Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

Warning: Wincest. Inappropriate language (really?). Two or three chapters, no more. Second season (probably).

To Girlyghoul, my beta!

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MY DOLL

...

A tale about Sam and dolls.

"Gotta go, time to leave this place."

"Such a jerk!" Sam came over and wiped the corner of Dean's mouth. A spot of Elvis' Pink Cadillac lipstick with that typical gloss shine had just slipped out, forming a slug trail toward his cheek.

"Bitch!" Dean replied, slapping his brother's hand from his face.

"You should thank me. Looked like you just ate a roast chicken and had no time to use the napkin." Sam said with a casual smile, looking at the tips of his smeared fingers while heading to the Impala.

"Maybe that is exactly what I have done, little brother." After installing himself in the driver's seat, Dean looked at the younger man, turning the car on with a perverted smile on his lips. He started singing in a malicious tone, teasing his brother: "You eat your dinner, eat your pork and beans, I eat more chicken any man ever seen…"

Sam blushed right away.

"Hey! Oh Ho! Right! Someone here never experienced a roast chicken...!" Dean grinned at the discovery.

Sam wiped his stained fingers on his jeans, frowning as a sign of displeasure at the feeling. But it didn't erase a slight rosy tone on his cheeks and a Mona Lisa smile hanging on his lips.

"Dean ... You have no clue, don't even try…" the dark haired man pledged, hoping his big brother didn't follow the path that conversation could lead them in. But as always when Dean had a girl and Sam was left in the room watching TV or at the laptop, the blond man was in great mood and very willing to make the next miles fun-filled...at Sam's expenses, of course.

"Ok, ok, then a dollar for your thoughts! If it doesn't have to do with roast chicken, I'm going to make you the whole "Apology Ritual" and all."

"You'll have to ask on your knees."

"Only if you cheat."

"You're not going to like what you will hear ..." Sam warned his brother, turning to face him and trying to conceal his amused expression. Dean glanced up from the road, still grinning, something between concerned and curious.

"Just say it. What did a fucking bit of lip gloss make you remember?"

"You. Wearing lipstick. When we played with dolls in the old Dukakis manor."

Dean barely managed to not let the car suddenly die, and kind of choked on the silly smile he was happily flashing moments ago. The car inelegantly glided a few meters by the side of the road until the driver straightened it out on the road again. Now it was time for Sam to open a flashy smile from ear to ear. He had managed to get even to Dean faster this time. A minute of silence or so fell upon the Winchester brothers and Dean knew that, a moment any longer would be proof of his defeat and shame, so he tried to manage the situation with a phony laugh that sounded much more nervous than he planned:

"Man, what a memory, huh! Heck!"

"Uhun ..." Sam muttered, concise and provocative, then crossed his arms with a falsely absent look. He could see that Dean was upset and annoyed only by checking the reddening flush up by his neck, and ears. But somehow, knowing that Dean also remembered of what he had implied, made Sam feel a weird heat in his belly. He had forgotten everything about that until this day, when rubbing his thumb over the smeared spot on Dean's face awakened such strange memories and feelings. Of course Dean also had forgotten that until now, like him. But the images were coming so, so vivid in Sam's mind...

Dean suspiciously looked askance at his baby brother again, and in his last pathetic attempt to deny his embarrassment, said casually:

"That only happened because I'm the most awesome big brother of the world."

"Uhun ..."

Flashback on

The case that initially seemed to be about ghosts evolved into something much more mysterious and, although the bleak and desolate landscape didn't excite John to much, there was something in the depths of the forest, and not at the old-Dukakis manor as he first thought, which was terrorizing the small town.

Unfortunately, Sam had gotten cut on an old wagon wheel, the rusty thing almost turned to dust. Dean had been petrified while the younger boy was bleeding. But after Sam was properly stitched and medicated, John decided what the boys needed was some respite in a warm place, not in the backseat of the Impala. Not in winter.

The old house had been abandoned for nearly 10 years by the last two remnants of a wealthy and arrogant family full of odd mannerisms. But come on, it was stable, the fireplace worked, and Dean could find a way to make it comfortable as long as needed. They were nomads after all. And then John ventured into the white landscape and the boys took refuge in the upstairs of the decadent mansion.

Sam still had a minor fever, threatening to return higher than in the previous day, and was absolutely sore and bored because of the stitches in the arm. Dean for some time managed to keep him in the heated room, close to the fireplace, but the truth was that there was no more fun in poker or any other cards games. And no, there was absolutely no television nearby.

And now Dean was in the bathroom down the hall, trying to bathe in the precarious conditions provided for them at the time.

