FIC: Ready or Not, NC-17
Ready or Not
by monkeyflower
words: ~3500.
rating/warnings: NC-17, Sam/Dean, and abuse of mythology for the purposes of genderswap and fuck-or-die.
summary: err. genderswap and fuck-or-die :)
notes: \o/!
disclaimer: no copyright infringement intended.
"Sam."
There isn't an answer, just the moody backlash of Sam's why,-world,-why? face and the slammed bathroom door between them.
"Sam. Sam. Are you at least looking?"
Still nothing. Dean sighs and slings his jacket onto the nearest chair. He gets a whiff of his shirt and changes that, too; he loathes satyrs with the passion of a thousand fiery suns. They're greasy, vulgar beyond even his standards, and they smell like six petting zoos combined. This one even had the gall to get away from them at the last moment, bowling Dean over and spitting a string of curse words at Sam before vanishing.
And injured pride isn't the only souvenir they were left with. Driving back to the motel, Dean had glanced over at Sam to make sure he wasn't leaving any satyr residue on the upholstery and had nearly swerved into oncoming traffic. Sitting in the passenger seat was his brother: his long-legged, shaggy haired, big-nosed girl of a brother.
Dean hates satyrs.
"Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam."
"DEAN! Shut up, goddamn you."
Dean sighs, leaning against the door frame.
"Did you find anything?"
"...I can't."
"You're going to have to elaborate. You couldn't find anything? Are you sure? Because I'm pretty damned sure that the satyr cursed you, and-"
"I CAN'T LOOK AT MYSELF."
Dean rubs his hand over his face.
"Fine. I'm coming in. You'd better at least have underwear on-"
He opens the door, and Sam literally shrieks, hands darting to cover his chest and groin. Dean does his best to give Sam a clinical look that isn't too appraising but not too cold either.
Nope, no underwear.
"Dean..."
"Yeah. Turn around. I'll start with your neck and back."
Sam takes a deep breath and turns around. Dean pushes Sam's hair away from the nape of his neck, and he works quickly but thoroughly. The mark could be anything-a spot, a smudge, a star-and it's lucky he knows Sam's body just as well as Sam does.
Well, maybe not this body.
Sam's shoulders are narrower, rounder, but the scattershot scar is still there, breaking across his back. His waist curves in and flares out, but the same dark mole graces the indentation of his spine. Dean smooths his hands down each of Sam's legs, feeling for any unfamiliar bumps or notches. He pauses at a smooth, faint mark on the outside of Sam's left knee.
"Happened when I was at college," Sam says, his voice quiet. "Bashed my knee getting out of the shower."
Dean snorts and chuckles and moves on.
He finds nothing else of interest on Sam's back. Dean stands.
"Okay. Turn around."
Sam turns, hands still covering himself. Dean waits; it's only a moment before Sam takes a deep breath and drops his arms to his sides.
"Make it fast, okay?"
"Yeah, yeah."
Sam avoids Dean's eyes when Dean searches Sam's face for unusual marks. Backs of the ears, underside of the chin, beneath those floppy bangs: these all yield nothing. Dean is disturbed to realize that Sam's eyelashes are killer, but relieved that his nose is still kind of ugly. (At least the world hasn't gone completely insane.)
Sam's breasts are-fuck, okay, they're pretty cute-
"Fuck, dude, are you checking me out?"
Dean holds up his hands in innocence and crouches down, eyes moving fast over the other very female aspects of Sam's new body.
"Anything?" Sam says.
Dean frowns.
"C'mon, dude. It's freezing in here, and I think my nipples could cut-"
"Shut up, I'm thinking!"
Sam mercifully shuts up. Dean slides his hand down the length of Sam's leg again and pauses.
"No, I am not shaving my legs-"
"Hang on to something."
Sam's hand comes to rest on Dean's shoulder for balance; Dean bends Sam's leg at the knee and looks at the bottom of Sam's left foot. Then he checks the bottom of Sam's right foot.
Right there in the center are three small concentric circles in red.
"Fuck," he says.
#
Dean knows the symbol, but he looks it up and cross-references it with the online encyclopedia of woodland dwelling creatures anyway.
His conclusion remains the same: "Fuck."
"It's a seasonal thing," he explains to Sam, who is cinching his belt to the smallest hole. He looks ridiculous. And sexy. And Dean wrenches his gaze back to the laptop so he'll stop thinking along those lines. It doesn't work. "The satyrs would come and mark desirable girls, returning later when convenient to claim them. And..."
"Don't finish that sentence," Sam says. "I don't want to know, because it's not happening to me."
Damn straight, Dean thinks.
"And the whole turning me into a girl thing? What the hell? It's not like there aren't any females out there."
