side in the mirror. It wasn't the most flattering thing she'd ever seen, but it could be worse. No one was going to be seeing her in it, anyway. Her sister was getting one of these in the same size whether it fit her or not.

After emerging triumphant (but still nervous) from the fitting rooms, Sam-girl went over her mental list again. Two more things to get: underwear and socks. Deciding she was on a roll and should just finish getting all the embarrassing things, she hunted down the aisles lined with good lord, panties, and was again overwhelmed by the options: bikini, string bikini, briefs, high-cut briefs, thongs, boy shorts, hipsters. For fuck's sake, she thought, how do they even get dressed in the morning? After some scrutiny, she came to the conclusion that the "boy shorts" were (as their name implied) the closest thing she could get to men's underwear – a girly, smaller version of boxer-briefs, really. She found the least colorful multi-pack (with no patterns and no pinks) and bought two in the "medium" size, hoping she could just follow the sizing of the bras.

Socks were the easiest of all – they really only came in one size, and Sam-girl was relieved to find that the styles differed little from men's. After stuffing a six-pack of black ones into her over-filled basket, she stopped in the jeans section again to dig out an "average" length pair for her sister. She sighed heavily and headed to the checkouts. She had to pee like a motherfucker but was drawing the line at attempting it for the first time in a public bathroom. She'd just have to hold it until she got back to the motel.

Dean-girl had laughed heartily after her sister's admission upon leaving the motel room. For some reason, even though she'd done it to herself first, it was hilarious to imagine Sammy double-clicking his own mouse.

She continued to research online for a few minutes before deciding she was just too distracted and needed to study herself some more. She went to the bathroom, where the light was best, and stood in front of the sink gazing at the girl in the mirror.

Long, light brown hair with a few streaks of blond. Green eyes. Freckles. Not bad, actually. She'd probably do herself, she thought, and then grinned. Oh yeah: she already had. She pulled off her tee shirt and smiled. There were the boobs. Nice ones, too, really. Good size, nice shape. Her eyes skimmed the rest of her top half. Not only did she still have freckles, she realized, but she still had the same freckles. The more prominent, identifiable ones she was used to as man-Dean were in the exact same places on her now-softly-rounded arms, shoulders, chest. Weird. She still had all the same scars, too: a man's battle wounds mapped out on a woman's body. She eyed her shape in the mirror, ran a hand over her middle and up and down her side, tracing curves she'd never had. The little rise of her belly, the unmistakable contour of her hip.

She slid the loose-fitting boxers down, where they pooled at her ankles, and backed clumsily into the towel rack behind her before realizing she wasn't going to be able to see much of her bottom half in this mirror. She went back out into the room and stood at the full-length one, buck naked and still hairy as all fuck.

That aside, her legs weren't bad, either. A shame no one would ever get to appreciate them. She turned around, craning her neck to see her backside in the mirror. Huh. Quite the ass back there. Round and full and tight, just the way Dean usually liked them. She shimmied a little, gave it a smack, and chuckled to herself as she went to put her clothes on again. She might actually have to try hustling pool like this. She could make a killing, for sure.

With a bit of a shock, she realized she needed to pee. The sitting down wasn't as troubling as the fact that wiping afterward was necessary. It was going to be hard to remember to do that every fucking time. Obnoxious.

She went back to the computer and sat staring at it for a minute before leaning over and picking up her phone. Why the hell hadn't they called Bobby yet? Maybe he'd heard of this before, knew how to get them back to normal.

The phone was ringing before Dean-girl realized that she didn't even sound like Dean, and she was going to have some explaining to do.

"Yeah?" Bobby answered his cell phone, recognizing Dean's number.

"Bobby," Dean-girl said, "Don't hang up."

"Who is this?" Bobby asked, no doubt confused by the girl's voice on the other end of the line.

"Um, we're chicks, Bobby," she blurted, deciding to just get it out there right away. "We got turned into chicks, somehow. This is Dean."

There was a moment of silence, and then came Bobby's voice again, this time with "Oh, shit."

"I know!"

"Both of you?"

"Yeah."

There was a sigh in Dean-girl's ear, and she could almost see Bobby rubbing his temples with one hand. "What did you do?" he asked.

"Do? I don't know, Bobby, we didn't do anything! We just woke up this way this morning. We're all...boobs and hips and stuff."

Bobby puffed out a shot of either annoyance or amusement; Dean-girl couldn't tell which. "Are you workin' a job?"

"We were. We just finished one last night. Regular angry spirit, salt-and-burn crap."

"Anything weird happen? Did you see anything different? Feel anything?"

"No! It was a normal, by-the-book hunt. No witches, curses, nothing."

A pause, as they both rifled through their minds for pertinent information.

Bobby was the first to speak again. "Well, either there was something strange you didn't notice or know about, or somethin's got you in its sights."

"Have you heard of this before?" Dean-girl asked hopefully.

"Yeah, I've heard of it, kid, but I ain't actually seen it before. Leave it to you boys...or girls. From what I remember, it's usually a curse of some kind. Either a cursed object or someone cursed you, personally. Where y'at?"

"Uhh Salida, Colorado. West of Colorado Springs."

"Okay, well. Stay put for now. Whatever did this to you is probably still there. Is Sam there with you?"

"He's at Wal-Mart getting us some clothes that fit."

"Lord. Well, look: I'll dig around and see what I can come up with. You let me know if anything changes. And if you have any...womanly problems, don't call me."

"Yeah, great. Thanks, Bobby."

Dean-girl flipped her phone closed and threw it on the bed. A cursed object or someone cursing them? Well, it could be worse. It'd probably be kind of fun, as long as they got changed back before either of them— oh, fuck. If they were girls, completely girls (and it seemed like they sure as hell were), would they get their periods? Shit. Shit shit shit.

She buried her head in her hands. This could be bad. Really bad. Tampons and pads and Midol and cramps and bleeding crotches: these were things Dean prided himself on never having needed to learn much about. It all weirded him out more than he'd have admitted before, but the time of reckoning might now be just around the corner. He couldn't handle that. No way. And he was pretty sure he never wanted to find out what Sam with PMS would be like. That settled it: they had to get themselves back to normal, and soon.

Sam-girl trudged home doggedly and was relieved to get back to the motel for a few reasons: her hair was mostly dry now, and was somehow both resting hotly on the back of her neck and flying constantly across her face; the sun was burning away the morning, and she was cooking in her dark, oversized clothes; and Dean's boots had worn her heels completely raw. The only reason she hadn't stopped to open the hair ties and socks (or even use the new boots) was the desperation with which her bladder was badgering her. She had to clench her teeth and focus hard in order to make it back without a new dose of embarrassment.

Bursting into the room, she dropped the bags on the floor and made a beeline for the bathroom. Dean-girl was lying on the bed with the laptop open and the TV on – Knight Rider or some shit like that. "I'm gonna piss myself," Sam-girl announced tersely as she crossed the room.

"Don't forget to wipe!" Dean-girl yelled after her. "It's weird!" The bathroom door slammed. "Oh, hey," she called out a few moments later as she turned off the TV and stood up to inspect the loot. "I called Bobby. He's doin' some research, too."

"Good," echoed Sam-girl's voice. "Had he heard of this?"

"Heard of it but never seen it," Dean-girl shouted over the sound of the toilet flushing. Sam-girl emerged, also a bit unnerved at the wiping phenomenon but feeling unspeakably better. Dean-girl lowered her voice to normal and continued, "Thought it must be a curse of some kind. Oh, and he told us if we had any woman problems, we shouldn't call him."

"Nice," Sam-girl replied. She found her sister dumping the bags out onto her bed and rummaging through the contents.

"Wow," Dean-girl said. "No wonder it took you so long."

"Dude, I had to try on bras and jeans. It was awful." She sat on her bed and gingerly pulled off Dean's boots, letting out a hiss of pain.

Dean-girl looked up from the bounty spread out before her. "Did you get to see naked chicks?" she asked.

Sam-girl was assessing the damage to her heels, and it took a minute for her sister's question to sink in. "What…? No, Dean, they have stalls."

"Pff," Dean-girl huffed in disappointment. "Figures."

Sam-girl stood and started sorting out the clothes, throwing hers onto her own bed. "I hope everything fits you," she said. "If not, well, go back and get your own."

"Razors!" Dean-girl exclaimed, picking up one of the packages and noticing a couple more still on the bed. "How many of these did you get?"

"Well, you were complaining about being hairy," Sam-girl retorted. "I'm pretty sure there are enough there. Now you can feel like a real girl." She batted her eyelashes at her sister.

Dean-girl shot a glare in her direction and then noticed the underwear. "Panties?" she asked, her eyebrows dancing upwards.

"Trust me," Sam-girl replied, making a face and squirming a little for effect. She grabbed the package from her sister's hands and opened it, taking out a pair. She unfolded them and held them up to look at. "I tried to get the least…girly ones," she offered.

"Great. Well, I guess I'll take a shower. Now that the hot water's probably back." Sam-girl was busying herself with removing the price tags from her clothes, and Dean-girl continued. "I don't have a clue how to shave, though," she said, almost sheepishly.

"I'm still not sure I'm even going to bother," Sam-girl answered.

Dean-girl gaped at her. "Ew," was all she said.

"What?" Sam-girl replied, defensive. "This is what I'm used to. It's not like I'm going out in a skirt or a bikini or anything. No one would ever know."

"I'd know," Dean-girl said. She now held a pile consisting of her new jeans, a navy blue tee shirt, and a pair of the boy shorts. She lifted a bra with one finger and eyed it skeptically. "Will this…fit?" she asked.

Sam-girl had discovered that her smaller, weaker hands were also much more sensitive, and that some of the plastic tags on her new clothes nearly cut through the soft skin of her fingers. She bit through an offending tag as she looked at her sister, and spit out the little shard of plastic, triumphant. "I don't know," she said. "I didn't have your boobs with me."

Dean-girl puffed out her cheeks in a long sigh of resignation, added the bra to her pile of clothes, and headed across the room.

"Hey!" Sam-girl called. She picked up the bottle of conditioner as her sister turned to face her. "Take this," she said. "You'll need it. Makes things much easier." She tossed it and Dean-girl caught it expertly, turned the bottle around to read it. She raised her eyebrows, turned, and disappeared into the bathroom.

With the room to herself, Sam-girl locked and chained the door and set about changing into her girl clothes. Those boy shorts did feel weird when she first put them on, but once she had her jeans on, too, she could barely tell they were there. She stood in front of the mirror, looking at her new self. She looked completely normal now – or at least she would to anyone who didn't know her. Her jeans skimmed her hips and thighs and felt too snug, but they looked good. Her bra felt like a mummy's wrappings. She got a hair tie and managed to tame her hair into a slightly-messy ponytail as she heard the shower turn off. She turned her head from side to side and watched her hair swish in the mirror.

Suddenly the door opened, and there stood Dean-girl in her naked, hairy glory, surrounded by steam and looking a little wide-eyed and nervous. "Okay I'm done. Where are the razors?" she asked.

"Gah! Dean!" Sam-girl exclaimed, turning away from her sister's excess of exposed skin. "Put some fuckin' clothes on, man!"

There was a silence from the bathroom doorway. "What. You've seen me naked before."

"Yeah, but not…when you're like," her back still to her sister, she gestured behind her with a sweep of the hand, "that. It's creepy. You're not you, you're some…naked girl. Just. Put something on, okay? Jesus."

Dean-girl sighed, and Sam-girl could hear her turning back to pick up some clothes. "Yeah, I guess you're right," she conceded. "I don't want to turn you on or anything. You perv."

Sam-girl swallowed. This was absolutely, without a doubt, the most fucked-up thing ever. Her – Sam's – brother was a hot girl. But then, so was Sam. Definitely mind-fucking.

"Okay, is this better?" Dean-girl asked, emerging from the bathroom, missing only the jeans.

"Yeah. Thanks," Sam-girl said. "I'm sorry, it's just that—"

"Shut up," Dean-girl interrupted, holding up a hand. "I know what, and we don't have to have a Talk about it, for fuck's sake. We're straight men trapped in hot chicks' bodies. It's fucking weird. End of discussion."

Sam-girl was grateful to end the conversation. By the time she entered the bathroom with a package of razors, Dean-girl was sitting expectantly on the edge of the bathtub. "So. How do we do this?" she asked.

Sam-girl opened one of the packages and handed a razor to her sister. "We?" she echoed. "It's shaving, Dean. You do it all the time."

"Yeah, but this is a huge area," her sister replied.

"True. But maybe that'll make it easier?"

Dean-girl looked dubiously at the can of shaving cream Sam-girl handed her, and didn't move.

"Here," Sam-girl said, leaning past her sister to put the plug in the bathtub and turn on the tap. "Turn around and put your feet in there." Dean-girl was still staring at the shaving tools in her hands.

Sam-girl sighed. "Fine, I'll just do it, too. Move over." She took off her jeans as her sister edged to the side and turned to put her feet in the tub. It was only a few seconds after stepping in that Sam-girl was painfully reminded of her raw, blistered heels. She grunted and bent over, gripping her knees. "Damn it," she growled through gritted teeth, before composing herself and perching next to her sister.

She took a razor of her own out of the open package and pulled off the little plastic protective cover. Once the water was up to their ankles, she turned off the faucet. "Okay…go," she said.

Dean-girl was still looking at her with an almost comical nervousness Dean only got from the weirdest things. It always surprised Sam. Most of the time Dean knew exactly what he was doing – or could at least make anyone think he did – killing monsters, cleaning guns, fixing the car, pretending to be a Fed. But then you'd bring up something about, say, relationships (or apparently shaving, as in this case), and all of a sudden it was like Sam was the older brother, and Dean would get all second-guessy and full of uncertainty.

"You go first," Dean-girl said. "I'll watch."

Sam-girl rolled her eyes and sighed as she took the cap off the shaving cream. She lifted her foot and set it on the opposite edge of the bathtub, covering her leg with the foam. She dipped the razor in the bathwater and began dragging it up her leg in slow, even strokes, ankle to knee, taking almost all the hair off with each pass. Dean-girl watched silently. "See?" Sam-girl said, trying to sound less pleased with herself than she actually felt. "Piece of cake."

Dean-girl seemed to suddenly snap to, noticeably puffing herself up in notorious Dean fashion. "Yeah," she said dismissively. "No problem."

So the two girls slowly and carefully rid their legs of hair, covering their arms and even their faces in globs of shaving cream along the way. Knees posed a particular challenge, and each girl got nicked at least once, cursing each time. "They're like two giant chins!" Dean-girl exclaimed in disgust. They had to collaborate to get the backs of their thighs, because they couldn't see what they were doing, and neither of them could figure out how to do it alone. At least the hair was fine and sparse back there. They were quite proud of themselves when they were finished.

