Warnings: M/M slash (of course),
explicit sexual content,
underage since Sam is 15 (in some countries, here in Germany you can have sex with 14),
minor character death (sorry Mary),
crossdressing (but not of the kinky kind),
AU (Sam and Dean are not related, there's nothing supernatural in this world, or even if, it's leaving the Winchesters alone),
also: a loving and caring daddy-with-a-shotgun John Winchester (because I said so), Dean moaning over food like a porn star over cock, unfortunate boners during family dinners, teenage hormones, and homophobia (a short scene and not the focus of this fic), drama (enhanced by teenage hormones and teenage crushes), fluff (does that really need a warning? [why are there so many brackets here?])

AN: I just went through this fic again because I had some time on my hands and corrected a couple mistakes and did a few changes. Dean's family name is Milligan now, instead of Mitchell, and there is a scene in the second chapter that's been changed as well, but plot-wise everything is how it was.
Now, enough of my rambling! Have fun reading and hopefully enjoy this little (updated) story of mine (and if you do, feel free to leave a comment ;).

You look good in that Dress, Son

When Mary dies, Sam is eleven.

Suddenly, he's all alone in the world apart from his Dad, but John is overseas at the time, fighting in some desert for the American freedom, and Sam opens the door to the grave looking policemen all by himself. Their expressions soften slightly when they see him looking back at them, hazel eyes wide and frightened beneath his bangs, and one of them crouches down to ask him questions with their faces on the same level. If his dad is maybe at home?

Sam only shakes his head and clutches the door tighter, knuckles turning white. Mom told him not to open the door to anyone, but surely to the police it's okay. And he's only opened it as far as the chain allows and not further. He still hopes Mom won't be angry that he talked to men he doesn't know. Even if they're police officers.

Then maybe Sam could call someone to stay with him? There's been a car accident, but someone should be with him when they tell him the details.

Sam tells them his mom would come home soon, she's just at the shop around the corner, getting some milk and eggs for their breakfast tomorrow. He doesn't understand why the officers exchange quick glances as if they know something Sam doesn't. He doesn't like it, because adults always leave him out of their conversations, tell him he's too young and he should go and play with his cousin Jerry, and they don't care if Jerry steals Sam's Spiderman action figure or calls him a girl because his hair is so long Mary ties it back when they have dinner.

Maybe there's someone else Sam can call? His mom has surely left him a number if something should happen. They'd just wait here on the front porch until Sam has called an adult and they would come over to take care of him.

Sam considers that for a moment. His mom is supposed to be home soon, so maybe they should wait for her. But mom has already been away for an hour and the shop isn't that far away. All of a sudden, Sam is frightened, and he wants nothing more than seeing his mom walking along the way at their front yard, smiling at him, her golden blond hair tied into a kinda messy ponytail after a long work day.

She doesn't. Instead, Missouri hurries down the sidewalk in sweatpants and slippers, breathing heavily as if she's run the whole way from her house to Sam's. There's a stain on her T-shirt and Sam has half a second to wonder if it's tomato sauce before she storms onto the porch and starts to cuss out the officers. He watches as the two men's shoulders start slumping and their eyes drop to their feet as if they're ashamed, and maybe he would have laughed if he wasn't still so scared and missed his mom.

"Open the door, honey," she tells Sam softly after she's finished scolding the officers, and Sam obeys. As soon as he opens the door fully, Missouri swipes him up into her arms, presses him against her plump chest and rubs soothing circles on his back. Normally, Sam would protest because he isn't a baby anymore and he doesn't need to be cuddled, but today he lets her and buries his face in the crook of her neck, takes in her warmth. It doesn't help chasing the bad feeling in his stomach away.

After that, they all go inside and Sam finds out his mom will never come back.

Sam cries for days. He doesn't go to school. He doesn't eat, even when Missouri takes him to her house and offers him a plate with a mountain of Mac'n'Cheese on it. Sam doesn't want it. He wants his mom. Missouri is sad when she explains him again that Mary's never coming back, and Sam knows that, knows what 'dead' means since his hamster George died five years ago. He still wants her back.

Dad comes back four days later, and he smells of alcohol. Missouri wrinkles her nose and clicks her tongue at him, but Sam doesn't care that his dad smells like he showered with beer instead of water and looks like he hasn't slept in a week, with purple rings under bloodshot and red-rimmed eyes, greasy hair and stubble that scratches on Sam's cheek. All that matters is that he's back and Sam isn't so alone anymore.
John holds his son while they cry together.

Sam cries until he can't anymore.

Missouri helps Sam choose the clothes Mary is supposed to wear when she's buried. Dad doesn't want to go into their bedroom. They decide on her favorite, a white summer dress with lace on the seam of the skirt that looks like roses. She often wore it when she played with Sam in the garden and there are some grass stains that never quite came out; green, faded shadows of happier times. Sam's eyes sting, but there are no tears welling up inside them. He has already shed all he had.

Mary looks like an angel in her dress when Sam looks at the open coffin. People sometimes say the dead look like they are asleep, but even with the makeup that makes her cheeks rosy and covers the cuts on her face, Sam knows she isn't sleeping. Her chest doesn't rise and fall with in- and exhales and her skin is too cold and feels all wrong when he touches the back of her hand. He puts his Spiderman action figure in the coffin with her. It's his favorite toy, and he had to beg her for three months until she finally bought it for his birthday. He tells her she can play with it in heaven and keep it safe until he goes there as well.

Dad rubs the back of Sam's neck as they watch the coffin being lowered into the ground. There are a lot of people at the funeral, telling them how sorry they are, and what a wonderful person Mary was, and if they need anything they shouldn't hesitate to ask. Sam doesn't really listen to them and doesn't react when they touch his cheek and shoulders or ruffle his hair, he just stares at the hole and the wooden cross that marks where her grave is until the headstone arrives.