"Hell if I know. But similar disappearances have been reported in China, only involving males. Girls are pretty scarce there."
"So they..." Sam rubs his face with his hands. "This is so fucked up. Okay. Okay. So we find the little bastard and torch him. No! We wring that little bastard's neck and then spray him with lighter fluid and then torch him. No! We find a really deep pool of water, hold him underwater..."
Dean tries to deny that Sam in a girl's body making escalatingly violent death threats is hot.
"...string him up by his thumbs, cut off his balls, and then torch him starting with the short hairs..."
No use. It's hot.
"Breathe, Sammy. We've sort of got bigger problems that that."
"What."
Dean leafs through their dad's journal. "Well, we could kill the little bastard that marked you, but that won't remove the mark. It wouldn't be long before another satyr came to claim you. And if we killed that one... well, rinse, lather and repeat."
"We've gotta get this thing off me, then. Maybe we could burn it off. Give me your lighter. I'll do it. You always keep it in your pack, right? Where's your pack?"
Dean closes the journal, stands up, and walks over to where Sam is having a total and complete meltdown. He takes the lighter out of Sam's hands. "We are not burning the mark off. It wouldn't work, anyway."
"What the hell am I going to do? It's bad enough I'm stuck like this... there's no way I am going to be some bipedal, half-goat's sex toy."
"Well, there are two things." Dean uses his low, calming voice, the one he uses to encourage the removal of bras and panties, as well as to coax small animals from trees. "One, I could kill you."
"Dean." Sam tries a laugh, but it comes out shaky and hollow.
"The other alternative is to make you unattractive to them, so much so that they'd lose all interest in you."
"Let's do that one."
"It involves making you a non-virgin."
"I'm already a non-virgin."
"You aren't in that body."
Sam goes white. "Oh, shit. Shit. This is not happening to me."
He starts backing away, which is no good. Dean follows and grabs his wrists.
"Sam. Sam. It's okay. We'll go out, get a few drinks in you, find you a nice boy..."
"Forget it," Sam says, struggling half-heartedly. "I am not going out to get myself randomly fucked." He stops trying to break free suddenly and tilts his head. "I know. You do it."
Dean drops his brother's hands like they've turned into rats.
"What. No."
"C'mon. I've seen you pick up girls and not come back till dawn. Noon, even."
Dean bristles. "Did you just compare you and me with one of my random hookups?"
Sam falters. "I didn't... I just meant..."
Dean's anger evaporates. "I know, damn it. I know, okay? I just need..." He really wants to run, but he can't. He breathes out a sigh and runs a hand over his face. "Ten minutes, okay? Then we'll..." he waves his hand, "...figure this out. Don't go out, okay?"
"Like hell," Sam snorts, but he sounds shaky.
#
Dean closes their motel door behind him. He wants a drink, but he can't get drunk. He's hungry but the mere thought of food makes him nauseated. Coffee, then. He goes to the convenience store across the street and buys a cup, gulps half of it down. For a moment, he considers breaking into a pharmacy, because there's no way he's going to be able to get it up, let alone-
god.
He needs to buy condoms.
Purchasing condoms has never before been so mortifying; even the teenaged cashier gives him the look that says, "dude, if you can't handle buying condoms, you aren't ready to have sex."
Dean has never been less ready to have sex, and he heads back to the motel room anyway.
"Sam, you-"
The room is empty, but the water's running in the bathroom. Dean sits down on the bed and waits. After a moment, the water shuts off and Sam walks out wrapped in a towel. Only a towel. His hair's been rubbed mostly dry. His feet are practically dainty compared to what Dean's been used to seeing.
"What," Dean tries, but his throat's gone dry. He swallows and tries again. "You took a shower?"
"I was just, uh. Shaving my legs."
Sam is blushing, damn it.
"I thought you said-"
"Yeah, well, I lied. Figured if we're being forced to do this, we may as well enjoy ourselves a little. Only makes sense, right?"
Sam walks over and nudges Dean's knees apart, insinuating himself between them. He pulls off his towel and throws it aside. And hello. Eye-level breasts, steamy skin that's sweet-smelling from soap, shapely collarbones.
Dean's jeans are rapidly becoming too tight.
"I also figured you may need a little encouragement."
Sam props up one foot on the bed, right between Dean's thighs. Dean knows an invitation when he sees one, especially when it's a brazenly displayed leg that goes on for miles.
He cups Sam's ankle and runs his hand up Sam's leg, all the way up, till Sam shivers. Dean rubs away a wash of goosebumps.
"You bastard," he says. Sam's leg is smooth, has a butter-rich texture. "Used my razor, didn't you."
"Your fault for leaving it out," Sam says, with a laugh that's shot through with nervousness. He pushes on Dean's shoulders and Dean resists out of reflex.
"What?" he says, voice tight.
