Fic: I'm Your Man (Sam/ftm!Dean, NC-17)
Second one! I was going to say idk why I wrote this, but that's a lie, I remember. It was because I was having a rant with daggomus_prime and some other people about tranphobia, and then I opened Blindfold and this was the first thing I saw. FATE.
Title: I'm Your Man
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Summary: Dean is FTM transgender. No one knows this except John and Sam. Dean is all guy, but he hasn't had surgery done. He hooks up with a lot of girls, but he still enjoys vaginal sex, too. When he gets that urge he goes to Sam. Was here.
Okay, so here's the thing. Dean is a guy. There's never been any argument about this from any of the chicks he's sent home staggering on legs gone liquid from the bone-deep orgasms they muffled in the curve of his neck, the guys he's fucked to within an inch of their lives. Dean's a dude, and it's not something he's interested in questioning.
The problem is, there are certain things that dudes don't do, according to the close-minded folks in Hick County. Apparently, the fact that Dean gets wet between the legs when he sees a pretty girl somehow alters the fact that he's been Sam's big brother since he was six years old, all traces of Deanna long dead and buried. Dean disagrees with this pretty damn vehemently, but as a viewpoint, it's kind of entrenched, and Dean gave up long ago on trying to be a crusader. Crusaders die before they reach the holy land, and Dean is a motherfucking survivor.
So, then there's Sam. And Sam's all man, much as Dean questioned the point for a few years there, when it seemed all Sam wanted to do was read about dead English chicks and strut around in pink shirts he found at Goodwill. But hey, Dean's in no position to judge. Maybe Sam doesn't get off on taking a gun apart, but there's more than one way to be a guy. Besides which, guns and cars are not among the things Dean requires him to get off on for this to work.
And shit, does this arrangement work. Dean doesn't want to blow his own trumpet or anything (though he'd invite Sam to do it for him if he felt inclined), but it was pretty much a stroke of genius that delivered him the obvious solution. Dean is Sam's brother, lives and dies by it, and if Dean wants to get fucked in his slick hot cunt and know that the other guy still sees him as a man -- well. Sam's the perfect candidate. Sam never knew Deanna, can't see anything but Dean when his hands creep up under his brother's shirt, and shit, his cock makes Dean proud to be a Winchester.
Sam's outgrown him now, but there's not much in it, and Dean likes the strength of him under his hands, the way it feels like grappling when he shoves Sam back against the door of a toilet stall in some disused truck stop in Utah. Sam's hot for him already, cock fattening against Dean's thigh, and shit, that's what Dean likes to see; shoves his knee between Sam's and ruts up against him, bites at his mouth, little nips of teeth. Sam rocks back against him, gropes at Dean's back, and it's better than a stopgap; it's freaking perfect.
Yeah, so the incest thing might be a dealbreaker for some. Dean's aware that if anyone knew what he did with his brother behind closed doors, they'd want to lock 'em both up and throw away the key. Thing is, it's not like Dean isn't used to that. After all, Dean's pretty damn happy with what he is -- a man who likes tits and flared hips and cunnilingus, like any good ol' boy; who's content with his cock being made of silicone, and sometimes enjoys being pounded open, clit rubbing hot against another dude's body while they fuck. That's Dean, Dean Winchester, man, and he's hidden it all his life because, to most people, the truth of it would be too horrible to accept. Dean's a freak in society's eyes, but to Sam, to Dad, he's only Dean. Society, Dad always said, could just go screw itself in the ass, and it's a message Dean's taken intensely to heart. So he wants to get fucked: he's a guy who likes a little mano-a-mano on the side, and that's pretty hard to come by. Sam's hot, he's built, and his cock feels good in Dean's pussy, and as far as Dean's concerned, that's a good enough defence.
So. They're bolted into the stall, and Dean's got his hands between them, working Sam's button open, shoving his zipper down. Sam's hot against his palm, swelling under his fingers, and Dean -- shit, Dean's needed it for miles, needs to pin Sam and fuck him till all this restlessness dissipates.
"Sam," he grits, "come on." Sam's grasping at him reflexively, hips shoving up, but he's being kid-brother unhelpful and Dean, quite frankly, doesn't have the fucking time for any of this right now. He takes a brief second to be grateful he was too lazy to put on his goddamn belt this morning and tears open his own jeans, shoves them down over his ass with his underwear and grasps Sam's wrist, tugging it forward.
"Sam," he hisses against the helix of Sam's ear, and Sam makes a low, hot groan in his throat. "Would you just --" He manoeuvres Sam's hand into the hot dark place between his legs, flattens it there. "Fuck me, c'n you do that? Fuck me, Jesus, now."
