Supernatural fic: "Hitting the High Notes"
Title: Hitting the High Notes
Author: Signe
Fandom: Supernatural
Featuring: brave-but-every-man-has-his-limits!Dean and mean-unsympathic-heartless-bastard!Sam, with guest appearances from Jennifer Love Hewitt and Jennifer Lopez (sort of)
Rating: R, because Dean's not a lady
Genre: gen, crack, cliché riddled genderswitch, angst/plot/taste-free with no nutritional value
Word count: 2,403 words too many
Disclaimer: Dean was not hurt much permanently during the writing of this story. Also, I don't own the Winchesters, for which they are very grateful. And I shamelessly stole the puffy nipples from sevenfists because it was the perfect description.
Betas: tvm and annalazarus are both wonderful, and made this better. Or possibly worse - annalazarus, the belching is all for you. Dedicated to ignipes, to cheer up a bad week.
Hitting the High Notes
It's a Thursday morning, not that that's at all important. But Sam's as fussy as an old woman and insists he has to record the day as well as the date when Dean writes it up in the journal.
Dean's not at all sure he wants to record it. There's some funky stuff in the journal, weird and nasty and dangerous stuff, but there's nothing quite like whatever the hell is going on now.
Besides, you never know whose hands the journal might fall into, and this-this is not something he wants anyone else in the entire world knowing about. Ever. Apart from Sam, of course, but that's only because Sam might be unobservant at times, and downright blind others - he didn't even look at that waitress flirting with him the other night, and she had a killer rack on her - but even Sam has noticed Dean's-little problem.
So he mimes writing motions for a bit, then closes the journal, scratches his belly, and mourns the loss of his dick.
*
It all starts on Monday. Dean wakes up with wings. All nicely curled ("It's furled actually." "Do I look like I care what the hell the proper word is?") up against his back. Not even cool wings - black leather wouldn't be so bad, but no, these are white, long white feathers, and if Sam even mouths the word angel Dean is going to fucking kill him.
Tuesday morning, they're gone. Which is good news, apart from the twin green antennae ("I have antennas. Sam, wake up, I've got antennas on my head." "Antennae." "What?" "Antennae is the plural for the zoological meaning of antenna, not antennas. Ow.") on his head.
Wednesday morning, as soon as he wakes, he feels his head for antennae. None. Just hair, short and spiky the way it should be. He feels over the rest of his body. All feels good. Very good. So good he takes a little time over one particular part, and then flops down lazily to wait for Sam to wake up so he can send him out for coffee.
It seems like it's all over, which is particularly good as they've no idea what's causing it.
By Thursday morning, it almost feels like just a bad dream, so he doesn't bother checking himself out when he awakes from too bright sunlight streaming across the bed (Sam, lazy fucker, didn't bother to draw the curtains). He just rolls over.
And screams.
A high scream. Really really high. A girly scream, and he really can't deny it's girly because he's got girl parts. He's got boobs, and he's just rolled over and squashed them under himself, and damn, they get in the way.
So, if he's got boobs, that means-Oh hell, no way. No. He reaches down. Feels.
He's dickless! There's nothing there. And he feels another scream coming on, but he restrains it, because Sam is bending over him, holding his shoulder, looking at him, and his jaw is dropped and nothing is coming out.
Dean gulps, and attempts a word. "Nghngh?" he says, and he doesn't mean to sound so weak and helpless, but dude, wings were nothing compared to this. He wants the wings back if he can have his dick too, stupid white feathers and all. Or the antennae - he could squeeze those under a hat if he had to. Or use them as a talking point. But he has no dick, and nothing can make that right.
"Dean?" Sam asks, and Dean nods his head, all he trusts himself to do.
And now he's hyperventilating, and Sam's thrusting a brown paper bag into his hand, and Dean's fucking well breathing into it, panting and frantic, and this is the most humiliating moment of his life ever.
He needs to calm down. He can do that. He can calm down. At the very least, he can pretend to be calm. He's a Winchester man.
Woman.
He's a woman.
He holds the bag tighter and groans. He'll pull himself together in a minute. He deserves a few minutes to panic.