"I don't think I'm gonna be able to just jump on you and ride it, you know." Sam tries to sound affronted, teasing, but he really just sounds scared. And Dean finally sees that Sam's used up all his courage to get to this point.
"We'll see," Dean says. He grabs Sam around the waist and twists, pulling him onto the bed. Sam yelps and goes down in a flail of limbs, Dean on top.
"Bastard," Sam wheezes between gasps of laughter. "I am so kicking your ass when I get my body back."
"Oh yeah? So you're telling me that you, as a girl, can't take me? Uh-oh, I think I hear the women's movement coming to revoke your membership-"
Sam hooks a leg around him, shifts, rolls, and oh hell, it's ON.
They wrestle. For a few moments, Dean has the upper hand. But Sam's not playing fair-which Dean's pleased to see-using his nakedness and his slippery skin and Dean's underestimation of his reach. Dean can't seem to grab him at all. Suddenly, Dean's the one on his back, one wrist pinned by his head.
Sam's grinning like a cat. "Checkmate."
Dean opens his mouth to respond, but Sam's right there kissing him, a quick, nervous press of lips. Dean doesn't let him go. He threads his free hand into Sam's hair and encourages the kiss. It's such a mindfuck, but even if the lips themselves are unfamiliar, the person kissing him is unmistakable.
Sam licks him tentatively, just the corner of his bottom lip. Sensing a shift, Dean opens his eyes.
"You," Sam says, "need to get naked pretty goddamned soon."
Dean pulls his shirt off right then and there, and props himself up on an elbow. He cups the back of Sam's neck and kisses him again. Sam's relaxing: Dean can tell by the way his mouth not only follows Dean's lead but takes it, using his tongue more aggressively, letting his hands wander down Dean's chest, grinding his hips down against Dean's crotch.
Dean can't stifle a moan. He loves an assertive girl wrapped up in a mousey, geeky package, and oh fuck, right now his buttons are being mashed.
Sam pushes Dean back down to the mattress. He lick-bites a path from Dean's jaw to his neck, but it's not enough of a distraction for Dean to fail to notice that his jeans are being undone. Dean slides his hands up Sam's back and brings them around to touch Sam's breasts. Sam doesn't even startle, just gives a sexy, breathy sigh and a slow writhe into Dean's hands, which Dean understands as universal language for "again, please." He obliges, letting his hands linger this time, fingers splaying and thumbs rubbing the dark circles encircling Sam's nipples.
"Lie down?" he says, and Sam stretches out next to him while Dean pulls his jeans off entirely, noting the smears of wetness where Sam's been sitting. When he turns back to Sam, he goes completely slack-jawed: Sam's lying on his side, touching himself with this look of intense concentration, one hand caressing his chest.
"Fuck," Sam says, frowning now. "This is... different."
"Let me try."
Dean ducks his head to lick a stripe along the side of Sam's breast, trailing fingernails lightly along the small of Sam's back. He closes his lips around one nipple and sucks gently, which earns him a sharp yank on his ears. Okay, something else, then. He rolls Sam onto his back and straddles him, then licks the underside of his breasts; that earns him a gasp, a spine ripple and a, "Holy shit, do that again." Dean does it again, and slips one hand between Sam's legs. There's heat, and slickness.
"Fingers," Sam gasps, and Dean's surprised when Sam bats his hand away. "Mine first, I think."
Dean's brain melts a little.
Sam holds his hand out for the lube, which Dean squeezes onto his fingers.
"Don't give me that look," Sam says, spreading his knees and rubbing himself slowly. "I have fingered a girl before."
"From this angle?" Dean says, hanging back, fascinated, very horny, and dry-mouthed with the taste of Sam's skin.
"A little research has its benefits." Sam grins at him. His expression tightens a bit when one finger slides in. Another finger, and Dean's grabbing himself, hard.
"Okay, your turn," Sam says, starting to pull out, but Dean says, "Hang on," and slicks up his own fingers.
"Dean."
"Yeah," he says, with a little grin. "Right here."
He slips one finger in next to Sam's own fingers and savors the look of oh-my-god on Sam's face, the rush of heat and sudden intimacy. Sam bucks his hips, seeking contact, and Dean takes Sam's wrist and slides his fingers out, smoothly replacing them with two more of his own. Sam whimpers and slumps back against the bed, writhing. Dean drops down between Sam's legs and presses his tongue against Sam's clit, and Sam shudders. Dean feels hands in his hair, on his neck and shoulders. He drives his tongue along the sides of Sam's clit, using his whole mouth, lips; doesn't thrust with his fingers but rocks them in and out gently. Hearing his name caught on the tail-end of a gasp, he works harder, sucking and licking around his fingers, getting slickness and saliva everywhere. He pauses then, sliding his fingers out and swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.