As Sam-girl sat on the closed toilet, toweling off her smooth legs, Dean-girl stood in the bathtub while the water slowly drained.

"Aren't you gonna do the rest?" Dean-girl asked.

Sam-girl looked up quizzically. "The rest? Oh. Nope. This was more than enough for me for now. If we're still like this the next time I shower, maybe I'll do my armpits or somethin'."

"Well," Dean-girl replied, determination on her freckled face, "I'm going to go all the way."

"Ahh, good luck with that." As she pulled on her jeans, Sam-girl chuckled.

"What's so funny?"

"I just never would've thought you'd get so into being a girl."

Dean-girl frowned. "Shut up. I'm not into it. I just want to be…authentic."

"Okay, Dean," Sam-girl said as she left the bathroom. "You make yourself 'authentic.' But hurry up with it," she called back. "It's lunch time."

She tried to focus on doing more research, but Dean-girl's mumbling from the bathroom, switching from confused to frustrated to victorious and back again, made it nearly impossible to focus. She also kept coming back to the same thing she'd seen this morning and what Bobby had suggested: a curse.

Well who the hell had cursed them?

She gave up for the moment and decided to put band-aids on her shredded heels. She was just breaking in her new boots when Dean-girl finally rounded the corner into view, fully dressed except for shoes, and still looking proud of herself. "Now," she said, clapping her hands and rubbing them together. "I'm hungry. Let's get some lunch!"

They hopped into the car, and (after multiple adjustments to the seat and mirrors) found a "family restaurant" not far from the motel. Sam-girl noticed that her sister was having quite the time being a girl, and had to tell her to tone it down a couple times. She was embarrassing – smiling at every guy who walked by, flipping her hair and sticking out her chest (while frequently and conspicuously admiring it), comparing herself to other female diners. And then to top it off, she forgot herself during their meal and belched, causing the patrons in the booth behind her to turn and stare, and causing Sam-girl (who was of course lined up perfectly to make eye contact with them) to wish the ground would open up and swallow her whole. "Oh!" Dean-girl chirped, covering her mouth with the tips of her fingers. "Excuse me!" Sam-girl just clenched her jaw.

A barbecue pork sandwich and a turkey and avocado wrap later, they were back at the motel.

"Do we really have to stay here?" Dean-girl asked as she plucked a beer from the tiny fridge, Dean's pissy attitude sounding extra-whiny in a female voice. "What are we supposed to do? This place sucks."

"I'll see if I can find our next job," Sam-girl offered, flipping open the laptop yet again. "With any luck, this will be extremely temporary."

Dean-girl flopped onto the bed and turned on the TV again, sullenly sipping her beer.

She watched TV while Sam-girl searched and searched and searched, finding nothing of any real substance, or that piqued their interest. After what seemed like forever but had actually only been about an hour, Dean's phone rang. Dean-girl picked it up and looked at the caller ID. Bobby. She flipped it open and muted the TV.

"Hey Bobby," she said.

"Hey, kid," Bobby replied. "How you girls holdin' up?"

"Bored as all fuck, man, and Sam didn't find anything," she lamented. "We shaved, though, and went out to lunch."

"Shaved, huh? Sorry I missed that circus. Listen, I hate to ruin your girl time, but I think I might be gettin' close to finding something."

"You wanna talk to Sam?" Dean-girl asked. Sammy was better with the research stuff. Dean prided himself on the execution.

"Yeah, okay," Bobby said. "Put your, ah, brother on."

Dean-girl handed the phone to her sister. "He wants to talk to you."

Sam-girl leaned over and took the phone. "Hi, Bobby," she said.

"Hi, Sam. Now…I've been readin' up, and it sounds to me like you touched a cursed object."

"I saw online that that could happen, but wouldn't we know? I mean, there was nothing weird at all about our last job."

"Yeah, your brother said the same thing. But I've been thinkin'…it could've been at the cemetery, or in a restaurant, or…anywhere, really. Hell, it could be in your room."

"Our room?" Sam-girl repeated, getting a quizzical look from her sister. "Really?"

"Well," Bobby said, "It'd have to be somethin' you both touched. It could be anything, and I mean anything. A plate, a lamp, a book, a table. Probably something old, but not necessarily ancient. These curses were real popular near the end of the nineteenth century, so I'd bet on it bein' something from around then. It wouldn't look any different than anything else, but it'd have a symbol on it somewhere."

"A symbol on it," she repeated, looking at her sister. "What kind of symbol?" she grabbed the motel pen and paper from the bedside table.

"It's uh…it's a diamond, with a crooked line coming out of either side. Kinda like wings. Or spider legs."

Sam-girl wrote down the words, tried to draw the symbol. Dean-girl stood up to see.

"Okay, Bobby, thanks. We'll retrace our steps and look for something with this on it."

"All right. Now if you find it, don't go all nuts and smash it to pieces or anything. You'll need to destroy it, but I don't know how yet. If you don't do it right, you might be stuck that way. Unless of course we could find another one, but I wouldn't go bettin' on that."

"Okay, got it. No smashing."

"Be patient, girls. Go find that damn thing and we'll fix this."

Sam-girl sighed. "We will. Thanks, Bobby." She clapped the phone closed and handed it back to her sister. "He thinks we both touched some cursed object," she explained. "And it could be anything, but it'll probably be about a hundred years old and have this on it somewhere." She held up the notepad with the drawing on it. "Or…something like it." She dropped it back onto the bed.

"Okay, let's find it," Dean-girl replied. "Where have we been?"

The girls flipped through their memories of the last few days, Sam-girl writing down a list of the locations.

Motel

Chinese restaurant

Liquor store

Coffee shop

Today's lunch restaurant

Cemetery

The Fergusons' house

Library

"Well, the library and the liquor store are closed, since it's Sunday," Sam-girl said. "So I hope it wasn't a book or a bottle. It's obviously not at the restaurant we just went to," she continued. She bit the end of the pen, thinking. "The Chinese place might actually be a good place to start."

"Yeah," Dean-girl agreed as she stood up, eyes carefully scanning the room. "They had all kinds of old-looking shit in there."

"The coffee shop I seriously doubt," Sam-girl went on. "I don't think either of us touched anything while we were in there. I guess if we don't find it somewhere else, we'll have to give it a try."

Dean-girl nodded, walking over to the standard motel table-and-two-chairs set by the window and bending down to look closely at them.

"We can probably go to that family's house on the way back to the cemetery," Sam-girl said. "We didn't touch much in there, either, and it seems pretty likely they'd've noticed if something in their house was changing people's sexes. But still, I'm sure they'd—oh shit," she stopped suddenly.

Dean-girl had moved on from the table and chairs and was now looking over everything on the dresser/desk combo. It took her a moment to notice her sister's abrupt silence. She glanced over. "What?" she asked.

"They won't just let us in," Sam-girl answered, "Because we're not Sam and Dean anymore. They won't know who we are, and they wouldn't believe us even if we explained it."

"Yeah, oh shit is right." Dean-girl lifted up a lamp and turned it over, set it back down. She made her way up the aisle between the beds, to the bedside table.

"Well, I guess we'll just go to the cemetery tonight after the Chinese place, once it's dark," Sam-girl decided, looking out the window at the late-afternoon sunlight. She sighed. "We'll probably have to dig up that damn grave again. If it's not in either of those places, we'll start up again in the morning."

"Son. Of. A. Bitch," Dean-girl murmured. Sam-girl turned to look and found her sister's eyes like saucers for the second time that day. In her hands was the lamp from the bedside table. She held it out, bottom-first, so Sam-girl could get a good look at the carving etched into the porcelain: a diamond with two bent lines coming out of it.

"No way," Sam-girl said softly, her eyes widening to match her sister's. "Holy shit, Dean!"

Dean-girl startled and set the lamp hastily and clumsily back on the table, wiped her hands on her jeans.

Sam-girl coughed in amusement. "It's not like it can do anything to you. In case you hadn't noticed, the damage is already done."

"Yeah, well…" was all Dean-girl could muster.

A shocked silence landed between them.

"Well!" Sam-girl exclaimed after a minute, shaking off her surprise. "I guess I'll, uh, call Bobby and tell him we found it. Nice goin', Dean. We didn't even have to leave the room!" She picked up her phone to dial Bobby's number. "And that explains how both of us came in contact with it."

Dean-girl sat on the edge of her bed, still staring at the lamp. She was having a hard time wrapping her mind around what was, for once, their good fortune: the thing was in their fucking room? Really? Nothing ever worked out like this for the Winchesters. There was always another shoe up there, just waiting for the perfect time to drop.

Being that so little time had passed since they'd talked to him, Bobby had barely started trying to find out how to destroy the object and reverse the spell. He sounded just as surprised as they felt when they told him it was a lamp from their room.

"What I don't get is," Sam-girl said, "how could this thing have just been sitting in a motel room? Wouldn't this be happening to people all the time?"

"It's not like we'd know," Bobby replied. "You think if this happens to some regular guy, he's gonna tell anyone about it? Maybe it wears off after a while. Or it could just be very particular."

"Particular?" Sam-girl asked.

"Yeah. You can do anything you want with these spells: make 'em so they only work on a full moon, or on a certain day of the year. You can even tailor 'em to certain people. Maybe it only works on brothers, or hunters, or people over six feet tall. There are a million options. There's no way to know."

"Wow."

"Yeah," Bobby sighed. "Leave it to you boys to accidentally find the trigger."

"Wha—we can't help it, Bobby!" Sam-girl said indignantly.

"I know, I know. This shit just follows you boys around."

Sam-girl was silent for a moment. "Yeah, it does, doesn't it?"

"Well, don't go findin' any more," Bobby replied. He reminded them to be careful with the lamp and said he'd call as soon as he found the right ritual. "Stay outta trouble," he ordered.

It was just starting to turn blue outside when Dean-girl announced that she wanted to go to a bar and try hustling some pool.

"Are you serious?" Sam-girl asked hotly.

"What?" her sister retorted. "Can you imagine how easy it'd be? Hell, even you could probably rake it in!"

Sam-girl rolled her eyes. "Thanks."

"I'm serious, dude, I wanna go out. Come on, we have time. Might as well make the best of it, right?" She grinned impishly.

"So now you want to go out. Just a couple hours ago, it looked like the idea alone was going to kill you. And since when do you make the best of anything, Dean?"

"I know, but…I just want to take advantage of this," Dean-girl said, gesturing up and down with both hands, displaying her new body. "I'm a completely different person. No one will recognize me, and no one will ever see me again. Hell, we could probably do anything we wanted, and in broad fuckin' daylight, as long as we didn't get caught before we got back to normal."

"That's…that's just brilliant. Yeah, let's go on a crime spree."

"Come on, Sammy," Dean-girl dug, her moss-colored eyes glittering. "You make a great chick. Totally convincing."

Sam-girl glared at her sister and sighed. "Hilarious."

"See?" Dean-girl chuckled. "But seriously – you're not seeing the fun we can have here. What are you, an old maid? Christ, live a little, man."

Sam-girl sighed. It was true. Other than the, uh, one time that morning, she hadn't taken time or given thought to having any fun with her predicament. She'd just accepted it as another Wacky Winchester Adventure and was waiting for it to be over. The idea of getting hit on and ogled by drunk guys didn't sound all that appealing. She just couldn't dive into the role-playing part of this like Dean was. He had always been such a ham, and this gave him the perfect excuse to go all out. But Sam-girl just wanted to be Sam again. It wasn't blowing her skirt up, so to speak. Still…she could almost consider going out drinking in this state as a sort of social experiment. It'd be an interesting thing to study, and Dean was right: there probably wasn't ever going to be another time to gather information and experience from this side of the fence.

"Okay, fine," she finally conceded. "I'll go with you, for a while."

"Yess!" Dean-girl exclaimed.

"But I will not be hustling pool, or darts, or acting like some…floozy."

That girly version of Dean's laugh filled the room. "A floozy? What the fuck, Sammy! What century do you live in? Anyway, you're like the Anti-Floozy. Now I, on the other hand…"

Sam-girl took her hair out of the ponytail to comb it. "They're men, Dean. It's just…gross." She made a face at her sister.

"Well it's not like I'm gonna fuck any of 'em. The thing is, I know—exactly—what works on men because I actually am a man. I'll have 'em eatin' outta my hand! It'll be great!"

Sam-girl sighed. "Okay, let's just get it over with."

Dean-girl winked at her. "Hand me that comb, sister."

The hair combing was pretty much the entire extent of their "getting ready." There was no makeup to be applied, no choices of outfits or shoes or jewelry – not that they would have known quite what to do with any of those things if they'd had them. Dean-girl left her dusty-straw-colored hair hanging down her back. The navy blue tee shirt she wore actually complimented her skin tone, her hair, her eyes, her freckles; but she didn't know that. Dean's ring now fit loosely on her pointer finger, and the gold amulet from Sammy hung cradled between her breasts. Sam-girl (of course) looked good, too, with her dark lashes, mile-long legs, and charcoal-grey shirt.

The girls got into the Impala and drove to "downtown" Salida, which was really pretty small. There were a few bars in as many blocks, and Dean-girl chose (in the usual Dean fashion) the dive-iest one. The girls entered the dimly-lit room, Sam-girl feeling awkward and conspicuous in her female form and following Dean-girl, whose confident, wiggly saunter only amplified her sister's nervousness.

Dean-girl walked up to the bar and slid up onto a stool. Sam-girl took the one next to her. The man behind the bar had "small-town bartender" written all over him: a regular Joe-looking middle-aged guy with a bit of a beer belly. He walked up and set his forearm on the bar, leaning in ever-so-slightly. "What'll it be, ladies?" he asked tiredly.

Dean-girl spoke up first. "I'll have a Maker's Mark, neat. And could you make this one a…Sex on the Beach?" she asked, indicating Sam-girl with a nod.

The guy smiled slightly at the drink choices and his eyes flicked from one girl to the other and back again – the blondish, feisty-looking one and the statuesque, kind of sullen-looking brunette. "Gotcha," he said, rapping his knuckles on the bar and straightening up.

As he turned back to get the drinks, Dean-girl said loudly, "See, Sammy? I told you it wouldn't be too much trouble to get your favorite drink."

Sam-girl glared at her sister. "You're an asshole," she mumbled.

"Yup!" Dean-girl agreed, grinning like an idiot. She swiveled on the stool, turning to look out at the rest of the tavern. It wasn't very crowded, but then it was a Sunday night. There were booths down the wall opposite the bar, hi-top tables down the middle of the room, and two pool tables at the back. There were definitely more men than women, but Dean-girl saw one or two girls that she'd probably make a pass at if she was a he.