When Sam starts patting him on the back and making soothing noises though, that's too much. That is undignified, and he's not having it.
One deep breath, and he gathers the sheets up around him, gets up, and stalks into the bathroom.
And no, he can't be calm, because he'd thought he knew the worst of it, but he didn't, not at all.
At least, if he was gonna be a chick, he ought to be a hot one. Damned hot - it's the way it works. He's hot as a guy, he should be hot as a chick. Tall, curvy, sexy, pouty lips that'd look fantastic in crimson lipstick. Not that he's considered it, it's just obvious.
Well, he's tall all right. Just about as tall as he's ever been - maybe an inch shorter, but that's all. Curvy, not so much. Sexy? Only to a blind man.
He's just him with boobs. The stubble's gone, but his jaw, which looks rugged and manly on him as a guy, just makes him look butch. Add the haircut, and he (she?) screams lesbian. Which, okay, Dean's not too bothered about - woman on woman action, he's down with that, any day, any time. It's just that he's a plain lesbian, and that's not acceptable.
He's still clutching the sheet protectively around himself, but he has to let it go, check out his rack. At least there's one good thing about this - his own pair to play with.
He drops the sheet and his jaw follows.
No no no no nononono.
They're kind of smallish, but a little saggy, and they're not even the same size. They're lopsided. He has lopsided tits, and his nipples look pale and puffy, and he wouldn't hit on himself if he were the last woman on earth. Or something.
"Sam," he shouts, and his voice is all wrong - not male, but not exactly feminine either. Just high.
Sam's there in an instant. Must have been listening behind the door.
Dean can't quite get the words out. He just points down and grimaces, and then shrugs in horror.
Sam tilts his head to one side in thought. "Hmm, a 38B maybe? I mean, you're still broad, maybe a 40 inch even, but you won't need a large cup size."
"They're lopsided, you idiot. I don't give a damn about my cup size. They. Are. Lopsided."
"Lots of women have slightly uneven breasts. It's totally normal."
"Not women I date. Not hot chicks. Maybe your kinda woman - hairy legged college girls who eat tofu - but not mine. And not me. Hell, this is awful."
"So, let me get this straight. You're not so much freaked out about being a woman, well, you are, but you're seriously freaked out because your breasts are lopsided?"
"I'm fugly, man. It's wrong. The entire universe is going wrong."
Sam just puts his head back and laughs so wide Dean can see all his fillings. Dean pushes him out and slams the door behind him.
He stays in the bathroom a long time. Most of it in the shower. At least he can't see himself in there. And there are some things you have to take advantage of when you get turned into a woman.
Multiple orgasms. Dean sighs. They almost make up for the funky tits. He tries to make his nipples perky, but they just squish between his fingers and stay unperky. Disappointing, but they still feel good, and with one hand between his legs, he has orgasm number six.
He's heading towards number seven - no recuperation time needed, he digs it - when Sam bangs on the door. "I need the shower too, you know," he whines, and takes Dean completely out of the moment. He'd had a good fantasy going on there, Jennifer Love Hewitt between his legs - the woman's not just got those boobs going for her, she's got long fingers too - and Jennifer Lopez behind him. Saves remembering names, if they're both Jennifer.
He gets out of the shower, reluctantly, and wraps a towel around his waist, then rewraps it a foot higher. It barely covers his ass now, but at least his ass didn't look too bad when he checked it out in the mirror. Not exactly curvy, but nicely toned. He's always had a good ass.
Sam heads out once he's dry, promising to keep searching until he finds an answer. Dean locks the door behind him - he's had enough of unpleasant surprises for the day, and he's not in any state to deal with anything or anyone.
It's late when Sam gets back, and Dean is starving. He thought of going out for food earlier, but one look at himself in the mirror, dressed in his usual clothes, and there's no way he's setting foot outside this room in the daylight. There's humiliation, and then there's humiliation, and he is not going to deal with the looks he'll get. Sam's brought food though, plenty, and Dean throws himself on it.
"Not very ladylike," Sam says as Dean sucks in a handful of fries. Dean flips him off with his free hand, then grabs a burger.