Sam whines, hooking him closer with one leg. "Stop and I'll kill you."
"Not stopping," Dean says, grabbing a condom from the package and rolling it on while Sam watches with wide eyes. He's not saying a word, but his whole body is begging for it, shivering with want.
Dean sprawls back on top of him, kissing him once more. Sam's arms come around him and their hips slide together; Dean groans and feels Sam smile against his mouth.
"C'mon already," Sam says, "I'm ready to say goodbye to my desirable virgin status."
Dean laughs. "That's the spirit."
He slides his dick between Sam's legs before fitting the head snug up against Sam's pussy.
"Fuck," Sam breathes.
Dean echoes the sentiment, doubling it when he presses forward and meets resistance. He goes to touch Sam again, finding Sam's hand already there, rubbing his clit. Instead, Dean opens Sam up again with two fingers and licks at Sam's mouth till he's writhing again, strung through with pleasure. Dean eases his fingers away and slides in.
Sam clamps down on him right away. Dean keeps up the kisses, and gropes Sam's chest and back, and Sam eases up so Dean can push in deeper, and this time he doesn't stop till he's buried all the way.
"Holy shit," Sam gasps, breaking the kiss to stare right at Dean. "You're really... we're really..." He touches Dean's groin, dips his hand lower and feels where they're connected. His hand is shaky.
"Okay so far?" Dean says.
"Yeah." Sam exhales, and Dean can feel it. "Okay so far. C'mon."
It's Sam who starts the rhythm, heeling digging into the small of Dean's back, hips lifting. Dean gets the hint, and it feels so good to just sink into Sam, deep and unapologetic. They aren't even kissing anymore, just breathing open-mouthed against each other's skin.
Dean's big plan was to get Sam to come first, more for bragging purposes than anything else, but Dean's too far gone to even think about holding back or slowing down. He buries his face in the side of Sam's neck when he comes, sharp and hot and cataclysmic.
Even before he can catch his breath, he's whispering, "Sorry," and Sam-well, he's saying, "Don't you dare go all chick-flick on me," and kissing Dean's forehead.
When Dean goes to pull out, Sam clamps his legs even more tightly around Dean's thighs.
"Not yet. I want... I want you-"
"Yeah. Okay."
Dean grabs Sam's ass with one hand, starts up a rocking motion with his hips. He gets his other hand between them to fondle Sam's clit. Sam's hot, burning hot, and Dean makes sure he's watching when Sam comes, completely unshuttered, unshy. He doesn't hide that moment of oh-god-I'm-, not that moment of extreme pleasure; doesn't hold back any of the bodywracking contractions that Dean feels in his own body. He doesn't even try to hide the moment of extreme vulnerability that comes afterward, when he's recovered enough to realize that another human being has seen him at his most helpless.
Sam's moment comes just after Dean's disposed of the condom and used the bedsheet to wipe them both down. He doesn't say anything, but those big luminous eyes speak volumes. Dean doesn't have any words either, just gathers Sam up in his arms and doesn't let him go.
#
Later, Dean wakes up and grabs for the knife under the pillow, but he's too slow; Sam's grabbed it already and thrown it mercilessly into the throat of the satyr emerging from the shadows. It squeals and vanishes, but the gout of blood that sprays the floor tells Dean that the knife hit was a fatal one.
Dean's just glad they don't have to bury a goat-man at four in the morning.
"Dean?"
"Yeah?"
Sam hasn't slept at all; his eyes are smudged with darkness.
"Will you..."
He slides one long leg out from under the sheets and places it carefully in Dean's ready hands.
Dean checks. He checks the bottom of Sam's right foot, and then his left, and when he finds nothing, he pushes Sam onto his back, and then his front, and checks him all over just to be goddamned sure.
"It's gone," he says, and sighs.
"If it's gone, then why..."
Sam makes an expansive gesture that includes all features of his still-female body.
"No freaking out," Dean says. He wraps one arm around Sam, holds him till he stops squirming. "We'll figure it out come morning."
Sam's too exhausted to argue; he surrenders to Dean's embrace and drifts off almost immediately.
This time, Dean doesn't sleep. He runs his knuckles down the slope of Sam's shoulder, the small of his back. Repeats for what seems like hours. Stops when he feels Sam changing back: just a shift of curves and length and weight; that's it, no fanfare or lightshow. Stops when he feels Sam surfacing from sleep.
"Everything's fine," Dean says.
Sam blinks once. Then, "You're not." Before Dean can say anything in response, Sam adds, "if it helps, I'm sorry it was necessary. But I'm not sorry it was you."
Dean nods, and Sam's eyes close again. Dean still isn't okay. But he's not sorry, either.
Everything else, they'll work out, like they always do.