Dad gets drunk that night and passes out on the couch. Sam is silent when he throws the empty bottles into the trash and wipes the spilled alcohol away while Dad drools on the cushions.

Sam grows up fast after that. Dad is really sad, and there's barely a night where he doesn't fall asleep in the living room, face smeared with sweat, tears and snot, hugging a bottle to his chest, and Sam understands because he's sad too. He knows from Billy Higgins in his class that people sometimes start hitting others when they are drunk, but Dad never does that, he only cries, and then Sam climbs onto his lap and wraps his arms around his neck until he stops shaking with sobs and starts snoring. After that, Sam cleans up and goes to bed.

Dad forgets to cook, so Sam does. He gets better with practice, sets the smoke alarm off only four times, and when the bacon is a bit black, Dad doesn't say it, only looks at him with grateful, guilty and sad eyes and eats. Sam learns to cook pasta and sauce and potatoes and meat, and soon he doesn't even really need the microwave anymore. Dad says he's proud of him. It makes Sam smile and the hole in his chest get a little less.

After half a year, they move away from Lawrence, Kansas, to Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Dad has a friend there, Bobby, who has a scrap yard where he can work at, but Sam knows that's not the only reason they leave. Dad hasn't slept in their room since Mom died.

Missouri helps them pack, and Dad asks her to bring all of Mary's clothes to welfare, even her wedding dress, and Sam doesn't like it. Together with Missouri, he packs an extra bag with all of Mom's prettiest dresses and clothes, wedding dress included, and puts it in the Impala's trunk without telling Dad.

Missouri hugs him tight when they say goodbye and tells him he can call whenever he wants. Sam nods and pretends he doesn't see the tears in her eyes.

Their new house is next to Bobby's at the outskirts of Sioux Falls, surrounded by a forest. It's old and needs some things to be fixed; there's mold in the upstairs bathroom and the stairs to the basement miss a step, but Sam likes it nonetheless. His room is bigger than the one he had in Lawrence, and through his window he can see the sun setting every night above the trees. He hides the bag with Mom's clothes in the old wardrobe in his room that smells of dust and mothballs.

"We're going to start over, Sammy," Dad tells him when they have dinner on the porch, looking at the overgrown garden. "Just you and me, kiddo."

Bobby comes over a few days after they moved in to help Dad fix the house. He looks grumpy with his scruffy beard and the baseball cap, and first Sam is a bit scared, but he soon discovers that Bobby is really nice, although he swears a lot. His wife Karen is with him, and she scolds him whenever he curses until he says 'balls' one time too often after he let his hammer drop, and then Karen takes Sam with her to their house.

Karen is even nicer than Bobby. She has blond hair, but it's darker than Mom's, and she holds Sam's hand when they walk through the forest to Bobby's house. Sam likes her voice, it's soft and kind, and she talks to him like to an adult and doesn't use that stupid tone that some of the other adults use when they talk to children.

She teaches him how to bake cherry pie, and later they bring it over to Dad and Bobby, who smile. Dad burns his tongue because he tried eating it too soon. When Sam tells him later that he'd helped Karen making it, Dad tells him it was the best pie he's ever eaten.

After a few weeks, school starts for Sam, and Dad drives him there every morning since their house is too far away to walk. The school bus would pick Sam up, but Dad says he doesn't mind, and even if Sam won't admit it, he likes to listen to Dad talk on their way there while AC/DC plays in the background.

The school and the teachers are alright, and on his first day there, Sam meets Jess, a girl from his English class. She tells him everything he needs to know—whom to avoid and which teachers are nicer than the others. Jess is nice, and she laughs a lot and has Mom's hair color, a bright blond that almost looks like it's dyed. At first it hurts a bit to look at it, but Jess makes Sam laugh, and by the end of the day, it doesn't hurt that bad anymore.

On their way back from school, Sam tells Dad everything about Jess, and Dad smiles.

Sam is nearly fourteen and the best of his grade. He knows a lot because he likes to read, and the others ask him if he can help them with his homework. Although Sam has a lot of friends now, Jess has become his best friend, and they're always together, talking about school, their classmates, movies and books while Sam cooks dinner after school at his place. Dad doesn't pick him up from school anymore as long as the weather is good enough to go by bike, and Sam wants to have dinner ready before Dad comes back from Bobby's scrap yard. Jess has only asked him once about his mother, and Sam has told her with many pauses and the help of a lot of tissues. After that, they never talked about it again, and Sam only sometimes catches her looking a bit sad at him.

One day, Missouri calls and asks how he's doing. They talk twice a month, so it's not that unusual that she calls, however, they end up talking about clothes this time, and Sam remembers the bag of his mom's clothes that's still safely tucked away in the old wardrobe. He has only opened it once since they moved to South Dakota, and they had still smelled like his Mom; of her jasmine perfume, grass and cookies. He wants to smell it again.

Sam barges up the stairs and into his room to throw the closet open and drag out the heavy bag of clothes. When he opens the zipper and buries his face in the soft fabric, the smell is still there, soft but comforting and so familiar it hurts. Shaking hands dig into the layers, and Sam pulls out a dress, knee-long and made of cotton, grass green with stylized flowers decorating the skirt in a flowing pattern. It's mended at the seam where it had ripped when it got stuck in a rose bush on a garden party of one of Mom's friends when Sam was six. Sam had thought it had been his fault since he had chased his Mom through the garden and along the rose bushes, and he had cried when he had seen the small hole in her beautiful dress. Mom had comforted him and laughed it away, and in the evening, she taught him how to mend clothes. She'd even encouraged him to do it on the green dress, and where he had done so, the stitches are awkward and a bit crooked next to her neat ones. Mom had still praised him. "See, it's easy. And next time you'll do it all on your own."

