Sam turns his head and sees Lucifer smiling and waving at him from the kitchenette. He automatically presses his fingers into the palm of his left hand, watching Lucifer and just waiting. It's become routine, his thumb digging in whenever he's not sure what's real and what isn't.
It's a handy barometer for judging reality, and he's grateful to Dean for showing him the way, but the problem he's having now is that his hand's almost healed. He's poked and prodded at it so much that it's taken twice as long to heal as it should have, but eventually it just started to get better.
There's a dull ache when he pushes where there used to be sharp pain. A sharp, bright jolt that could clear his head and make Lucifer's brilliance flicker and fade.
Sam's not sure what to do about it. He needs his hand; it's a valuable thing to have the use of and he doesn't want to damage it again. But maybe he can just…make another small cut somewhere, somewhere Dean won't see, and only Sam will know it's there. Then he can poke at it when he needs to.
But that's so dramatic that Sam's almost embarrassed to be thinking about it. In all honesty, he's been hoping to get injured on a hunt, just something small; he doesn't want to get eaten by a Leviathan or anything. Just something that won't make Dean suspect his already crazy brother is becoming an emo cutter.
Dean would never let Sam hear the end of it. He can imagine the pamphlets on self-harm Dean would start leaving around Rufus's cabin.
Although it's possible Dean wouldn't notice through the haze of alcohol he soaks himself in these days.
No, that's not really true. Dean's steady intake of booze never seems to dull the laser-sharp gaze he keeps locked on Sam, like he's afraid Sam's going to suddenly go on a killing spree, or more likely, end up weeping quietly into his pillow, curled up in a fetal position.
The whole thing is beyond annoying. Sam's handling it, for crying out loud. If Dean would just fucking relax for five minutes, Sam could get on with reclaiming his sanity.
Sam presses his thumbnail harder into the scar on his hand for good measure, and as Lucifer dims and disappears, Sam waves a cheerful goodbye in his direction.
"Who're you waving at, Sam?" Dammit, Dean was supposed to be outside waxing the car or something. Not sneaking up on Sam and catching out his crazy.
"No one," Sam replies, knowing Dean won't let it go.
"No one?" Dean repeats, his mouth tight. "Right." He turns away, and Sam sighs. For some reason, Dean's all about the caring and sharing these days, at least when it comes to wanting Sam to share. Dean himself is still the same repressed asshole he's always been when it comes to his own issues.
Sam doesn't really blame him. He'd want to know what was going on in Sam's head, too, if he were Dean.
"Lucifer," Sam says. "Happy? I was waving at Lucifer." He wonders if Dean knows he's covered in soapy water. "Dude, did you know you have soapsuds in your hair?"
Dean ignores Sam's question about the soap. "Happy? Am I happy that my brother is still seeing – wait, why were you waving at him? Is he your BFF now?" Dean swipes an elbow across his forehead. The only thing that accomplishes is to smear the suds further. It's adorable, the kind of adorable that makes Sam want to either swat him on the back of the head or grab him and kiss him senseless. Neither option is a good one right now, though. If Sam kisses him, Dean will think Sam's been hallucinating a hot chick, because Dean is just that much of an idiot.
"I was waving because it annoys him," Sam says simply. He goes into the bathroom and comes out with a towel, which he throws at Dean's head.
"You're trying to annoy an hallucination? He's not real, you know," Dean says, catching the towel in his right hand and rubbing it over his head.
"Nice reflexes. No, I know," Sam says, digging his thumb into his palm again. "I do know the definition of hallucination, Dean."
Dean tosses the towel carelessly on Sam's bed and looks at him curiously. "That still work?" He nods toward Sam's hand.
Sam shrugs. He might as well be honest. "Kind of. It's mostly healed, though." He wonders if Dean will understand what he means. What he needs.
Dean nods, then stops and stares at him. "Oh, hell no," he says. "No way, Sammy. You're not some high school chick. You're not gonna start cutting yourself."