"Heyyyy," she said, turning to her sister, eyes widening as her absently fading grin resurfaced full force. "I could be a lesbian!"

Sam-girl groaned and hung her head slowly, letting it come to rest on the waxy wood of the bar with a soft thud just as the bartender returned with their drinks.

"There you go," he said, causing Sam-girl to jerk back into an upright position as the drinks were set before them. Hers was pink and had a cherry in it. She huffed, grabbed it, and took an irritated sip from the straw. Yeah, it had a straw.

"Thanks!" Dean-girl flashed him a smile and handed over a bill. "Hey," she said as he counted out her change. "You guys have burgers or anything?"

"Yeah," said the guy. "You girls want one?"

"Yes, please," Dean-girl answered brightly. "A cheeseburger for me, and a regular for my sister here."

"Sure thing. Be a few minutes."

"No problem," she said, giving him a wink that caused Sam-girl to take another gulp of her drink.

As the guy walked away and disappeared into a doorway at the end of the bar, Sam-girl turned to her sister. "Jesus, Dean, cut that out."

Dean-girl turned to her as if she hadn't even spoken and continued. "Think about it, Sammy," she said, thwacking her sister's arm enthusiastically with the back of her hand. "We could both be lesbians! Well. Not together," she added, making a face. "Gross." She took a drink of her bourbon, her eyes still shining with excitement. "Ho-ly shit! Can you even imagine…?" she went on. "Pick up a chick and go back to her place and—Oh, man…" She was lost now, plotting out the fun she could have. She bit her lower lip and let out a low chuckle, shaking her head slightly. "Why didn't I think of this sooner?"

There was silence between them as Dean-girl fantasized and Sam-girl sipped her frou-frou cocktail – which wasn't that bad, to tell the truth. Neither noticed the bartender walking up with their burgers until he set the plates down before them.

"Burger?" he said, "And cheeseburger." He looked at the girls' drinks, which were nearly empty. "Need another?" he asked, gesturing at the glasses.

"Sure," Dean-girl replied, before her sister could let out a peep. As he walked away, she picked up her glass and drained it, smacking it back on the bar. "Yup, that's my plan: make some money playin' pool and then find a chick to go home with." She picked up her cheeseburger and took a Dean-sized bite. "Best plan ever," she said around the mouthful of food.

Sam-girl slurped the last of her drink through the ice cubes and looked at her plate. She sighed and picked up her burger.

The bartender came back with their new drinks and made off with their empty glasses. Dean-girl took out another bill and laid it on the table. He came back and picked it up, leaving again to visit the cash register.

"Sam," Dean-girl said accusingly, turning a skeptical eye on her sister. "You can not tell me that doesn't sound like fun."

Sam-girl chewed in silence, swallowed, and took the first sip of her second girly-drink. "It sounds like your kind of fun, Dean," she said, and took another bite.

"My kind of fun?" her sister repeated, raising her eyebrows. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Sam-girl replied, "That I'm not like you. I don't…do that. I just want to go back to the hotel, go to sleep, and wake up as myself again."

Dean-girl took a sip from her glass and frowned. "Fine, you hulking wet blanket. Go back to the hotel." She took another bite of her burger and chewed thoughtfully. "You're like the black hole of fun," she said. "You're where fun goes to die."

Her sister sighed. "Fuck you, Dean," she said.

Dean-girl smirked. "Well, one lucky girl in this town will," she said.

Sam-girl let out what could almost be called a growl.

Dean-girl set down her burger, dusting the crumbs off her hands and picking up her drink again. She eyed her sister and took a sip, smacked her lips and narrowed her eyes.

"Okay fine," she said, "You do whatever lame-ass thing you want to tonight, and I will have the best night of my life." She leaned in closer and pointed at Sam-girl, drink in hand. "But first I want you to actually think about it for a minute, and then honestly tell me if it sounds like fun, or not. Just…think about it." She tipped her glass up again, and it was empty.

Dean-girl was already acting like she was feeling the alcohol, and Sam-girl was surprised to find that she was actually feeling a little light, herself. Smaller bodies, different metabolisms, she thought.

She looked over at Dean-girl, who was still earnestly staring her down. "Think," her sister commanded.

So Sam-girl thought. At first she tried to kind of skim over the idea to get it over with, but it took root in her mind and she found herself getting a little lost in it.

Next to her, a knowing smile spread across Dean-girl's face. "You see?" she asked.

Sam-girl blinked a few times, glanced at her sister, and went back to eating. "Yeah, okay, fine," she said. "I can see how it would be fun."

"I told you!" Dean-girl exclaimed triumphantly, slapping her sister heartily on the back. "I'm the oldest, Sammy, you should listen to me. I know what I'm talkin' about."

Another gulp of her pink drink and Sam-girl turned back to her sister. "Yeah. But it's just…not my thing."

"Chicks aren't your thing?" Dean-girl asked. "Why Sammy! I always thought you were a little—"

"No, dumbass," Sam-girl shot back. "You know what I mean. I don't sleep with someone in every fucking town. I never have."

"'I'd call this a special circumstance, but okay. Fine," Dean-girl replied, stuffing the last of her burger into her mouth.

The bartender returned and asked again if they wanted more drinks. Dean-girl ordered a beer this time, and Sam-girl managed to butt in and order one for herself before another frilly drink came her way. She also thought that since alcohol was obviously affecting her differently, she'd better slow it down if she wanted to drive back to the motel.

"You ready to see a master in action?" Dean-girl asked as they waited for their drinks. She looked over at the pool tables, and Sam-girl knew she was sizing up the targets.

"Can't wait," she mumbled as their third drinks arrived. Dean-girl picked up her bottle and slid off the barstool. She started the trek down the length of the room with a confident swing of her hips.

Sam-girl grabbed her beer and followed, glancing around to see if anyone was watching them. Of course no one gave them a second look. Just a couple of girls in a bar.

Dean-girl chose the table on the left, as Sam-girl knew she would. They'd both been taught the same rules of the art of hustling, and Sam-girl saw what her sister did: the men here were a little older than the ones at the other table. They weren't as outwardly cocky as younger guys could be, but they had deeper pockets – and a deeper sense of pride that would keep them coming back, even as those pockets were being drained.

There were four or five guys scattered around, either playing the game or watching from the tall table and chairs against the wall.

"Hey," Dean-girl said as she walked up to the table. All sets of eyes landed on her. "You guys have room for one more?" The innocently expectant look on her face made Sam-girl cringe inside.

The men exchanged glances over their beers and pool cues – raised eyebrows, half-smiles, shrugs. Finally, the one closest to the girls spoke: "Sure, hon. You know how to play?"

Dean-girl smiled. "Yeah, a little."

"All right, well. You go find yourself a cue and we'll getcha set up in the next game," he said.

Dean-girl turned and winked at her sister as she walked to the cue rack on the back wall, next to the fire exit.

"What about you, sweetheart?" the guy asked Sam-girl. "You gonna be playin' too?"

She twitched a little and managed to scrounge up a half-hearted smile. "No, sir," she said, trying to summon some cheer into her voice. "I'm really not any good."

"Is that right?" he asked. "Maybe you just need someone to teach you." He grinned.

Sam-girl swallowed and willed her smile to stay put. "Yeah, maybe," she said as dismissively as she could without being rude.

"Well why don't you go take a seat for now? There's an open chair over there. Maybe later I can show you a few things."

Sam-girl didn't respond, just hurriedly made a bee-line for the empty chair against the wall. It wasn't that the guy was so bad – he actually seemed friendly, even almost fatherly in the traditional, non-John Winchester sense. She didn't get the feeling that the "few things" he wanted to show her were in his pants, either. It wasn't his fault; she was just disconcerted by this whole thing and was starting to wonder why she'd even come out with Dean in the first place.

One of the guys was already sitting in the other chair at the table. He nodded at her – nervously, she thought – as she sat across from him, facing out toward the game. He seemed to be the youngest of the bunch. He was a bit greasy-looking and had a slight build. He was fidgety, and awkwardness rolled off of him in waves. Sam-girl smiled in spite of herself. She didn't have to worry about this one. They could just sit here against the wall and be awkward together.

"Hi," he said, flashing a quick look in her direction.

"Hey," she replied. She took a sip of her beer and watched Dean-girl leaning on her chosen cue, awaiting the end of the game. Her sister glanced at her and grinned. Sam-girl shook her head a little and managed a slightly accusatory smile in return.

"She's my sister," she said to Fidgety.

"Oh." He raised his eyebrows and nodded, looking over at Dean-girl.

When the new game started, Sam-girl watched with a mixture of awe and revulsion as her sister swung her hair, smiled coyly, and leaned farther over the table than necessary during each shot. Every eye in the immediate radius of the table was on her, and she was eating it up. Her drink was gone (again) a few minutes into the game. Stopping by Sam-girl's table during someone else's turn, she leaned close to her sister and whispered into her ear. "I'm Nadine, Sammy," she giggled. "They asked me my name and I'm Nadine. Get it?"

"Nice one," Sam-girl said to her drunken sister.

"I know, I'm a genius," she replied. "Hey! Sammy," she said suddenly. "Get me another drink, would ya?"

Sam-girl looked at her. Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes were shining. "Your body's-" she stopped herself and shot a look over at Fidgety, who didn't seem to be paying attention. Still, she continued in a softer voice. "You're not used to so much alcohol, Nadine," she said. "You should probably slow it down."

Her sister looked at her for what seemed like a long time. Sam-girl could almost hear the hamster's wheel squeaking. Finally, Dean-girl heaved a great sigh. "O-kay," she said petulantly. "Whatever. This'll be my last one, then."

One of the guys called that it was her turn, and she sashayed back to the game.

Sam-girl went back to the bar and got a light beer for her sister. She'd suspected from the start that she was going to be heading back to the motel alone that night (and she definitely would be now that the Best Plan Ever had been formulated). So, her sister was drunk. She wouldn't be driving, and a lifetime spent as a Winchester Soldier meant she could take care of herself. Also, she didn't get the kind of sloppy, stubborn, over-sharing drunk that Sam was known for. Still: while Sam-girl was there, she was going to try to keep her sister in check. Dean wasn't exactly famous for his impeccable judgment.

As she made her way back to the pool table, she noticed that the game had finished, and Dean-girl was setting up to play the fatherly guy, one-to-one. A couple of the other guys were standing closer, watching the start of the new game. With a bit of a start, she saw that Fidgety was gone and another man had taken his chair. He was maybe in his early forties, solidly built in the way that comes from hard manual labor, and fairly tall (but of course Man-Sam would have towered over him). He wore a faded grey flannel shirt and a dirty baseball cap. He looked like a typical blue collar worker – trucker, miner, something like that. The only thing noteworthy about him was his eyes. They were a light green – almost mint green, really, Sam-girl thought. They followed her as she reached the table and set her sister's beer on it. They were still on her as she sat back down in her chair.

"How ya doin'?" he asked.

Sam-girl suppressed a sigh. "Oh, fine," she said.

"So you girls are sisters, huh?"

"Yup," she replied, hoping this guy wasn't going to be chatty.

But he was.

"She told me your name, now I don't remember it. Was it Sammy?"

"Sam," she corrected automatically.

"Hm. Hi, Sam," he said. "Frank."

He extended a meaty hand in her direction. She shook it reluctantly. It was rough and dry.

"Hey, quite a grip you got there, Sam," he said admiringly.

Sam-girl took her hand back and nodded as politely as she could, gritting her teeth and carefully avoiding the mint-green eyes.

"So you girls from around here?" he asked.

"No, we're just on a road trip," she said. She shifted uncomfortably a little in her chair. Mercifully, Dean-girl finally noticed that her drink had arrived and made her way over.

"Hey, Sammy," she said amiably, grabbing the bottle and tipping it up for a swig. "How's it goin'?"

"Fine," Sam-girl said curtly, trying to send out an S.O.S with her eyes.

"Good," Dean-girl replied, completely oblivious to the silent pleas.

Sam-girl shifted again and tried to throw a pointed but clandestine glance at Frank. "I don't know how much longer I'll be stickin' around, though," she said.

"All right, well. You just let me know when you're leavin'," Dean-girl said, and turned to go back to the game.

Great.

"How come you're leavin' so soon?" Frank asked. "Night's not even started yet."

Sam-girl crossed her arms over her breasts, suddenly feeling like they were extremely conspicuous. "I'm…not much of a night person," she said lamely.

"Huh. Where you gonna go? You got a place to stay?"

"Yeah, we're in a motel up the street." Luckily this town was big enough to have more than one motel, and it was more like two miles "up the street." Christ, this guy is creepy, she thought. The mysterious "creepiness" that Jess would refer to: this was it. It almost seemed to take up physical space, crowding her.

"Is that right?" he asked. "You need some company?"

She cast a sidelong glance at Frank as her whole body shivered with disgust. It wasn't how forward he was being, she realized. It was the dangerous and obvious pairing of desperation and entitlement. She tried to be polite. "No thanks," she said. "I'm pretty tired."

"It's just that…you are so sexy," he murmured, leaning toward her a little. "Has anyone ever told you that?"

What the fuck? What kind of question was that? How were you even supposed to answer that? No, I've never heard it before so you must be stupid? Or yeah, people tell me that all the time? Seriously.

This was not going well. Still, she tried to steel herself and not freak out. Girls dealt with this shit all the time. She could, too.

"Uh…thanks," she mumbled as she turned even more away from him and focused intently on Dean-girl, who was just starting another game with a different guy and stuffing a small wad of cash into her back pocket. She seemed to be having the time of her life.

"Oh don't be shy now," Frank cooed at her, and she felt her skin crawl. "You could come home with me. I'll show you a good time like you've never had." He paused, maybe for effect. "You wouldn't believe how long my tongue is."

Sam-girl felt the bile rising, and before she knew it she'd jumped out of her chair and stomped over to her sister. At the surprised look on Dean-girl's face, she hissed, "I'm leaving. That guy is disgusting and I can't. fucking. take it anymore."

"Okay," Dean-girl said, blinking. "I'll see you later, then."

"Fine." She pursed her lips and pushed past her sister. She had started for the door when she heard Frank's voice behind her.

"Hey Sammy, what's goin' on?" He'd followed her over.

"Aw, she's just tired," she heard Dean-girl reply. "And it's Sam." Sam-girl didn't look back, and then she was too far away to hear any more.

Dean-girl grabbed Frank's arm as he tried to step past her to chase her sister down. He turned to her, his pale eyes practically glowing. There was a cold, angry fire barely contained in them, and she felt a defensive heat rise to her face. "Just let her go," she said. And then, to shift his focus away from her sister, she said coyly, "Think you can beat me in a round of pool?"

