boys in ties are perfect

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, one home.

But.

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 shirt.

Dean grins crooked and whispers, “Pretty, Sammy.”

And Sam shivers and smiles, settles down into Dean’s lap, loves him, loves himself. For a few little moments, loves everything.