Sam suppresses the usual urge to smack his brother that he gets at that particular tone. It's the bossy one Sam's been listening to his whole life, the I’m the big brother and what I say goes tone of voice. The one he's been asking Dean to stop using for what seems like forever.
"Dean –" Sam shakes his head. Why bother? He picks up Dean's towel and takes it back into the bathroom, hangs it up.
He comes out just in time to see Dean grab a beer and open the door out into the motel parking lot. He's about to shut it behind him, but he turns around long enough to send another glare Sam's way.
"No cutting, Sam. I mean it."
Sam settles for pinching his leg hard enough to leave a bruise and then pushing on it whenever he's not sure what's what. There's not really much of a choice; he has to do something.
He and Dean go after a werewolf, and Lucifer spends the whole time they're in the woods darting out from behind various trees wearing Dean's face while they try to track the hairy guy.
Every time Sam pinches himself, Dean, or rather, Lucifer, smirks and disappears, while the real Dean smacks Sam on the shoulder and asks him what the hell is wrong with him.
"Nothing," Sam says. It's obvious Dean doesn't believe him, but Sam doesn't see much point in telling Dean that Lucifer has joined them on their werewolf hunt.
"Still in your grapefruit, Sam," Lucifer says, smiling. "You can't get rid of me that easily." He's alternating between looking like Dean and looking like the unfortunate guy who ended up being his vessel. It's making Sam dizzy.
The werewolf, meanwhile, is stalking a couple of hapless campers, which explains why he's in the woods in the middle of the night. Sam's trying really hard to pay attention.
"Just shoot the son of a bitch, Sam," Dean growls, and so Sam does, silver bullet right in the heart. He assumed Dean meant the werewolf, not Lucifer. "Dammit, what the hell, Sam? Where's your head? You could have gotten us killed out here!"
"Sorry," Sam mutters, and he pinches his leg one more time, just to be on the safe side. "Real" Dean is grumpy, whereas "Lucifer" Dean is slyly nasty, and usually Sam can tell the difference. It's just dark out here in the woods, is all.
Sam is shaving the first time it happens and as a result, he nearly slits his own throat. Wouldn't that be a stupid way to go, he thinks.
One minute the razor is sliding smoothly across his chin and the next, it's Dean's stubble under his fingers.
Sam blinks at his reflection in the mirror, and Dean's face blinks back at him. Just as suddenly, he sees his own face again, and of course he doesn’t know if that really happened – did he just turn into Dean? oh god or if it was just a trick of the admittedly shitty lighting in the motel bathroom.
Sam watches himself roll his eyes. "What, Lucifer wasn't enough for you, you have to hallucinate Dean in the mirror, on top of Satan in the kitchen?" he asks himself.
Staring warily at his reflection, practically daring it to change again, Sam manages to finish shaving without further incident. He brushes his teeth much more easily, as that doesn't have to involve a mirror unless you're five years old.
There's no way he's telling Dean about this. No way in hell. Dean wouldn't let Sam out of his sight if he knew, probably not even to take a piss.
Over the next few days, it starts to happen more frequently. Almost every time Sam passes a mirror, he sees Dean's face, just a brief glimpse before his own features return to stare out at him.
He's got bruises all up and down his left thigh as a result. He starts getting dressed in the bathroom after his shower so Dean doesn't notice.
The problem with bathrooms, of course, is that they all come equipped with mirrors.
Pinching himself doesn't make it go away, the way it does with Lucifer. Dean still looks out at him from the mirror, and Sam's own fear and confusion are reflected in his brother's eyes.
The morning after they check into a motel with honest-to-god mounted fish above each bed and fishing poles for curtain rods, things get ever weirder.
Sam's just come back from a run when he hears Dean bellow from the bathroom. He almost drops his Gatorade.
"Sam! Sam, get your ass in here!" Dean sounds simultaneously pissed off and freaked out, which is never a good combination. It's funny how often he sounds that way.
Sam pokes his head anxiously around the bathroom door. He's still breathing hard from his run, sweat dripping off the end of his nose.
"What in the holy hell is the meaning of this?" Dean points accusingly at the mirror.
