fic: your latest barrier smacked upside of the head, Supernatural, Sam/girl!Dean, R
Title: your latest barrier smacked upside of the head
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam/girl!Dean
Rating: R, I think? A really heavy R.
Word Count: 5,445
Summary: Pre-series, AU. In which Dean gets turned into a girl, permanently, but Sam is still woman enough for the both of them.
Warnings: Incest, duh. Also crack, pretty much, and do I warn for het? I don’t really condone warning for het, but this is Supernatural fandom, so. Here there be girlparts.
Notes: This was written over the course of 36 hours for the adorable and amazing dev_earl. She didn’t specifically ask me to do it, but she mentioned it on her wishlist and then on my way to work I started having ideas, so. This is what happened. My love goes out to her, as well as Jackie for giving her stamp of approval. And let’s not forget alcohol. And Zeppelin. Credit for lame last-minute title goes to Tori Amos.
So, Sam used to have this brother. Still does, technically, since Dean’s not going anywhere any time soon. Thing is, though, Dean got hit by a hefty, irreversible curse in Tampa about a year back, and ever since then his brother Dean’s been his sister. Dee. Or at least, that’s what he’s - she’s (Sam’s still fucking twisted about pronouns, really) - been going by, to make things easier. To Sam, she’ll only ever be Dean.
Anyway.
It was a tough couple of weeks, at first. Dean pretty much had a nervous breakdown and John did what he could to find a spell to reverse the whole thing, but there was nothing to be done. Dean was a girl, long legs and full lips, a tangle of dirty-blonde hair and, in Dean’s own words, “a pretty great rack, all things considered.”
Sam has to agree, he really does.
Thing is, it took surprisingly little time for Dean to get past being a girl. Dean is still Dean, foulmouthed and sex-crazed and a better shot than Sam will ever be, reckless and caring and pretty much Sam’s favorite person in the world.
Sam, on the other hand. Sam is having issues.
See, it was one thing, before, having the hots for his brother. They’d worked that out, literally, a sparring session that got a little too heated, weeks by themselves with nothing to do but figure out each other. It had been… amazing, and fucked up, but it was them. Dean was about the only thing in Sam’s fucked up life that Sam didn’t want to be rid of. It was easy, so much easier than it probably should have been.
And now there’s… this. Sam’s brother is gone, technically, and his sister… his sister is fucking hot.
*
Summers are always the best and the worst for them. On the one hand, Sam never gets as angry when they have to pack up and leave, because there aren’t school records to gather up, and usually he doesn’t even bother making friends in these places. On the other hand, though, Sam kind of (okay, really) likes school, and without that as a distraction it’s just him and Dean, constantly. Which, fine, except for there’s still the whole thing where Sam wants to get into his sister’s too-tight jeans (or under her skirt, since Dean’s been experimenting with the whole skirt-and-heels look and it’s honest-to-god killing Sam), and since Dean picks the room right next to Sam’s regardless of how big the house is, since Dean basically has the attention span of a four-year-old and can’t figure out what to do with herself for more than an hour or two without Sam, there’s really no way for Sam to get any time by himself.
Although, to be fair, when Sam does get a second alone, if Dean’s downstairs watching TV or at the bar, Sam just spends half his time reading and the other half thinking about Dean, so. Maybe it’s better this way.
Right now, it’s the middle of July in Athens, Georgia, and John’s a few towns over hunting what may or may not be a vengeful spirit. Sam still spends most of his time fighting with John when they talk on the phone, and Dean still only tells Sam what he needs to know. All Sam can figure is that the case is either a) simple enough that John can get it done solo or b) too dangerous for him to want them there. Neither answer would make Sam happy, so Dean apparently decided that distractions were in order.
Distractions today include target practice, which they admittedly haven’t done in a while. Dean’s got the whole yard set up, empty beer and soda cans and whatever she could find around the current hellhole they’re staying in, and before they start she makes Sam clean all the guns.
“Put those big hands to some kind of use,” she says, and the smirk that crosses her lips make Sam twitch and scowl but yeah, he’s definitely in the mood to shoot things now.
Dean goes first, and Sam stands behind her and watches before Dean turns around and looks back at him. “You’re hovering, Sasquatch,” she says, squinting at the sun in her eyes. “Go get me a soda.” Sam does, only because he needs a second where he’s not staring at Dean in her tiny tank top and short shorts, all that freckled skin gleaming like fucking gold in the sun. It’s not fair. Even as a girl, Dean doesn’t have an awkward goddamn moment in her life.
Sam grabs a soda for himself, too, running the can along his neck to cool off, even though that’s a fairly impossible task at this point in the summer. There’s no air conditioning in this place and the cheap fan they bought last week already decided to quit, so they keep the windows open all night and hope it rains soon.
By the time Sam gets back to the yard, Dean’s already demolished a slew of beer cans and she’s reloading the gun. Sam watches her work, watches the small deft fingers of his sister load the chambers and Sam just bets Dean can do this shit blindfolded. It’s kind of sad and really fucking hot all at once, but then again - Sam is seventeen. Everything is hot.
Everything about Dean, anyway.
Dean glances up at him, rolls her big green eyes and brushes back a stray lock of hair before standing up - Dean’s still tall, for a girl, but her chin reaches about Sam’s shoulders now - and grabbing the soda from Sam. “Quit starin’ at me and get to work,” she says, but from the tone of her voice and the gleam in her eyes (same eyes as always, same ones Sam’s seen hurt and happy and sex-sleepy and everything in between), Sam knows she doesn’t mind.
Sam minds, though. He does. ‘Cause, see, it was okay in a them kind of way, to have all these feelings (and Sam can just see Dean, either Dean, rolling their eyes) about his big brother. This is just -
Well, taboo.
So instead of doing what he actually wants, instead of just getting his hands on Dean and pulling her close and kissing her like he hasn’t in months, not since that first week after everything happened and Sam said no, Dean, we can’t and Dean looked so stricken, so guilty that it was all Sam could do not to take it all back - instead, Sam grabs the gun.
He unloads a few shots and misses half of them before he even realizes that Dean’s chuckling next to him, arms folded over her chest and a perfectly manicured eyebrow raised critically.
“Jesus, Sammy,” she breathes. “You shoot like such a fucking girl.”
Sam huffs, straightens up to his full height, but Dean doesn’t back off for even a second. “You are a girl,” he points out. “So’s that mean I shoot like you?”
“Nope,” Dean replies, grinning cheerfully as she plops down on the grass and cracks open her soda. She slurps at the top, little flecks of orange liquid getting on her lips, and then adds, “It still means you suck.”
“You suck,” Sam responds, because sometimes his comebacks are just that lame.
Dean smirks, that tilt of her lips that always goes straight to Sam’s cock, especially now. “Sometimes, sure,” she says.
And Sam looks away, then, picks up the gun and misses every damn shot.