"Fuck you," he says through a mouthful. He spits a bit out, but he's on Sam's bed, so it doesn't matter.
"You'll get fat, and it'll all go on your ass," Sam adds, but lucky for him Dean's too hungry to do more than glare. And at least Sam's bought decent beer - he's not all bad.
He's sleepy after he's eaten, though that might be the orgasm-filled morning and afternoon as much as the carbohydrates and booze, but he stays awake long enough to nudge Sam about his research.
"Did you find anything?" he asks, and belches. He's full now and as comfortable as can be expected considering. At least his woman-stomach seems reasonably robust - he'd hate to be one of those women who pick at their food.
"Well, it could be a Trickster, again," Sam offers, and if that's all he's come up with after a day researching, he doesn't deserve the name geek boy. "But hey, it could be like the other things, the wings and the antennae. Gone in the morning. Maybe you should just get an early night?"
"Yeah, and then what am I going to wake up with in the morning?"
"Balls and a dick, hopefully," Sam sniggers, and eats the last of the fries.
Dean might be a woman (temporarily, dear whatever or whoever is out there, let it be temporary, or at least let me have plastic surgery) but he's not a lady. And he's still a fighter. Sam's on the ground before he can finish swallowing. He's choking underneath Dean, who feels slightly off balance even though his tits aren't that big and shouldn't be altering his center of gravity that much. Sam gets the upper hand for a moment, but then he pushes down on Dean's chest, realizes what he's doing, and jumps back as though Dean has poison boobs (and wouldn't that be a cool superpower - one squeeze, and they'd spurt poison and his enemies would curl up and die - the idea comforts him). Dean takes advantage, and rolls Sam over onto the floor and straddles him. Then moves down a bit when his crotch - his female crotch - starts rubbing places he doesn't want to go.
"If you ever mention this to anyone, you're dead. Understand? No mercy, no second chances, you're dead, instantly. My poison boobs will kill you."
"Your what?"
Okay, so Dean hasn't filled Sam in on the poison boobs, but he ought to be bright enough to get the point. "You. Dead. Comprendo?"
Sam smirks, but Dean's fugly woman face is obviously good enough for making the point when glaring, so he agrees.
"I won't tell a living soul," he says.
"Or a dead one. Or a soulless being," Dean adds. He's not letting Sam off on a technicality.
"Agreed. Now, get off me. Your ass is heavy and my legs are going numb."
"There's nothing wrong with my ass, it's a good ass," Dean grumbles, but he gets up anyway - Sam's legs are too bony to be comfortable to sit on for long.
He needs to take a leak before he goes to bed - should have quit after four beers - and he doesn't really want to because squatting over the seat is freaky, but he'll only be crossing his legs (and be even more aware of what's missing) if he doesn't, so he goes.
"No wonder women are always buying so much toilet paper," he says to Sam as he climbs into bed. "It's wet down there."
Sam groans and pulls the pillow over his head.
Friday morning, he wakes up hand already between his legs. On his morning wood, and he's never been more happy to feel it than he is now. He feels his chest too, and he has pecs again, not tits.
He leaps out of bed and shakes Sam awake.
"Look," he says.
Sam opens his eyes blurrily and then closes them quickly. "Fuck, Dean, don't shove that thing in my face. That is the most disgusting thing ever to wake up to."
Dean looks down at his cock and disagrees. "Best sight ever," he says, and heads into the bathroom to welcome it back properly.
They head out of town that morning, Dean driving with one hand and caressing his crotch intermittently with the other. He's happy, and he has a good feeling that moving on will stop whatever it is that's fucking with him, and when they're at a safe distance, they can keep researching and see about stopping it.
And then Sam starts humming. Dean can't quite place the tune at first, but then it hits him. Man! I Feel Like A Woman!.
Okay, so if he ditched Sam, he'd be happy. Or maybe if he castrated him. He's got knives, and he knows how to use them. Then Sam can hit the high notes all the time.
"Dude, I swear, if I ever find out what did this to me, I'm gonna get them to do it to you, and make it permanent," Dean growls. "You'd be one hell of a gigantic ugly woman and you'd never get laid again in your entire life. Ever."