Sam wishes he had no idea what Dean's talking about, but he's afraid he does. "What's wrong?" he asks tentatively.
Coming up behind Dean, he peers into the mirror. He doesn't mind admitting that he's afraid to see whatever's there.
"Look!" Dean flaps his hand at the mirror, and sure enough, there are two Sam Winchesters looking back at them, both of them red-faced and dripping sweat and looking horrified by what they see.
"Why are there two of me?" Sam asks, surreptitiously pinching his leg.
"Why am I so tall?" Dean asks, sounding completely appalled.
And then, in the blink of an eye, Dean's next to Sam in the mirror again - his short brother Dean, not some look-alike standing next to Sam that's as tall as he is. Talk about disconcerting.
Sam is simultaneously relieved that it's not just him seeing this shit anymore, and completely terrified. What the fuck is going on?
"Okay, did that just happen, or am I seeing things? Is your crazy rubbing off on me?" Dean glares at him as if he thinks the whole thing might be Sam's fault.
That doesn't seem quite fair.
Sam squints at Dean. That question is one of those borderline things Dean sometimes says , almost mean enough to be Lucifer, but almost affectionate enough to be Dean.
Dean's face softens. "Sorry, Sammy."
Sam nods. "It's okay. I get that it's weird." He hesitates. "Should we just pretend it didn't happen?"
Dean looks thoughtful. "I can get down with that, sure."
Satisfied that Dean is Dean and Sam is still Sam, Sam backs out of the bathroom, grabbing a towel on his way. He wipes away the sweat from his face and hair and downs a bottle of Gatorade the color of Windex. It makes him feel slightly nauseous.
Or maybe it's the fact that he and Dean seem to be switching bodies that has him ready to hurl.
By the time Dean comes out of the bathroom, Sam has his shit together. The Gatorade must have regulated his electrolytes enough for him to get a grip.
Dean eyes him suspiciously, but nothing weird occurs again for the rest of the day, and Sam lets himself be lulled into a false sense of security.
They're working another case, hunting for something they think is a rugaru but could possibly be a Leviathan. Either way, there are half-eaten bodies and blood spray all over the small town of Jonesboro, Indiana. It's been a nice, ordinary hunt, and Sam hasn't had to pinch his leg even once over the past several days. Lucifer must be taking a break, and Sam's bruises are beginning to fade. It's been very soothing.
They dress up in their FBI suits, dig out their FBI badges, and go to the county morgue to poke around at the bodies. They don’t find anything useful, but the rugaru strikes again, and they manage to put the fucker down with a minimum of bloodshed.
Except the rugaru's, of course.
The next morning they decide to head back to Rufus's cabin and see what Bobby's been up to. They could just call, but Sam thinks Dean looks more tired than usual. A break sounds good.
"Yeah, because I miss Bobby's home-cooking," Dean grouses, but he lets Sam drive and naps most of the way to Montana.
Their first morning at the cabin, Sam wakes up to the sounds of Dean yelling from the bathroom again. He sighs. He's used to sounds coming from the bathroom when Dean's in there, but they're usually much happier sounds. Or grosser, depending on the time of day.
As soon as Sam puts his feet on the floor, he knows they're screwed. Those are not his toes curling into the Astro-turf quality carpet Rufus installed throughout the cabin. He'd recognize Dean's toes anywhere.
And those are not his knees that he braces his elbows on, and when he tries to run his - Dean's - hands through his hair, he finds it's short and soft as opposed to long and tangled.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming." Sam gets stiffly to his feet. Wow, Dean's back is shot to shit. Must be all the driving.
In the bathroom, Dean is staring into the mirror with the same horror-stuck expression on his face as the last time this happened.
"It's like déjà-vu all over again!" he says. He tilts his head one way and then back the other, narrowing his eyes.
Sam doesn't wait for the insult about his hair that he knows is coming.
"This is really happening, right? I mean, it's not just me seeing things?" He hates to ask, doesn't want Dean to worry about his fragile psyche, but he has to know.