The frosty eyes calmed, and Frank blinked at her. "You bet your sweet little ass I can," he said confidently.

"Well then why don't you show me?" Dean-girl asked, still holding his arm, albeit more lightly now.

"All right baby." Before she knew what was happening, he smacked her on the ass.

Her smile barely wavered, but she made a mental note that this guy might need the shit kicked out of him, just on principle.

Sam-girl drove the short distance to the motel in a huff. She was horrified and outraged, and vowed never to hit on a girl again. Ever.

She squealed the car to a stop in the parking lot and jumped out, slamming the door. Once inside the room, she locked the door (leaving off the chain lock – even though she wanted to use it – because Dean would be coming back eventually) and threw herself onto her bed. Going out had been a terrible idea. She should have just stayed at the motel and watched the fucking History Channel.

She wanted to tell Dean-girl about the guy, but Dean-girl wasn't there to tell. She thought about calling Bobby, but on closer consideration, that just sounded embarrassing. She'd have to wait for her sister to get back.

She sighed and flipped on the TV, glancing at the alarm clock on the bedside table. Only eight thirty. Plenty of time left to watch the History Channel. And maybe take another shower.

A little over an hour later, Dean-girl had her fill of hustling. She'd beaten Frank twice after Sam-girl left, and some other guy once. The men probably would have kept playing (and losing), but she still wanted to find a girl to go home with, and after perusing the options at this fine establishment, she decided she'd have to take her search elsewhere. She smiled and swished her hair and thanked the guys for the fun time, but said she had to go.

She'd stopped drinking when she said she would. She'd never admit it to Sam-girl, but she'd been right about this body and the amount of alcohol it could handle. Lucky she was experienced at drinking too much. She was doing fine now – happy but clear-headed.

She walked out and started up the street toward a bar she'd seen earlier that seemed more promising for her purposes. In a town like this there probably wasn't a booming lesbian community, but Dean loved a challenge. Dean-girl was pretty sure she could talk someone into "experimenting" if all else failed. She smiled to herself as she started across the street, passing a young couple going the opposite way. They didn't even notice her. Just another girl. Up ahead on the right was a little park – picnic tables, trees, garbage cans, a few statues. The hot desert day was turning into a cold desert night. The sun was gone behind the mountains, leaving only a pale glow on the horizon.

Her destination was a couple blocks up, on the other side of the street. She started preparing herself to turn on the charm full-strength, unsure if this endeavor was going to be easier or harder than picking up girls as Man-Dean. She knew the subtle variations between many different types of guys, and could switch between them as needed, smooth as butter. Years of practice had made a master. But she hadn't even been a girl for twenty-four hours; she didn't know what girls looked for in other girls.

"Hey! Nadine," she heard behind her.

Startled, she turned quickly. It was Frank. Apparently he'd followed her. She hadn't even heard him.

"Oh, hey Frank," she said, giving him a smile that he didn't return. "Are you following me?"

He caught up to her and they continued walking. "Yeah, actually," he replied. They took a few steps in silence. "You took all my money tonight."

Dean-girl caught the threatening tone in his voice, but wasn't worried. She was tough, she was a trained fighter, and this dipshit yokel was barely worth her time at all. They were walking alongside the park now, grass and trees muted in the dim light. "Hey man, I didn't take it," she said, spreading her hands and letting them slap back to her thighs. "I won it from you, fair and square."

She heard him snort, and before she even knew what was happening, he had yanked her arm so hard she thought it was going to pop out of joint and pinned her behind a tree, one hand gripping her jaw, tilting her face up toward his own.

"What the…fuck," she choked in surprise as the uneven bark dug into her back.

The green was flashing out of his eyes, and the smell of alcohol engulfed her as he leaned in close. "You took me for a ride," he said. "Thought I'd return the favor."

"What—" Oh, shit.

This guy wasn't messing around. She tried to think fast.

"Look. Frank," she said. "The money's in my pocket. Yours and the other guys'. Take it all."

"I don't want the fuckin' money," he growled at her. "I paid you, but I didn't get anything for it."

Now that pissed her off. "Oh, you got something for it," she snapped, looking him square in the eye. "You got your ass handed to ya."

This wasn't the first time that Dean's temper had caused trouble, and unfortunately it wouldn't be the last.

Frank spun her around to face the tree. He grabbed a handful of her hair and slammed the side of her head against the trunk, grinding her cheek into its rough bark. She felt it tear at the skin. She tried to free herself, struggling against those meaty hands, and realized in a flash of fear that she was no match for him at all. It was obvious how little effort he was exerting. "Listen here you little bitch," he hissed in her ear. "You go around taking men's money, you're a whore. You owe me." His other hand reached around her and fumbled with the button of her jeans. She gritted her teeth and tried to think of a Plan B, fast. She could feel his hot breath in her ear, and with a wave of nausea she realized she could feel something else of his, pressed against her ass.

Forget making plans, she had to do something now.

"Fuck you man," she spat. "I don't owe you shit." With that, she stopped trying to push him off of her and instead put all her weight into sinking out from between him and the tree. She slid a few inches down before he realized what was happening. Her shirt rode up and she felt the tree bark scraping her bare belly. Before he could adjust his grip, she twisted out from under him, his fist ripping her hair out at the root, and found herself momentarily free and falling clumsily to the grass. She got her feet under her and was pushing up with her hands when she felt a sharp tug at her neck; he'd grabbed the hem of her tee shirt. He yanked hard on it and she fell back to her knees. He was scrambling behind her on the ground, and she kicked back with all her might. She caught him once square in the shoulder, but on the second round he caught her calf and used it to heft himself onto both her legs, pinning them to the ground.

As she pushed herself up on her hands again and fought to free her legs, he pawed at the waist of her jeans and pulled. They felt strangely loose, and it was with horror that she realized he had actually succeeded in unbuttoning them. He had dragged himself almost halfway up the length of her body, and in a second or two she'd be immobilized again. She turned and jammed her elbow into his face as hard as she could. Twice. He swore and covered his nose with one hand, giving her the tiny opportunity she needed to slither out from under him and find her feet again.

But she barely made it a couple steps before he caught her ankle. She pitched forward, sprawling face-first onto the edge of a picnic table. Her vision went white and her mouth filled with the taste of iron. She was dazed for a moment, feeling the grass under her cheek and choking as the blood started to flow.

She felt him grab the waist of her jeans and a fistful of her hair again. He hauled her up and bent her over the picnic table. She pushed away the pain in her head and summoned some more energy to fight, but he easily caught her uselessly-flailing arms and pinned her wrists behind her back with one hand.

With the other hand, he started tugging at her jeans. She heard threads tearing.

"No," was all she could sputter, full of a rage she hadn't even known she was capable of. She spit blood as she continued to struggle in vain against him. "No. No…"

Then she felt the cool of the night air on her bare skin, and he stopped pulling on her jeans. She was running out of time. In one final attempt, she pushed her leg forward and drove the heel of her boot back against his shin.

"Fuckin' bitch!" he snarled. He grabbed her thigh and wedged his knees between hers with a grunt, sending her subsequent kicks into thin air.

And then he chuckled. A hundred different self-satisfied laughs from a hundred different monsters flickered through Dean-girl's memory in a split second; but out of all of them, this one—this moment—was the worst.

There had to be a way out of this. Her helplessness infuriated her. It wasn't something she was used to feeling. Tears of hatred were spilling unchecked onto the table under her, mixing with the blood.

She heard a clinking behind her. It took her a moment to realize it was the sound of his belt buckle. For a second, she thought there was something else; some other sound, farther away, niggling at her subconscious. But her attention was needed elsewhere. Who knew the sound of one zipper could drown out everything?

No-no-no-no-no-no-no.

"HEY!" she heard from behind her. But it wasn't Frank's voice.

Frank's weight shifted at her back, and she heard him gasp. His fingers dug hard into her hip and she cried out in pain.

Then he was gone.

She lay there exposed on the table for what seemed like minutes, but in reality was only seconds. She could hear noises around her, but couldn't make sense of them – or anything, really.

Something touched her shoulder and she flinched, choked on blood. Then there was a voice next to her. A woman's voice.

"Heyyy," it said softly. "Are you all right?" The hand stayed on her shoulder, and another came to rest on her arm.

She tried to push herself upright, coughing. "Careful," said the voice. "Oh my god, your face. You're bleeding." She felt a hand on her cheek, gentle.

The world slowly became vertical again and her vision started to clear. She sniffed, but it was almost useless. She thought absently that her nose might be broken. She grabbed her jeans and hiked them back up, blinking furiously. She looked around for the source of the voice and saw a young woman – probably not much older than she was – looking stricken and helpful at the same time.

"I'm fine," she said to the woman, but without warning and much to her own surprise, a sob escaped her lips.

The woman's arms encircle her and she sniffled, too confused by her own tears to be embarrassed by them.

She could still hear noises around her – shouts, grunts, cursing. She lifted her head and wiped her eyes, looking around. What she saw was two men standing over Frank's prone form. One of the guys was on the phone, and the other was breathing fast and uneven as he glared down at Frank.

The woman followed Dean-girl's eyes. "My husband and his brother," she said. "Kicked his ass good." She looked smugly at Frank, eyes flashing.

Dean-girl could still feel the adrenaline singing in her veins, and found she was shivering, but not from the chilly evening air. "Thank you."

The woman nodded. "I'm Susan," she offered. "What's your name?"

It took a moment for Dean-girl to remember her chosen alias. "Nadine," she answered.

"Hi, Nadine," she said kindly. "Everything's gonna be okay. Jerry's calling the police. They'll take care of him. Do you know this guy?"

Dean-girl shook her head. "No. Well, he was at the bar I just left."

Susan looked carefully at Dean-girl's face. "We need to get you to the hospital. You're bleeding really bad."

Dean-girl's thoughts were swirling around her, but she managed to pluck one out of the air. "No," she said quickly. "No, I'm fine. I need to go home. I don't need to go to the hospital."

"What?" The look of concern deepened on the woman's brow. "Of course you do."

Dean-girl wiped at her face, looked at the blood that came away on her hand, and then smeared it on her shirt. "No," she replied, this time with more conviction. "My…My sister's back at our motel. I have to see her. She'll take me," she lied.

Susan eyed her skeptically. "Well…" she said. "You should at least wait for the police, tell them what happened."

"I can't." Dean-girl was grateful for this woman's kindness, but she couldn't very well be interviewed by the police. She had no identification, real or fake; the license in her wallet belonged to a man. "I just…" She wasn't thinking straight enough to come up with a good lie. "I just can't do it," she said. Her lip trembled, and she realized with some irritation that she was on the verge of crying again.

"Okay," Susan said, seeing the tears shining in Dean-girl's green eyes. She glanced around – probably checking for the police. "Okay," she repeated, resigned. "I can take you back to your sister. Come on." She took Dean-girl's arm lightly and led her toward the three men. For a moment Dean-girl balked, not wanting to get anywhere near her attacker. But she took a deep breath and set her jaw as best she could, wiping the remains of the tears from her cheeks. She was going to get the last word.

Susan's companions looked up as the two women approached. They looked proud (As well they should, she thought), and seemed a little embarrassed. She recognized their awkwardness for what it was: they were feeling something that Man-Dean had felt many times before. They'd seen her at the most vulnerable she could ever be, desperately in need of help. They'd stepped up and given that help, and were showing respect to her by not really meeting her eyes. They wouldn't say it, of course, but they wanted her to know it was okay, that they weren't like the monster lying at their feet. And she knew. Better than they could imagine, she knew. The air of indignation about them was almost visible. Don't worry, it said. We've got this. They were her heroes and they knew it, but they weren't going to point it out. For the first time in her life, she caught a glimpse of what women might see in men – something Dean would be proud to know many women had seen in him: protectiveness, strength, daring. And despite knowing that she could have kicked the shit out of Frank had she been Man-Dean, she didn't feel resentful of their coming to her rescue. As irritating as it was, Frank was bigger and stronger than she was, plain and simple. She was pissed off at this stupid body for letting her down, but she didn't feel ashamed. She was grateful to these two. Because she'd also just gotten a good look at another side of men that she'd never really understood before: vicious, hateful, and terrifying.

"I'm going to take her back to her motel," Susan told the men. "Her sister's there."

The three exchanged looks, but neither of the men said anything about the police, and Susan didn't offer any explanation. "I'll come right back after I get her there safe," she said.

She turned toward the street, but Dean-girl stood still. "Thank you," she said to the two men.

Susan turned around and stopped. The men nodded. Then, with three sets of eyes on her, Dean-girl stepped forward and leaned down over Frank, who was curled defensively on his side in the grass, bleeding. He turned to look up at her with those pale green eyes overflowing with hatred, pulled his head back a little, and spit in her face.

She didn't flinch, she didn't yell. She wiped her face with her hand and straightened up slowly, never taking her eyes off his. Then she reeled back and kicked him with every bit of strength she could summon, up underneath, right in the balls. His cry echoed down the dark street. "If I ever see you again," she said through clenched teeth, biting back the tears so he wouldn't see them, "I will cut. it. off."

She turned to follow Susan then, her strong façade beginning to crumble. The only sounds were Frank's strangled gasps. Susan put an arm around her shoulders. The car was down the block, and by the time they reached it, Dean-girl was in tears again; but this time they were accompanied by huge, gasping, uncontrollable sobs of anger and relief.

The ride back to the motel was short. Her sobs continued the whole time, even as she gave Susan directions, which was exasperating for Dean-girl. She wasn't sure if there had ever been a time in Dean's life that he had actually sobbed, and knew for certain that he'd never been unable to stop. It pissed her off and made her ashamed. Her statements to this effect were interpreted as apologies by Susan.

"What is going on? Why can't I fucking stop?"

"It's okay, Nadine. Just go ahead."

"No, I just…I mean, I don't do this. But I can't…"

"Don't worry about it."

She would have called Sam-girl if she hadn't been blubbering. But that was the last thing she wanted to do. This woman she'd never met was one thing – she was a terrified victim to Susan – but Sammy…Dean-girl knew this would freak her out.

When they pulled into the parking lot, Susan said, "I'll walk you to your room and talk to your sister. What's her name?"

Dean-girl tried to sniff again, still a mess of blood and tears. "Sam," she whispered. "Her name's Sam." And then: "Thanks." She took a couple deep, shaky breaths, donning an extremely fragile mask of calm that she hoped would stay intact long enough.

Susan put her arm around Dean-girl again on the way up to the door, and knocked before Dean-girl could even remember to fish out her key.

In a few seconds the door opened and there stood Sam-girl, her expression shifting from wary to horrified as her eyes landed first on the stranger and then on her bleeding, sniffling sister.