Author: Signe
Fandom: Supernatural
Featuring: brave-but-every-man-has-his-limits!Dean and mean-unsympathic-heartless-bastard!Sam, with guest appearances from Jennifer Love Hewitt and Jennifer Lopez (sort of)
Rating: R, because Dean's not a lady
Genre: gen, crack, cliché riddled genderswitch, angst/plot/taste-free with no nutritional value
Word count: 2,403 words too many
Disclaimer: Dean was not hurt much permanently during the writing of this story. Also, I don't own the Winchesters, for which they are very grateful. And I shamelessly stole the puffy nipples from sevenfists because it was the perfect description.
Betas: tvm and annalazarus are both wonderful, and made this better. Or possibly worse - annalazarus, the belching is all for you. Dedicated to ignipes, to cheer up a bad week.
Hitting the High Notes
It's a Thursday morning, not that that's at all important. But Sam's as fussy as an old woman and insists he has to record the day as well as the date when Dean writes it up in the journal.
Dean's not at all sure he wants to record it. There's some funky stuff in the journal, weird and nasty and dangerous stuff, but there's nothing quite like whatever the hell is going on now.
Besides, you never know whose hands the journal might fall into, and this-this is not something he wants anyone else in the entire world knowing about. Ever. Apart from Sam, of course, but that's only because Sam might be unobservant at times, and downright blind others - he didn't even look at that waitress flirting with him the other night, and she had a killer rack on her - but even Sam has noticed Dean's-little problem.
So he mimes writing motions for a bit, then closes the journal, scratches his belly, and mourns the loss of his dick.
*
It all starts on Monday. Dean wakes up with wings. All nicely curled ("It's furled actually." "Do I look like I care what the hell the proper word is?") up against his back. Not even cool wings - black leather wouldn't be so bad, but no, these are white, long white feathers, and if Sam even mouths the word angel Dean is going to fucking kill him.
Tuesday morning, they're gone. Which is good news, apart from the twin green antennae ("I have antennas. Sam, wake up, I've got antennas on my head." "Antennae." "What?" "Antennae is the plural for the zoological meaning of antenna, not antennas. Ow.") on his head.
Wednesday morning, as soon as he wakes, he feels his head for antennae. None. Just hair, short and spiky the way it should be. He feels over the rest of his body. All feels good. Very good. So good he takes a little time over one particular part, and then flops down lazily to wait for Sam to wake up so he can send him out for coffee.
It seems like it's all over, which is particularly good as they've no idea what's causing it.
By Thursday morning, it almost feels like just a bad dream, so he doesn't bother checking himself out when he awakes from too bright sunlight streaming across the bed (Sam, lazy fucker, didn't bother to draw the curtains). He just rolls over.
And screams.
A high scream. Really really high. A girly scream, and he really can't deny it's girly because he's got girl parts. He's got boobs, and he's just rolled over and squashed them under himself, and damn, they get in the way.
So, if he's got boobs, that means-Oh hell, no way. No. He reaches down. Feels.
He's dickless! There's nothing there. And he feels another scream coming on, but he restrains it, because Sam is bending over him, holding his shoulder, looking at him, and his jaw is dropped and nothing is coming out.
Dean gulps, and attempts a word. "Nghngh?" he says, and he doesn't mean to sound so weak and helpless, but dude, wings were nothing compared to this. He wants the wings back if he can have his dick too, stupid white feathers and all. Or the antennae - he could squeeze those under a hat if he had to. Or use them as a talking point. But he has no dick, and nothing can make that right.
"Dean?" Sam asks, and Dean nods his head, all he trusts himself to do.
And now he's hyperventilating, and Sam's thrusting a brown paper bag into his hand, and Dean's fucking well breathing into it, panting and frantic, and this is the most humiliating moment of his life ever.
He needs to calm down. He can do that. He can calm down. At the very least, he can pretend to be calm. He's a Winchester man.
Woman.
He's a woman.
He holds the bag tighter and groans. He'll pull himself together in a minute. He deserves a few minutes to panic.