"Wearing each others' faces? Each others' bodies? Yeah, it's happening. What the hell, Sam?" Dean pulls his lower lip down and checks out Sam's teeth, moves his jaw from side to side and sticks out his tongue. Sam's tongue.
The sense of panic that threatened to overwhelm Sam recedes. If it's not just him seeing this, then it's not Lucifer and it's not happening only in his head. It means it's some kind of spell or some other fucked up thing that he and Dean can fix.
"I mean seriously, what the hell?" Dean's flexing his arms, watching the play of his - of Sam's - muscles in the mirror.
"This happened before, remember? That kid with the sucky life and the horrible parents? Gary something. Do you think it's the same thing?" Sam shudders as he thinks about Gary's terrible wardrobe, his creepy friends, and his lactose intolerance.
He has to look up to talk to Dean, and that's a weird kind of déjà vu in itself, to be doing that again. It's been a long time since he's been shorter than Dean.
"That was some sort of demon summoning spell, I don't think we want to go there again, Sam." Dean tugs up the bottom of the t-shirt Sam wore to bed last night and stares at his abs. He's acting as if he's never seen Sam's body before. It's making Sam feel like a specimen on display. He reaches over and yanks the t-shirt back down.
"Do you mind?"
Dean slaps at Sam's hand. "Yes, I mind. I'm not used to having such freakishly tight abs." He rubs his hand over his – over Sam's - stomach, but at least he stays on the outside of the shirt. Sam doesn't ordinarily mind Dean touching him, but the caressing is a little disturbing. "So, is this a demon thing?"
"I don't know. Do you think Crowley –" Sam knows the words are a mistake the minute they're out of his mouth. Crowley is too tied up in the events of the past two years, too tied up with what happened to Cas, for Dean to be able to talk about him with any kind of perspective.
Dean turns and stalks out of the bathroom, shoving Sam's shoulder as he passes. He's not used to being so tall, and his center of gravity is obviously off. He almost trips over the boots he left by the bed, and he falls back, arms wind-milling frantically.
"Jesus, you're a tall fucker," he says breathlessly, sprawled on his back in the middle of his bed. "How the hell do you walk around like this?"
"I got used to it," Sam says dryly, following Dean out of the bathroom. "It happened gradually. How in the hell do you manage to even reach the gas pedal, being this short?"
The insult takes Dean's mind off Cas, and Sam decides not to mention Crowley or demons again.
"Witches? They could probably do this kind of shit," Dean says thoughtfully. "Shapeshifter?" He narrows his eyes at Sam. "Is that really you in there, Sammy?" Dean struggles to sit up, bitching the whole time about how having abnormally long arms and legs makes moving around impossible. When he finally manages to get upright, he heads over to his duffle.
Sam's still standing in the bedroom doorway, watching warily as Dean digs around in his bag. He comes up with a silver knife, which he brandishes threateningly at Sam.
"Whoa," Sam says, hands in front of him. "What the hell, dude?"
"Let's see what this silver does, you son of a bitch," Dean says, advancing on him slowly.
"Dean, if you want to know if we're shapeshifters, why don't you cut yourself? Or, wait, don't mess up my body." Sam thinks about that a minute. If he ever gets back into his own body, a nice, neat cut might come in handy as a Lucifer detector. "Okay, no, go ahead, slice away." He gestures encouragingly at Dean.
It takes a minute, then Dean sighs. "Again with the cutting, Sam." He shakes his head. "I guess since it's happening to both of us, we're not 'shifters."
"Maybe a little slice? Just to make sure?" Sam makes hopeful eyes at Dean. Except that Dean's hopeful eyes aren't nearly as effective as Sam's hopeful eyes are, and Dean just makes a face. A bitchy face.
"No!" It's funny how Dean can manage the I'm the big brother and what I say goes tone even in Sam's body. Sam's kind of impressed. He had no idea his voice could do that.
But his face. Oy. "Is that what I look like when I'm -"
"Being a bitch? Yes. Not so attractive, is it Sam?" Sam watches his own face with Dean's best smirk on it.