*
The library in Athens, as it turns out, is pretty fucking awesome, so Sam has no short supply of books this summer. It doesn’t really matter, of course, because when Dean watches TV she watches it loudly, so Sam’s attention is focused half on Shakespeare (Sam never gets to read him, otherwise, because he always seems to show up at a new school right after they cover him for the year) and half on whatever obnoxious action movie is going on downstairs. Sam’s almost positive it’s a Bond movie.
He gives up on Macbeth, not for the first time in his life, and trudges downstairs to yell at Dean about the noise. Dean, however, is too busy painting her fucking toenails to pay him any attention.
“Seriously?”
There are hot girls on screen; it’s definitely a Bond movie, and Sam is staring at his… sister’s… toes. Which are gradually becoming a metallic shade of pink.
“Shut it,” Dean mutters. She’s not even watching the movie; her attention is so very very focused on her toes. It’s not the first time she’s done this since the curse, but it’s difficult enough that she still tends to let the paint chip off before doing it again. Sam’s suggested, a few times, that she just not paint her nails. “Don’t be fucking stupid, Sammy,” she’d said. “I like my girls in lipgloss and heels and it’d be hypocritical of me to be anything less.”
So, yeah. It’s not like this is the first obvious display of girlishness that Sam’s witnessed, but it doesn’t mean he’s used to it yet.
Sam takes a seat next to Dean on the couch, and Dean scowls at him for bumping her. “Keep that up and I’m gonna paint your face,” Dean admonishes, and Sam rolls his eyes. “Can we turn this down already? You’re not even watching and I think you’ve seen it before.” He adds, as vaguely appalled as he was when he realized he knew the names of all the kids in the first Nightmare on Elm Street, “I think I’ve seen it before.”
“No,” Dean says. “Now shut up, I’m trying to concentrate.”
Sam tries, he really does. He watches the movie for all of twelve seconds before he goes back to watching Dean, her toes resting on the edge of the coffee table as she works, her face scrunched up in ridiculous focus. For a girl, Dean’s feet are kind of huge, her toes long, but they’re no less pretty for it.
“Dean,” Sam says after another minute, and even though there are explosions happening onscreen and who even remembers what else, that makes Dean jump, smudging the paint on her middle toe. “Motherfucker,” she mutters, and finally whips her head to the side to look at Sam. “What?”
Sam doesn’t even know what, not until he says it, and then he’s saying, “Let me.”
It takes a minute for Dean to figure out what Sam’s asking. Then she does, and her eyebrow arches up like always, and Sam’s blushing like he hasn’t since that first time Dean got on his knees for him. “You are so gay,” Dean accuses, but she hands the bottle of nail polish to Sam and says, “Fix what you fucked up then, Picasso.”
He nods, swallowing hard, but he doesn’t say anything else because then Dean twists, carefully moving her legs from the coffee table to Sam’s lap. It takes Sam a minute to do anything but stare, but Dean breaks him out of it. “Get to work, you gigantic freak,” she reminds him, and then leans back against the arm of the couch.
Sam does as he’s told, for once. It’s slow work, and Dean squirms impatiently a few times, but Sam knows what he’s doing and the only worrying thing, here, is that Dean’s feet are practically in Sam’s lap and Sam is, for the millionth time today, really fucking hard.
Still, Sam does just fine, and when he’s finished Dean’s toes have two coats of pink polish on them. They aren’t the least bit smudged, and Sam thinks he’s gotten away with the whole thing, but as soon as he twists the cap back on the polish, Dean presses the heel of one of her feet against the bulge in Sam’s jeans, casually, like she’s just stretching.
Nothing Dean does is ever all that casual.
“You know,” Dean says, when Sam jerks his head up to look at her. He knows his eyes are wide and he must look nine kinds of caught out. “I can take care of that for you, if you want.”
She’s barely even finished the sentence before Sam is up off the couch and out of the living room, Dean laughing and cursing at him for fucking up her nails again. This has got to stop.
*
Sam spends the rest of the day upstairs, underlining passages of Shakespeare. He’s actually starting to think he wasn’t missing much at school, but that might have less to do with hating Macbeth and more with, well, being distracted than anything else.
He’s finished that play and moved on to the next in his book by the time Dean shouts for him to come eat dinner. She’s made enough grilled cheese to feed them and probably, like, four other people - Dean’s appetite, new body or no, has gone nowhere. She’s standing in front of the counter when Sam comes down, her back turned to him, and Sam notices right away that she’s dressed differently. She’s traded in shorts and a tank top for a pair of hip huggers and an old Ramones t-shirt, and she’s wearing boots now instead of flip-flops.
“You’re going out tonight,” Sam says. It’s supposed to be a question, but even he hears that same resignation in his voice. He never means to sound annoyed about it, at least not really, but it always comes out that way. Dean’s twenty-one and she’s got to be fucking bored looking after him all the time, and Sam knows he kind of sucks for being a bitch about the whole thing.
Lucky for him, Dean’s not afraid to point that out.
“Listen, bitch,” she says, turning around and waving a spatula at him. It’d be fucking cute, if part of Sam’s brain didn’t still misfire at thinking of Dean as cute. “I haven’t been out all week, and at this point it’s lookin’ like Dad’s gonna be gone another few days at least. It’s Saturday goddamn night, and there’s nothing to do here except watch TV and count mosquito bites.”
Sam makes a face like to say he gets it, and then reaches around Dean to grab one of the five thousand sandwiches.
“Besides,” Dean adds then, “you’re welcome to tag along.”
Mid-bite, Sam freezes. “What?”
“You heard me,” Dean says. She takes a massive bite of her sandwich, chews - at least Dean eats with her fucking mouth closed these days, Sam thinks -, then says, “You’ve been moping around the house since we got here. Come out with me, play some pool, drink illegally - hell, hook up, if you can actually find someone to take home your jailbait ass. Just do something besides sit in that room and jerk off nineteen times a day.”
“I’m not - Dean.” Sam doesn’t know what exactly he’s protesting. Definitely the last part, maybe the suggestion itself. Sam’s never been to the bar with Dean, but he knows what she’s like - has seen Dean flirt enough times, before and now, that any time Dean goes out Sam can picture it perfectly.
So, okay, maybe Dean’s not entirely wrong about the jerking off thing. But still.
“Seriously, Sammy,” Dean says. “Do you even know what I was doing when I was seventeen?” Sam does, actually, can probably name more names than Dean herself (or himself, at the time) could, but he doesn’t say that. “You’ve got to fucking live a little.” When Sam still doesn’t say anything, Dean sighs and says, “If you’re good, I’ll let you drive me home.”
And, well, that pretty much seals the deal, even though Sam knows that translates probably to I’m going to be too drunk to drive my car, so you better come with. Either way, Dean’s right. Sam needs to get out of the house.
*
Sam needs to get back home, immediately.
