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Dean’s hands are clammy. His fingernails are stuck deep in his palms. He has the folder in his bag, can’t stop poking it with his foot. The smoke in the car puts a lump in his throat. He likes the smell of Dad’s cigarettes, but they make it hard to breathe.
“Dad?” Dean says. Dad taps the steering wheel absently, even though the car is parked. He always smokes with his left hand, a habit from long drives. Dean counts the taps. Three, four, five, six, seven. More than usual. Maybe it’s stress. This stakeout has run long.
“Yeah?” Dad’s voice is a little thick, in that way it sometimes gets. He keeps his eyes fixed on the house.
“You remember that vetala case, a few months back? The one in Oregon?”
“I do.”
“Do you remember how I had to dress up as a girl for a few days?” A cold bead of sweat trickles down the back of Dean’s neck.
“I know it was hard, Dean. I’m sorry you had to do that, but it’s the job. I would have done it for you, but the thing had a type, and I don’t think I would have made a terribly appealing teenage girl.” Dad grins at the last part, though he’s still staring out the windshield.
“No, um,” Dean starts. His breath is fast. Dad might notice. “No,” Dean gulps. “That’s not what I-”
“Shut up, Dean.” Dad’s voice is suddenly sharp. Cold. He raises his binoculars. Dean freezes, staring at the muscles in the side of Dad’s neck. Watching them work.
Dad puts the binoculars down. “They were just letting the cat in. At ease.”
Dean relaxes. But the sweat still drips down his brow.
“I, um.” Dean says. “I wanted to talk to you, sir. About…” He chokes. Trails off.
“About what, son?” Dad’s voice is a little sharper now. But his jaw isn’t tensed. Dean can still speak.
“About… Me as a girl.”
Dad turns to him. Twinkle in his eye, like Santa Claus, and Dean instantly calms a little. Shuts his eyes to soak it in.
“You want me to tell you you’re pretty? Like I’m sending you off to the prom?”
Dean’s throat constricts. He can’t open his eyes. Can hear the curl of Dad’s lip as he forms the words.
“I was going to make a- a proposal, sir.”
“Okay, so spit it out.” The sharpness is back, and this time, Dean sees the muscle twitch in Dad’s jaw. He flinches. But Dad’s given him an order.
“I think- I think I should be a girl.” Dean feels like he’s going to throw up.
“What?” Dad’s voice is hard. He’s looking at Dean now, and Dean scans his face, looks at his forehead, his jaw, his mouth, the corners of the eyes. Surprise. Not anger. Not anger.
“I think it would make sense. For me to be a girl.” Dean taps his fingers together, counting them, one, two, three, four. “I mean, especially for hunts. How often have we needed to get help from some chick because a monster liked chowing on ladies? If you need a boy, Sammy’s thirteen already. He should be able to do it.”
“Hm.” Dad’s face has gone blank. Dean knows he’s considering.
“And it would break up our profile. The cops in Arkansas and Colorado are looking for a guy with two boys. Not a girl and a boy. CPS, too. It’ll confuse them, if I’m a girl.”
Dad nods, slowly. Just once. Still blank. But Dean takes the order in the movement.
“And I would be good at it.” Dean goes for his bag. Pulls out the folder. “People are always saying I’m pretty. I would be good at being a girl.” He cracks the folder open. Glances inside. Catches his breath. Palms the first photo, before Dad can see it. He hopes it doesn’t get too sweaty up his sleeve. He doesn’t want to wreck it.
He spreads the folder wide, so Dad can see it.
Magazine cuts. Sigourney Weaver, Kirstie Alley, Uma Thurman, Kristen Johnson, Hilary Swank, Ellen DeGeneres, Brigitte Bardot. Beauty queens with bigger chins, and strong jaws, and big noses. Women whose eyelashes looked just like his.
“See? I could look like them. I could look like a girl.”
Dad just hums again, and Dean feels a violent tremor coming up from his gut. He almost drops the folder, but manages to reshuffle the pages instead.
He’d showed up an hour early to pick up Sammy last week. Snuck into the school library. Sammy’s school is mixed middle and high, so Dean is still the right age. He’d found the pictures on a public library computer, but the library didn’t have a printer. He’d written down the links on a piece of paper. Typed ‘em in careful on the one school computer. Hoped they weren’t blocked.
His prizes were between his fingers now. Staticky printer paper, grainy black ink.
“These are- are girls who started as guys, sir. It’s something someone could do. They- they live their whole lives. Like that. And I could do it. I would do a good job. It’ll take me a few months to grow my hair out, but after that… I can do a voice, too,” he pitches himself up, smoothes it out, “like this.”
Dad doesn’t say anything to that. He looks at the women in the pictures. Appraising them, head to toe in their high heels and tight dresses, their seductive poses. This time, when the tremors come, Dean does drop the folder. Paper flutters onto the seat, and he grabs for it, hanging on desperately to the photo up his sleeve to keep it from getting mixed in where Dad could see.
Once he’s got his papers back together, he looks up and sees Dad is watching the house again. The silence sits for a few minutes.
“And I would be better at taking care of Sammy.” Dean blurts. The final line of defense. “People think it’s weird when I go get him from school, or take him to the doctor. They wouldn’t think it was weird, if I was a girl.” He stares down at his hands. Scratches his fingernails against his left wrist.
He hears Dad huff.
“You know, Dean, it would be okay if…” Dad trails off. “Nevermind.”
Dean waits. His intestines feel icy.
“You can- If you want to-” Dad starts. Dean flinches. “It’s not a bad idea. You being a girl. You’re right. Maybe you should.”
All of her muscles unclench at once. She feels dizzy, like she’s going to pass out, maybe piss herself. She’s still shaking, even harder now. She lies back against the seat, head spinning. Counts her heartbeats. Five, six, seven, eight.
“Thank you, sir.”
She hears Dad raise his binoculars again.
“Dean- or, Deanna, I suppose - hand me a cup of Joe, would you?”
“Yes, sir,” she says, still giddy. Deanna grabs the thermos by her feet. Pours into the cup, just up to the line. Blows on it, to get it just right. She doesn’t want Dad to burn his tongue.
Dad slurps his coffee, and she pulls the picture out of her sleeve. Slips Mom back into place in the pocket of her bag.