Sam shakes his head.
"I guess it's time to call Bobby, then," Sam says. "You want to do the honors, or should I?" He really needs to find some pants he won't trip over. He wonders if Dean's got any clean clothes in his duffle.
"He's just out getting groceries, Sam. I think it can wait till he gets back." Dean looks down. Sam's feet and ankles are sticking out from the end of Dean's sleep pants and Dean shakes his head in disgust.
"What the hell have you boys got yourselves into this time?" Bobby sounds weary, and Sam feels bad. Bobby's house just burned down, and his books, while apparently not actually gone, are scattered all over the country.
Sam's impressed that Bobby had extra copies of his whole library stashed here and there. He wonders idly about the book on Eve, the Mother of All. The one that was made out of human skin. Did he really have TWO of those? Really?
How does one photocopy human skin? What do you tell the guys at Kinkos? "Oh, hey, ignore how gross and disgusting this is, I'll be done in a minute. But you might want to disinfect your copier when I'm gone, dude."
"Hell if I know," Dean says grumpily, shaking Sam's hair out of his eyes. "Jesus, that's annoying," he mutters as a piece falls back down over his forehead.
Sam hides his grin.
"Well," Bobby says, sitting down at the table and unpacking the hamburgers and French fries he'd brought back along with the groceries. "We should probably figure something out. I can't tell out which of you two yayhoos I'm talking to. I don't need to be more confused by life than I already am."
Sam finds himself searching the pile of food for any trace of pie. He spots two pieces of apple pie and one piece of chocolate cake, and he grabs one of the apple before Dean or Bobby can.
Dean takes a huge bite of his hamburger, tucks it into his cheek, then says around it, "We've ruled out demon spells and shapeshifters. We're thinking either witches or hoodoo." He swallows without appearing to chew and then gets a funny look on his face. "What the hell, Sam? Your stomach's going to object to a cheeseburger?"
Sam's busy washing his pie down with scotch. He feels strangely dissatisfied when he's finished and finds himself reaching for the second piece of pie. He waves it at Dean. "You want?"
"No," Dean says, and then Sam sees the same look of horror he saw in the bathroom mirror this morning. "I don't want any pie," Dean says, sounding stunned. "That is so wrong."
"Yeah," Dean says. "I want cake." He pauses, and then says, "Kill me now."
Sam would rather kill himself. Not really, but now when Lucifer comes out to play, sometimes he looks like Sam instead of Dean or Nick. Which is a whole different kind of mindfuck that Sam could well do without.
Lucifer thinks the whole body swap thing is hilarious.
"I really have to admire whoever thought this one up, Sam." He tilts his head and looks at Sam with avid interest. "Who do you see when you look in the mirror, hmm?"
"Go to hell," Sam tells him without much heat. He's reluctant to say it out loud, because who knows what Lucifer will come up with to torment him next, but the whole hallucination thing is beginning to get boring.
"Not feeling very clever right now, are we, Sam?" Lucifer smiles, showing Sam his own dimples.
Sam knows Dean will be very unhappy if he gets his body back with bruises all over it, but he has other things to think about besides trading quips with Satan. He pinches the underside of his left arm, hoping Dean won't notice it. To his relief, Lucifer fades away.
Sam's dizzy from trying to figure out who he's looking at at any given minute and decides a nap is in order. Dean doesn't sleep for crap, and his body shows all the signs of long-term insomnia, along with chronic alcohol abuse.
Sam does his brother a favor and stretches out on his bed, closing his eyes and letting himself fall asleep.
It's the shortest nap in history.
Sam doesn't understand why he's so restless. Restless, cranky, irritated, annoyed, you name it, he feels it. His hands develop a fine tremor and that's when he figures it out.
He needs a drink. Or, rather, Dean's body needs a drink.
Dean's already got the bottle out and has been drinking since early afternoon while he and Bobby kick around the same three ideas about how to get them back into their own bodies.
He keeps checking his reflection in the darkened television screen and fucking with Sam's hair, then pouring himself another drink. He's starting to look a little green around the gills.