THE END.
by monkeyflower
words: ~3500.
rating/warnings: NC-17, Sam/Dean, and abuse of mythology for the purposes of genderswap and fuck-or-die.
summary: err. genderswap and fuck-or-die :)
notes: \o/!
disclaimer: no copyright infringement intended.
"Sam."
There isn't an answer, just the moody backlash of Sam's why,-world,-why? face and the slammed bathroom door between them.
"Sam. Sam. Are you at least looking?"
Still nothing. Dean sighs and slings his jacket onto the nearest chair. He gets a whiff of his shirt and changes that, too; he loathes satyrs with the passion of a thousand fiery suns. They're greasy, vulgar beyond even his standards, and they smell like six petting zoos combined. This one even had the gall to get away from them at the last moment, bowling Dean over and spitting a string of curse words at Sam before vanishing.
And injured pride isn't the only souvenir they were left with. Driving back to the motel, Dean had glanced over at Sam to make sure he wasn't leaving any satyr residue on the upholstery and had nearly swerved into oncoming traffic. Sitting in the passenger seat was his brother: his long-legged, shaggy haired, big-nosed girl of a brother.
Dean hates satyrs.
"Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam."
"DEAN! Shut up, goddamn you."
Dean sighs, leaning against the door frame.
"Did you find anything?"
"...I can't."
"You're going to have to elaborate. You couldn't find anything? Are you sure? Because I'm pretty damned sure that the satyr cursed you, and-"
"I CAN'T LOOK AT MYSELF."
Dean rubs his hand over his face.
"Fine. I'm coming in. You'd better at least have underwear on-"
He opens the door, and Sam literally shrieks, hands darting to cover his chest and groin. Dean does his best to give Sam a clinical look that isn't too appraising but not too cold either.
Nope, no underwear.
"Dean..."
"Yeah. Turn around. I'll start with your neck and back."
Sam takes a deep breath and turns around. Dean pushes Sam's hair away from the nape of his neck, and he works quickly but thoroughly. The mark could be anything-a spot, a smudge, a star-and it's lucky he knows Sam's body just as well as Sam does.
Well, maybe not this body.
Sam's shoulders are narrower, rounder, but the scattershot scar is still there, breaking across his back. His waist curves in and flares out, but the same dark mole graces the indentation of his spine. Dean smooths his hands down each of Sam's legs, feeling for any unfamiliar bumps or notches. He pauses at a smooth, faint mark on the outside of Sam's left knee.
"Happened when I was at college," Sam says, his voice quiet. "Bashed my knee getting out of the shower."
Dean snorts and chuckles and moves on.
He finds nothing else of interest on Sam's back. Dean stands.
"Okay. Turn around."
Sam turns, hands still covering himself. Dean waits; it's only a moment before Sam takes a deep breath and drops his arms to his sides.
"Make it fast, okay?"
"Yeah, yeah."
Sam avoids Dean's eyes when Dean searches Sam's face for unusual marks. Backs of the ears, underside of the chin, beneath those floppy bangs: these all yield nothing. Dean is disturbed to realize that Sam's eyelashes are killer, but relieved that his nose is still kind of ugly. (At least the world hasn't gone completely insane.)
Sam's breasts are-fuck, okay, they're pretty cute-
"Fuck, dude, are you checking me out?"
Dean holds up his hands in innocence and crouches down, eyes moving fast over the other very female aspects of Sam's new body.
"Anything?" Sam says.
Dean frowns.
"C'mon, dude. It's freezing in here, and I think my nipples could cut-"
"Shut up, I'm thinking!"
Sam mercifully shuts up. Dean slides his hand down the length of Sam's leg again and pauses.
"No, I am not shaving my legs-"
"Hang on to something."
Sam's hand comes to rest on Dean's shoulder for balance; Dean bends Sam's leg at the knee and looks at the bottom of Sam's left foot. Then he checks the bottom of Sam's right foot.
Right there in the center are three small concentric circles in red.
"Fuck," he says.
#
Dean knows the symbol, but he looks it up and cross-references it with the online encyclopedia of woodland dwelling creatures anyway.
His conclusion remains the same: "Fuck."
"It's a seasonal thing," he explains to Sam, who is cinching his belt to the smallest hole. He looks ridiculous. And sexy. And Dean wrenches his gaze back to the laptop so he'll stop thinking along those lines. It doesn't work. "The satyrs would come and mark desirable girls, returning later when convenient to claim them. And..."
"Don't finish that sentence," Sam says. "I don't want to know, because it's not happening to me."
Damn straight, Dean thinks.
"And the whole turning me into a girl thing? What the hell? It's not like there aren't any females out there."
"Hell if I know. But similar disappearances have been reported in China, only involving males. Girls are pretty scarce there."