Then Sam jumped out of bed, wrenching up the blankets and sleeping bags Dean had prepared for them. He was already familiar with the smell of mold. He felt a little dizzy, thinking that might have gotten out of bed too fast, but soon things become clear again. He went to the closet. For some gloomy reason, there were still mothballs in there from long ago that all still had that strong odor and it burned in the nostrils, mixed with the dust and mold. Sam saw all the old clothes, things dating back to his Dad's golden days, bright and extravagant fabrics, strange and grimy clothes. He passed his fingers through those clothes observing the figure that the stained glass in the closet reflected: himself, a boy who still had a pudgy face and was all mouth and hair.

With effort he pushed with the tips of his fingers a hat box from the top shelf, only to tip its contents over his own head. The smell of sweet, musky scent of old roses almost choked him. He had just brought down a dozen of toiletries: cases of rice powder, eye shadows and blush, which broke apart upon contact; lipsticks and little unnamed things that rolled across the dusty floor.

Sam bent down to collect what was left; upset that he had broken the objects. The house was abandoned, but still had an owner, he knew. And then, just as he crouched, Sam saw a large and dusty suitcase beneath the clothes. So his curiosity once again won over precaution, and the boy crawled through the clothes to reach it, because he felt too weak to pull it out, considering he had only one hand for it.

Sitting on the floor, he opened the case's locks after a few tries. Sam's disappointment was huge when it happened, though. There was nothing inside but a pile of small human figurines, packed into their boxes as if they were in their little sarcophagi. They were just dolls. Dolls. Small dolls - dozens of them, actually.

"What the hell!" he unburdened himself, rubbing his burning eyes from the dust in the closet. He searched between the boxes, trying to find some more interesting toy. But there were only dolls- all dressed in costumes of different nationalities.

"Dean!" he called, trying to make his voice as loud as possible. He had to call three times before his brother swept away some clothes on hangers and stuck his face in between them, smelling of soap:

"Damn Sam! What the hell...! You will now need to take a shower and honestly ... what the heck is it?"

"Help me. I cannot drag it back out of the closet by myself."

"But what the hell do you want it for, Sammy? ... Are they… dolls?"

"Yep, they are." Sam could find a use for them and at least he would have something different to do. He didn't get intimidated by Dean's perplexed and amused look and rubbed his eyes again. Not that he was aware of the visual effect to have used it to his benefit, but who could help not to feel pity for him? His eyes were already reddened from excessive dust, the inflammation that still didn't completely go away from his constant rubbing.

"Can you help, uh? Each doll has a different nationality. I'm going to sort them out."

Dean still frowned in disbelief.

"Come on, get out of there. All this mold are going to kill you... and... dude, these are dolls! You're gonna play with dolls now?"

Sam bent his head to the side facing his brother and looked at him with sweet puppy eyes; coincidentally and conveniently, he got a coughing seizure caused by the dust.

"Okay, Samantha baby! Get out. You'll need a shower after playing with your dolls."

Sam was totally unaffected by the provocations. His curiosity was piqued and he knew that Dean would change his mind eventually.

Sam marched out of the closet and sat on the bed, waiting for Dean to drag the large suitcase to the center of the room. The older boy checked the suitcase's content with curious disdain, keeping some distance from it, revolving the content with his foot and spreading the small boxes on the floor around the trunk.

Once he passed the toys to Sam, the younger boy started sorting the dolls and laying them out in orderly rows. And it took a long time.

Sam felt Dean staring curiously at him, now splayed in bed with his legs out. The older boy was silent, observing Sam's slow and focused movements. Sam liked to be meticulous. He was organizing the nationalities alphabetically. And when he was not sure what nationality the doll was, asked for the older boy's opinion:

"And this one, Dean?"

Dean stared at the doll with long black hair, red dress with a green belt.

"Who knows? Mexican?"

"That's one is the Mexican!" Sam made a sullen face, clearly thinking Dean was not involved in the "play" as much as required.

He sighed. "She's Italian, maybe."

"Whatever." Dean tried to give an encouraging smile, but all he got was an even angrier Sam.

"COULD YOU please play with me, Dean?" Sam burst out, suddenly. All the agony he was feeling just went over the brim. The symptoms of his body's fight against soreness; the feeling of being neglected and unsupported. His shallow eyes filled with tears that overflowed in seconds, as much as he wanted to avoid that. The heat that afflicted him only seemed to increase, to burn him, and Sam curled up like an animal, moaning in frustration because he could not contain his tears. His injured arm began to throb, and he rolled in tossing helplessly seeking relief.