When Sam starts patting him on the back and making soothing noises though, that's too much. That is undignified, and he's not having it.
One deep breath, and he gathers the sheets up around him, gets up, and stalks into the bathroom.
And no, he can't be calm, because he'd thought he knew the worst of it, but he didn't, not at all.
At least, if he was gonna be a chick, he ought to be a hot one. Damned hot - it's the way it works. He's hot as a guy, he should be hot as a chick. Tall, curvy, sexy, pouty lips that'd look fantastic in crimson lipstick. Not that he's considered it, it's just obvious.
Well, he's tall all right. Just about as tall as he's ever been - maybe an inch shorter, but that's all. Curvy, not so much. Sexy? Only to a blind man.
He's just him with boobs. The stubble's gone, but his jaw, which looks rugged and manly on him as a guy, just makes him look butch. Add the haircut, and he (she?) screams lesbian. Which, okay, Dean's not too bothered about - woman on woman action, he's down with that, any day, any time. It's just that he's a plain lesbian, and that's not acceptable.
He's still clutching the sheet protectively around himself, but he has to let it go, check out his rack. At least there's one good thing about this - his own pair to play with.
He drops the sheet and his jaw follows.
No no no no nononono.
They're kind of smallish, but a little saggy, and they're not even the same size. They're lopsided. He has lopsided tits, and his nipples look pale and puffy, and he wouldn't hit on himself if he were the last woman on earth. Or something.
"Sam," he shouts, and his voice is all wrong - not male, but not exactly feminine either. Just high.
Sam's there in an instant. Must have been listening behind the door.
Dean can't quite get the words out. He just points down and grimaces, and then shrugs in horror.
Sam tilts his head to one side in thought. "Hmm, a 38B maybe? I mean, you're still broad, maybe a 40 inch even, but you won't need a large cup size."
"They're lopsided, you idiot. I don't give a damn about my cup size. They. Are. Lopsided."
"Lots of women have slightly uneven breasts. It's totally normal."
"Not women I date. Not hot chicks. Maybe your kinda woman - hairy legged college girls who eat tofu - but not mine. And not me. Hell, this is awful."
"So, let me get this straight. You're not so much freaked out about being a woman, well, you are, but you're seriously freaked out because your breasts are lopsided?"
"I'm fugly, man. It's wrong. The entire universe is going wrong."
Sam just puts his head back and laughs so wide Dean can see all his fillings. Dean pushes him out and slams the door behind him.
He stays in the bathroom a long time. Most of it in the shower. At least he can't see himself in there. And there are some things you have to take advantage of when you get turned into a woman.
Multiple orgasms. Dean sighs. They almost make up for the funky tits. He tries to make his nipples perky, but they just squish between his fingers and stay unperky. Disappointing, but they still feel good, and with one hand between his legs, he has orgasm number six.
He's heading towards number seven - no recuperation time needed, he digs it - when Sam bangs on the door. "I need the shower too, you know," he whines, and takes Dean completely out of the moment. He'd had a good fantasy going on there, Jennifer Love Hewitt between his legs - the woman's not just got those boobs going for her, she's got long fingers too - and Jennifer Lopez behind him. Saves remembering names, if they're both Jennifer.
He gets out of the shower, reluctantly, and wraps a towel around his waist, then rewraps it a foot higher. It barely covers his ass now, but at least his ass didn't look too bad when he checked it out in the mirror. Not exactly curvy, but nicely toned. He's always had a good ass.
Sam heads out once he's dry, promising to keep searching until he finds an answer. Dean locks the door behind him - he's had enough of unpleasant surprises for the day, and he's not in any state to deal with anything or anyone.
It's late when Sam gets back, and Dean is starving. He thought of going out for food earlier, but one look at himself in the mirror, dressed in his usual clothes, and there's no way he's setting foot outside this room in the daylight. There's humiliation, and then there's humiliation, and he is not going to deal with the looks he'll get. Sam's brought food though, plenty, and Dean throws himself on it.
"Not very ladylike," Sam says as Dean sucks in a handful of fries. Dean flips him off with his free hand, then grabs a burger.