"So they..." Sam rubs his face with his hands. "This is so fucked up. Okay. Okay. So we find the little bastard and torch him. No! We wring that little bastard's neck and then spray him with lighter fluid and then torch him. No! We find a really deep pool of water, hold him underwater..."
Dean tries to deny that Sam in a girl's body making escalatingly violent death threats is hot.
"...string him up by his thumbs, cut off his balls, and then torch him starting with the short hairs..."
No use. It's hot.
"Breathe, Sammy. We've sort of got bigger problems that that."
"What."
Dean leafs through their dad's journal. "Well, we could kill the little bastard that marked you, but that won't remove the mark. It wouldn't be long before another satyr came to claim you. And if we killed that one... well, rinse, lather and repeat."
"We've gotta get this thing off me, then. Maybe we could burn it off. Give me your lighter. I'll do it. You always keep it in your pack, right? Where's your pack?"
Dean closes the journal, stands up, and walks over to where Sam is having a total and complete meltdown. He takes the lighter out of Sam's hands. "We are not burning the mark off. It wouldn't work, anyway."
"What the hell am I going to do? It's bad enough I'm stuck like this... there's no way I am going to be some bipedal, half-goat's sex toy."
"Well, there are two things." Dean uses his low, calming voice, the one he uses to encourage the removal of bras and panties, as well as to coax small animals from trees. "One, I could kill you."
"Dean." Sam tries a laugh, but it comes out shaky and hollow.
"The other alternative is to make you unattractive to them, so much so that they'd lose all interest in you."
"Let's do that one."
"It involves making you a non-virgin."
"I'm already a non-virgin."
"You aren't in that body."
Sam goes white. "Oh, shit. Shit. This is not happening to me."
He starts backing away, which is no good. Dean follows and grabs his wrists.
"Sam. Sam. It's okay. We'll go out, get a few drinks in you, find you a nice boy..."
"Forget it," Sam says, struggling half-heartedly. "I am not going out to get myself randomly fucked." He stops trying to break free suddenly and tilts his head. "I know. You do it."
Dean drops his brother's hands like they've turned into rats.
"What. No."
"C'mon. I've seen you pick up girls and not come back till dawn. Noon, even."
Dean bristles. "Did you just compare you and me with one of my random hookups?"
Sam falters. "I didn't... I just meant..."
Dean's anger evaporates. "I know, damn it. I know, okay? I just need..." He really wants to run, but he can't. He breathes out a sigh and runs a hand over his face. "Ten minutes, okay? Then we'll..." he waves his hand, "...figure this out. Don't go out, okay?"
"Like hell," Sam snorts, but he sounds shaky.
#
Dean closes their motel door behind him. He wants a drink, but he can't get drunk. He's hungry but the mere thought of food makes him nauseated. Coffee, then. He goes to the convenience store across the street and buys a cup, gulps half of it down. For a moment, he considers breaking into a pharmacy, because there's no way he's going to be able to get it up, let alone-
god.
He needs to buy condoms.
Purchasing condoms has never before been so mortifying; even the teenaged cashier gives him the look that says, "dude, if you can't handle buying condoms, you aren't ready to have sex."
Dean has never been less ready to have sex, and he heads back to the motel room anyway.
"Sam, you-"
The room is empty, but the water's running in the bathroom. Dean sits down on the bed and waits. After a moment, the water shuts off and Sam walks out wrapped in a towel. Only a towel. His hair's been rubbed mostly dry. His feet are practically dainty compared to what Dean's been used to seeing.
"What," Dean tries, but his throat's gone dry. He swallows and tries again. "You took a shower?"
"I was just, uh. Shaving my legs."
Sam is blushing, damn it.
"I thought you said-"
"Yeah, well, I lied. Figured if we're being forced to do this, we may as well enjoy ourselves a little. Only makes sense, right?"
Sam walks over and nudges Dean's knees apart, insinuating himself between them. He pulls off his towel and throws it aside. And hello. Eye-level breasts, steamy skin that's sweet-smelling from soap, shapely collarbones.
Dean's jeans are rapidly becoming too tight.
"I also figured you may need a little encouragement."
Sam props up one foot on the bed, right between Dean's thighs. Dean knows an invitation when he sees one, especially when it's a brazenly displayed leg that goes on for miles.
He cups Sam's ankle and runs his hand up Sam's leg, all the way up, till Sam shivers. Dean rubs away a wash of goosebumps.
"You bastard," he says. Sam's leg is smooth, has a butter-rich texture. "Used my razor, didn't you."
"Your fault for leaving it out," Sam says, with a laugh that's shot through with nervousness. He pushes on Dean's shoulders and Dean resists out of reflex.
"What?" he says, voice tight.