He just wishes it would be that easy to do the same with the hole in his chest.

It's not really a conscious decision when he takes off his jeans and shirt to slip into the dress. He just wants to feel closer to his mom. Surprisingly—Sam guesses he has to thank his growth spurt—the dress fits. The skirt falls loose around his knees and billows when he turns, the touch of fabric against skin a soft caress that brings memories of sunshine and laughter.

He looks at himself in the mirror until the timer ringing downstairs tells him the lasagna is ready.

Sam tells Jess, ears, cheeks and neck hot with embarrassment, that he tried on one of his mom's dresses. She doesn't laugh, only smiles softly, and asks him if he wants to do it again.

To his own surprise, Sam does.

Jess still doesn't laugh at him or calls him a freak when he stands in front of her in his mom's clothes, and he realizes she's the best friend he'll ever have. She even picks out other things for him to put on, and in the end, he's wearing a black skirt and a dark green silk blouse, which, Jess swears, accentuates his eyes. "You're beautiful," she tells him, and it's the first time someone else than his mom said that to him.

When she leaves, Sam gives her a long hug and whispers a choked thank you in her ear, barely holding back the tears.

After that, Jess shows him how to shave his legs and put on makeup. He has some problems putting on mascara and stabs the brush into his eyes several times during the first attempts, but Sam is a fast learner, and soon he can put on makeup without causing a mess or looking like a hooker—or like a five-year-old who just discovered their mom's makeup collection. Jess even styles his hair, and when he looks into the mirror, Sam sees a brown-haired girl his age with pink lips and cute dimples, and not the lanky boy that's all elbows and knees that usually blinks back at him. He's never been very sturdy, not like his Dad, who's all bulky muscle and broad shoulders. Mary's genes are more prominent, providing Sam with slim shoulders, a narrow waist and soft facial features. Sam likes to look at himself in the mirror like this.

But when Jess asks him if he wants to be a girl, Sam shakes his head. "It's like I'm closer to her like this," he explains, and Jess knows who he's talking about. She takes his hand and squeezes.

The next day, they buy Mary's perfume together.

John finds out about it two months later, after Sam turns fourteen. He comes home early from the scrap yard because he bruised his finger in the hood of the car they had been salvaging that day. Kurt Cobain singing Smells Like Teen Spirit in Sam's room on nearly full volume drowns out his father's heavy footsteps on the stairs, and Sam doesn't realize Dad is home until he sees John's shocked expression in the mirror. He can only imagine what Dad must be feeling when seeing his son dressed in his late wife's clothes, singing and dancing along to Nirvana's song with closed eyes, the green dress swinging around Sam's knees whenever he twirls in the middle of the room while he rubs his lips together to spread the pink lip gloss.

In the long moment father and son stare at each other's reflection, Sam feels his heart drop so much that he could swear it's halfway to China when Dad finally closes the door.

Sam doesn't leave his room for the rest of the day.

In the morning, there's an open bottle of whiskey on the couch table, but surprisingly enough, not much of the alcohol is missing, just enough to fill two or three glasses. Sam suspects Dad has fled the house and is already on the salvage yard to distract himself with work while Sam gets ready for school, but when he steps onto the front porch, Dad is leaning against the Impala, head tipped back to take in the sun on his face.

Sam freezes. He could go back in and slip out through the back door, grab his bike and take the route through the forest. And after school, he could maybe go to Jess, ask her if he can stay the night and delay the whole shit storm that's coming his way for another day. But he has no such luck. Maybe his time as a Marine is to be held responsible, maybe Dad has just incredible senses, but he already heard Sam come out the door and turns to face his son who's still holding the open door while debating if he should run or just throw himself headfirst into the argument that's about to happen.

John takes the decision out of his hands by saying, "get in. I'll drive you to school today."

Reluctantly, Sam closes the door behind him and slips into the passenger seat of the Impala, shoulders hunched and backpack hugged to his chest as if he could avoid the conversation by making himself as small as possible.

They drive in silence for five minutes until Dad ventures, "there are operations, you know." Sam looks at him in shock, but Dad's staring at the road in front of them as if his life depends on it, knuckles white where his hands clutch the wheel.

"Sorry?" Dad doesn't make sense. He's supposed to be screaming, dammit, Sam has already put together his arguments and answers.

"To change the," Dad clears his throat and shifts awkwardly on his seat, clearly as nervous as his son, "the gender of a person."

"You mean... a sex change?" Sam can't believe his ears, can't believe they are having this conversation all together. Dad slightly flinches at the word 'sex change', but he holds his ground and nods severely, eyes still on the road. "If that's what you want, son—uh, Sammy."

Sam laughs. He laughs so hard he's shaking and doesn't see the shocked expression on his father's face. The weight on his chest and the claws around his heart break away suddenly, and he feels light even though there are tears in his eyes. It takes him some time to calm down, and when he has brushed the tears away, and is breathing in deeply, Dad looks at him, bemused. Sam leans in and throws his arms around his father's neck, buries his head in the broad shoulder. "I don't want a sex change, Dad." He thinks he feels Dad taking a deep, relieved breath, but he doesn't point it out. "I just... like it. To look like a girl sometimes. It makes me feel closer to her."

The last words are barely more than a whisper, and on top of that muffled by Dad's shirt, but Sam knows he has heard when a strong hand comes up and ruffles his hair affectionately.

Both smile when Dad tells Sam he will pick him up after school, and Sam isn't even embarrassed when he gives his father a peck on the cheek in front of his arriving classmates.