Sam hitches forward, breath and pelvis and cock all going and Dean feels the smear of precome blurting slick against the inside of his wrist, the smooth underside of his arm. Then Sam is crooking up his fingers into wetness, sliding into Dean's heat like a knife through butter, and shit, "yeah," he groans, "yeah, Sammy."
"Dean," Sam whispers, and then his mouth is on Dean's again, tongue coaxing Dean's lips apart so he can press between, lick in to the Dean's back teeth. Freaking sentimentalist, always wants to kiss, but Dean figures he can let him if it gets him this, Sam's fingers shifting in the entrance to his cunt, shoving in deep into the slick hot clench of it. Sometimes he gets his own fingers up in there, works himself with his thumb while he rubs at the inner walls, but the angle's all weird and this is better, Sam's fingers longer, more direct than his own. He reaches his own hand down for Sam's cock, rubs at the head just to feel Sam shiver. There's a moan, then, a whimper in the back of Sam's throat and Dean swallows it, jacking his brother's cock one-handed.
Sam's fingers are good, but Dean isn't here for that, and there's not much time -- there never is. Dad's a tolerant guy, but there's tolerance and there's tolerance. Dean's following the spirit of his law, but Dad's an Old Testament Yahweh kind of guy, and he follows the letter. Which does not involve Dean canting his hips just right to shove the head of his brother's bare cock inside him, biting Sam's lip so he'll fucking keep quiet.
"Dean," Sam groans, wrenching his mouth away, but Dean is too quick for him, one hand coming up to curve over the lower part of Sam's face.
"Shut up," Dean hisses. "You want Dad to hear us?"
From the sound Sam makes, bitten-off and strangulated, when Dean fucks forward, swallowing Sam in his heat, Dean thinks it can pretty safely be said that he doesn't. Hell, no, what Sam wants is this: his big brother fucking him in this beat-up bathroom stall, turning him and shoving so Sam lands on the toilet seat and Dean can climb into his lap. Sam loves this, can't get enough of it, Dean splayed open under his own weight as he sinks onto Sam's cock, takes him inside himself, clenches around him.
"Sam," Dean rasps, torques his hips, and then he's rocking, the force of it abruptly brutal. It's not always a race, but today it is, and Dean's on the Pill for times like these, when all he wants is his brother and they've only got minutes, and fumbling for a condom is a waste of precious time. Sam's young, comes fast when told to, and Dean's so strung out it's only going to take a minute when he gets a hand down there between their bodies, fingers working over the sensitive flash of his clit.
"Oh God," Sam's chanting, "oh shit, oh, Dean," and Dean can feel him twitching, his hot length inside him. There's something about this, this sense of being filled that nothing else can ever quite mimic, and Dean doesn't need it all the time but when he does, God -- when he does, the lack makes him crazy.
"Yeah," he whispers, and his climax is looming up like the edge of a precipice, endless and deep. He rocks down frantically, frenetic back and forth, bracing his arms against Sam's shoulders and his boots against the floor to lift himself, shove back down. "Sam -- "
"Come on," Sam hisses, "Dean, please --" and that's it, Dean's coming, the strain in Sam's voice setting off a succession of clenches in his abdomen that ripple out into something like light, something hot and huge. He tenses for a moment, slumps forward after, and Sam fucks up, staccato, and comes, the aftershock flutters of Dean's cunt too much for him.
"Shiiiiit," Dean whispers into the curve of Sam's neck where the sweat is beginning to cool. "Jesus, Sammy. Needed that."
Sam's face, when he lifts it, is soft, eyes gone dark green. Moments like this, Dean's always half afraid he's going to actually say aloud some pussy shit that they both know is true already, something like I love you that nobody needs to hear. Not them, anyway, not when Dean feels it in every beat of his heart. In the way Sam's cock feels inside him when Sam is fucking him and thinking this is my brother.
But Sam knows Dean, knows better than to say whatever's hovering at the back of his mind. Instead, he clears his throat, says, "Hey. Anything I can do, dude, I will, you know that."
And it's true, is the thing. It's absolutely, completely true, and Dean feels his chest swelling as he clambers off Sam's lap, pulls his jeans back up. This is his Sam, and he's Sam's Dean. If Dean's fucked-up already, he may as well go with it, since it's the best damn thing in his life.
He wants to say something, tell Sam what it means to him that they can have this and he can still be himself. He wants to tell Sam how much he relies on him, how much he always has. How good this is. But Dad is waiting in the car outside, and Dean -- well. Dean doesn't do chick-flick moments. So he inclines his head, says, "Dad's waiting."