Dean-girl barely glanced at her and didn't say a word. She just pushed past Sam-girl and hurried straight to the bathroom, where she slammed and locked the door. The other two women watched her go.

When Sam-girl whirled back around, looking for an explanation, Susan's expression was sad. "You're Sam?" she asked.

Sam-girl nodded and found her voice through the layers of shock. "Yeah, uh. What happened?"

"She was attacked by some guy in town. He was trying to rape her."

"What?!"

"I don't think he actually did," she said quickly, holding up her hands. "I think we were just in time. My husband and his brother stopped the guy. Creep. The police are probably there now, picking him up, but Nadine wouldn't wait to talk to them. She wouldn't go to the hospital, either. She said she had to get back here to you."

The sound of the shower running emerged from the bathroom. Sam-girl glanced back again. She felt like her mind was imploding. "Okay. Thank you. Sorry—what's your name?"

"I'm Susan."

"Well thank you for everything, Susan. Really, I—" Sam-girl stopped abruptly, unsure of how to continue.

"It's no trouble at all. I'm just so glad we were there." She took a peek around Sam-girl's shoulder, back into the room. "Her face is bleeding bad," she said. "You should really take her to a hospital right away."

"Okay. Yeah, I will, I just. I need to talk to her. But thank you again." Sam-girl paused as a thought occurred to her. "Do you—Here." She took out her wallet and opened it, digging out all the cash – probably a couple hundred bucks.

Susan's eyes widened and then she frowned. "Oh no," she said, shaking her head and taking a step back. "I don't need anything."

"Really? I just…I don't feel right that you did all this for nothing." It didn't occur to her that sometimes what goes around does come around.

Susan smiled, a little sadly. "I would have paid someone to let me do it," she said, reaching out to lay a hand on Sam-girl's forearm. "Really, keep it."

"Thank you," Sam-girl said again. "Really. Thank you so much."

"You're welcome, Sam. You take care of your sister now."

"I will."

Sam-girl closed the door and took a moment to sigh, trying to sort out her thoughts. Then she turned and walked toward the bathroom. Inside, the water was still running. She knocked, softly. "Dean?" she said, leaning close to the door so she could hear.

There was silence for longer than she liked, and then: "Gimme a minute, Sammy."

So Sam-girl sat down with her back to the door and leaned her head against it, resting her forearms on her knees. Her mind was going a mile a minute, trying to figure out how her sister got into a mess like this.

Inside the bathroom, Dean-girl stood under the scalding spray of the shower, unmoving. She'd turned on the shower initially to hide the sounds of her stupid sobs, but when she'd seen her battered and bloody face in the mirror she decided she should just get in and let it rinse her clean. The hot water warmed and calmed her, and it wasn't long before her tears were nearly under control.

She knew Sammy was just outside the door. She stepped out of the shower, leaving it running, and grabbed a towel. She didn't dry herself off. She just draped it over her shoulders and sank slowly to the floor. The light in the room was softened by steam, the mirror only reflecting vague blurs. Sitting on the floor now, she felt more like herself each minute as the hiccupping dry sobs slowed and the buzz of the adrenaline faded away. She finally reached over and turned off the shower.

"I'm fine, Sammy," she said as evenly as she could, leaning against the wall. Her head was pounding, waves of pressure that made it feel like her eyes were going to pop out of her skull.

Outside the door, Sam-girl sat upright at the sound of her sister's voice. She swiveled around and sat cross-legged, knees nearly touching the door. "Are you sure? Do you need me to fix you up? You looked like shit."

"No, it'll be fine." Dean-girl was already starting to hate that word.

She felt Sam-girl's question before it floated through the door. "What happened?"

She took a deep, careful breath. "Frank," she replied.

"What? That creepy asshole that was coming on to me?"

"Yup."

"Fuck!" Sam-girl folded herself forward and leaned her forehead against the mirror on the door, closing her eyes. "How? Why?"

Silence on the other side of the door.

"Dean."

She heard a sigh.

"He followed me when I left that bar. I was going to another one up the street. He said I took all his money, so I owed him something."

"Holy shit," was all Sam-girl could reply.

"Surprised me," Dean-girl continued. "And he was so strong. This stupid body is so fucking weak. I didn't…I didn't think. I just didn't know."

Now Sam-girl was the one to sigh.

"And don't you dare tell me it wasn't my fault, Sam," came her sister's voice. "It was. I fucked up."

Knew her so well. "Dean—"

"No, just shut up." Her voice quavered and she hoped to God that Sam-girl didn't hear it. She bit her lip, lifted her head from the wall and let it fall back with a thump.

Neither of the girls said anything for a few minutes, both lost in their own thoughts. But finally Sam-girl spoke. She needed to know. "So, did he…" she paused, realizing she was unable to actually say the words, not knowing how to even ask it. "Did he…?"

"No," came the answer, and she felt the rush of relief flow through her. "Almost. Really fucking almost. But no."

Sam-girl felt she should say something, so she said "Good."

"Well…" She heard shuffling from inside the bathroom, and Dean-girl opened the door. She stood wrapped in a towel, looking down at her sister. Her eyes were swollen and the rest of her face was a jumble of scrapes, cuts, and bruises. Sam-girl tried not to wince. She'd seen Dean's face look like that before, but not thisface. She took a deep breath and started to speak, but Dean-girl beat her to it. "We need to leave, like five minutes ago."

Sam-girl blinked, her words forgotten. "Why?"

"Because: that Susan woman was nice, but she knows where we are now. I'm sure she'll send the police here to talk to me. We don't have much time." She stepped around her sister, folding in the corner of the towel so it would stay closed, and walked over to her suitcase. She kneeled before it on the floor and then stopped abruptly. Her hands went up to cover her face and she knelt there, still as a statue.

Sam-girl stood up and walked over to her, and was – out of reflex or habit or some innate and awkward male desire to make things better – about to lay a comforting hand on the girl's shoulder. She stopped herself just in time. This wasn't a girl; it was Dean. Who would not appreciate an attempt to be comforted. "Dean," she said. "Why don't you get dressed and go get in the car."

Dean-girl sniffed. "What?" she said, taking her hands down and starting to sort the things in her suitcase. "Why?"

"Just go out to the car, and I'll pack everything up."

"I'm not broken, Sammy. I can pack a fucking suitcase."

"I know," Sam-girl responded. "Look. I know you can, but you don't have to. You're exhausted, Dean. Just go sit in the car. I'll be out in a few minutes." She tried to use her most commanding voice, and it seemed to work.

"Fine," Dean-girl mumbled. She dug out a new pair of underwear and the other tee shirt and made her way back to the bathroom.

Sam-girl busied herself with collecting the meager pieces of their lives that were strewn around their room, and in a minute Dean-girl reappeared, fully-dressed. She stopped at her suitcase to put on the new, smaller-sized hoodie Sam-girl had bought her. After a pause, she walked to one of the chairs and took Dean's leather coat from the back of it. She slid it on over the hoodie and walked out the door, grabbing the car keys off the desk on her way.

Alone in the room again, Sam-girl stopped for a moment and looked around as she sighed slowly, puffing out her cheeks. What were they going to do now? Without even really thinking about it, she picked up her phone and called Bobby.

"Yeah," Bobby answered.

"Bobby, it's Sam," Sam-girl said.

"Yeah?" He sounded like he'd been sleeping.

"Um…We ran into some trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

Sam-girl swallowed and started pacing the room again, throwing things into suitcases. "Dean was…attacked," she said, using Susan's word.

"What do you mean, attacked? By what?"

"A guy, Bobby. It was just some drunk guy. He was pissed off at Dean for taking his money at pool. Almost raped him, I guess," she added quietly, struck by the strangeness of the words as they finally passed her lips. Something Sam never would have imagined saying about Dean.

"Jesus Christ, boys. Didn't I tell you two to stay outta trouble? Don't you suppose that might include not getting raped?" Bobby sounded awake now.

"Dean wanted to go out and hustle pool as a girl. He thought it would be fun. Said it'd be easy." She scooped Dean-girl's blood-stained shirt off the bathroom floor and paused a moment.

"And you let him?"

Sam-girl almost felt guilty, but shoved it away. "I couldn't've stopped him, Bobby. You know how he is."

There was a short silence on the line, and then Bobby spoke again. "Yeah, I do know. Stubborn little shit." Then came the next logical question. "Well, is he okay?"

"Yeah, mostly, I think. His face is pretty messed up, but he's been worse. He's just a little…off, I guess."

"Off?" Bobby repeated. "How do you mean?"

"Well, he…he's just kind of quiet. He said something about how weak his body is now. I think it freaked him out that he couldn't kick the guy's ass. Locked himself in the bathroom for a long time."

"Well, I imagine it was more than a little…disconcerting. Give him some time." Bobby sighed. "Where is he now?"

"He's out in the car," Sam-girl replied, picking up the lamp that started the whole mess and rolling it in a shirt to keep it from breaking during their travels. "We're leaving. He thinks the woman that brought him back here will send the police to talk to him."

"Might as well head up this direction."

"Yeah, okay." She set the lamp in her suitcase and packed other clothes around it. "I think we're maybe…thirteen hours or so from your place, I guess."

"Okay. Now don't fool around anymore. You get goin', and only stop driving when you have to. You hear me?"

Sam-girl nodded, even though Bobby couldn't see her. "Yeah. I hear you, Bobby." She looked around the room. All traces of the brothers were packed away, leaving only dirty towels and crumpled sheets as evidence that they had been there at all.

"All right," Bobby said. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Okay."

Sam-girl hung up the phone and lugged the suitcases through the doorway. With one final visual sweep of the room, she shut off the lights and headed to the car. She found Dean-girl waiting in the passenger's seat of the Impala, silent and subdued, looking almost like a child in Dean's too-big coat. She loaded the bags into the car and got behind the wheel. She backed the car out of its space and stopped at the motel's office to drop off their keys. "We're going to head toward Bobby's," she said as she pulled the car out onto the road. "He's going to keep working on fixing this."

Dean-girl stared blankly out the window as the lights from gas stations and motels played over her scrapes and freckles. "You called Bobby?" she asked softly, not turning to look at her sister.

"Yeah."

The air between them was rife with things both wanted to ask, but neither would.

Dean-girl folded herself deeper into the leather jacket and rested her head against the window. It wasn't long before her eyes drifted shut, and Sam-girl realized she'd fallen asleep. Sam-girl saw the hours of silence and dark empty roads stretch out before them.

Dean-girl slept for a couple hours, shifting slightly from time to time. Her sister kept an eye on her, worried about her, felt pity for her without her knowledge. And Sam-girl wondered. She wondered if Dean-girl would have even told her as much as she did about what happened if Susan hadn't been there to say something first. She might've just tried to say it'd been a bar fight or something. She wondered if her sister really thought it was her own fault. Dean would never have blamed a rape – or attempted rape, as in this case – on the woman, no matter what the circumstances. Men were always responsible for their own actions. But Dean was well-versed in blaming himself for things. She tried to imagine how devastating to his ego it must have been to not be strong enough to defend himself. After all the monsters he'd fought in his life, one regular guy had overpowered him. Sam-girl knew Dean well enough to know that his pride was going to have a hard time letting that one go. With that and the self-blame, Dean was probably feeling a truckload of shame. Unnecessarily, but you couldn't tell him that. It would only be met with scoffs and cracks about "chick-flick moments."

The road flattened out as they traveled north and began heading east, past Denver. The mountains turned to farmland, with dark fields of corn or soybeans flanking the pavement. Gas started running low, and Sam-girl's bladder was filling up. Not to mention her stomach was growling almost loud enough to wake her sister. That burger at the bar seemed like a million years ago.

She looked for the next truck stop, and Dean-girl started stirring as the car slowed on the exit ramp.

"Hey," Sam-girl said as her sister's eyes opened. "You hungry?"

A short silence, but it was more than she was used to. "Nah," Dean-girl finally answered.

Sam-girl clenched and unclenched her jaw as she pulled into the truck stop. As she was pumping gas, Dean-girl got out of the car and stretched a little. She didn't meet Sam-girl's eyes. Then she said, "Gotta pee," and headed for the building.

Sam-girl finished filling the tank and made her way into the store. As she walked toward the restroom, she passed Dean-girl, who was already on her way out. When she re-emerged into the aisles of chips and candy a couple minutes later, she glanced out the window to see her sister hovering around the car, shuffling a little. She wandered through the aisles for a few minutes, trying to decide what to eat. When she made it up to the register to pay, her loot included a monstrous sandwich and a piece of pie.

She walked back to the car laden with the bags of food, drinks, and snacks. Dean-girl was sitting in the passenger's seat again. Sam-girl threw one of the bags into the backseat for later and rummaged in the other one for her own meal. She set the bag and its remaining contents on the seat between them and started the car.

"Those are for you," she said as she pulled away from the truck stop.

"I said I wasn't hungry," Dean-girl said flatly.

"Yeah I know, but you're never not hungry, Dean."

She unwrapped her own sandwich as they headed back out onto the freeway. Her sister didn't touch the bag, just sat looking sullenly out the window. In a few minutes, Sam-girl set her half-eaten sandwich in her lap and reached over to turn on the radio. She twisted the dial until she found a rock station and left it on low volume, picking up her food again. Dean-girl sat across the seat from her, swimming in Dean's leather jacket, looking small and tired.

When Sam-girl was done with her meal, she opened a bottle of water. The songs on the radio came and went. She was so lost in her own thoughts that she almost didn't hear the rustling of the plastic bag next to her.

She looked over and found Dean-girl fishing out the giant sandwich, inspecting its plastic wrap for the best place to peel it open.

Neither Winchester spoke as the sandwich was eaten, the bottle of Mountain Dew half-drained, or the pie devoured with what seemed like only cursory aid of the plastic fork. A very un-ladylike belch followed shortly, and then a sigh.

Sam-girl drove, and waited.

In a minute or two, Dean-girl reached over and turned up the volume on the radio. Bob Seger was singing about mysteries without any clues. The next song was The Doors, Riders on the Storm. Sam knew just how Dean felt about The Doors – he'd heard it what seemed like a thousand times: Over-rated. Boring. Music for deadbeats and incense-burning freaks. People only like them because they think they "should."

But Dean-girl didn't switch the channel or turn the music down. As the Chevy's headlights sliced through the darkness of the highway, Sam-girl realized that the song kind of fit the mood, for once. It didn't interfere, and it – like the road, like Dean-girl's silence – went on and on with little variation.

The next song was something by Chicago, which Sam-girl knew made Dean downright ill. The volume was lowered significantly almost before she knew it. She swallowed a smirk. Some things were just never acceptable.