"Hey, dude, don't turn me into an alcoholic," Sam snaps at him. He folds his arms across his chest to hide the way his hands tremble. "My body's not used to that much booze. You're gonna hurl soon, I'm warning you."
Dean watches him appraisingly, a knowing look in his eyes. Sam tilts his chin up and Dean snorts.
"Don't you give me DTs," he says bluntly. "Your hands are shaking. Have a damn drink."
It goes against every instinct Sam has, but Dean's right. They need to be able to deal with whatever the hell is going on, and the last thing Sam needs is for the body he's currently inhabiting to be seeing pink elephants fly around the cabin.
There's not enough leg-pinching in the world to combat that.
Sam takes the bottle of scotch from Dean and obediently pours himself a couple of fingers.
"Gonna need a little more than that to keep my liver happy," Dean says, with that self-deprecation Sam hates so much. He doesn't like how much and how often Dean drinks, but it's not like he wants Dean to be ashamed of it. They both have their coping mechanisms. The last thing Dean needs is something else to add to the list of reasons to feel bad about himself.
Pouring another splash into the glass, Sam attempts a smile. "Bottoms up," he says, and he lets the whiskey burn all the way down to sit nice and warm in his stomach.
"You sure about this, Bobby?" Dean sounds as anxious as Sam feels. Sam's not really sure what Dean and Bobby settled on. There's too much shit going on in his head, and aside from the occasional input from him about the logistics of where it might be best to try the "switching spell," as they're calling it, Sam lets them get on with it.
He isn't feeling up to a lot of complicated details.
"No, I'm not sure." Bobby sounds irritated. "You got any better ideas? 'Cuz I sure don't." He mumbles something about soul mates.
"What was that?"
Bobby scowls at Dean. "I said, this is supposed to work best on soul mates, but it's the only thing I could find, so we're just gonna have to take our chances and keep our fingers crossed."
Sheriff Mills looks on in fascination as Bobby mixes stuff up in a bowl.
"Thanks for bringing what we needed, Sheriff," Sam says. It really was nice of her, he thinks.
"Call me Jodie," the sheriff says, smiling. "It was the least I could do, after Bobby saved my ass from the monsters with the big teeth."
Sam wouldn't swear to it, but he thinks he sees the trace of a blush under Bobby's beard.
Bobby reads out some kind of spell in a language Sam's never heard and stirs the stuff around some more. Then he throws a lit match into the bowl.
The last thing Sam sees is his own face wearing Dean's worried expression before there's a blinding flash and a loud POP.
Sam's eyes slam shut at the flash, and he hopes Dean had the sense to do the same. He doesn't want to get back into his nice, tall body only to find he's blind because Dean slowed down Sam's reflexes with alcohol.
That would totally suck.
That's the last thought Sam has before he passes out. When he wakes up he's stretched out on the floor, his head resting on something soft that he thinks is either one of the couch cushions, or his own hair.
He decides he might as well take his time finding out if Bobby's spell worked. No sense jumping right up, only to be disappointed if he's still in Dean's body.
A quiet son of a bitch comes from the couch. Sam's afraid to look and see who it is, so he blinks up at the ceiling instead.
He's not blind, so there's one good thing, anyway.
Reaching up with a tentative hand, Sam touches his head. Long strands of hair slide under his fingers, and he almost bursts into tears, he's so relieved.
"Sammy? Is that you? Or are you still me?"
Sam struggles up onto his elbows. Bobby's sitting in a chair, watching them carefully. He's trying to look nonchalant, but his eyes give away how worried he is. Sheriff Mills is standing behind him, her hand on his shoulder. Bobby doesn't seem to notice it's there, and Sam files that fact away for further thought.
Later, when his brain isn't trying to conga dance its way out of his ears.
"Son of a bitch," Dean says again. "My head is fucking killing me. What the hell did you do to us, Bobby?"
"You're welcome," Bobby says, and he stands up. The sheriff's hand falls away, and she takes a step back. "Maybe you could try saying thank you once in a while when I save your worthless lives instead of bitching at me." His words can't disguise his relief, and Sam beams at him.