Three weeks later, Dad asks Sam if he wants to put on some of mom's clothes for their weekly dinner at Bobby and Karen's.

When Sam shows up on their neighbors' doorstep wearing a blue summer dress, Bobby awkwardly—but nevertheless genuinely—congratulates him on his hair and Karen asks with a smile if he wants to try on some of her old clothes that don't fit her anymore.

Sam mostly wears his other clothes when he's at home, over at Bobby and Karen's or out with Jess. He's gotten accustomed to the whistles he gets when he's wearing a skirt and makeup while walking through the city with Jess and ignores them most of the time. Once or twice, someone has done the mistake to call him a fag or freak while walking past them, but Jess, although only five feet something tall, is a force of her own, and soon enough, people don't pay a mind anymore to the fact that Sam Winchester sometimes wears dresses. John even threatened someone with violence when he accompanied his son to a school event and one of the parents had the nerve to ask him if he was sending Sam to therapy to heal his condition. Sam had had to drag Dad away before he could go through with his threat, but he'd done it with a smile.

Life goes on in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, and soon enough, nobody feels like bragging about Sam Winchester anymore.

For Sam himself, everything is fine, the hole in his chest is slowly but steadily closing with every passing year and proud smile of his father. His grades are outstanding, he has an awesome best friend, neighbors that are like aunt and uncle to him, and a father that maybe not completely likes but still accepts his son's habit of dressing up as a girl and even goes as far as declaring personal vendettas on people who dare talking bad about said habit.

Life is good for Sam. Nearly perfect.

And then Dean shows up to turn the world upside down.

It's a warm evening in late summer after he turned fifteen when Sam meets Dean for the first time. Karen has asked him to come over and help her while she prepares dinner since the son of a friend is staying with them for some time and she want's to welcome him properly to her home. That means of course Karen is making her famous pot roast and apple pie for dessert, and Sam is glad to help. Due to the warm day, he sheds his pants and teeshirt at home in exchange for a leaf green sateen dress that Jess picked out for him. The fabric is the right thing for the weather, cool against his skin but not too thin, and the slight A-line, knee-length skirt provides enough air circulation to not make him sweat uncomfortably as he would in his pants. He doesn't bother much with makeup, just puts on mascara and some subtle lip gloss before he inspects himself in the mirror and wonders if his Mom would've liked the dress.

His hair has gotten long enough to tie it into a ponytail again, tips now brushing gently against his neck and shoulders, tickling slightly when he moves. The dress is pretty, almost subtly elegant, but not too much for the occasion—it's not like Sam wants to impress the son of Bobby's friend anyway, just make a good first impression. Well, maybe he shouldn't show up in a dress then, a voice in the back of his mind pipes up, barging in doors with his freakishness doesn't usually make for good first impressions. But then again, Sam has nothing to hide, and he really can't be bothered to feel his pants sticking to his skin just to humor some narrow-minded asshole. The dress it is, then, and Sam puts on Mom's perfume before he walks through the forest to the salvage yard.

It's four pm, and the pot roast is already in the oven when Sam walks into the kitchen to be greeted by Karen with a peck on his cheek. Her face always lights up when he comes over and she beams especially bright whenever he shows her a new outfit and Sam enjoys the unconditional love she offers him. He feels at home in her house as much as she does over at his own, and he hopes Mom can see from wherever she is now how happy he and Dad have become here even though they miss her every day.

Karen and Sam talk about his grades and future plans while he prepares the pie and laugh when he accidentally brushes a flour covered hand over his cheek to leave a white powdery trail behind. Bobby and Dad are busy in the yard, their tools banging against metal with loud clonks that mix with the grumble of their deep voices and laughter. Sometimes they start fighting over one thing or another, but the two have become such good friends that the argument is over after a few minutes and all hard feelings are washed away with the help of shared beers.

Close to five pm, the two men leave for the Greyhound bus station in the city to pick up their guest, a guy named Dean Milligan that is four years older than Sam and apparently quite handy when it comes to cars. Dad comes in to wash his hands before they go, smiles when he sees his son kneading the dough and brushes a kiss to the top of his head in a wordless compliment. Sam smiles back and continues with the pie while Karen tells him about Dean's struggles with school; that he barely graduated High School and didn't care about college. "It's not that he isn't intelligent, he's just not interested in grades and all that, not as long as he can play around with the engine of some car and flirt with the ladies."

At her last words, Karen winks at Sam, and he playfully rolls his eyes. It's not like he isn't interested in men—the opposite in fact, he's very interested—but so far nothing happened apart from some awkward kissing and fumbling with Jeremy Ross behind the bleachers. Up to now, no one has been interesting enough, and when Sam is completely honest, he doesn't know if anyone would stay when they find out about his... habit. It makes him sad, sometimes, but he has decided he can live with it. He has great friends, a great family, and a promising future ahead of him and it's not like his life depends on finding someone and settling down at the age of fifteen. Karen, on the other hand, has set her mind on finding someone for her little Sammy and asks him one question after the other about the boys at school when he comes over. It's endearing on the good days, awkward on the bad, but Sam still humors her even then.

"Well, if he likes flirting with the ladies," he stresses the last word and raises a brow, "Bobby will have to watch out for his wife."

Karen laughs, her cheeks flushing slightly pink, and she bumps her hip against his. "As I see it, John will have to bring his shot gun over from now on whenever you're coming and Dean is here."

Sam grins when she levels a meaningful gaze at him. "Then you'd better warn this Dean, before I have to abuse your pie to smuggle a file into prison."

Both of them laugh at that, and the conversation turns to other things while they continue cooking and wait for Dad, Bobby and their guest to come home.