A few seconds later, Dean-girl spoke. "You think Jo would be more likely to sleep with me if I was like this?" she asked, indicating her body with the sweep of a hand, holding the open bottle of Dew in the other.

"Uhh, I don't know, Dean," Sam-girl answered.

"Maybe I could, like, convince her that it didn't count or something."

"Seriously? You're thinking about that now? After what happened tonight?" Sam-girl knew exactly what was going on – she knew how Dean dealt with things probably better than he did – but it almost always flabbergasted her, and sometimes she couldn't help expressing it.

"Are you kidding? Especially after that. Look at this!" she turned to face Sam-girl, pointing at her battered face. "I'm so pathetic, she wouldn't be able to resist."

Sam-girl rolled her eyes and sighed, but she was nevertheless glad for the change in mood. Dean's way of processing things followed the route of a roller coaster. First there was the initial fall that gave momentum to the whole rest of the process. That precariously-balanced silence (that always felt to Sam exactly like a mine field) was over, and now it was time for the real ride to start: the hills of over-zealous levity, jokes, smiles, and pretending nothing happened or that it didn't matter would be mixed with valleys of pensive silences, foul moods and the uncharacteristic desire to be alone – twisting and turning, switching between the two with no notice until it would suddenly even out and be over, and Dean would be back to normal.

Chicago finished wailing about whatever they wail about, and a new song started. Dean-girl leaned over and turned up the radio so she could sing along. Steelheart, of all things.

"This is great, Sammy!" she shouted mid-song. "I've never been able to hit these notes before!"

"And you still can't!" Sam-girl chuckled but found herself actually joining in, singing along with her off-key sister to lyrics that, in any other company, she would staunchly deny having memorized.

The ending of the song was accompanied by another belch from Dean-girl, who was suddenly very busy fussing with her boots. Turned out she was taking them off so she could roll down her window and hang her bare feet out into the night as it sped by. "Always wanted to do this," she said, surprising her sister speechless.

Sam-girl looked over at her – bouncing her feet in the wind, eyes closed, mouthing the words to the Floyd song on the radio – and smiled to herself. Food was the fastest and most surefire way to fix Dean's mood after anything. The way to a man's heart is through his stomach. Even if the man happens to be a woman at the time.

A couple more hours slid by slowly. Dean-girl was wide awake and all Dean – full of drum solos played out on the dash and groan-worthy innuendos (both punctuated by punches to Sam-girl's arm). And gas.

Was it the pie? Sam-girl wondered ruefully as she watched Dean-girl lean over to let one rip on the vinyl seat. She cracked the window, trying to stifle the smile that would surely only encourage her sister.

Dean-girl seemed a little over-annoyed at the fact that they couldn't just stop on the side of the road when they had to pee, but Sam-girl had a feeling it was less about convenience than the looks her sister's injured face drew from other customers under the harsh light of the truck stops. People were wary of a man with cuts and bruises – you never knew what he was going to do; best to avert your eyes, stay out of his way. But a girl. A girl with injuries like that was someone to feel sorry for, and people were less concerned about hiding pity than fear. Their stares were relentless.

The girls were drained. They were only about halfway to Bobby's when they pulled off the freeway and drove a couple miles down a dirt road in the middle of farmland to find a safe place to park the car for a few hours and get some sleep. It was early morning, but the sun hadn't quite begun to cast its glow. Sam-girl parked under a tree, and the girls shifted around and got ready to sleep. Sam-girl's suggestion of finding a motel had been met with indifference, which told her that her sister was in the mood to stay in the car tonight. They'd spent enough nights in the Impala that it was just as comfy as a real bed, and felt even safer. Plus, they found that being shorter meant they could stretch out a lot better than usual on the vinyl bench seats.

Sam-girl assumed they'd both go right to sleep, but as she lay there stretched across the front seat (she let Dean-girl have the back for once, since Man-Dean, being the less-lanky of the brothers, always got stuck with the steering wheel), she found that her mind had other plans. She could tell from the sound of Dean-girl's breathing that her sister was still awake, too.

A bird started singing in the tree branches above the car, its day just beginning as theirs was coming to a close.

"That was fucked up, Sammy." Dean-girl's voice broke the silence in the car.

Sam-girl lay on her side, her eyes open, staring out in the direction of the glove compartment. "I know," she said. A valley in the roller coaster. These were delicate. With the wrong word from Sammy, Dean would simply shut down. It'd happened plenty of times in the past.

"No," her sister corrected. "I mean, I was crying. I couldn't stop."

Sam-girl blinked in the darkness. "Crying?" she repeated, not letting her voice betray her shock.

"Yeah. Sobbing like a fucking baby. It just started coming out and I couldn't get it to stop."

"Wow."

"What is that?" Her sister demanded angrily. "It was stupid."

Sam-girl thought. She'd never seen Dean do that. Ever. "I don't know," she said thoughtfully.

They lay there in the darkness, ruminating. Dean-girl lay on her back, eyes open, hands folded over her belly, feet flat on the seat so her knees pointed skyward. She was wrecked. She hadn't felt this completely exhausted in a long, long time. She heard her sister shift slightly, the creaking of vinyl, bare skin peeling from the seat.

"Maybe…maybe it's hormones or something," Sam-girl offered.

Dean-girl let out a derisive bark that was swallowed abruptly by the small enclosure of the car. "Great. And I haven't even gotten my period yet."

The idea was crystallizing in Sam-girl's mind, though, and she continued. "No, I'm serious. Not like 'women cry all the time so now you are, too,' but like…You're a woman now, Dean. Your body has a completely different chemical balance or whatever than you're used to. So you're still dealing with everything the same way you always have, and your mind doesn't know what's going on. The regular tactics don't work."

Sam-girl held her breath during the pause that followed. She listened for her sister's thoughts. Finally, Dean-girl mumbled her assent. "Huh. Maybe you're right."

"I'm sure I'm right," Sam-girl answered, proud of herself. "Think about it. It makes perfect sense."

More silence between them. The bird above them chirped merrily as Dean-girl mulled. "Probably the best explanation we'll find," she finally said. And then, "Do not tell Bobby."

Sam-girl lay listening as the bird was joined by another. It couldn't have been more than a minute before the sound of deep, even breathing floated over the seat-back. She sighed in the darkness, noticing tinges of blue coming in through the windshield. Sam-girl had said the right thing, apparently. It was only a few more minutes before she, too, was asleep.

Phone.

Phone.

Get the phone.

Dean-girl bobbed on the waves of sleep, willing herself to go back under. Willing silence to restore itself.

Shuffling. Fumbling, shuffling.

Creaking.

Thump, crack.

Whispered: "Shit!"

Then finally a female voice: "Hello?"

Oh, yeah. Things weren't quite the way they should be.

Dean-girl lay unmoving but awake now, listening. She was curled on her side, her forehead plastered to the vinyl of the seatback. She could feel sweat tickling paths across her lower back. One trail, two. The cicadas were buzzing away outside, and the sun flickered in through the windows, rolling shadows of leaves over the seats.

In the front seat, Sam-girl blinked in the light and found that the neck and chest of her tee shirt were drenched with sweat. She ran her hand across her soaked forehead and sat up as Bobby began to speak.

"Were you boys sleepin'?" he asked.

"Yeah," Sam-girl answered. "We stopped for a few hours."

"I thought you were drivin' straight up here," Bobby said. "You should almost be here by now."

Sam-girl huffed. "We had to stop, Bobby. Neither of us could go any farther. Did you just call to yell at us, or do you have some news?" She rested her chin on the seatback, peering over it at her seemingly-still-sleeping sister.

"I got news," Bobby replied. "This time tomorrow, you should be all male again."

"Really? That's great, Bobby."

With these words, Dean-girl twisted her top half so she could turn to look at her sister. A big red splotch from the vinyl had added itself to the worrisome colors already marring her face.

Sam-girl could see the same dark sweat patches on her sister's shirt, a little less obvious on the darker color. She met Dean-girl's eyes and gave her a thumbs-up. "What do we have to do?" she asked Bobby.

"I found a ritual. I need to track some things down, and a couple might be difficult even for me. I'll spare you the details for now, but it's the usual blood of this, eye of that, say these words bullshit."

Dean-girl watched Sam-girl, listening. Good god, the car was a sauna. She reached up and opened the door before even sitting up. The reverberating whir of the cicadas poured in along with a gust of hot air; it was probably just as hot as the air in the car, but at least it was fresher. She climbed out lethargically and stood on the gravelly grass under the tree, each step sending up a small shower of grasshoppers. She left the door open, stretching and looking around at the unending fields that surrounded them.

"Okay, we will," she heard Sam-girl say. A pause. "I don't know, probably around five." Another pause. "Thanks, Bobby. We'll see you later."

There was the click of the phone snapping shut and the click-creeeeak of the passenger door opening, and Sam-girl joined her sister in the tree's dappled shade. She stretched and rubbed her face. "He's got it," she said as Dean-girl leaned back against the car.

"Good."

"He's still got some stuff to get today, but he says we should be back to normal by tomorrow." She pinched a bit of fabric at the belly of her tee shirt and waved it in and out, forcing some air onto the drenched skin beneath.

Dean-girl nodded and then twitched and smacked her own arm. She looked at her hand, wiped the mangled mosquito off on her jeans, then licked her finger and rubbed at the smear of blood left on her arm. "Let's go," she said, "Before these fuckers start to think we're their lunch."

They stopped for breakfast (which included a pee-break, face-washing, and brushing of teeth) at a truck stop in a little town called Ogallala. Dean-girl's cuts and bruises were a little less swollen but no less obvious. In the diner attached to the convenience store, breakfast hours were almost over. Their waitress was an older woman. She didn't really look at them when she took their drink orders, but when she came back with the coffee pot she gasped at Dean-girl.

"Oh, honey," she said, and then lowered her voice. "Is everything okay?"

Dean-girl averted her eyes for a moment, but Sam-girl caught the flash in them and braced herself for her sister's reaction to the interfering do-gooder. To her surprise, Dean-girl turned back to the woman and managed a smile. "Yeah, no big deal," she said. "I got in a fight with a drunk girl at a bar last night. You shoulda seen her. Knocked me over and I landed face-first on the edge of a table." Her hand smacked the edge of the table for emphasis.

The woman covered her mouth with her hand. "What caused the fight?" she asked.

Sam-girl saw her sister's jaw muscle twitch, but her voice and expression stayed friendly.

"Too much liquor and a man with a wandering eye, I guess," she replied. "I didn't even talk to the guy."

The woman pursed her lips and nodded as she started filling their mugs with coffee. "That'll do it," she said.

"My sister here came to my rescue," Dean-girl continued, gesturing at Sammy. "Got us out of there before anything worse happened."

The waitress looked over at Sam-girl and smiled. "Good to have a sister around," she said. Sam-girl raised her eyebrows and smiled back uncomfortably. "So what can I get for you girls?"

After she left, the Winchesters sat in silence. Another valley in the roller coaster, maybe. Luckily, it wasn't long before Sam-girl's oatmeal with a plate of fruit and Dean-girl's eggs, bacon, and hashbrowns arrived. As Dean-girl tucked into her scrambled eggs, she said in a voice so low that Sam-girl almost didn't hear her: "It was a picnic table."

Sam-girl paused, a spoonful of oatmeal halfway to her mouth. "What?" she asked automatically.

Her sister didn't meet her eyes; she just continued to eat.

Sam-girl replayed the words in her head. Oh. She knew better than to ask for anything else. She was never going to get a play-by-play of what had happened. They sat silently eating for a couple more minutes before Sam-girl spoke.

"I wish I had been there, Dean."

Dean-girl kept her eyes on her food. "Shut up," she said quietly.

"I could've stayed with you. If I hadn't gone ba—"

"I said shut up, Sam." Her voice stayed soft, but Dean-girl stopped chewing and met her sister's eyes for a moment. "It's not your fault." She went back to eating.

Sam-girl sat staring into her bowl as the edges of her vision blurred…with tears? She blinked and sniffed, but didn't move.

Dean-girl had almost wolfed down her entire breakfast already.

Sam-girl shifted in her seat and dipped her spoon in and out of her oatmeal. Finally, she said, "It's not your fault, either, Dean."

Dean-girl dropped her silverware onto her plate, wiped her mouth roughly with her napkin, and threw it on top of the silverware. She leaned over the table. "Yes. It is," she said, even more softly.

Sam-girl could have – maybe should have – taken the not-so-subtle hint in her sister's body language and tone of voice and let it lie, but she didn't. Sometimes Dean's self-blame just pissed her off. "No," she replied in the same low tone. "It isn't."

Dean-girl grabbed her mug of coffee. As she was emptying it at record speed, Sam-girl took the opportunity to continue: "You would never blame a girl if something like this happened. This isn't any different. Why are you blaming yourself?"

The coffee cup met the tabletop with a loud clack, and Dean-girl glared at her sister. "Just shut your goddamn mouth. It is different. I fucked up. Now leave it. The fuck. Alone." She slid out of the booth, looked down at Sam-girl, and snarled, "I don't need your insights. Or your pity. And if you bring this up again, I shit you not, I will smash in your pretty little face so we're a matched set." The bells hanging in front of the diner's door tinkled happily as she stormed out.

Sam-girl sat at the booth, stunned and annoyed. Why did Dean have to get like this every damn time something upset him? Why did lashing out have to be his first reaction? Always. Like a dog backed into a corner.

She stared down at her cold and hardening oatmeal and sighed. She managed a few more bites, left cash on the table, and went out to the car.

Dean-girl was sitting in the driver's seat, wearing sunglasses. When she saw Sam-girl, she started the car and revved the engine, causing some patrons to stare. Sam-girl dutifully got in the passenger's seat and didn't say a word as Dean-girl noisily peeled out of the parking lot.

The hours left on the road crawled by tensely, with few words exchanged between the sisters. Dean-girl stewed with icy fury, leaving Sam-girl to feel like a little kid again – just like she always did when Dean was mad. It didn't seem to matter how old they got, Dean's anger always took up a lot of room and made Sam feel small.

It also caused Dean to drive even faster than usual.

They got to Bobby's in the early evening. Dean-girl practically jumped out of the car before it had stopped moving, slammed the door, and was hopping up the porch steps two-at-a-time before Sam-girl was even standing up. She watched her sister disappear through the screen door and heard her call, "Bobby?"

She made her way into the house much more slowly, and found them both in the kitchen. Dinner was warming on the stove, and Dean-girl had already helped herself to a beer from the fridge. Bobby, who had been gawking at Dean-girl, rested his amazed expression on Sam-girl as she entered the room.