Soon the older brother was raising the youngest one in the air, shaking his shoulders and trying to get his attention; Dean put his hands against the hot cheeks of his baby brother:

"Hey Sam! Hey, Listen! All right. Hey dude! I'll play! Uhn?! I'll play! But how about we eat first? And you definitely need a bath. It's almost nighttime. Ok? I'll play, Sammy! Don't be like this... "

Dean was quite panicked himself, but calmed down a bit when he saw the boy stop pouting with his promise. The blond boy even wiped his younger brother's tears from the hot and slimy cheeks.

"I'm going to heat the water for your bath and then we'll have dinner. Maybe she's Colombian ... I'd say she is Colombian, Sam.

The younger brushed the hair from his sweaty forehead to face his brother. He opened a weak smile, but wanted it to be a bigger grin. Dean rubbed his head before leaving the room.

The doll definitely seemed Colombian, the younger boy thought.

...

Sam left the bathroom, wrapped in a towel running on his toes into the room. The food (a pack of sliced bread, peanut butter and a box of strawberry flavored milk) were on a table in the room, near the window. But there was no sign of Dean.

The boy felt the apprehension immediately reach his chest. The absence of his brother did not feel good. He dressed quickly, looking over his shoulders from time to time.

Dean ...?"

The anxiety was growing as silence fell upon the house. Dean did not have much to do in the other room, it was chilly, and if he had gone to the bathroom, they would have met, right?

"Dean!"

He took uncertain steps towards the closet, whose door was still ajar and which gave off the disastrous smell of roses and old musk. It reminded Sam of coffins and old ladies, two things that he had any sympathy for. New tears welled up in his eyes, his mouth trembled a bit.

"Dean... Please... Show yourself… It's not funny."

He heard the rustle of fabric and his heart sighed something between panic and relief.

"BOOOOOO!"

"You big jerk!" the younger Winchester managed to pretend that Dean's triumphant leap from behind the clothes had not scared him at all. But his eyes were dull and squeezed shut and his arms covered his head. But while the anger and shame made him pull himself together quickly, the picture that was in front when he opened his eyes surprised him: his older brother was wearing a nightgown over his clothes. A nightgown and lipstick and a towel over his head as if it were hair.

Sam rubbed his eyes again. Dean had laughed, but now he was serious. In fact, a little embarrassed smile clung in his lips clumsily painted with dark pink lipstick. He spoke in a low, shy voice, staring at the younger boy:
"Where this doll came from, Sammy?"

Sam cupped his mouth with both hands, stifling his laughs:

"From another planet!"

Dean laughed too, amused. They shared their dinner and returned to bed, along the dolls. The towel from Dean's head was long lost and he wasn't anxious to put it back on:

"You are very very bad with your dolls, Samantha. Look at the head of this one." He pointed to himself and got into place among the collection, carefully adjusting the lacy nightgown around his body and lying like a corpse in a coffin. His green eyes looked heavy and tired. Sam crawled across the bed to sit beside him.

"You're the prettiest."

The older boy raised an eyebrow thinking to protest, but felt Sam's finger touching his lips and fell silent. His baby brother was putting more lipstick on Dean's mouth with great care, though without much skill. But Sam was meticulous. Dean just closed his eyes, allowing Sam to do what he wanted. He could feel the heat exuding from the younger's body and knew Sam still had a fever. He was afraid that it had gotten worse. He felt he wasn't able to take Sam to the hospital with that weather. Not alone. But then he just laid there, glad to have a feeling of peace again, and feeling a bit of hope in spite of everything. And if at first he imagined himself ridiculous and clumsy, little by little there was that sweet and strange feeling that caught him at times, a lonely melancholy who neither Sam nor his father could fill, but that was related to missing, missing his Mom so much. Maybe it was the smell of those old and odd things; maybe it was Sam's gaze on him… Just like he remembered looking at his Mom as she brushed her hair, or put lipstick on her lips. He felt not like crying, Dean just remembered all the old and fading things from his young life. And it was the heat exuding from Sam that let him know it wasn't just a dream.

And the heat coming from Sam was a bit disturbing.

Sam stared at his work of art on Dean's lips and watched as the freckles disappeared into the fair skin because of the strong color contrasting against the face. He admired the design of those full lips and long lashes of Dean's closed eyes, the collar of the lacy gown around his brother's neck, visually clashing with the short and spiky dark blond hair. Those luxurious painted lips drew his attention completely and indeed turned Dean, his brother, into someone different. Someone different and beautiful. It was something unreal and strange, Dean allowing that, Dean accepting that he simply... made him his doll. And somehow, that vision was disturbing.

Flashback off

TO BE CONTINUED

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