Sam hears the tell-tale purring of the Impala's engine before he sees the sleek, black car turn onto the drive way and roll onto the yard. He's setting the table in the living room with his back to the yard and continues with it while Karen hurries past him and out of the door to greet the newcomers, telling himself he doesn't really care about this Dean guy or his charm and—if Karen is a reliable source—stunningly good looks. And if he's checking his dress for flour traces or other stains, it's only because Sam doesn't want to look like he's clumsy. Honest.

Soon enough, the door opens, and Sam can't stop himself from throwing a quick glance over his shoulder, but it's only Bobby carrying a duffel bag into the house that no doubt belongs to Dean. "Need any help, Bobby?" Sam asks because the thing looks heavy, and Bobby is not the youngest anymore, something that he doesn't like to admit but that shows on long and hot days of work in the yard. Karen comes in while Bobby grumbles that he 'ain't that old yet and can damn well carry a bag up the stairs', but she interrupts and ushers him towards the table while lecturing him about his blood pressure and Sam sneakily steals the bag and hurries upstairs towards the guest bedroom. His motives, if he is completely honest, aren't as altruistic as it might seem, because the guestroom has a window that goes out onto the salvage yard, and if he's lucky he can sneak a glance at Dean before the other notices him. And he is lucky.

Dad and Dean are inspecting the Impala, and Sam can even hear their conversation drifting in through the open window. Apparently, Dean is a fan, and the two of them are having a muscle car nerd-off or something, talking with enthusiasm about engines and different car models and stuff Sam generally doesn't understand like it's the greatest thing in the world. Knowing his dad, it probably is and Dean has just catapulted himself into Dad's good books, likely to stay there until hell freezes over.

Or he hits on Sam.

As far as Sam can make out, he wouldn't mind too much. Dean has broad shoulders, nearly as broad as Dad's, and over all a body that looks like he just stepped out of a Calvin Klein ad, judging from the lines of muscle his tight and sweat-soaked shirt is clinging to. He has bow legs, what's kinda adorable, and a swagger to his steps that speaks of confidence. If what Karen said is true, and he really looks like a Disney prince come to life, Dean has all the reason to swagger, but then again Karen also describes Sam as adorable and gorgeous, and Sam doesn't know if he completely qualifies for that.

His musings are interrupted when Karen calls him down to put the pie in the oven and Sam takes the stairs two at a time, runs past a cursing Bobby, to skitter to a halt in the kitchen just as the door to the porch opens and Dad comes in with Dean in tow.

Why the hell are Sam's hands shaking?

He snatches the oven shut while Karen inquires about Dean's bus ride, and God, the guy's voice is made of velvet washed with high-class whiskey, low and a bit husky, making a shudder run down Sam's spine, and he hasn't even seen him yet. This crush is developing fast, and he suddenly regrets listening to anything Karen has told him about Dean. There's no way he can face him yet, not before he's calmed down and lost the blush he can feel on his cheeks, so Sam walks over to the fridge and opens it to retrieve two bottles of beer for Dad and Bobby and coke for the rest of them, letting the conversation in the living room fade to a murmur. He's just contemplating if he should bring a third beer for Dean, since the guy doesn't seem like someone who cares about the legal drinking age, when there are heavy footsteps behind him and Sam shoots up and whirls around so fast he loses his footing and stumbles into the kitchen counter.

"Woah, easy there." A low chuckle. "I know I can make women swoon, but we haven't even been properly introduced yet."

Sam's head snaps up involuntarily, and he finds himself lost in deep green eyes with golden specks that make his heart stutter in his chest and his fingers tighten around the edge of the counter. He's suddenly very happy he has something to hold onto, because he doesn't know if he could have remained upright if he would have ended up in the middle of the kitchen and too far away from any supporting structure to take his weight should his knees give out. Something that is very much likely, since 'handsome' isn't even enough to describe the god that climbed down from his pantheon to stand in the Singers' kitchen and give Sam a heart attack with his beauty. Dean has full lips that beg to be kissed until they're red and bruised, stubble on his angular jaw and eyes so intense Sam can't look at them for too long without blushing. And, oh yeah, has he said that Dean's perfect yet?

Dean looks like he was chiseled by Michelangelo himself, with skin that looks like fucking airbrushed marble, and the freckles on his nose and cheekbones are such an adorable extra in the whole image, it's outright hot. His body is all firm muscle that comes from hard work but doesn't look like it's overdone, and Sam wants to touch where he can see the outlines of pecs pushing against the white fabric of Dean's shirt.

"Well, hello there, gorgeous." Dean smirks and gives Sam a shameless once-over, and Sam hopes he hasn't been staring too much, because that would just be awkward. But then he remembers that he just ran into the kitchen counter and barely avoided smacking his head on a cupboard doing so, and he can feel the blush creeping up his neck and onto his cheeks. It's a miracle he hasn't scared Dean away yet. "You're cute when you blush," Dean tells him, smirk still in place, and takes a step closer, making Sam's pulse sky-rocket, and really, Karen should start lecturing him about high blood pressure, not Bobby. He stares for a moment at the hand he's offered by Dean before he takes it. It's warm and calloused from the work with heavy tools, the handshake firm. Sam has big hands with long fingers that were made to play piano, or so Jess tells him, but Dean's hands are even bigger, with thick fingers that Sam can't help but describe as 'strong and manly' although that sounds cheesy and his English teacher would no doubt cringe if he could read his mind and see the poor choice of words, but Sam has lost all concept of speech apart from, "hey."