"Well I'll be jiggered," he mumbled, looking back and forth between the two girls. Dean-girl was standing closest to him, and he walked over to her and looked her up and down. He shook his head slowly and then made his way over to Sam-girl to give her a good once-over, too. "You boys are knockouts," he said. "Who knew?"

"Weird, huh?" Dean-girl said. And then: "Bobby, your dinner is…bubbling."

Bobby snapped out of it. "Oh, shit!" He ran to the stove and lifted the pot off the burner, hissing as the boiling liquid spattered onto his forearms. He grabbed a spoon and stirred, sniffed the mixture and grunted.

"So," he said as he took a bowl out of a cupboard and filled it from the pot. "I've almost got everything ready. I'll need you to go find one more thing, but the reversal needs to be done at midnight on the dot, so you've got a few more hours to braid each other's hair and have pillow fights in your underwear before you're back to your manly selves." Using the stirring spoon, he started shoveling food into his mouth. Sam-girl winced, imagining how hot it was. "You got the lamp?"

"Yeah," Sam-girl replied. "It's still in the car. I'll get it." She turned to go.

"Good girl," said Bobby, smirking.

Dean-girl and Bobby were talking when Sam-girl got back from the car.

"…you can't undo, boy," Bobby was saying.

"I know, I know," Dean-girl said.

"Hope you learned somethin'."

Sam-girl interrupted the conversation. "Here's the lamp." She set it on the kitchen table, still wrapped in the shirt for safe travel.

"Great," Bobby said. He dumped his now-empty bowl into the sink and wiped the corners of his mouth with his thumb and forefinger as he turned around to look at the bundle. "Keep that thing wrapped up until we need it, and then you're moving it to where it needs to be. It might not even work on me, but I'm not taking any chances."

Dean-girl upended her beer bottle and chuckled as she set it on the table. "Are you sure, Bobby?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"You're not just a little curious about what kind of—"

"No! I'm not curious," he interrupted. "You want to see this," he gestured at himself, "as a woman?"

"Well probably not, but I am curious," Dean-girl replied. "A female Bobby…I'd probably pay to see that."

"Can you even imagine him without a beard?" ventured Sam-girl, heartened by her sister's apparent up-shift in mood. But it was like she wasn't even there. Dean-girl didn't acknowledge her at all, just kept talking.

"And you'd have enough time to, uh…spend some time alone, if you know what I mean. It's indescribable, Bobby. Totally worth it."

"Christ on a cracker!" Bobby barked. "I don't need to hear this. And I don't need to do it, neither."

Dean-girl laughed. "You're missin' out!" She opened the fridge and cracked another beer, took a swig and then helped herself to a bowl of whatever was in the pot.

Sam-girl leaned against the wall silently.

"So what's this last thing you need, Bobby?" Dean-girl asked through a mouthful of food.

"It's a plant that grows around here. I didn't go get it because I know it's just a couple miles down the road, by the lake. Give you girls somethin' to do. It's called swamp milkweed, should be flowering now. I'll show you a picture." He grabbed a book of plants and started flipping through the pages. "Here." He held up the page.

"Okay," Dean-girl said, finishing her dinner and leaning over Bobby's shoulder.

"We need the root of the plant. Hopefully you can find some that's growing on ground dry enough to walk on."

"I'll figure it out." She set her bowl in the sink with Bobby's and took another gulp of her beer.

"Aren't you both goin'?" Bobby asked.

"Nah, I can manage," Dean-girl replied.

Bobby looked from one Winchester to the other and back again. "What's with you two? You fighting or something?"

"We're fine," Dean-girl said before Sam-girl could answer. "It just won't take two of us to pick a weed."

Bobby shrugged. "Suit yourself. Guess I'll find something to keep Sam busy."

Dean-girl guzzled the rest of her beer and got one more for the road. Then she belched and went outside, letting the screen door slam behind her. Sam-girl and Bobby listened to her footsteps on the gravel as they faded into the distance.

"What's his problem?" Bobby asked. "Or her. Whatever."

Sam-girl sighed and followed Bobby into the living room. "He's mad at me because I told him it wasn't his fault."

Bobby nodded knowingly. "Ah." He started rearranging items on his desk, stacking books and sorting papers. "And you thought he'd believe you?"

Sam-girl flung her arms wide in frustration and let them fall back down to her sides. She sank onto the ancient sofa, rested her elbows on her knees, and raked her fingers through her long hair. "No," she said, her voice muffled as she laced her fingers together at the back of her neck. "But I thought I should try."

"Like I said last night, just give him some time. He'll get past it. He always does."

Sam-girl leaned back onto the sofa and looked around the room with unfocused eyes. "Yeah, but in the meantime I'm the one who has to be with him constantly."

Bobby snorted and sat down at his desk with a pen and paper, surrounded by the piles he'd just made. "You got me there. But you're here now. Least you don't have to be alone with him anymore."

"Yeah, but he acts fine with you. It just makes me feel worse."

They sat in silence, Bobby copying down information he needed, Sam-girl staring off into space, tired and angry and hurt. After a while, she realized she was twisting a lock of her hair with one hand. She turned to Bobby.

"Hey," she began, "Why did our hair get long?"

"Hmm?" Bobby looked up as he stopped writing. "Oh. Remember, these spells can have all kinds of specifics in 'em," he replied. "Guess whoever did it put that in there."

"Huh." Sam-girl stretched out on the couch with her head on one armrest, noticing that her feet no longer reached to the other end. "So will it stay this way when we're changed back?" she asked.

"It shouldn't. The stuff I've found says when the spell is broken you'll be returned to exactly the way you were. So Dean won't even have to wait for his face to heal up."

That was a relief. "And our leg hair will be back," she mumbled.

Bobby chuckled.

Dean-girl had pried open her beer bottle on the hood of a derelict car on the way out of Bobby's place and was kicking up dust on the gravel road as she made her way toward the lake. Not much of a lake; really more of a pond. But it was the only place he'd ever fished. Bobby used to take him and Sam there when they were kids, and as they got older, weather and workload permitting, they usually tried to make time to go down there when they stopped by Bobby's place. It was kind of a long walk – she could've taken the car – but she wanted to be gone as long as possible, away from Sam's puppy dog eyes and Bobby's efforts to not interfere.

The sunlight was a dark gold and the quiet of the country soothed her as she walked. She could feel the two beers she'd quickly downed, and the thoughts she'd worked so hard all day to keep from her mind came creeping in.

She thought about Frank and what he'd almost done – what her stupidity had almost cost. She knew that in general girls actually were the weaker sex, at least as far as physical strength went. It was just a difference between men and women. But she hadn't thought about it last night. If she'd given it a moment's consideration, she might have acted differently.

But then again, she may have done the exact same thing. Forethought wasn't her forte.

It just grated on her that with all her training, all her fighting – both with actual monsters and with human monsters – she hadn't been able to get the upper hand against some angry drunk redneck.

She was nearly done with her beer as she neared the lake and the grass next to the road was replaced by reeds. She came upon the crossing of a long-disused railroad and took a right turn onto the tracks. Weeds grew between the rusty rails, and she stumbled once or twice over a hidden tie. The tracks took her over a narrow bridge above reedy shallow waters she knew were filled with turtles and frogs. She probably could have just stopped there and found the plant she needed, but she threw her empty beer bottle as far as she could (which wasn't as far as usual, she noted) across the rushes and kept going as solid earth returned under the ties. Not long after crossing the bridge, she saw the path on her left. She skittered down the sideslope, creating a small avalanche of gravel, and in another minute or two, she emerged from the trees onto the shore of the lake.

This was the place. Bobby – or someone – had built a dock about two hundred years ago, and Dean was always surprised to see it was still standing. This time was no different. It was twisted and uneven and dangerous-looking, but the only harm that could come from its collapse was finding yourself in leechy lakewater.

She was here to get the plant Bobby needed, of course, but from the moment she said she'd go to the lake, she had planned to spend some time at this rickety deathtrap. Some of Dean's best memories took place here; it was one place that had always felt safe. There was nothing to hunt, no one to impersonate, no one (human or otherwise) following them, and no Dad hovering over him disapprovingly. It had been exactly the same for as long as Dean could remember, suspended in time and always waiting patiently for their return. This was where he'd learned to put leeches and worms on hooks, how to cast the line and wait, and what the best-tasting fish were. To this day one of the only things Dean could actually cook was fish, and he did a damn good job of it.

Dean-girl made her way out to the end of the creaking dock somewhat gingerly and sat down on the weather-bleached boards. The sun was gone now but its light still filled the sky, and the frogs were starting up their nightly medley. She sighed and looked down at the water. It was murky, but she could just make out the silhouettes of a few fish lazily drifting around below. Swarms of gnats hovered over the surface, hundreds of tiny dots flying in frenzied circles.

She knew it wasn't fair of her to be mad at Sammy, but she couldn't help it. She was just angry already, and Sammy'd interfered, as usual. Whether her sister was right or not was irrelevant: she knew better. Dean-girl was neck-deep in self-blame, and didn't need anyone to save her from it. After so many years of John's lectures and verbal punishments, Dean could step in for him in a heartbeat. So for almost twenty-four hours now, all the fuckups and stupid things she'd done the night before had been fighting each other for her attention, dragging her down deeper and deeper.

I shouldn't have even been out of the hotel. I shouldn't have let Sammy leave. I shouldn't have gotten drunk. I shouldn't have toyed with Frank the way I did. I shouldn't have underestimated him. I shouldn't have been such a smartass. I shouldn't have gone out without my knife. I should've seen it coming. I should've reacted faster. I should've known.

I should've known.

That one thought summed up all the others so succinctly that when she finally let it, it seemed to grab her by the throat and squeeze. She struggled to breathe and suddenly the tears were back, threatening to spill out. Just another sign of her weakness. Stupid and weak, that's what she was.

And on top of it all, she couldn't stop wondering if there had ever been a time that she, as Man-Dean, had pressured a girl to do something she didn't want to. Dean always liked to think that all the girls were willing. Were they? Really? If he'd ever made even one of them feel anything like Frank had made Dean-girl feel the night before…

Monsters from every corner of the earth, black magic, the criminally insane: none of these had ever made Dean feel so completely helpless and powerless.

Look what you did. Look what almost happened. How could you be so careless? What if he'd actually done it? What were you thinking?

Fucking stupid. Fucking stupid. Fucking stupid.

Dean-girl wanted to take it all back. She wanted to do it differently. She wanted these thoughts to leave her alone.

She wanted to hit something.

Jumping to her feet and wavering only slightly as the ancient boards of the dock groaned and shifted under her weight, she turned and strode back to the shore. She found a stick about the size of a baseball bat and swung it at the nearest tree. The jolt was painful but satisfying. She swung again and again, and when the stick cracked in two, she started using her fists against the tree. The bark tore through the soft skin of her knuckles almost immediately, but she didn't stop. She felt the thoughts retreating one by one with each blow.

By the time she slid to the ground next to the blood-stained tree trunk, her mind was significantly clearer. Her heart was racing and she was out of breath, but she felt calmer. Nightfall was dimming the world around her, and the frogs' chorus was at its peak.

As she calmed down, she looked at her hands in the waning light and sighed. She might be feeling better, but there was going to be no way to hide this and no explaining it away when she got back to Bobby's place. It'd be obvious what had happened, but with any luck neither of the others would grill her about it.

She picked herself up off the ground and headed back down to the water. She had to follow the shoreline for a while before she found the flowers. Luckily the ground they were growing in was stable enough for her to stand on, but soft enough for her to easily pull the plant out by the roots. Her bleeding hands were weak and sore and nearly useless.

On the way back to the house, darkness finally engulfed the landscape. Fireflies flickered in the weeds by the side of the road and crickets chirped from all directions. The heat didn't dissipate here the way it had in Colorado; heavy and tenacious, it would barely drop over the course of the night. The sky was incredible – there was so little light pollution that if you sat still you could count the satellites drifting among the millions of stars. The mosquitoes were out in full force now, attacking from every angle and showing no mercy. Her mangled hands were a mess of fresh and drying blood.

This would all be over soon; she could go back to just being Dean and move on without looking back. They'd find a new job to work and drive off to wherever, forget this ever happened.

As the turn-off to Bobby's house came into view, Dean-girl squared her shoulders and raised her chin. She was prepared for the third degree from Bobby and the pathetic glances from Sammy. All she had to do was put on a happy face and play it off like it wasn't a big deal. At least now she felt like she could actually find a happy face to use.

Sam-girl was dozing amid the sounds of pages shuffling, Bobby's workboots on the hardwood floors, and crickets outside the open windows when she heard footsteps on the porch outside followed by the soft groan of the spring on the screen door. She opened her eyes with some effort, just in time to see a flash of denim as Dean-girl went straight to the bathroom. She heard the faucet start running, and she closed her eyes again. She was tired, both physically and mentally, and didn't feel like dealing with her sister's shit anymore. If only she'd go back out so Sam-girl could relax for the last couple hours.

Bobby looked up as Dean-girl emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later carrying the milkweed, which was just beginning to wilt, in her gauze-wrapped hands.

"What happened to you?" Bobby asked as she handed him the plant.

She strode over to a chair and plopped herself in it heavily. "A tree and I had a disagreement," she replied.

Bobby looked at her silently for a moment, shrugged, and went back to work. She looked over at Sam-girl, who was lying on her back on the couch, hands folded over her belly, eyes closed. She knew her sister was awake.

"So," she began, as brightly as she could. "What have you guys been up to?"

Bobby didn't look up from his papers. "While you were arguing with a tree?" he asked. "Nothing. Just gettin' everything in order while Sam gets her beauty sleep."

Dean-girl nodded. "Well, he definitely needs it," she tried a gentle jab to get her sister to respond. It worked.

Sam-girl opened one eye and rested it on Dean-girl. "You're one to talk," she mumbled. "Have you seen yourself? Were you fighting with the Ugly Tree?"

Bobby snorted.

Dean-girl smirked. "Har-de-fuckin-har, bitch."

Sam-girl closed her eye and smiled.

Dean-girl spoke again. "I'm gettin' another beer. You want one too, Sleeping Beauty?"

"Sure."

Sam-girl listened to the boots on the floor, the clinking of the bottles, the hiss of them being opened, their caps clattering onto the counter. She opened both eyes this time as her sister entered the room, holding out a bottle for her to take.

"Thanks."

Dean-girl nodded in acknowledgement and went back to her chair as Sam-girl shimmied into a sitting position and took a swig of beer. Bobby had cut the root off the milkweed and finished his preparations. He picked up a half-finished newspaper crossword puzzle and began working on it. The atmosphere in the room was comfortable for the first time since they'd arrived.