See, the thing is, Sam thought he was used to this - the whole, Dean flirting with anything that moves. Dean fucking anything that moves well enough. Sam thought he’d seen Dean hit on enough girls at this point that he was used to it, the way she steps close to a girl and sort of crowds her in, entirely subtle about it considering Dean’s usually about as subtle as a semi swerving off the road. Sam had accepted the whole thing, so much so that the first time he walked in on Dean (this Dean, with her lipgloss and eye shadow and the amulet that rests between her breasts like that’s what it was made for) kissing another girl, it hadn’t even bothered him. Not really.
The thing is, though, he hadn’t even thought about Dean with other guys. It hadn’t even occurred to him that might happen, even though before the curse Sam had gotten so acquainted with every nuance of Dean’s cock that any time he closes his eyes he can still see them, how it used to be, the two of them on some hotel bed while Dad was gone, Dean hard and pressed up against him and muttering, “Fuck me,” into his ear, like he ever would’ve said no.
So, yeah. When they end up at the bar tonight, Sam’s just a little fucking shocked when Dean skips the pretty girl near the end of the bar, red hair and blue eyes and legs from here to eternity, and spends her time flirting with some guy.
Which is why Sam needs to go home, now. Because while Dean is still capable of taking care of herself, can still get Sam on the ground any time they spar, could probably break this guy’s nose without even blinking - Dean’s not doing that. She’s not doing that at all. She’s pressing back into him, leading him out onto the dance floor, and this guy’s got his hands on Dean’s hips while she grinds fucking shamelessly against him.
Watching from where he stands by the pool table, Sam pretty much wants to kill this guy. He’s taller, and he bets stronger, and certainly he’s less drunk than this guy. He also knows he’s being completely irrational, because Dean is his sister, and it’s not like -
Yeah.
So, Sam’s just going to sit here, at the bar, with the Rum and Coke Dean bought him and pretend like this is totally fucking cool.
Sam is still being totally fucking cool, crushing ice cubes with his teeth and scowling at anyone who comes near him, when Dean comes over twenty minutes later. There’s a ****** of sweat on her neck that Sam wants to lick right off, and her hair’s a tangled mess, but she still looks amazing.
Sam stares down at the countertop and wills his dick to behave itself, for once. “Having fun, kiddo?” Dean asks, her voice plenty audible over the noise of the bar.
“Loads,” Sam answers, trying to sound calm and not like the petulant teenager who wants nothing more than to get into his sister’s pants that he is.
“Right,” Dean says, and Sam’s not looking at her, but he can tell by the tone of her voice just how much she believes him, just how much he’s failed at seeming cool with all of this. It’s really not fair of Sam. Dean’s the one who got literally cockblocked by some crazy witch in Tampa and Sam’s the one with the crisis. He should be… happy… that she’s adjusting so well.
“What’s with you tonight, huh?” Dean asks. She snags Sam’s glass and Sam looks back up in time to see her take a long gulp, her neck tilting back as she does.
“Nothing,” Sam says, but when Dean keeps staring at him, green-gold eyes all full of concern like Sam’s wasting away from an illness instead of, obviously, just being some kind of pervert that Dean should be avoiding, Sam sighs. “I just, I didn’t know you - you know, with guys.”
Dean, for once, manages to look halfway surprised. Her lips part a little and she shifts in her boots, the black lace-up ones she lifted from a shop back in Malibu that haunt Sam’s dreams. She stares at Sam for a long time, long enough that Sam starts to think he’s missed some vital piece of information, like when the pages of his books get stuck together and he doesn’t realize ‘till midway through the first sentence of the next page.
She’s quiet, real quiet, when she says, “You suffer a memory lapse or somethin’?”
Sam doesn’t have time to answer, because the guy Dean’d been dancing with comes over, puts his hand on Dean’s tiny shoulder like he has any goddamn right, and between Sam scowling and Dean whipping her head around and giving the guy a look that Sam knows means the dude has three seconds before Dean dislocates his wrist, well.
No, actually, Sam’s pretty sure Dean’s the one who manages to get the guy to back the fuck off. It’s satisfying, in a way, if even more bewildering.
“Come on,” Dean says once the guy walks off. She wraps her fingers around Sam’s wrist, cool metal of the ring she had to have resized hitting Sam’s pulse point and making his breath catch in his throat. “We’re going home.”
*
As it turns out, Dean deems herself sober enough to drive, so Sam sits shotgun and watches little droplets of rain race down the windowpane while Dean sings Zeppelin. Her musical capabilities haven’t improved any since the curse, but Sam actually knows the song so he hums along quietly, tapping his fingers along to the beat. Listening to Dean sing fucking Lord of the Rings references is infinitely better than talking about any of what happened, or didn’t happen.
Once they’re home, though, Dean doesn’t let Sam slide that easily. They get inside and Dean tosses her keys on the end table, and Sam gets his boots half off before Dean’s shoving him back against the door with strength that still manages to surprise him.
“Dean -” Sam starts, but Dean shoots him a look that Sam knows means shut up. It’s not the usual shut up, I’m trying to watch this, not even shut up, Dad’s talking, but the kind of warning Dean only throws his way when something truly, truly important is about to happen.
Her hand rests on Sam’s chest and Sam just bets she can feel the high speed thump-thump-thump of his heart when she says, “You wanna tell me why you’re being such a fucking princess about all of this?”
Sam has a lot of things he could say. One, that Dean has a lot of nerve calling him a girl, again, when Dean’s the one who got turned into one. The other, that he has no idea what Dean’s talking about. And last, last -
“It’s different now, Dean.”
Dean, thank god, displays her usual ability to understand Sam-speak. He kind of really loves his sister. “’s not,” she says, though, and Sam - Sam fucking shivers, because her hand’s moving up, up, brushing Sam’s shoulder and then the back of his neck.
Maybe Dean’s got a point about him being a girl.
“It’s still me, Sammy,” she says, and Sam means to say I know, means to say it is, but - but whatever he means to get out, Dean stops him. She closes her mouth over Sam’s and every fucking thought Sam had before about this being wrong and fucked up and not the same -
Well, okay, it’s still all that, but Dean is kissing him, and maybe it’s different, it’s not as rough and there’s no scratch of stubble, just lipgloss and smooth skin, but fuck, it’s still perfect. It’s still Dean.
It’s still Dean, and when Sam opens his mouth and licks along Dean’s bottom lip, he tastes strawberry lipgloss and whiskey and rum and everything he’s been wanting for months, since before he even knew what wanting was. He whimpers, like a little fucking girl, when Dean pulls back and says, “Still with too much tongue, Sammy. Jesus.”
“Whatever,” Sam says, and he’s grinning and pulling her closer to him, really touching Dean for the first time in months. “You missed it.”