"I don't think I'm gonna be able to just jump on you and ride it, you know." Sam tries to sound affronted, teasing, but he really just sounds scared. And Dean finally sees that Sam's used up all his courage to get to this point.
"We'll see," Dean says. He grabs Sam around the waist and twists, pulling him onto the bed. Sam yelps and goes down in a flail of limbs, Dean on top.
"Bastard," Sam wheezes between gasps of laughter. "I am so kicking your ass when I get my body back."
"Oh yeah? So you're telling me that you, as a girl, can't take me? Uh-oh, I think I hear the women's movement coming to revoke your membership-"
Sam hooks a leg around him, shifts, rolls, and oh hell, it's ON.
They wrestle. For a few moments, Dean has the upper hand. But Sam's not playing fair-which Dean's pleased to see-using his nakedness and his slippery skin and Dean's underestimation of his reach. Dean can't seem to grab him at all. Suddenly, Dean's the one on his back, one wrist pinned by his head.
Sam's grinning like a cat. "Checkmate."
Dean opens his mouth to respond, but Sam's right there kissing him, a quick, nervous press of lips. Dean doesn't let him go. He threads his free hand into Sam's hair and encourages the kiss. It's such a mindfuck, but even if the lips themselves are unfamiliar, the person kissing him is unmistakable.
Sam licks him tentatively, just the corner of his bottom lip. Sensing a shift, Dean opens his eyes.
"You," Sam says, "need to get naked pretty goddamned soon."
Dean pulls his shirt off right then and there, and props himself up on an elbow. He cups the back of Sam's neck and kisses him again. Sam's relaxing: Dean can tell by the way his mouth not only follows Dean's lead but takes it, using his tongue more aggressively, letting his hands wander down Dean's chest, grinding his hips down against Dean's crotch.
Dean can't stifle a moan. He loves an assertive girl wrapped up in a mousey, geeky package, and oh fuck, right now his buttons are being mashed.
Sam pushes Dean back down to the mattress. He lick-bites a path from Dean's jaw to his neck, but it's not enough of a distraction for Dean to fail to notice that his jeans are being undone. Dean slides his hands up Sam's back and brings them around to touch Sam's breasts. Sam doesn't even startle, just gives a sexy, breathy sigh and a slow writhe into Dean's hands, which Dean understands as universal language for "again, please." He obliges, letting his hands linger this time, fingers splaying and thumbs rubbing the dark circles encircling Sam's nipples.
"Lie down?" he says, and Sam stretches out next to him while Dean pulls his jeans off entirely, noting the smears of wetness where Sam's been sitting. When he turns back to Sam, he goes completely slack-jawed: Sam's lying on his side, touching himself with this look of intense concentration, one hand caressing his chest.
"Fuck," Sam says, frowning now. "This is... different."
"Let me try."
Dean ducks his head to lick a stripe along the side of Sam's breast, trailing fingernails lightly along the small of Sam's back. He closes his lips around one nipple and sucks gently, which earns him a sharp yank on his ears. Okay, something else, then. He rolls Sam onto his back and straddles him, then licks the underside of his breasts; that earns him a gasp, a spine ripple and a, "Holy shit, do that again." Dean does it again, and slips one hand between Sam's legs. There's heat, and slickness.
"Fingers," Sam gasps, and Dean's surprised when Sam bats his hand away. "Mine first, I think."
Dean's brain melts a little.
Sam holds his hand out for the lube, which Dean squeezes onto his fingers.
"Don't give me that look," Sam says, spreading his knees and rubbing himself slowly. "I have fingered a girl before."
"From this angle?" Dean says, hanging back, fascinated, very horny, and dry-mouthed with the taste of Sam's skin.
"A little research has its benefits." Sam grins at him. His expression tightens a bit when one finger slides in. Another finger, and Dean's grabbing himself, hard.
"Okay, your turn," Sam says, starting to pull out, but Dean says, "Hang on," and slicks up his own fingers.
"Dean."
"Yeah," he says, with a little grin. "Right here."
He slips one finger in next to Sam's own fingers and savors the look of oh-my-god on Sam's face, the rush of heat and sudden intimacy. Sam bucks his hips, seeking contact, and Dean takes Sam's wrist and slides his fingers out, smoothly replacing them with two more of his own. Sam whimpers and slumps back against the bed, writhing. Dean drops down between Sam's legs and presses his tongue against Sam's clit, and Sam shudders. Dean feels hands in his hair, on his neck and shoulders. He drives his tongue along the sides of Sam's clit, using his whole mouth, lips; doesn't thrust with his fingers but rocks them in and out gently. Hearing his name caught on the tail-end of a gasp, he works harder, sucking and licking around his fingers, getting slickness and saliva everywhere. He pauses then, sliding his fingers out and swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.