After a few minutes, Sam-girl was the one to break the silence. "Bobby says we should go back to exactly how we were, physically," she said. "So like, our hair won't be this long anymore and our leg hair will be back."

"Oh, thank god," Dean-girl sighed. "You would not believe how itchy I am right now. Shaving was not a good idea."

"Your legs?" Sam-girl asked, confused. "Mine aren't itchy."

Dean-girl shook her head. "Not my legs."

There was a pause while Sam-girl worked it out in her mind. "Oh. Ew."

"Feels like…chiggers in my crotch." She wriggled in her chair for emphasis.

Sam-girl chuckled. "Well, you'd be the one to know what that's like."

Her sister made a face. "Oh, blow it out your ass, Sam."

Their conversation had distracted Bobby from his puzzle. "Lord. You two idjits shaved your crotches?" he asked.

"Hey, I didn't!" Sam-girl splayed her fingers in defense, using her thumb and forefinger to keep a grip on her beer. "Dean wanted to feel 'authentic.'"

"For fuck's sake…"

Dean-girl tried to defend herself. "Well? It seemed like a good idea at the time. No one wants to see that shit."

"Who was going to see it?!" Bobby exclaimed. "What the hell were you planning on doing?"

"Nothing!" Dean-girl retorted. "I didn't want to have to see it! And anyway, it was…a learning experience. Now I know what it's like."

Bobby bowed his head back to the newspaper on the desk as Sam-girl shook with laughter. "Well I hope that knowledge serves you well in the future."

Dean-girl sniffed. "You never know."

"Also, your face'll heal up," Sam-girl said, still chuckling. "And your…hands I guess, too."

Dean-girl looked down at her bandaged hands. "Sweet." She twisted in her chair and tugged at the thighs of her jeans. After a few more seconds of squirming and grunting, she finally pawed at her crotch. "Fuck."

Sam-girl let out a new burst of laughter, and Bobby looked up again. "Jesus, Dean. If you're gonna do that, go into another room. No one wants to see that shit."

"Oh, I don't know, Bobby. I've seen plenty of girls—"

"I don't care what you've seen, or where, or why," Bobby interrupted her.

"But guys do it all the time!"

"I don't wanna hear it," replied Bobby. "This is my house, and I say you're not gonna be itchin' your lady parts in my damn living room."

Dean-girl rolled her eyes. "Fine," she spat, and stood up. Her hand was down her pants before she was out of the room.

She came back a couple minutes later, looking slightly less agitated.

"Better?" Sam-girl asked her.

"Yes," she said sullenly as she took to the chair again. "For now. I just can't wait for this to be over." She emptied her fourth beer and looked at the bottle. "You want another one, Sammy?" she asked.

"Not if you don't wash your hands first," Sam-girl replied.

Dean-girl growled, which sounded almost cute in her girl voice. "Forget it, then," she said as icily as she could without laughing. She set her bottle on the floor.

The three of them got lost in talking about trivial things, and the Winchesters would both almost forget their predicament – until they'd see the other across the room and be jolted back to their bizarre reality. Before they knew it, there was only half an hour left before midnight. Bobby had set everything up, mixing what he could beforehand and keeping the other supplies nearby. "Okay ladies," he said. "Now I don't know if this is going to change you back right away, or if you're going to have to sleep it off. You woke up this way, so it seems that the spell had a bit of a delay built into it. But either way, I'd suggest changing your clothes before we get goin'. Because once it happens, I don't think either of you will fit comfortably into those clothes anymore."

"Oh, shit. Good thinkin', Bobby." Dean-girl got up. "I'll get your stuff, Sammy."

"Thanks." Sam-girl was surprised as her sister grabbed the keys from the kitchen and went out to the car, the screen door bouncing shut behind her.

When they heard the creak of the Impala's trunk, Bobby spoke. "I guess he worked it out."

"Yeah, I guess," Sam-girl said thoughtfully. "Finally."

Boots mounted the porch stairs and in a few seconds Dean-girl reappeared, lugging a suitcase in each hand. She set one on the floor in front of Sam-girl and headed for the stairs with the other. "I'm gonna go man up," she said.

"Yeah, you do that," Bobby called after her.

Sam-girl chuckled and grabbed her suitcase as she stood up and followed her sister.

Five minutes later, the girls stood in Bobby's living room again, this time wearing baggy tee shirts without bras and sagging jeans with men's boxers underneath them. Their man-sized boots looked ridiculous. "You girls look homeless," Bobby cracked.

"Let's just get this done," Dean-girl replied, furrowing her brow in disapproval that was only half-serious.

Sam-girl said nothing. Even though her sister had embraced this whole thing much better than she had, Dean-girl's experience hadn't ended well for her. It was too bad, really. Sam-girl thought it'd be fun to remind Dean about it sometimes – how enthusiastic he'd been about being a girl. She sighed. That would probably have to wait a while.

"Okay, bring that blasted thing outside," Bobby commanded, grabbing a glass bowl, a cloth, and the papers with the reversal written on them. Sam-girl picked up the still-wrapped lamp and the sisters followed him outside. "Now set it right here," Bobby said as he stopped in the middle of the gravel drive. Sam-girl unrolled it and set it where Bobby was pointing. After that, the Winchesters watched as he used a wooden spoon to mix a paste of god-knows-what (other than the root Dean-girl had fetched, of course).

"Now, one of you smear this crap all over it," he said, holding out the bowl with the spoon sticking out of it.

Dean-girl and Sam-girl looked at each other.

"You wanna do it?" Sam-girl asked.

"Nah, you do it," Dean girl replied.

So Sam-girl reached over and grabbed the bowl from Bobby. She knelt down on the ground next to the lamp and then glanced back up at the old man. "Just…smear it on?" she asked.

"Yep. Like frosting," he replied.

She took a deep breath. "Okay," she said, and started in.

When the lamp was covered, she stood up and handed the bowl back to Bobby, who held his papers under his arm as he fished a lighter out of his jeans pocket. "So I'm gonna read this, and then we have to light it on fire—"

"Ooh!" Dean-girl interrupted him. "Can I do that part?"

Bobby pursed his lips at the girl's rudeness and handed over the lighter. Dean-girl took it and flipped it open, turning to grin at Sam-girl, who just lifted a corner of her mouth in amusement at her sister's enthusiasm being directed toward something else.

"While it's burning, I have to read another spell," continued Bobby. "And when the fire goes out, we smash the thing. I brought this to cover it so we don't get shards of cursed lamp all over my driveway." He lifted a corner of the cloth, which he'd slung over one shoulder.

The girls nodded in the dim yellow glow from the porch light.

Bobby looked at his watch and started reading. Neither of the girls recognized the words. It sounded like some kind of Slavic language.

Bobby paused and nodded at Dean-girl, who flicked on the lighter and held it to the lamp. She was surprised at how flammable the paste mixture was – or was it just the power in the lamp that made it burn so easily? – and had to jump back to keep from singeing her eyebrows. She said nothing, though, and Bobby started up his chanting again. When he finished, the three watched as the flame continued to shroud the form of the lamp, flashing undulating light across their faces.

Finally, the fire died down and the lamp remained intact but covered in soot. Bobby slid the cloth off his shoulder and held it out to the Winchesters.

Sam-girl looked over at her sister. "You wanna do this part, too?" she asked. She didn't care who did it, she just wanted it done. But she thought Dean-girl might assign some significance to destroying the thing that had caused her so much trouble.

"Sure." Dean-girl took the cloth from Bobby's extended hand and wrapped it around the lamp. She twisted the end so the lamp was completely enclosed, and then stomped on it with her over-sized boot. She stomped again and again until the satisfying crunching became a muted grinding. "Okay," she said, holding up the dirty cloth filled with chips of pottery. "Think that's good?"

"Uh, yeah. That's good," said Bobby.

"I guess we'll have to wait till morning," Sam-girl observed.

"Yeah, I figured as much," Bobby replied.

"Now what?" asked Dean-girl.

"Now you go get shovels and bury it somewhere."

Sam-girl looked at Bobby. "But isn't its power gone now?" she asked.

"Supposedly," replied Bobby. "But I've learned you can never be too careful. I'd rather it was out of the way where no one's ever going to accidentally touch it again. Buryin' it seems like the best option. Just make sure you stay on my property," he added.

The girls made their way out to the shed and picked up some shovels. They found an out-of-the-way place that seemed good and started digging. Both were soon glad that they weren't digging a full-sized grave; they quickly found themselves out of breath, and the mosquitoes started to swarm.

"Man, I have had it up to here with this shit," huffed Dean-girl as they refilled the hole with dirt. "I hate being a girl!"

"Yeah, it's over now, Dean," said Sam-girl. "We just have to go to sleep." She scraped the last bit of dirt onto the mound and both girls tamped it down with their shovels and boots.

"Thank god," Dean-girl replied, using her forearm to wipe the sweat from her brow and leaving behind a streak of dirt.

The sisters returned the shovels to Bobby's shed and walked back up to the house. Bobby was sitting at the kitchen table with a beer; two freshly-opened bottles awaited them.

"I thought you…girls might want one more before bed," offered Bobby.

Dean-girl sighed as they each grabbed a bottle. "Thanks, Bobby." She held hers out toward Bobby, who clinked his against it. She and Sam-girl did the same and then Sam-girl and Bobby.

"Saved our asses again," said Dean-girl as she brought the beer up to her lips.

"Yeah, thanks, Bobby," said Sam-girl after her first sip.

"You're welcome," he replied, and smirked. "It's kind of a full-time job."

The girls downed their drinks and headed upstairs for bed a few minutes later.

Sam-girl looked at herself in the mirror as she brushed her teeth; the long wavy hair, the soft skin, the rise of her breasts under the baggy shirt. She would never see this girl again – hopefully. It briefly crossed her mind that they should've had Bobby take a picture, but she was too tired to do more than think about it, and anyway Dean-girl was already in bed.

Oh well.

She made her way back to her room (they actually had separate rooms when they stayed at Bobby's), turned off the light, opened the window and crawled under the sheet. She could hear the creak on the other side of the wall as Dean-girl rolled over in bed. The crickets outside were a peaceful sound. The last thing she heard before she drifted off was Bobby locking up the house for the night.

Dean rolled over in the twisted sheet and punched the pillow into submission as he settled in for more sleep. The songs of birds were coming in through the screened window, and the hot morning's misty light burned through the thin curtains. Suddenly he was wide awake.

In one movement, he sat up and grabbed at his crotch. Everything that belonged there was present and accounted for. As he looked down, his hands flew to his chest, landing on nothing but smooth, flat pecs. His realized hands were still bandaged. He unwrapped them from the gauze and saw only old, familiar scars on the unbroken skin of a man's hands. He felt his head and face – no cuts or bruises there anymore, either. He unwrapped his legs from the sheets and saw that his leg-hair was back, in all its furry, messy glory.

He jumped up and hurried down the hall to the bathroom to look in the mirror. All he saw was himself. Dean. All male.

He flashed a quick grin at himself and hurried down the hall to Sam's room. Without bothering to knock, he burst in. "Sammy?" he said. "Wake up." He looked down at his brother's massive form, still asleep.

"Sam!" he said again, a little louder. He reached over and shoved Sam's shoulder. Sam grunted and stirred. "We're back to normal."

Sam's stirring stopped abruptly and his eyes flew open. Dean watched as the younger Winchester went though almost the same exact actions he'd finished a few minutes before.

Upon realizing he was himself again, Sam let out a huge sigh and looked over at his brother, standing next to him in the morning light in nothing but his underwear. "It worked," he said.

"Yup!" said Dean, and grinned. "At least mostly. Your hair seems about the same length."

Sam grabbed his pillow and flung it at his brother. "Get out of here!" he laughed as Dean deflected the flying object with an outstretched arm and hurried out of the room. He sat on the bed listening to the birds outside and glad to feel at home in his own skin again. He could hear Dean whistling in the next room, and then his footsteps down the hall as headed to the bathroom for a shower.

Sam stood up and stretched. A cup of coffee sounded awesome. As he pulled on his jeans there was a shout from the bathroom.

"I can pee standing up!"

He chuckled as he stepped into the hallway and almost ran into Bobby, who shouted back, "Well bully for you. I've been doing it for fifty years."

"Hey, Bobby," said Sam.

"Hey there, kid," Bobby said, looking him up and down. "I see you're back to your manly selves."

Sam chuckled. "Yeah, looks like."

"Well, good. Now I need some coffee."

"I hear you."

Sam followed Bobby down to the kitchen and was sitting at the table with his coffee when Dean came thundering down the stairs.

"We're back, Bobby!" he exclaimed.

Bobby turned his attention from the pancakes he was making to glance at Dean. "So I heard," he said.

Dean took a mug out of the cupboard and poured himself a cup of coffee. "Any new jobs to work, Sammy?" he asked, leaning against the counter and crossing his ankles.

"I don't know," said Sam. "I'm barely even conscious."

"We've wasted enough time with this shit," said Dean. "I wanna get back out there and do something."

"Well, why don't you have some breakfast and let your brother enter the land of the living before you tear off to save the world, there, Scrappy Doo." Bobby brought a plate of steaming pancakes to the table and got the syrup from the cupboard.

Dean grumbled as he filled his plate and slathered his pancakes with butter and syrup.

When Sam was done eating, he dragged himself up the stairs for a shower. By the time he was finished – and feeling much more awake – Dean already had a string of possible jobs within a day's drive. Sam listened noncommittally as his brother listed them off. He knew Dean was going to choose the one that sounded the most risky; he probably didn't even realize it himself, but he needed a dangerous job to prove to himself that he was back to being Dean. It was going to be a job that required physical strength and minimal thought – the kind that wore Sam out. But he was glad to be back to normal himself, and glad to see his brother ready to go. So he'd go along with whatever Dean decided.

After saying goodbye to Bobby, the boys lugged their suitcases back out to the Impala and hit the road. Dean had found a series of unexplained deaths in Minnesota. Maiming, dismemberment; it had all the trappings of a good monster hunt. In a few hours they'd be wearing suits and flashing badges.

As they sped down the gravel road toward the highway, the Impala's wheels kicking up a constant cloud of dust, Dean reached over and switched on the radio. After turning the knob past stations playing news and political arguments, Mozart and some awful pop music, he finally found a rock station.

As luck would have it, the station was playing the Steelheart song they'd sung along with a couple days before. The brothers listened to the song in silence. The last note was impossibly high, almost eardrum shattering.

Sam smiled vaguely out at the countryside whizzing by. He'd never think of that song the same again.

"I gotta say," said Dean as the next song began. "That's the one thing I'll miss about being a girl."

"What, you screeching out those notes?" asked Sam. "I won't."

He steeled himself for the inevitable punch to the arm.