Sam used to dress pretty like a girl,
used to dress soft or else short and tight. Used to have secret
spaces in his bag for his beautiful things. He never did it for
anyone but himself, but that Dean loved it too proved a special
bonus, a lovely sort of attention Sam never knew he’d like. He felt
perfect with a tiny skirt sliding up his skinny thighs, with his
boy-soft stomach peering out of a tied up shirt. Perfect with Dean’s
sidelong stares and curious hands and worshipful mouth settling
bruises where no one would see.
He outgrows everything at Stanford.
Jess is tall though; sometimes her
little t-shirts fit him, cropped high like he likes, stretching tight
over his growing chest. They find a pink skirt that curves perfectly
around his slim hips and compact little ass, and some opaque socks
that he can pull midway up his thighs. It takes a slutty turn
sometimes, but he doesn’t mind it. There’s high heels and makeup too
and sometimes Jess does his hair, blows it out into sleek magazine
styles, calls him beautiful and he is, he feels it.
He loses it all in the fire.
It’s ten years of rough jeans and warm
plaid and he doesn’t even think about the other things he used to
wear. He’s too busy, there’s no time, there’s no reason. There’s
comfort in other places, in just being near Dean, in the same room,
car, bed. Comfort in a fridge and a stove and a bed and one place,
Sam’s looking for artifacts one night
on Etsy, of all places, going off a tip from another hunter. That’s
when he finds it, very accidentally. The listing’s for custom
leggings, any size, any length, any colour. Twenty-five dollars. He
takes the measurements himself, half-sure they’re going to write him
back asking if he’s kidding, if he’s running them around, but a few
weeks later, the package shows up in their PO box. Under a few layers
of tissue and a cherry-red lollipop, there’s baby pink leggings in a
roll. Sam unfurls them gently and they’re so soft, so long.
Alone in his room in nothing but
quiet, he pulls them on, up and up. They sit low on his waist. They
don’t dig in. They hug him everywhere so perfectly, faintly expose
his trimmed pubes in the front, the dimples above his gently rounded
ass. He sighs out what feels like a decade of tension and smiles at
the mirror and gives the seller five fucking stars and a glowing
recommendation and some fairly steady business after that.
He doesn’t have the shirts he wants,
not yet, but Sam takes one of Dean’s that migrated to his stuff,
dove-grey with a faded flying v guitar on the front, just a little
loose because he isn’t as big anymore, but his skin-and-bones make it
billow out nice when he ties it up at the back, crops it midway over
his abs. He isn’t even nervous striding out of his room like that.
Not one bit.
He feels perfect like this, like
before, sweetly exposed and pretty-soft. Dean does a double take in
the library and Sam perches on the table in front of him, lets Dean
run his hands up the leggings, up his hips and under the cropped
Dean grins crooked and whispers,
And Sam shivers and smiles, settles
down into Dean’s lap, loves him, loves himself. For a few little
moments, loves everything.