Sam whines, hooking him closer with one leg. "Stop and I'll kill you."
"Not stopping," Dean says, grabbing a condom from the package and rolling it on while Sam watches with wide eyes. He's not saying a word, but his whole body is begging for it, shivering with want.
Dean sprawls back on top of him, kissing him once more. Sam's arms come around him and their hips slide together; Dean groans and feels Sam smile against his mouth.
"C'mon already," Sam says, "I'm ready to say goodbye to my desirable virgin status."
Dean laughs. "That's the spirit."
He slides his dick between Sam's legs before fitting the head snug up against Sam's pussy.
"Fuck," Sam breathes.
Dean echoes the sentiment, doubling it when he presses forward and meets resistance. He goes to touch Sam again, finding Sam's hand already there, rubbing his clit. Instead, Dean opens Sam up again with two fingers and licks at Sam's mouth till he's writhing again, strung through with pleasure. Dean eases his fingers away and slides in.
Sam clamps down on him right away. Dean keeps up the kisses, and gropes Sam's chest and back, and Sam eases up so Dean can push in deeper, and this time he doesn't stop till he's buried all the way.
"Holy shit," Sam gasps, breaking the kiss to stare right at Dean. "You're really... we're really..." He touches Dean's groin, dips his hand lower and feels where they're connected. His hand is shaky.
"Okay so far?" Dean says.
"Yeah." Sam exhales, and Dean can feel it. "Okay so far. C'mon."
It's Sam who starts the rhythm, heeling digging into the small of Dean's back, hips lifting. Dean gets the hint, and it feels so good to just sink into Sam, deep and unapologetic. They aren't even kissing anymore, just breathing open-mouthed against each other's skin.
Dean's big plan was to get Sam to come first, more for bragging purposes than anything else, but Dean's too far gone to even think about holding back or slowing down. He buries his face in the side of Sam's neck when he comes, sharp and hot and cataclysmic.
Even before he can catch his breath, he's whispering, "Sorry," and Sam-well, he's saying, "Don't you dare go all chick-flick on me," and kissing Dean's forehead.
When Dean goes to pull out, Sam clamps his legs even more tightly around Dean's thighs.
"Not yet. I want... I want you-"
"Yeah. Okay."
Dean grabs Sam's ass with one hand, starts up a rocking motion with his hips. He gets his other hand between them to fondle Sam's clit. Sam's hot, burning hot, and Dean makes sure he's watching when Sam comes, completely unshuttered, unshy. He doesn't hide that moment of oh-god-I'm-, not that moment of extreme pleasure; doesn't hold back any of the bodywracking contractions that Dean feels in his own body. He doesn't even try to hide the moment of extreme vulnerability that comes afterward, when he's recovered enough to realize that another human being has seen him at his most helpless.
Sam's moment comes just after Dean's disposed of the condom and used the bedsheet to wipe them both down. He doesn't say anything, but those big luminous eyes speak volumes. Dean doesn't have any words either, just gathers Sam up in his arms and doesn't let him go.
#
Later, Dean wakes up and grabs for the knife under the pillow, but he's too slow; Sam's grabbed it already and thrown it mercilessly into the throat of the satyr emerging from the shadows. It squeals and vanishes, but the gout of blood that sprays the floor tells Dean that the knife hit was a fatal one.
Dean's just glad they don't have to bury a goat-man at four in the morning.
"Dean?"
"Yeah?"
Sam hasn't slept at all; his eyes are smudged with darkness.
"Will you..."
He slides one long leg out from under the sheets and places it carefully in Dean's ready hands.
Dean checks. He checks the bottom of Sam's right foot, and then his left, and when he finds nothing, he pushes Sam onto his back, and then his front, and checks him all over just to be goddamned sure.
"It's gone," he says, and sighs.
"If it's gone, then why..."
Sam makes an expansive gesture that includes all features of his still-female body.
"No freaking out," Dean says. He wraps one arm around Sam, holds him till he stops squirming. "We'll figure it out come morning."
Sam's too exhausted to argue; he surrenders to Dean's embrace and drifts off almost immediately.
This time, Dean doesn't sleep. He runs his knuckles down the slope of Sam's shoulder, the small of his back. Repeats for what seems like hours. Stops when he feels Sam changing back: just a shift of curves and length and weight; that's it, no fanfare or lightshow. Stops when he feels Sam surfacing from sleep.
"Everything's fine," Dean says.
Sam blinks once. Then, "You're not." Before Dean can say anything in response, Sam adds, "if it helps, I'm sorry it was necessary. But I'm not sorry it was you."
Dean nods, and Sam's eyes close again. Dean still isn't okay. But he's not sorry, either.
Everything else, they'll work out, like they always do.
THE END.