“Yeah, I did, asshole,” Dean mutters, but there’s no heat in it, no anger anyway. She just pulls Sam down by the neck of his t-shirt and kisses him again, long and slow like it hasn’t been months, months of Sam wanting her and, if this is any evidence, her wanting Sam.
Her mouth moves, then, lips to jaw to neck, and she’s licking along the shell of Sam’s ear while she says, “Idiot, I knew it. Knew you were up there fucking your own hand thinking about me when you could’ve been fucking me.”
“Jesus, Dean,” Sam says, his voice hoarse with want, and it’s not the same, when he bucks up, he can’t feel Dean against him like he used to, but Dean can feel him and she’s grinding there, getting her hand between them and pushing the heel against the bulge in Sam’s jeans.
“Want you, Sam,” she murmurs, pulling her head back to look up at him, her pupils huge and dark in the minimal light from the porch lamp outside. When Sam doesn’t answer right away - he can barely breathe, much less talk - Dean says, “You gonna fuck me, or are you gonna keep pretending you’re some innocent fucking flower? Or that I am?”
“Dean,” Sam says again, but before Dean can spit out any more affectionate insults at him, he says, “Dean - yeah. Yeah, okay.”
She grins, all wolfish teeth and glowing eyes and Sam’d be worried, except it’s Dean. It’s Dean, and it’s gonna be fine, of course it is. Dean wraps her hand around Sam’s wrist again and pulls him upstairs with her, her boots clomping on each step, and Sam lets his eyes roam unguarded up every damn inch of her, long legs and tight little ass, toned arms and great rack, and he seriously can’t believe she’s letting him do this. Seriously can’t believe they haven’t done this yet.
Dean kicks her boots off when they reach her room, strips off her t-shirt and jeans and stands there in her bra and panties before she even looks back at Sam, and Sam’s the one feeling exposed right now. Sam knew Dean was gorgeous, always knew, just like he knows every scar on her from the tips of her toes to her torso, but goddamn.
“Dean,” Sam breathes, for what feels like the fiftieth time tonight, and maybe it is. She grins at him, not looking the least bit self-conscious, then asks, “You’re a little overdressed, aren’t you?” before she’s standing right in front of him again.
She’s quick, just like before, fingers working on Sam’s belt, unbuttoning his jeans and pulling the zipper down before Sam’s even managed to blink, but once she pushes his jeans down and Sam steps out of them, Dean looks back up, vaguely annoyed. “Do I gotta help you with your shirt, too, you fucking blushing virgin? Jesus.”
“In a hurry, huh?” Sam doesn’t know how he has the presence of mind right now to actually tease Dean, but he does, stripping off his shirt before he pulls her in and kisses her again. Her body’s warm pressed against his and his cock twitches, getting impossibly harder against Dean’s thigh, and they moan into each other’s mouths. He gets a hand on Dean’s head, running his fingers through Dean’s hair, his other hand exploring her body. His fingers skim over smooth, freckled skin, down shoulders and arms, over her taut belly until his fingertips rest just above the waistband of Dean’s panties. She bucks up into Sam’s touch, trying to get him closer, further down. There’ll be time, later, to tease Dean, to see if he can make Dean beg and moan the way he used to, but right now -
Right now, Sam really needs this.
He breaks the kiss again to unclasp Dean’s bra, and his fingers fumble with it for a full minute before Dean laughs at him and helps him out. “Such an amateur, Sammy,” she teases, dropping the black fabric to the floor without ceremony before slipping her underwear down as well.
“Shut up,” Sam says, but his voice is pretty much shot right now and he’s too busy staring at Dean, while his hands skim over the newly exposed skin, cupping her breasts experimentally in his hands, thumbs brushing the nipples until Dean’s biting her lip, her eyes wide and watching Sam as his hand dips lower, down Dean’s stomach and between her thighs. She’s as wet as Sam is hard and god, it feels good, feels amazing, and Sam wants, wants so much, but.
“Sam,” Dean says, her voice like gravel, like she’s trying to hold so much in, “if you’re not planning on fucking me any time soon, you wanna get out of here so I can take care of this myself?”
Sam circles her clit once, twice with his thumb, like he can’t help himself, and then he says, “Yeah. Yeah. Do you -“
With a put-upon sigh like Sam is so stupid, Dean motions to Sam’s boxers and says, “Get those off. Get on the bed,” before she turns to the nightstand and fishes around for a condom. Sam does as he’s told, wondering vaguely if there’s something about Dean as a girl that makes him so much more willing to be bossed around. It doesn’t matter, he guesses, because as soon as he lays back Dean’s crawling on top of him, straddling him as she rolls the condom over his cock. Even that bit of contact is almost too much; Sam wants this too much and he knows it’s all going to happen quick, but right now he doesn’t fucking care.
There’s a pause, between Dean getting the condom on him and Dean pushing herself down onto him. It’s just the smallest moment, the two of them looking at each other, Dean’s eyes soft and wide as they meet Sam’s, they way they do when they’re sparring and Dean calls truce.
Sam guesses this is a truce, of sorts.
Then she sinks down onto him, and Sam loses track of everything else. He can hear himself moaning, hear Dean moaning above him, but it’s all tightwetheat, all Dean and hands pressed against his chest, and it’s so good he can’t even look, can’t think for a full minute at least.
When he opens his eyes again Dean’s eyes are different than moments before, but no less familiar; they’re sex-glazed and dilated and god, it’s so perfect, Sam doesn’t even know how it could get more perfect except then Dean pushes down, getting Sam’s cock deeper inside her, and Sam remembers about moving.
He gets his hands on either side of Dean and it takes a minute, but pretty soon there’s an actual rhythm, Sam gripping Dean hard and Dean’s fingers pressing against Sam’s chest as she rides him, slow at first, same easy rhythm as any of Dean’s kisses, her tits swaying with each slight movement. Pretty soon, though, they both need more, harder, faster, and Dean’s cursing up a storm and tightening her thighs around Sam as he bucks up into her.
Sam can feel his orgasm getting close already, it’s been too long and he wants too much, and pretty soon he’s pulling Dean even further down toward him, leaning up, meeting her halfway to get his mouth on hers again. They kiss sloppy and wet and they’re both making enough noise that not for the first time, Sam’s really fucking glad they don’t have neighbors. Sam reaches down to brush his thumb against Dean’s clit as he fucks into her, and it’s not long before Dean shudders and comes, biting at Sam’s lips as she does. Sam follows soon after, Dean riding him through it as he shuts his eyes and comes hard, harder than he has since the last time they did this.
After a minute, Dean pulls off him and gets rid of the condom, and Sam slowly starts to sit back up as Dean says, “Idiot.” He quirks an eyebrow at her, almost managing to imitate her usual look of confusion, but he’s too sex-sated to do all that well at it. “I hope you’re done being a little bitch about this, because we could’ve been doing that for months.”