"You're Sam?" Dean asks and he hasn't let go of Sam's hand yet, holding it in mid air between them, taking another step closer until their body's are only wide enough apart to leave room for their clasped hands without brushing them against each others' stomachs. Sam only nods, throat dry and raw, words stuck in his throat and held down by the barrier Dean has erected there unknowingly.

"Your dad told me about you. Thought I'd have to get to know someone who makes John Winchester sound so proud."

Sam, unsurprisingly, blushes more, hyper-aware of Dean's hand still holding his. Shoulders hunching, he turns his head to the side and stares at the floor, willing the whole thing to end and at the same time wishing Dean would never stop showering him with his attention. Fingers press softly against Sam's chin, making him look up and at the smug face in front of him. His eyes are entranced by the movement of Dean's lips for a moment when he says, "c'mon sweetheart, don't look away. Lemme see that adorable blush of yours."

Sam's head is close to exploding. Someone really has to hate Sam up there, because now Dean is winking at him, and he's praying that one of the others comes in and please, please interrupts them before Sam does something highly embarrassing like moaning or hyperventilating and scares Dean off forever. No such luck.

"You got something on your cheek there," he tells Sam and without asking, raises his hand to gently brush a thumb over Sam's cheekbone where he'd left a trail of flour on his skin while preparing the pie. Sam's going to die here. But at least it will be a sweet death, embarrassment and all that aside. "There, all done."

With that, Dean steps away, giving Sam room to breathe again, but releasing his hand slowly, dragging calloused fingertips over soft palms in a caress that makes Sam's skin prickle from his hand up to his shoulder, and he has to close his eyes for a second, hoping Dean doesn't see the goosebumps spreading up his arm.

When he opens his eyes again, Dean looks back at him like the cat that just got the cream, and he must be the only person capable to make a simple question sound like a seduction, "care to pass me a beer, Sammy?"

Sam doesn't even have the strength to tell Dean that nobody but Dad and Karen are allowed to call him that, and hands over the beer he's still holding in his hand wordlessly.

Dinner goes well and Sam is spared more embarrassment, sticking to his food and staring at his plate as if it's offering him the secret to the universe. Bobby, Karen and Dad engage Dean in conversation about his family, his work and plans, and Sam is ridiculously relieved that nobody asks him to join in. He doesn't know if he would be able to bring out a complete, comprehensible sentence, considering his heart is still going a mile a minute and the feel of Dean's fingertips brushing over his palm lingers on his skin with the determination of pox—just so much better.

Ever so often, Sam tries sneaking a glance at Dean, but whenever he lifts his head to peek through his bangs, green eyes are looking right back at him, crinkled at the corners with Dean's trademark smirk, and Sam's focus returns to the pot roast in front of him with breathtaking speed. Either Dean is staring at him the whole time—something that would be very rude but nevertheless makes Sam shudder pleasantly—or the guy has a freaking radar in his head that alerts him whenever Sam moves. And who had the idea to give him the seat opposite of Dean anyway? Sam suspects Karen, judging from the way she glances from him to Dean and back with that pleased smile on her lips. Sometimes he wishes he could be able to hate her.

Sam is stabbing his meat absentmindedly, cursing the universe, God and life itself, when Dean leans back in his chair and pats his stomach with a content sigh in the universal gesture to praise food, failing to stifle a burp, what earns him a scolding glare from Karen that is betrayed by the way the corners of her lips twitch ever so lightly with the urge to tug up into a smile.

Dean smirks and raises his hands as if he couldn't help himself. "Gotta make room for your famous pie, Karen," he tells her, waggling his eyebrows, and Karen rolls her eyes and swats her hand at him playfully. "No excuse to forget your manners in female company, Dean. And not I made the pie, but Sammy here."

"Oh?" His smirk changes to predatory when he turns to Sam, and Sam, if possible, sinks even lower into his chair, throat dry, feeling like he's just been reduced to a particularly tasty piece of meat, and that really shouldn't feel as arousing as it does.

At that point, Dad chimes in, apparently oblivious to Sam's distress, and ruffles a big hand through his son's chocolate brown hair. "Yeah, Sam loves making pie. Isn't that so, Sammy?" Sam bats at his father's hands softly and scoffs while Karen clears the plates from the table. Sensing his chance to get away, he jumps up and all but runs into the kitchen where the pie is already spreading its mouth-watering scent. It's still slightly warm when he cuts it into generous slices and carries it over to the table to be served.

Dean gets his slice first and doesn't even wait until the others got theirs before he digs in, stuffing a big piece into his mouth and making the most obscene noises Sam has ever heard. It's like listening to a porno, and Sam is thankful he's already sitting, because Dean's moans go straight to the area between his thighs with the force of lightning bolts.

Jesus.

Someone have mercy.

Dean doesn't stop, only continues moaning and grins at Sam around a mouthful of pie, and Sam just wants to be home and alone in his room to jerk off and get rid of his boner, but instead he has to listen to the food porn going on in front of him while praying nobody takes a glance at his lap.

Jesus.

After dessert, Sam left with the lame excuse of having a headache and all but ran home and into his room.

Now he's laying in his bed, breathing hard, clutching his sheets and curling his toes with the shivers rippling over his skin. Every hair on his body stands on end and his skin's too tight, too hot, too sensitive, every brush of fabric a caress that sends electricity down his nerves and coaxes breathless moans from his parted lips. He's just happy Dad isn't here yet and still over at Bobby's, no doubt fanboying with Dean over muscle cars.

Fucking Dean.