And Sam says, "I know," and follows his brother -- now, again, like always.
Title: I'm Your Man
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Summary: Dean is FTM transgender. No one knows this except John and Sam. Dean is all guy, but he hasn't had surgery done. He hooks up with a lot of girls, but he still enjoys vaginal sex, too. When he gets that urge he goes to Sam. Was here.
Okay, so here's the thing. Dean is a guy. There's never been any argument about this from any of the chicks he's sent home staggering on legs gone liquid from the bone-deep orgasms they muffled in the curve of his neck, the guys he's fucked to within an inch of their lives. Dean's a dude, and it's not something he's interested in questioning.
The problem is, there are certain things that dudes don't do, according to the close-minded folks in Hick County. Apparently, the fact that Dean gets wet between the legs when he sees a pretty girl somehow alters the fact that he's been Sam's big brother since he was six years old, all traces of Deanna long dead and buried. Dean disagrees with this pretty damn vehemently, but as a viewpoint, it's kind of entrenched, and Dean gave up long ago on trying to be a crusader. Crusaders die before they reach the holy land, and Dean is a motherfucking survivor.
So, then there's Sam. And Sam's all man, much as Dean questioned the point for a few years there, when it seemed all Sam wanted to do was read about dead English chicks and strut around in pink shirts he found at Goodwill. But hey, Dean's in no position to judge. Maybe Sam doesn't get off on taking a gun apart, but there's more than one way to be a guy. Besides which, guns and cars are not among the things Dean requires him to get off on for this to work.
And shit, does this arrangement work. Dean doesn't want to blow his own trumpet or anything (though he'd invite Sam to do it for him if he felt inclined), but it was pretty much a stroke of genius that delivered him the obvious solution. Dean is Sam's brother, lives and dies by it, and if Dean wants to get fucked in his slick hot cunt and know that the other guy still sees him as a man -- well. Sam's the perfect candidate. Sam never knew Deanna, can't see anything but Dean when his hands creep up under his brother's shirt, and shit, his cock makes Dean proud to be a Winchester.
Sam's outgrown him now, but there's not much in it, and Dean likes the strength of him under his hands, the way it feels like grappling when he shoves Sam back against the door of a toilet stall in some disused truck stop in Utah. Sam's hot for him already, cock fattening against Dean's thigh, and shit, that's what Dean likes to see; shoves his knee between Sam's and ruts up against him, bites at his mouth, little nips of teeth. Sam rocks back against him, gropes at Dean's back, and it's better than a stopgap; it's freaking perfect.
Yeah, so the incest thing might be a dealbreaker for some. Dean's aware that if anyone knew what he did with his brother behind closed doors, they'd want to lock 'em both up and throw away the key. Thing is, it's not like Dean isn't used to that. After all, Dean's pretty damn happy with what he is -- a man who likes tits and flared hips and cunnilingus, like any good ol' boy; who's content with his cock being made of silicone, and sometimes enjoys being pounded open, clit rubbing hot against another dude's body while they fuck. That's Dean, Dean Winchester, man, and he's hidden it all his life because, to most people, the truth of it would be too horrible to accept. Dean's a freak in society's eyes, but to Sam, to Dad, he's only Dean. Society, Dad always said, could just go screw itself in the ass, and it's a message Dean's taken intensely to heart. So he wants to get fucked: he's a guy who likes a little mano-a-mano on the side, and that's pretty hard to come by. Sam's hot, he's built, and his cock feels good in Dean's pussy, and as far as Dean's concerned, that's a good enough defence.
So. They're bolted into the stall, and Dean's got his hands between them, working Sam's button open, shoving his zipper down. Sam's hot against his palm, swelling under his fingers, and Dean -- shit, Dean's needed it for miles, needs to pin Sam and fuck him till all this restlessness dissipates.
"Sam," he grits, "come on." Sam's grasping at him reflexively, hips shoving up, but he's being kid-brother unhelpful and Dean, quite frankly, doesn't have the fucking time for any of this right now. He takes a brief second to be grateful he was too lazy to put on his goddamn belt this morning and tears open his own jeans, shoves them down over his ass with his underwear and grasps Sam's wrist, tugging it forward.
"Sam," he hisses against the helix of Sam's ear, and Sam makes a low, hot groan in his throat. "Would you just --" He manoeuvres Sam's hand into the hot dark place between his legs, flattens it there. "Fuck me, c'n you do that? Fuck me, Jesus, now."