Sam laughs and lets his head fall back on the pillow. He doesn’t tell Dean he thinks she’s right, but he’s pretty sure she knows, anyway.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam/girl!Dean
Rating: R, I think? A really heavy R.
Word Count: 5,445
Summary: Pre-series, AU. In which Dean gets turned into a girl, permanently, but Sam is still woman enough for the both of them.
Warnings: Incest, duh. Also crack, pretty much, and do I warn for het? I don’t really condone warning for het, but this is Supernatural fandom, so. Here there be girlparts.
Notes: This was written over the course of 36 hours for the adorable and amazing dev_earl. She didn’t specifically ask me to do it, but she mentioned it on her wishlist and then on my way to work I started having ideas, so. This is what happened. My love goes out to her, as well as Jackie for giving her stamp of approval. And let’s not forget alcohol. And Zeppelin. Credit for lame last-minute title goes to Tori Amos.
So, Sam used to have this brother. Still does, technically, since Dean’s not going anywhere any time soon. Thing is, though, Dean got hit by a hefty, irreversible curse in Tampa about a year back, and ever since then his brother Dean’s been his sister. Dee. Or at least, that’s what he’s - she’s (Sam’s still fucking twisted about pronouns, really) - been going by, to make things easier. To Sam, she’ll only ever be Dean.
Anyway.
It was a tough couple of weeks, at first. Dean pretty much had a nervous breakdown and John did what he could to find a spell to reverse the whole thing, but there was nothing to be done. Dean was a girl, long legs and full lips, a tangle of dirty-blonde hair and, in Dean’s own words, “a pretty great rack, all things considered.”
Sam has to agree, he really does.
Thing is, it took surprisingly little time for Dean to get past being a girl. Dean is still Dean, foulmouthed and sex-crazed and a better shot than Sam will ever be, reckless and caring and pretty much Sam’s favorite person in the world.
Sam, on the other hand. Sam is having issues.
See, it was one thing, before, having the hots for his brother. They’d worked that out, literally, a sparring session that got a little too heated, weeks by themselves with nothing to do but figure out each other. It had been… amazing, and fucked up, but it was them. Dean was about the only thing in Sam’s fucked up life that Sam didn’t want to be rid of. It was easy, so much easier than it probably should have been.
And now there’s… this. Sam’s brother is gone, technically, and his sister… his sister is fucking hot.
*
Summers are always the best and the worst for them. On the one hand, Sam never gets as angry when they have to pack up and leave, because there aren’t school records to gather up, and usually he doesn’t even bother making friends in these places. On the other hand, though, Sam kind of (okay, really) likes school, and without that as a distraction it’s just him and Dean, constantly. Which, fine, except for there’s still the whole thing where Sam wants to get into his sister’s too-tight jeans (or under her skirt, since Dean’s been experimenting with the whole skirt-and-heels look and it’s honest-to-god killing Sam), and since Dean picks the room right next to Sam’s regardless of how big the house is, since Dean basically has the attention span of a four-year-old and can’t figure out what to do with herself for more than an hour or two without Sam, there’s really no way for Sam to get any time by himself.
Although, to be fair, when Sam does get a second alone, if Dean’s downstairs watching TV or at the bar, Sam just spends half his time reading and the other half thinking about Dean, so. Maybe it’s better this way.
Right now, it’s the middle of July in Athens, Georgia, and John’s a few towns over hunting what may or may not be a vengeful spirit. Sam still spends most of his time fighting with John when they talk on the phone, and Dean still only tells Sam what he needs to know. All Sam can figure is that the case is either a) simple enough that John can get it done solo or b) too dangerous for him to want them there. Neither answer would make Sam happy, so Dean apparently decided that distractions were in order.
Distractions today include target practice, which they admittedly haven’t done in a while. Dean’s got the whole yard set up, empty beer and soda cans and whatever she could find around the current hellhole they’re staying in, and before they start she makes Sam clean all the guns.
“Put those big hands to some kind of use,” she says, and the smirk that crosses her lips make Sam twitch and scowl but yeah, he’s definitely in the mood to shoot things now.
Dean goes first, and Sam stands behind her and watches before Dean turns around and looks back at him. “You’re hovering, Sasquatch,” she says, squinting at the sun in her eyes. “Go get me a soda.” Sam does, only because he needs a second where he’s not staring at Dean in her tiny tank top and short shorts, all that freckled skin gleaming like fucking gold in the sun. It’s not fair. Even as a girl, Dean doesn’t have an awkward goddamn moment in her life.
Sam grabs a soda for himself, too, running the can along his neck to cool off, even though that’s a fairly impossible task at this point in the summer. There’s no air conditioning in this place and the cheap fan they bought last week already decided to quit, so they keep the windows open all night and hope it rains soon.
By the time Sam gets back to the yard, Dean’s already demolished a slew of beer cans and she’s reloading the gun. Sam watches her work, watches the small deft fingers of his sister load the chambers and Sam just bets Dean can do this shit blindfolded. It’s kind of sad and really fucking hot all at once, but then again - Sam is seventeen. Everything is hot.
Everything about Dean, anyway.
Dean glances up at him, rolls her big green eyes and brushes back a stray lock of hair before standing up - Dean’s still tall, for a girl, but her chin reaches about Sam’s shoulders now - and grabbing the soda from Sam. “Quit starin’ at me and get to work,” she says, but from the tone of her voice and the gleam in her eyes (same eyes as always, same ones Sam’s seen hurt and happy and sex-sleepy and everything in between), Sam knows she doesn’t mind.
Sam minds, though. He does. ‘Cause, see, it was okay in a them kind of way, to have all these feelings (and Sam can just see Dean, either Dean, rolling their eyes) about his big brother. This is just -
Well, taboo.
So instead of doing what he actually wants, instead of just getting his hands on Dean and pulling her close and kissing her like he hasn’t in months, not since that first week after everything happened and Sam said no, Dean, we can’t and Dean looked so stricken, so guilty that it was all Sam could do not to take it all back - instead, Sam grabs the gun.
He unloads a few shots and misses half of them before he even realizes that Dean’s chuckling next to him, arms folded over her chest and a perfectly manicured eyebrow raised critically.
“Jesus, Sammy,” she breathes. “You shoot like such a fucking girl.”
Sam huffs, straightens up to his full height, but Dean doesn’t back off for even a second. “You are a girl,” he points out. “So’s that mean I shoot like you?”
“Nope,” Dean replies, grinning cheerfully as she plops down on the grass and cracks open her soda. She slurps at the top, little flecks of orange liquid getting on her lips, and then adds, “It still means you suck.”
“You suck,” Sam responds, because sometimes his comebacks are just that lame.
Dean smirks, that tilt of her lips that always goes straight to Sam’s cock, especially now. “Sometimes, sure,” she says.
And Sam looks away, then, picks up the gun and misses every damn shot.