Sam groans, but this time it's out of frustration. Every minute in Dean's company costs him another nerve that snaps under the weight of Dean's smirks, glances, all the promises made by lingering touches and the invasion of Sam's personal space. Just his luck to crush on someone like Dean, all swagger and sex and womanizer, who no doubt has a never-ending stream of women waiting for him to crawl into their beds and drop them afterward like a used condom. He's going to drop Sam as soon as he finds out there's a part to his body that's not so feminine, and anyway, Dean was surely only playing, making fun of the shy and innocent teenage girl dumb enough to fool herself into believing someone like him could actually be interested in her. There's no fucking way Dean means to go any further with Sam.

And that's fine. He can live with that, it's better than facing the disgust on perfectly chiseled features when Dean finds out he's a freak that dresses up in his Mom's clothes. Anyway, Sam isn't eager to become another tally on Dean's list of conquests.

But that doesn't mean he can have a little fun alone, and Sam shuts his eyes.

Behind his closed lids, images of strong and big hands are conjured, stroking over his body, drawing along every line of muscle and bone carved into bronze skin, every pale scar he's attained over the years, deft and calloused fingers worshiping every part of Sam's body, Sam's own hands only a lousy replacement for now, creeping lower until long fingers close around silky skin and heat, stroking, teasing, tugging, pumping, faster, harder, gasps, groans, jerking hips pushing up, faster. Other hand, slick with lube, creeping lower, circling his hole before pushing in to the first knuckle, then deeper, fingers curling, brushing over a sensitive glans, making his back arch, toes curl. Pulling out, pushing back in in perfect rhythm with the fist around his cock.

A name turns into a moan. Dean, Dean, Dean. A prayer. And feels so good, so good.

Orgasm hits hard, comes with white hot bliss and trumpets sounding, toes curling, back arching, hips bucking and that damn name on Sam's lips.

The last thing Sam thinks about when he drifts off into sleep, not caring about the sticky mess on his stomach, is that he's complete and utterly fucked.

So fucked.

The decision is made in the morning when he wakes to disgustingly sticky and clammy sheets; Sam is going to avoid Dean until he goes back home or wherever, and then everything will return to normal.

Easy, right?

Right.

Hah. There is a joke in there somewhere. At Sam's expanse. He must have collected a serious amount of bad karma in his former life, because this, this, is outright torture. All his good intentions of staying away from Dean have been shattered when three days later Dad dragged his new colleague along when coming from the salvage yard without warning, and Sam was forced to stumble up the stairs and barrel into his room to change clothes quickly, stubbing at least three toes in the process on all the corners he had to take on the way from the kitchen to his room. Thank God he'd seen them approaching through the window, too entangled in their conversation to notice Sam, giving him the chance to turn into the Sam Dean got to know before the embarrassing revelation could occur.

Sam comes down ten minutes later, hair ruffled, tugging his clothes into place and desperately trying not to look like he just changed his clothes hastily. He's decided on one of Mom's thin pullovers, red cotton with a nice pattern stitched around the modest cleavage with black thread. The jeans he's wearing are a bit tighter than the ones he wears to school, but not enough to give his little secret away, and he hopes it will be enough.

Dean is sitting on the sofa, open beer in hand and his feet on the couch table, looking like he owns the place while talking to John who's bustling around in the kitchen when Sam hobbles into the room, tugging on the stuffed bra Jess gave him since the cups got too small for her. Fortunately, Dean neither sees nor hears him, and Sam walks past him into the kitchen with a mumbled, "hi."

"Hey Sammy," Dean drawls and pats the cushion next to him invitingly, trademark smirk returned to his face. "Wanna join me?"

Yes. He'd like nothing better than sitting down next to Dean, feeling the warmth of his body and maybe another thigh pressing against his own. But. "Feet off the table."

"Oh." Dean cocks his head, not in the least offended by Sam's behavior or confused by a voice that's a bit deeper than it should be for any girl, and indeed takes his feet off the table. "You're a bossy one. I like 'em bossy." The eyebrow waggle returns.

Sam shoves his hands into his pockets, because that eyebrow waggle is doing thinks to him it has no rights to. "Sure you do." He stalks off into the kitchen before there is any chance for a Freudian slip, and Dad greets him with a kiss to his forehead.

"I invited Dean for dinner. He likes burgers." Figures. It's Sam and Dad's burger night, something they do once a month; stuffing their faces while Dad screams at the baseball players on TV and Sam chuckles at his creative swearwords. He even gets to drink one or two beers, but that's not the only reason why Sam enjoys their monthly father-son-bonding session. Dad may accept his son's crossdressing, and he loves Sam with all his heart, has proved it by defending him in front of people who called him sick or a freak, however, Sam also knows that Dad sometimes wishes, just sometimes, that Sam would prefer to play baseball and spend hours talking about car engines while polishing the Impala over dressing up in girl's clothes and put on makeup while chatting with his best friend about boys. So Sam sits down on the couch with him and watches the boring games, even comments on it, and it's always worth it when Dad smiles at him like he's the happiest and proudest father in the whole universe.

With a pang in his chest, Sam realizes that Dean is the kind of son Dad wishes for. He's popular with the ladies, touches women's clothes only to take them off someone, likes baseball and muscle cars, and that he doesn't consider going to college is not that bad since he's working at the salvage yard now. Dean's only been here since three days and now Dad has invited him over to join in on burger night. It hurts, and Sam turns the meat in the pan with more force than necessary when he hears their laughter coming from the living room. But he has to deal with it, has to deal with Dean being perfect and overall everything Sam isn't—confident, gorgeous and manly. For Dad.

When Sam brings the finished burgers into the living room, they are already watching the game, complaining loudly about the referee and accusing him of being biased. It's a funny sight, both so entranced by the thing, and Sam smiles softly until he notices that the only empty seat is—of course, because Fortuna hates him—next to Dean on the couch. Dad is sprawled over the armchair, and Sam considers asking him if he could snatch something from the kitchen and steal his seat while he is gone, but that would be a dick move, so Sam sighs defeated and puts the food down on the table before climbing onto the couch with as much room between him and Dean as possible. Not that Dean notices, he's having one of his food porn episodes again, moaning over every bite of his burger like he's in a porn audition, desperate to get the main role.