Sam hitches forward, breath and pelvis and cock all going and Dean feels the smear of precome blurting slick against the inside of his wrist, the smooth underside of his arm. Then Sam is crooking up his fingers into wetness, sliding into Dean's heat like a knife through butter, and shit, "yeah," he groans, "yeah, Sammy."
"Dean," Sam whispers, and then his mouth is on Dean's again, tongue coaxing Dean's lips apart so he can press between, lick in to the Dean's back teeth. Freaking sentimentalist, always wants to kiss, but Dean figures he can let him if it gets him this, Sam's fingers shifting in the entrance to his cunt, shoving in deep into the slick hot clench of it. Sometimes he gets his own fingers up in there, works himself with his thumb while he rubs at the inner walls, but the angle's all weird and this is better, Sam's fingers longer, more direct than his own. He reaches his own hand down for Sam's cock, rubs at the head just to feel Sam shiver. There's a moan, then, a whimper in the back of Sam's throat and Dean swallows it, jacking his brother's cock one-handed.
Sam's fingers are good, but Dean isn't here for that, and there's not much time -- there never is. Dad's a tolerant guy, but there's tolerance and there's tolerance. Dean's following the spirit of his law, but Dad's an Old Testament Yahweh kind of guy, and he follows the letter. Which does not involve Dean canting his hips just right to shove the head of his brother's bare cock inside him, biting Sam's lip so he'll fucking keep quiet.
"Dean," Sam groans, wrenching his mouth away, but Dean is too quick for him, one hand coming up to curve over the lower part of Sam's face.
"Shut up," Dean hisses. "You want Dad to hear us?"
From the sound Sam makes, bitten-off and strangulated, when Dean fucks forward, swallowing Sam in his heat, Dean thinks it can pretty safely be said that he doesn't. Hell, no, what Sam wants is this: his big brother fucking him in this beat-up bathroom stall, turning him and shoving so Sam lands on the toilet seat and Dean can climb into his lap. Sam loves this, can't get enough of it, Dean splayed open under his own weight as he sinks onto Sam's cock, takes him inside himself, clenches around him.
"Sam," Dean rasps, torques his hips, and then he's rocking, the force of it abruptly brutal. It's not always a race, but today it is, and Dean's on the Pill for times like these, when all he wants is his brother and they've only got minutes, and fumbling for a condom is a waste of precious time. Sam's young, comes fast when told to, and Dean's so strung out it's only going to take a minute when he gets a hand down there between their bodies, fingers working over the sensitive flash of his clit.
"Oh God," Sam's chanting, "oh shit, oh, Dean," and Dean can feel him twitching, his hot length inside him. There's something about this, this sense of being filled that nothing else can ever quite mimic, and Dean doesn't need it all the time but when he does, God -- when he does, the lack makes him crazy.
"Yeah," he whispers, and his climax is looming up like the edge of a precipice, endless and deep. He rocks down frantically, frenetic back and forth, bracing his arms against Sam's shoulders and his boots against the floor to lift himself, shove back down. "Sam -- "
"Come on," Sam hisses, "Dean, please --" and that's it, Dean's coming, the strain in Sam's voice setting off a succession of clenches in his abdomen that ripple out into something like light, something hot and huge. He tenses for a moment, slumps forward after, and Sam fucks up, staccato, and comes, the aftershock flutters of Dean's cunt too much for him.
"Shiiiiit," Dean whispers into the curve of Sam's neck where the sweat is beginning to cool. "Jesus, Sammy. Needed that."
Sam's face, when he lifts it, is soft, eyes gone dark green. Moments like this, Dean's always half afraid he's going to actually say aloud some pussy shit that they both know is true already, something like I love you that nobody needs to hear. Not them, anyway, not when Dean feels it in every beat of his heart. In the way Sam's cock feels inside him when Sam is fucking him and thinking this is my brother.
But Sam knows Dean, knows better than to say whatever's hovering at the back of his mind. Instead, he clears his throat, says, "Hey. Anything I can do, dude, I will, you know that."
And it's true, is the thing. It's absolutely, completely true, and Dean feels his chest swelling as he clambers off Sam's lap, pulls his jeans back up. This is his Sam, and he's Sam's Dean. If Dean's fucked-up already, he may as well go with it, since it's the best damn thing in his life.
He wants to say something, tell Sam what it means to him that they can have this and he can still be himself. He wants to tell Sam how much he relies on him, how much he always has. How good this is. But Dad is waiting in the car outside, and Dean -- well. Dean doesn't do chick-flick moments. So he inclines his head, says, "Dad's waiting."
And Sam says, "I know," and follows his brother -- now, again, like always.