*
The library in Athens, as it turns out, is pretty fucking awesome, so Sam has no short supply of books this summer. It doesn’t really matter, of course, because when Dean watches TV she watches it loudly, so Sam’s attention is focused half on Shakespeare (Sam never gets to read him, otherwise, because he always seems to show up at a new school right after they cover him for the year) and half on whatever obnoxious action movie is going on downstairs. Sam’s almost positive it’s a Bond movie.
He gives up on Macbeth, not for the first time in his life, and trudges downstairs to yell at Dean about the noise. Dean, however, is too busy painting her fucking toenails to pay him any attention.
“Seriously?”
There are hot girls on screen; it’s definitely a Bond movie, and Sam is staring at his… sister’s… toes. Which are gradually becoming a metallic shade of pink.
“Shut it,” Dean mutters. She’s not even watching the movie; her attention is so very very focused on her toes. It’s not the first time she’s done this since the curse, but it’s difficult enough that she still tends to let the paint chip off before doing it again. Sam’s suggested, a few times, that she just not paint her nails. “Don’t be fucking stupid, Sammy,” she’d said. “I like my girls in lipgloss and heels and it’d be hypocritical of me to be anything less.”
So, yeah. It’s not like this is the first obvious display of girlishness that Sam’s witnessed, but it doesn’t mean he’s used to it yet.
Sam takes a seat next to Dean on the couch, and Dean scowls at him for bumping her. “Keep that up and I’m gonna paint your face,” Dean admonishes, and Sam rolls his eyes. “Can we turn this down already? You’re not even watching and I think you’ve seen it before.” He adds, as vaguely appalled as he was when he realized he knew the names of all the kids in the first Nightmare on Elm Street, “I think I’ve seen it before.”
“No,” Dean says. “Now shut up, I’m trying to concentrate.”
Sam tries, he really does. He watches the movie for all of twelve seconds before he goes back to watching Dean, her toes resting on the edge of the coffee table as she works, her face scrunched up in ridiculous focus. For a girl, Dean’s feet are kind of huge, her toes long, but they’re no less pretty for it.
“Dean,” Sam says after another minute, and even though there are explosions happening onscreen and who even remembers what else, that makes Dean jump, smudging the paint on her middle toe. “Motherfucker,” she mutters, and finally whips her head to the side to look at Sam. “What?”
Sam doesn’t even know what, not until he says it, and then he’s saying, “Let me.”
It takes a minute for Dean to figure out what Sam’s asking. Then she does, and her eyebrow arches up like always, and Sam’s blushing like he hasn’t since that first time Dean got on his knees for him. “You are so gay,” Dean accuses, but she hands the bottle of nail polish to Sam and says, “Fix what you fucked up then, Picasso.”
He nods, swallowing hard, but he doesn’t say anything else because then Dean twists, carefully moving her legs from the coffee table to Sam’s lap. It takes Sam a minute to do anything but stare, but Dean breaks him out of it. “Get to work, you gigantic freak,” she reminds him, and then leans back against the arm of the couch.
Sam does as he’s told, for once. It’s slow work, and Dean squirms impatiently a few times, but Sam knows what he’s doing and the only worrying thing, here, is that Dean’s feet are practically in Sam’s lap and Sam is, for the millionth time today, really fucking hard.
Still, Sam does just fine, and when he’s finished Dean’s toes have two coats of pink polish on them. They aren’t the least bit smudged, and Sam thinks he’s gotten away with the whole thing, but as soon as he twists the cap back on the polish, Dean presses the heel of one of her feet against the bulge in Sam’s jeans, casually, like she’s just stretching.
Nothing Dean does is ever all that casual.
“You know,” Dean says, when Sam jerks his head up to look at her. He knows his eyes are wide and he must look nine kinds of caught out. “I can take care of that for you, if you want.”
She’s barely even finished the sentence before Sam is up off the couch and out of the living room, Dean laughing and cursing at him for fucking up her nails again. This has got to stop.
*
Sam spends the rest of the day upstairs, underlining passages of Shakespeare. He’s actually starting to think he wasn’t missing much at school, but that might have less to do with hating Macbeth and more with, well, being distracted than anything else.
He’s finished that play and moved on to the next in his book by the time Dean shouts for him to come eat dinner. She’s made enough grilled cheese to feed them and probably, like, four other people - Dean’s appetite, new body or no, has gone nowhere. She’s standing in front of the counter when Sam comes down, her back turned to him, and Sam notices right away that she’s dressed differently. She’s traded in shorts and a tank top for a pair of hip huggers and an old Ramones t-shirt, and she’s wearing boots now instead of flip-flops.
“You’re going out tonight,” Sam says. It’s supposed to be a question, but even he hears that same resignation in his voice. He never means to sound annoyed about it, at least not really, but it always comes out that way. Dean’s twenty-one and she’s got to be fucking bored looking after him all the time, and Sam knows he kind of sucks for being a bitch about the whole thing.
Lucky for him, Dean’s not afraid to point that out.
“Listen, bitch,” she says, turning around and waving a spatula at him. It’d be fucking cute, if part of Sam’s brain didn’t still misfire at thinking of Dean as cute. “I haven’t been out all week, and at this point it’s lookin’ like Dad’s gonna be gone another few days at least. It’s Saturday goddamn night, and there’s nothing to do here except watch TV and count mosquito bites.”
Sam makes a face like to say he gets it, and then reaches around Dean to grab one of the five thousand sandwiches.
“Besides,” Dean adds then, “you’re welcome to tag along.”
Mid-bite, Sam freezes. “What?”
“You heard me,” Dean says. She takes a massive bite of her sandwich, chews - at least Dean eats with her fucking mouth closed these days, Sam thinks -, then says, “You’ve been moping around the house since we got here. Come out with me, play some pool, drink illegally - hell, hook up, if you can actually find someone to take home your jailbait ass. Just do something besides sit in that room and jerk off nineteen times a day.”
“I’m not - Dean.” Sam doesn’t know what exactly he’s protesting. Definitely the last part, maybe the suggestion itself. Sam’s never been to the bar with Dean, but he knows what she’s like - has seen Dean flirt enough times, before and now, that any time Dean goes out Sam can picture it perfectly.
So, okay, maybe Dean’s not entirely wrong about the jerking off thing. But still.
“Seriously, Sammy,” Dean says. “Do you even know what I was doing when I was seventeen?” Sam does, actually, can probably name more names than Dean herself (or himself, at the time) could, but he doesn’t say that. “You’ve got to fucking live a little.” When Sam still doesn’t say anything, Dean sighs and says, “If you’re good, I’ll let you drive me home.”
And, well, that pretty much seals the deal, even though Sam knows that translates probably to I’m going to be too drunk to drive my car, so you better come with. Either way, Dean’s right. Sam needs to get out of the house.
*
Sam needs to get back home, immediately.
