Author's Notes: I've been wanting to write this for a while, and then it started, and now it won't stop.
I do love my boys, and I'm even starting to love my girl.
a strange thing happened on the way to the museum
The first thing Sam notices is that he feels lighter than usual.
The second thing is that he doesn't have a penis.
Dean is woken to the sound of his little brother screaming. But the sound is high-pitched and off-key and not his usual startled grunt; he leaps out of bed and has a gun in his hand before he even remembers to reach for it.
But the person standing where Sammy ought to be is definitely not Samuel Winchester.
By the time John makes it to the room Dean has collapsed on the floor, gun discarded, completely unable to breathe.
John thinks: shoulda fuckin' known the hunt couldn't be that easy. Fuckin' witches.
Which he should have. Destroying a coven of witches ought to take longer than fifteen minutes and wouldn't produce magical backlash unless there was someone there to be the origin of the magic.
Might he add that it also shouldn't turn his youngest son into his youngest daughter.
He rubs a tired hand over his eyes and nudges a near-tears Dean with his boot. "Dude, swallow it," he scolds tiredly, shaking his head, and then raises his voice to be heard over the shrieking. "Sam. Sam. SAMMY. STOP."
He barks it like an order so Sam subsides, purely by habit, and then stands looking at him with the widest, scaredest eyes he's ever seen and John softens, thinking, fuckin' witches.
"Dad," Sam chokes. "Dad, where the fuck is my penis?"
Dean can't help it. He says, "You haven't had one since you met Emily Garrison," and then starts laughing again.
His Dad's lips twitch twice before he stills them and shoots Dean a warning glare which punctuates his laughter with a sharp point. "Sam, calm down," he says, dropping a soothing hand onto his Sam's arm.
Sam just blinks at him like his old man is the biggest idiot on the fucking planet because hello he went to bed with all his parts intact and now he is missing his dick. He has two huge fucking boobs that hurt like hell just standing there and his hair is down to his chest.
And let us just reiterate.
Sam. does. not. have. a. penis.
"Calm down?!" He asks. "Dad, I'm a fuckin' chick!"
John decides not to panic publicly, and instead flashes his son a little grin and chucks him on the cheek. "No Sam," Dean interrupts solemnly, "You are a young woman with feelings, who deserves to be treated with respect."
John cuffs his oldest boy on the back of his head and pulls out his cell phone. "Be ready to split in ten minutes," he orders as he speed dials Bobby. The first words out of his mouth when the other man answers are, "Fuckin' witches."
As soon as his Dad is out of earshot Dean's mouth is open, ready to be the doorway to some of the universe's wittiest comments, but one look at Sammy's face shuts him up.
His little … sister … is actually fighting tears. Her eyes are suspiciously bright and her bottom lip is quivering as she wraps her arms around her chest and hugs tightly. Sam turns to Dean imploringly, quibbling on the corner of her mouth. "Deeean," she moans, dropping her face into her hands, "What's the matter with me?"
And okay, so, upset!Sam he can handle.
Upset!Samantha? Not so much.
"Hey," he soothes, choking back a laugh and tucking away the image for later—when Sam's a dude again and not crying like a ten-year-old girl—"From where I'm standing, there is nothing wrong with you, dude."
Sam sighs, shaking her head and gesturing at herself. "Sexist ass," she mutters and then flops down onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling with undisguised misery. "What if I'm a girl forever?"
Sam watches Dean think for a minute, half-expecting some sort of leave it to Dad bullshit that Sam stopped buying years ago.
Instead he gets a little grin and a light squeeze on his arm as Dean grabs the Impala's keys from the bedside table.
"I've always wanted a sister," he says.
Which is actually sort of honest, for Dean.
Bobby laughs for ten straight minutes after John grinds out his dilemma. Then he promises to look up counter curses or antidotes or whatever the fuck else he can find to change his little girl back into his little boy.
Dean is already parked expectantly by the door, dangling the Impala's keys in his hand. John arches an eyebrow, tucking his cell phone into his back pocket. "Where's Sammy?" He asks.
"Trying to figure out how to pee," Dean deadpans, and John has to fight everything in him not to laugh. He never told his boys, but he's been in Sammy's position—once, at the very beginning, when he didn't know the difference between the Latin words for change and switch. So Bobby and Dean might laugh it up, but he's on Sammy's side, for once.
He cuffs the back of Dean's head and snatches the keys from his fingers. "Come on, Dean," he scolds, "Be a little sympathetic."
His oldest's face is a picture of innocence, and if John didn't know better he would swear that butter wouldn't melt in his mouth if you lit his tongue on fire. "Hey, I'm a picture of understanding," he lies easily. "So…where are we going? Gonna sell Sammy's body? 'Cause really Dad, money isn't that tight."
John can't prevent the helpless little grin that splits his face as he shoves Dean out of the front door. "Shut up, smartass. We're going shopping."
Let it be said: the part of Sam's mind is still Samuel Winchester heaves a sigh at the thought of another trip to Goodwill.
It's just that the other part, the part that is already used to the boobs and the smallness and the hair-in-your-eyes thing, is too strong to deny. And it's this part that breaks into a huge grin at the word shopping, squeals triumphantly, and beats Dean to the car.
To the relief of all involved, Samantha Winchester still likes the greatest hits of mullet rock.
The only difference is that now she sings along.
By the time they reach the Goodwill, Dean's ears are bleeding from Sammy's voice grating against them. He's pretty sure he'll never be able to listen to Iron Maiden again without wanting to jam a pencil into his ear.
They get out and lose Sam instantly to the 'dresses' section (a fact which Dean tucks away into his mental 'Definitely Pull Out At Parties' folder). John and Dean loiter awkwardly at the door, not really sure how to do the whole "trying on" thing with a girl—what are the boundaries for fathers and brothers while daughters are getting dressed? Is any male relative even allowed to see her in her underwear, or is that like accidental, but still sick and incestual, pedophilia?
"Sooo…what did Bobby say?" Dean asks after a beat.
John sighs, running a tired hand over his beard and casually eying a worn weather jacket in the next aisle. "That he'll find something and call back in a few days."
Dean blinks. "A few days? Dude, Sammy's already enrolled in school, he's got to show up on Monday."
"I know, Dean."
"He's totally not going to be good enough at being a girl by then!"
John sends his son a look, raising his eyebrows. "What do you want me to say, Dean? I know."
They stand in silence, listening to Sammy's excited chatter as she pays for the new clothes, and zip their mouths into straight lines when she bounces back towards them. To everyone's great surprise, Sammy rocks up onto the balls of her feet and happily kisses her father's cheek before wrapping his fingers with her own. "Thanks, Daddy," she says with a grin, and leads the way back to the Impala.
Dean won't tell you this, but it actually made him sort of happy, seeing Sam treat Dad like he actually gives a shit.
John won't tell you this, but it made him happier than he's been in a long time, being treated by Sam like he actually gives a shit.
Sam won't tell you this, but by the time they got to the car he'd decided he'd gotten way in over his head when he bought a thong.
What sort of a creature pays for a constant wedgie?