Virgin (Supernatural)
In April, a fairy develops a crush on Dean.
She leaves him fairy bread (which Dean knows better than to eat) and flowers (which Sam turns out to be allergic to) and circlets for his hair.
"Not that I don't appreciate it," Dean tells the fairy. It's tiny and shimmery purple and pink, and nearly vibrates with thrill that Dean is speaking with her -- him? -- again. "I mean, nice thought. But it's nothing I really need."
The fairy looked thoughtful and then said, in a twinkle of laughter, "All right then, Hunter Dean Winchester -- I shall give you the greatest gift of all!"
*
Dean spent a month freaking out the fairy would give him wings or turn him into a unicorn or a mermaid or -- hell -- a fairy before he finally figured maybe the gift was like, kindness of heart or something else meaningless in quantifiable terms.
And then, half an hour after Dean disappeared into the back alley of a bar with a particularly skankalicious girl a month and a half post-fairy, he came tearing back into the bar -- horrified and gasping for air.
Sam considered who and how to kill whomever had put his brother in such a state, and then he said, "Who was it? Where are they?"
"Oh my God, tuck your dick back in -- I think that fairy made me a freaking virgin!"
*
"Well," Sam said several hours later, watching Dean breath into and out of a brown paper bag, "I just don't know how you can tell."
"I fucking checked my man-hymen," Dean shouted at him through the bag, looking furious. "I just know, you bucket of dicks!"
Sam bit his lip.
"Maybe you only feel like a virgin," he said soothingly.
Dean sets the bag down and stared at him, stricken.
"Dude," he said. "I couldn't find her clit."
"Okay," Sam said. "This is major."
*
Dean sulked for hours -- hours -- until Sam finally caved and reverted back to learned behaviors from when he was living with an actual woman.
He went out and bought Dean a bunch of chicken biscuits and a passle of seasoned fries and ran him a bath.
Dean punched him, but slunk into the bathroom, where there was a lot of splashing which Sam figured meant his brother was rediscovering himself all over again.
When he came out, an hour and many wrinkles later, Dean seemed less upset, shaken lose.
"You look better," Sam offers, handing Dean a biscuit.
"I feel better," Dean tells him, and smiles, sweet and shiny and -- Sam can't help but think with a hot flush -- all brand new.
*
So Sam is apparently a much more gigantic pervert than he'd previously credited himself, because Dean, independent of his brand new virtue, is hot anyway -- all dark green eyes and lean lines, the smell of leather and gun oil. Forcefulness and flirting smiles.
Dean, untouched, is an astronomical degree of hot that would probably blot out all the rays of the sun. Everywhere they go, Sam feels like there's a sign on his brother: perfect, untouched, waiting for searching hands.
Sam already spends a lot of time punching out truckers who think Dean's a hooker -- apparently he's going to punch even more people who think Dean needs to be helped out of his hypothetical man-hymen.
He imagines a lot of grisley deaths for whomever Dean finally decides to take the (re)plunge with, and Sam knows his reaction to this cannot possibly be normal.
Only after days and days of tense fear, of worrying that Dean's going to slouch into some roadhouse some random woman with a great pair and no brains is going to get him -- nothing...happens.
Dean still flirts -- with everybody, in a maddeningly gender irregardless way that has Sam squirming in his seat. But he doesn't really touch anybody, not the way he used to, casual and proprietary and leering.
Mostly these days, it's just talk, a softer, smokier smile -- and if people lined up around the block for the old Dean Winchester treatment, it's like the brand new (hah, Sam thinks, bitter) one is drawing a classier, larger crowd that would line up around the town.
The four days they spend in San Francisco hunting a troll in a what appears to be a pansexual dance club are the worst days of Sam's entire life, and by the time he gets back to the motel in the evenings he's so stressed out from resisting the urge to kick people in the face or keeping obsessive tabs on his brother his head hurts from the effort.
They're in the Isle of Palms, off season, when Sam finally loses it standing on the back dock of The Wreck, watching Dean's silhouette against the pink-orange sunset.
"Would you just do it already?" he snarls. "Waiting for you to pop your cherry is making me completely fucking insane."
When Dean whirls around, hushing him loudly, there's a faint round of titters -- soft and amused but more importantly: interested.
"Dude, you dick!" Dean snaps. "Did I ever announce your virginity?"
"Yes," Sam says.
Dean scowls. "Well -- you were 18, it was unnatural."
"You're 28, this is better?" Sam demands.
Then Dean makes a face that can only be called a pout. Sam can't tell if it's his psychic powers or if the lust is just that strong, but he stumbles a bit, from the wave of it that hits the back of his head. He should have rearranged them, set Dean at a less attractive angle, he thinks frantically.
"Well -- I -- I didn't want to rush into anything," Dean finally admits, blushing, furiously shy.
Sam covers his face and is glad he pre-emptively tucked his dick under his belt, because he'd have to do it anyway now. "Oh," he moans, "God."
"You can just go fuck yourself!" Dean tells him, and stomps away.
*
And so Dean stays a virgin.
He stays a virgin in South Carolina, and he stays a virgin in Georgia and he stays a virgin in Louisiana, although -- and Sam nearly has a brain hemorrhage over this -- Dean does got on a date with a good ol' boy named Leslie, who delivers Dean to his motel door with his eyes filled with abjectly infatuated stars.
"I had a good time," Leslie says.
"Me, too," Dean tells him, smiling, and Sam can't tell exactly what kind of smile it is -- the angle at which he's got his face smashed up against the motel window isn't very illuminating.
"I," Leslie starts, and then stops, and then tries again, "Would it be all right? If I kissed you?"
Sam actually says, "Oh, for fuck's sake," out loud.
And then Dean says, "Yes, I think that'd be nice," and they do, but whatever happens after that Sam doesn't really remember because he's too busy having a rage blackout and banging against the glass of the motel window, shouting:
"Dean Winchester, you get your face away from that boy!"
Dean doesn't speak to him for a week after that, just plucks miserably at the shell bracelet Leslie the Cockhungry Whore Rat apparently gave him during their "date."
"I'm starting to feel really bad for Dad," Sam says out loud, to no one in particular.
*
The whole situation is very Electra, only it isn't because Dean isn't a girl and Sam isn't his father and their dad is dead. Also, Sam would like to fuck Dean himself, so really -- not like Electra at all only it's been four months now and Dean is still a virgin. It's starting to fuck with Sam's head.
"Aren't you always the one telling me to respect myself more?" Dean asks one day, sitting in a library fielding smiles from a professor with tweed patches on his elbows. Yeah, Sam bets that motherfucker would like to teach Dean something, and so he grits his teeth and puts a possessive hand on Dean's thigh -- branding him, owning him, as much as Sam's ever been allowed to, anyway.
"Yes, but I didn't mean be all evangelical about it," Sam tells him.
Dean frowns at him. "I'm not! I'm just realizing maybe there's something to this whole thing."
"What, being celibate?" Sam shoots back. He's supposed to be researching some sort of rabid, Southeast Asian demon with three faces. So far, he's glared down a dozen interested-looking undergrads and at least three of the reference librarians.
"Waiting for someone," Dean tells him, prim, and slaps Sam's hand away.
*
The worst part is that Sam kind of knows what Dean's talking about. He can imagine now the sweet burn of anticipation, that dizzying sense of excitment. There's no baggage and no awkward, "So yeah, I have herpes" conversations in Dean's immediate future, just delight and discovery, of being with somebody he's old enough to know he should really enjoy -- not just be 14-enough to be grateful somebody will touch his cock. Sam would be jealous if he had time to be jealous of Dean in between being jealous over Dean.