See, the thing is, Sam thought he was used to this - the whole, Dean flirting with anything that moves. Dean fucking anything that moves well enough. Sam thought he’d seen Dean hit on enough girls at this point that he was used to it, the way she steps close to a girl and sort of crowds her in, entirely subtle about it considering Dean’s usually about as subtle as a semi swerving off the road. Sam had accepted the whole thing, so much so that the first time he walked in on Dean (this Dean, with her lipgloss and eye shadow and the amulet that rests between her breasts like that’s what it was made for) kissing another girl, it hadn’t even bothered him. Not really.
The thing is, though, he hadn’t even thought about Dean with other guys. It hadn’t even occurred to him that might happen, even though before the curse Sam had gotten so acquainted with every nuance of Dean’s cock that any time he closes his eyes he can still see them, how it used to be, the two of them on some hotel bed while Dad was gone, Dean hard and pressed up against him and muttering, “Fuck me,” into his ear, like he ever would’ve said no.
So, yeah. When they end up at the bar tonight, Sam’s just a little fucking shocked when Dean skips the pretty girl near the end of the bar, red hair and blue eyes and legs from here to eternity, and spends her time flirting with some guy.
Which is why Sam needs to go home, now. Because while Dean is still capable of taking care of herself, can still get Sam on the ground any time they spar, could probably break this guy’s nose without even blinking - Dean’s not doing that. She’s not doing that at all. She’s pressing back into him, leading him out onto the dance floor, and this guy’s got his hands on Dean’s hips while she grinds fucking shamelessly against him.
Watching from where he stands by the pool table, Sam pretty much wants to kill this guy. He’s taller, and he bets stronger, and certainly he’s less drunk than this guy. He also knows he’s being completely irrational, because Dean is his sister, and it’s not like -
Yeah.
So, Sam’s just going to sit here, at the bar, with the Rum and Coke Dean bought him and pretend like this is totally fucking cool.
Sam is still being totally fucking cool, crushing ice cubes with his teeth and scowling at anyone who comes near him, when Dean comes over twenty minutes later. There’s a ****** of sweat on her neck that Sam wants to lick right off, and her hair’s a tangled mess, but she still looks amazing.
Sam stares down at the countertop and wills his dick to behave itself, for once. “Having fun, kiddo?” Dean asks, her voice plenty audible over the noise of the bar.
“Loads,” Sam answers, trying to sound calm and not like the petulant teenager who wants nothing more than to get into his sister’s pants that he is.
“Right,” Dean says, and Sam’s not looking at her, but he can tell by the tone of her voice just how much she believes him, just how much he’s failed at seeming cool with all of this. It’s really not fair of Sam. Dean’s the one who got literally cockblocked by some crazy witch in Tampa and Sam’s the one with the crisis. He should be… happy… that she’s adjusting so well.
“What’s with you tonight, huh?” Dean asks. She snags Sam’s glass and Sam looks back up in time to see her take a long gulp, her neck tilting back as she does.
“Nothing,” Sam says, but when Dean keeps staring at him, green-gold eyes all full of concern like Sam’s wasting away from an illness instead of, obviously, just being some kind of pervert that Dean should be avoiding, Sam sighs. “I just, I didn’t know you - you know, with guys.”
Dean, for once, manages to look halfway surprised. Her lips part a little and she shifts in her boots, the black lace-up ones she lifted from a shop back in Malibu that haunt Sam’s dreams. She stares at Sam for a long time, long enough that Sam starts to think he’s missed some vital piece of information, like when the pages of his books get stuck together and he doesn’t realize ‘till midway through the first sentence of the next page.
She’s quiet, real quiet, when she says, “You suffer a memory lapse or somethin’?”
Sam doesn’t have time to answer, because the guy Dean’d been dancing with comes over, puts his hand on Dean’s tiny shoulder like he has any goddamn right, and between Sam scowling and Dean whipping her head around and giving the guy a look that Sam knows means the dude has three seconds before Dean dislocates his wrist, well.
No, actually, Sam’s pretty sure Dean’s the one who manages to get the guy to back the fuck off. It’s satisfying, in a way, if even more bewildering.
“Come on,” Dean says once the guy walks off. She wraps her fingers around Sam’s wrist, cool metal of the ring she had to have resized hitting Sam’s pulse point and making his breath catch in his throat. “We’re going home.”
*
As it turns out, Dean deems herself sober enough to drive, so Sam sits shotgun and watches little droplets of rain race down the windowpane while Dean sings Zeppelin. Her musical capabilities haven’t improved any since the curse, but Sam actually knows the song so he hums along quietly, tapping his fingers along to the beat. Listening to Dean sing fucking Lord of the Rings references is infinitely better than talking about any of what happened, or didn’t happen.
Once they’re home, though, Dean doesn’t let Sam slide that easily. They get inside and Dean tosses her keys on the end table, and Sam gets his boots half off before Dean’s shoving him back against the door with strength that still manages to surprise him.
“Dean -” Sam starts, but Dean shoots him a look that Sam knows means shut up. It’s not the usual shut up, I’m trying to watch this, not even shut up, Dad’s talking, but the kind of warning Dean only throws his way when something truly, truly important is about to happen.
Her hand rests on Sam’s chest and Sam just bets she can feel the high speed thump-thump-thump of his heart when she says, “You wanna tell me why you’re being such a fucking princess about all of this?”
Sam has a lot of things he could say. One, that Dean has a lot of nerve calling him a girl, again, when Dean’s the one who got turned into one. The other, that he has no idea what Dean’s talking about. And last, last -
“It’s different now, Dean.”
Dean, thank god, displays her usual ability to understand Sam-speak. He kind of really loves his sister. “’s not,” she says, though, and Sam - Sam fucking shivers, because her hand’s moving up, up, brushing Sam’s shoulder and then the back of his neck.
Maybe Dean’s got a point about him being a girl.
“It’s still me, Sammy,” she says, and Sam means to say I know, means to say it is, but - but whatever he means to get out, Dean stops him. She closes her mouth over Sam’s and every fucking thought Sam had before about this being wrong and fucked up and not the same -
Well, okay, it’s still all that, but Dean is kissing him, and maybe it’s different, it’s not as rough and there’s no scratch of stubble, just lipgloss and smooth skin, but fuck, it’s still perfect. It’s still Dean.
It’s still Dean, and when Sam opens his mouth and licks along Dean’s bottom lip, he tastes strawberry lipgloss and whiskey and rum and everything he’s been wanting for months, since before he even knew what wanting was. He whimpers, like a little fucking girl, when Dean pulls back and says, “Still with too much tongue, Sammy. Jesus.”
“Whatever,” Sam says, and he’s grinning and pulling her closer to him, really touching Dean for the first time in months. “You missed it.”
“Yeah, I did, asshole,” Dean mutters, but there’s no heat in it, no anger anyway. She just pulls Sam down by the neck of his t-shirt and kisses him again, long and slow like it hasn’t been months, months of Sam wanting her and, if this is any evidence, her wanting Sam.