And fuck, Sam should not think 'Dean' and 'porn' in one sentence, because that's doing funny things to his body, and he already has problems looking at the guy without thinking about what he'd done the night after he'd seen Dean for the first time. And the night after that. And no doubt again in the one coming.

He draws his legs up and hugs them against his chest, the armrest of the couch digging into his back, with the attempt at staying away from Dean as far as the small space allows and hiding his arousal at the same time. However, this position brings Sam's feet closer to Dean, toes almost brushing against denim, because there is only so much he can do with his lanky legs.

The sounds of the game fade into a blur as Sam tries to not concentrate on that one inch of air separating his big toes from Dean's thigh and how easy it would be to cross it, shove his feet between leg and couch cushion to revel in the feel of the weight of another body pressing down on his toes and the heat of Dean's body seeping through layers of clothing to be shared. Dean must notice something too, because Sam can see how he shifts on his seat, edging just the tiniest bit closer, casting quick glances at Sam accompanied by a grin before he returns to looking at the TV. Even his complains about the players are getting less, and soon Dad is the only one shouting at the TV, too engrossed by the movement on the screen to notice how Dean's hand drops to his side, his fingers softly but confidently stroking up Sam's foot to his ankle before wrapping around it. Sam's breath hitches.

For a moment, he allows Dean's hand to stay where it is, the touch not restraining but still able to make every muscle in his body tense, every nerve twinge and all his hair stand on end.

Then Sam kicks out. It's not hard, only a warning, nothing that will leave a bruise behind or even cause pain, just his means to deliver a message. Don't touch me, it says, and Dean looks back at him for a moment, intense green eyes holding Sam's gaze, and he straightens his shoulders, tells himself this is the chance to end it before it goes down a path Sam is not willing to take.

Dean smirks and his eyes glint mischievously when he accepts a challenge Sam hasn't even offered to him.

Word that there is a handsome man working at Singer's salvage yard spreads like wildfire, and in the following weeks every unmarried woman in the radius of a hundred miles around them between the age of sixteen and sixty shows up at the scrap yard for one reason or another, suddenly very interested in the strange noise their car sometimes makes.

Sam has seen this before when Dad came into town, and all of the middle-aged single women residing in Sioux Falls streamed to their house to offer their condolences, bring a pie, or ask for help in fixing a car or something else. They had soon given up after it became clear that there would only ever be one woman in John Winchester's life and that Mary had left an empty spot behind nobody could ever fill.

But Dean, womanizer extraordinaire, enjoys the attention, flings compliments and flirtations every which way, no matter the age or looks of those they are addressed to.

And Sam, being the Singers's neighbor and therefore somewhat close to Dean, turns from 'that guy with the good grades who sometimes wears skirts' to 'that guy who lives next to Dean Milligan'. Suddenly every girl in school is Sam's friend; there's a choir of "Hi, Sam"s every time he walks down the hall between classes, the table he usually shares with Jess and his other, true friends is already filled with girls waiting for him when he walks in during lunch break, and it goes so far that Sam has to flee and hide beneath his hoody whenever he leaves a room. The other boys, unsurprisingly, don't take it too well that he's suddenly popular, and when he doesn't run from the girls, he sprints down hallways to escape an angry mob of jocks who think he's messing around with their not-yet-girlfriends. It kinda makes him hate Dean.

Even Kate Kennedy—who's not in any way related to the dead president, Sam has asked—the self-proclaimed queen of his High School, awards him with her presence, the group of her apprentices following silently. Jess warns him too late, and even though he tries to hide behind one of his text books in the school library, Kate finds him and Jess slips away before he can protest. That she looks at him apologetically while walking out of the door is only a small comfort, because then Kate's standing in front of him and Sam repeats what he's already said about a hundred times to various others without waiting for a greeting, "pretty girls, porn, beer and whiskey, baseball, burgers, cheesy horror movies, Star Wars, muscle cars, bikes—the motorized kind—and engines."

He doesn't even look up from his book while he rattles down the list of Things Dean Milligan likes and Sam Winchester unfortunately knows, and judging from the silence he receives as an answer, Kate, who likes the sound of her voice more than her reflection in the mirror, is confused. Closing the book with a dramatic sigh, Sam looks up at her and explains, "you're here to ask what Dean likes. I spared us both the time spent on needless greetings and gave you what you came for. What else?"

"How did you know?"

"Please, don't insult my intellect. It's not like I have any delusions as to why every girl at this school suddenly wants to be my best friend."

Kate nods at that and walks off without any goodbye, her entourage in tow, and Sam looks after her. He has no doubt Dean will enjoy her company, because even if her personality leaves a lot to be desired, she's pretty, with big doe eyes and bleached blond hair that cascades in waves over her shoulders, athletic body always wrapped in the latest designer clothes that accentuate her curves just right. Ending up in Dean's bed will almost be too easy for her, and Sam tries to squish the sudden twinge of jealousy with reason. It's not like he has any chances to go further with Dean than some fumbling until he finds something between his legs that's not supposed to be there, and the pleasure of a kiss and his big hands on Sam's body is not worth the following embarrassment and regrets. Better Kate gets discarded like a used condom in his place.

There is another list in Sam's repertoire, titled Things Dean Milligan likes and Sam Winchester fortunately knows but doesn't tell anyone about, and it only has one thing on it: Dean loves pie, especially the one Sam knows how to bake thanks to Karen.