"Fuck you," he says through a mouthful. He spits a bit out, but he's on Sam's bed, so it doesn't matter.
"You'll get fat, and it'll all go on your ass," Sam adds, but lucky for him Dean's too hungry to do more than glare. And at least Sam's bought decent beer - he's not all bad.
He's sleepy after he's eaten, though that might be the orgasm-filled morning and afternoon as much as the carbohydrates and booze, but he stays awake long enough to nudge Sam about his research.
"Did you find anything?" he asks, and belches. He's full now and as comfortable as can be expected considering. At least his woman-stomach seems reasonably robust - he'd hate to be one of those women who pick at their food.
"Well, it could be a Trickster, again," Sam offers, and if that's all he's come up with after a day researching, he doesn't deserve the name geek boy. "But hey, it could be like the other things, the wings and the antennae. Gone in the morning. Maybe you should just get an early night?"
"Yeah, and then what am I going to wake up with in the morning?"
"Balls and a dick, hopefully," Sam sniggers, and eats the last of the fries.
Dean might be a woman (temporarily, dear whatever or whoever is out there, let it be temporary, or at least let me have plastic surgery) but he's not a lady. And he's still a fighter. Sam's on the ground before he can finish swallowing. He's choking underneath Dean, who feels slightly off balance even though his tits aren't that big and shouldn't be altering his center of gravity that much. Sam gets the upper hand for a moment, but then he pushes down on Dean's chest, realizes what he's doing, and jumps back as though Dean has poison boobs (and wouldn't that be a cool superpower - one squeeze, and they'd spurt poison and his enemies would curl up and die - the idea comforts him). Dean takes advantage, and rolls Sam over onto the floor and straddles him. Then moves down a bit when his crotch - his female crotch - starts rubbing places he doesn't want to go.
"If you ever mention this to anyone, you're dead. Understand? No mercy, no second chances, you're dead, instantly. My poison boobs will kill you."
"Your what?"
Okay, so Dean hasn't filled Sam in on the poison boobs, but he ought to be bright enough to get the point. "You. Dead. Comprendo?"
Sam smirks, but Dean's fugly woman face is obviously good enough for making the point when glaring, so he agrees.
"I won't tell a living soul," he says.
"Or a dead one. Or a soulless being," Dean adds. He's not letting Sam off on a technicality.
"Agreed. Now, get off me. Your ass is heavy and my legs are going numb."
"There's nothing wrong with my ass, it's a good ass," Dean grumbles, but he gets up anyway - Sam's legs are too bony to be comfortable to sit on for long.
He needs to take a leak before he goes to bed - should have quit after four beers - and he doesn't really want to because squatting over the seat is freaky, but he'll only be crossing his legs (and be even more aware of what's missing) if he doesn't, so he goes.
"No wonder women are always buying so much toilet paper," he says to Sam as he climbs into bed. "It's wet down there."
Sam groans and pulls the pillow over his head.
Friday morning, he wakes up hand already between his legs. On his morning wood, and he's never been more happy to feel it than he is now. He feels his chest too, and he has pecs again, not tits.
He leaps out of bed and shakes Sam awake.
"Look," he says.
Sam opens his eyes blurrily and then closes them quickly. "Fuck, Dean, don't shove that thing in my face. That is the most disgusting thing ever to wake up to."
Dean looks down at his cock and disagrees. "Best sight ever," he says, and heads into the bathroom to welcome it back properly.
They head out of town that morning, Dean driving with one hand and caressing his crotch intermittently with the other. He's happy, and he has a good feeling that moving on will stop whatever it is that's fucking with him, and when they're at a safe distance, they can keep researching and see about stopping it.
And then Sam starts humming. Dean can't quite place the tune at first, but then it hits him. Man! I Feel Like A Woman!.
Okay, so if he ditched Sam, he'd be happy. Or maybe if he castrated him. He's got knives, and he knows how to use them. Then Sam can hit the high notes all the time.
"Dude, I swear, if I ever find out what did this to me, I'm gonna get them to do it to you, and make it permanent," Dean growls. "You'd be one hell of a gigantic ugly woman and you'd never get laid again in your entire life. Ever."