Her mouth moves, then, lips to jaw to neck, and she’s licking along the shell of Sam’s ear while she says, “Idiot, I knew it. Knew you were up there fucking your own hand thinking about me when you could’ve been fucking me.”
“Jesus, Dean,” Sam says, his voice hoarse with want, and it’s not the same, when he bucks up, he can’t feel Dean against him like he used to, but Dean can feel him and she’s grinding there, getting her hand between them and pushing the heel against the bulge in Sam’s jeans.
“Want you, Sam,” she murmurs, pulling her head back to look up at him, her pupils huge and dark in the minimal light from the porch lamp outside. When Sam doesn’t answer right away - he can barely breathe, much less talk - Dean says, “You gonna fuck me, or are you gonna keep pretending you’re some innocent fucking flower? Or that I am?”
“Dean,” Sam says again, but before Dean can spit out any more affectionate insults at him, he says, “Dean - yeah. Yeah, okay.”
She grins, all wolfish teeth and glowing eyes and Sam’d be worried, except it’s Dean. It’s Dean, and it’s gonna be fine, of course it is. Dean wraps her hand around Sam’s wrist again and pulls him upstairs with her, her boots clomping on each step, and Sam lets his eyes roam unguarded up every damn inch of her, long legs and tight little ass, toned arms and great rack, and he seriously can’t believe she’s letting him do this. Seriously can’t believe they haven’t done this yet.
Dean kicks her boots off when they reach her room, strips off her t-shirt and jeans and stands there in her bra and panties before she even looks back at Sam, and Sam’s the one feeling exposed right now. Sam knew Dean was gorgeous, always knew, just like he knows every scar on her from the tips of her toes to her torso, but goddamn.
“Dean,” Sam breathes, for what feels like the fiftieth time tonight, and maybe it is. She grins at him, not looking the least bit self-conscious, then asks, “You’re a little overdressed, aren’t you?” before she’s standing right in front of him again.
She’s quick, just like before, fingers working on Sam’s belt, unbuttoning his jeans and pulling the zipper down before Sam’s even managed to blink, but once she pushes his jeans down and Sam steps out of them, Dean looks back up, vaguely annoyed. “Do I gotta help you with your shirt, too, you fucking blushing virgin? Jesus.”
“In a hurry, huh?” Sam doesn’t know how he has the presence of mind right now to actually tease Dean, but he does, stripping off his shirt before he pulls her in and kisses her again. Her body’s warm pressed against his and his cock twitches, getting impossibly harder against Dean’s thigh, and they moan into each other’s mouths. He gets a hand on Dean’s head, running his fingers through Dean’s hair, his other hand exploring her body. His fingers skim over smooth, freckled skin, down shoulders and arms, over her taut belly until his fingertips rest just above the waistband of Dean’s panties. She bucks up into Sam’s touch, trying to get him closer, further down. There’ll be time, later, to tease Dean, to see if he can make Dean beg and moan the way he used to, but right now -
Right now, Sam really needs this.
He breaks the kiss again to unclasp Dean’s bra, and his fingers fumble with it for a full minute before Dean laughs at him and helps him out. “Such an amateur, Sammy,” she teases, dropping the black fabric to the floor without ceremony before slipping her underwear down as well.
“Shut up,” Sam says, but his voice is pretty much shot right now and he’s too busy staring at Dean, while his hands skim over the newly exposed skin, cupping her breasts experimentally in his hands, thumbs brushing the nipples until Dean’s biting her lip, her eyes wide and watching Sam as his hand dips lower, down Dean’s stomach and between her thighs. She’s as wet as Sam is hard and god, it feels good, feels amazing, and Sam wants, wants so much, but.
“Sam,” Dean says, her voice like gravel, like she’s trying to hold so much in, “if you’re not planning on fucking me any time soon, you wanna get out of here so I can take care of this myself?”
Sam circles her clit once, twice with his thumb, like he can’t help himself, and then he says, “Yeah. Yeah. Do you -“
With a put-upon sigh like Sam is so stupid, Dean motions to Sam’s boxers and says, “Get those off. Get on the bed,” before she turns to the nightstand and fishes around for a condom. Sam does as he’s told, wondering vaguely if there’s something about Dean as a girl that makes him so much more willing to be bossed around. It doesn’t matter, he guesses, because as soon as he lays back Dean’s crawling on top of him, straddling him as she rolls the condom over his cock. Even that bit of contact is almost too much; Sam wants this too much and he knows it’s all going to happen quick, but right now he doesn’t fucking care.
There’s a pause, between Dean getting the condom on him and Dean pushing herself down onto him. It’s just the smallest moment, the two of them looking at each other, Dean’s eyes soft and wide as they meet Sam’s, they way they do when they’re sparring and Dean calls truce.
Sam guesses this is a truce, of sorts.
Then she sinks down onto him, and Sam loses track of everything else. He can hear himself moaning, hear Dean moaning above him, but it’s all tightwetheat, all Dean and hands pressed against his chest, and it’s so good he can’t even look, can’t think for a full minute at least.
When he opens his eyes again Dean’s eyes are different than moments before, but no less familiar; they’re sex-glazed and dilated and god, it’s so perfect, Sam doesn’t even know how it could get more perfect except then Dean pushes down, getting Sam’s cock deeper inside her, and Sam remembers about moving.
He gets his hands on either side of Dean and it takes a minute, but pretty soon there’s an actual rhythm, Sam gripping Dean hard and Dean’s fingers pressing against Sam’s chest as she rides him, slow at first, same easy rhythm as any of Dean’s kisses, her tits swaying with each slight movement. Pretty soon, though, they both need more, harder, faster, and Dean’s cursing up a storm and tightening her thighs around Sam as he bucks up into her.
Sam can feel his orgasm getting close already, it’s been too long and he wants too much, and pretty soon he’s pulling Dean even further down toward him, leaning up, meeting her halfway to get his mouth on hers again. They kiss sloppy and wet and they’re both making enough noise that not for the first time, Sam’s really fucking glad they don’t have neighbors. Sam reaches down to brush his thumb against Dean’s clit as he fucks into her, and it’s not long before Dean shudders and comes, biting at Sam’s lips as she does. Sam follows soon after, Dean riding him through it as he shuts his eyes and comes hard, harder than he has since the last time they did this.
After a minute, Dean pulls off him and gets rid of the condom, and Sam slowly starts to sit back up as Dean says, “Idiot.” He quirks an eyebrow at her, almost managing to imitate her usual look of confusion, but he’s too sex-sated to do all that well at it. “I hope you’re done being a little bitch about this, because we could’ve been doing that for months.”
Sam laughs and lets his head fall back on the pillow. He doesn’t tell Dean he thinks she’s right, but he’s pretty sure she knows, anyway.