"Maybe if you could save my life without leaving me with a blinding headache, I might," Dean says, and Sam watches him sit up very carefully, clutching at his head with both hands.
"Shut up, ya ingrate," Bobby growls. "That worked a hell of a lot better'n I thought it would. Guess they were wrong about the whole soul mate requirement."
Sam laughs and lurches to his feet. He turns to Dean, who's perched on the edge of the couch like he's trying to get his sea legs under him. Sam grabs his wrist and pulls him up so they're standing chest to chest.
It's so nice to look down at Dean that Sam laughs out loud again.
Dean glares up at him and socks him in the arm. "I'm still the oldest, even if I'm not a tall freak of nature anymore."
"You two done being five years old yet?" Bobby says. "I guess this means you're back in your own meatsuits?"
"Yeah, I guess it does," Dean says. "Thanks, Bobby. This calls for a drink."
Sam frowns. He's spent several days experiencing how much Dean's body is used to alcohol and how it needs it to keep functioning. He wants Dean to stop, thinks it's getting out of hand, but from what he can tell, that's not something that's going to happen overnight. He's not sure what he needs to do about it, so he doesn't mention it.
"Dude," he says instead. "What did you do to my hair? It's all sticky."
"Just a little gel to keep it out of my damned eyes," Dean says. "I don't know how you manage to see through that mane, Sammy." He looks happy, and it makes Sam smile.
"I feel like a dork with my ankles hanging out of your pants. Come on, give me my clothes back." Sam hasn't let go of Dean's wrist yet, and he tugs him back to the bedroom. "Strip," he commands.
"Pushy, Sammy, I like it," Dean smirks as he tugs Sam's shirt off over his head. Sam is happy to look at Dean's body across from him again instead of being able to see it just by looking down at himself.
"I'll show you pushy if you're not careful," Sam says, advancing purposefully on his brother.
Dean holds his hands up in self-defense. "I can get undressed by myself, you know." He looks uncertain, and Sam gives him a break. Now isn't the time. Sam can wait. He learned patience in Hell, after all.
He turns to go to the bathroom to see what he can do with his hair, and out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of Lucifer, perched on the counter by the kitchen sink. He's kicking the cabinet doors with his heels and gives every appearance of someone waiting for a bus.
Bored. He looks bored. Sam knows just how he feels.
Sam pinches his leg and Lucifer's gone before he can even send a smirk Sam's way.
Sheriff Mills stays for the evening and they celebrate with pizza and beer.
Sam's surprised when Dean sticks to beer, and only three of them at that. Dean catches him watching and says, "I think maybe it wouldn't kill me to cut back a little."
Sam opens his mouth to reply and Dean says, "Shut up."
So Sam does.
They leave in the morning, because Dean wants to go visit his car. She's still too high profile for them to drive around in, but Dean needs to see for himself that no one's found her, or that her oil hasn’t spontaneously evaporated or something equally catastrophic.
"Thanks, Bobby," Sam says gratefully before they go. "It's nice not to be confused for a change."
"Sure thing, kid," Bobby says, clapping him on the shoulder.
"Get your ass in the car, Sam," Dean says. He waves at Bobby and they drive away.
"Did you mean that?" Dean says about half an hour later. Sam's got his eyes closed against the morning sun, and he blinks them open.
"That you're not confused anymore?" Dean keeps his voice neutral, but Sam's not fooled.
"Yeah, I did. There's still a parade in my head, but it's quieter. Easier to deal with." He turns halfway in his seat to look at Dean.
"Without cutting." Dean points a warning finger at him.
"Yes, Dean, without cutting." Sam rolls his eyes.
"What about Lucifer? He still around?"
"Not so much. It's funny, but I think he got bored." Sam shrugs. "What with the whole body swap thing, I didn't have time to pay much attention to him. Maybe he decided to take his toys and go home."
"I hope so, Sammy, I really do." And with that, Dean floors it and they speed off down the highway. "Now let's go see my baby."