(no subject)
First off, go read this: Turn It Over And monkeydom finished and posted the bodyswap glory. Ah, yeah, we can meta on my opinions of the term crackfic later.
Then come back. Because you will NOT get this without reading that.
I asked her what she wanted for her birthday, and she said j/j and I said "what? Woman! I'm already writing that! And then she said this:
Being in Dean's body feels like living life on a two second delay. He lifts his arm and startles himself over and over when he looks down and sees the wrist cuff and the bracelet. There's a callous on the crease of Dean's finger and palm from the edge of the ring. Sam touches it with his thumb over and over, feeling the thick skin slick against the rough tip of Dean's thumb.
Sam can't stop thinking about eating meat and how he's craving salt. He wants a steak. And a pork chop. And maybe a bag of bbq pork rinds. Sam hates Dean's body. And that's weird, because, well, he really doesn't hate anything about Dean's body. Not the freckles on his back or the sharp line of his haircut or the way his shirt pulls tight between his shoulder blades.
Sam has some body image issues. And it's weird for him to watch Dean in his body, confident and cocky like always. But it's like a pantomime, because that's himself, what he would look like if he wasn't embarrassed to be so tall, worried that he was taking up too much space, accidentally intimidating people by virtue of his genetics. Dean as him is what Sam would look like if he was some other guy, some person like Dean, who made part of his charm the fact that he's so ridiculously self-confident. Sam's watching himself if he had maybe been the first born, the one who remembers mom, the one who dad always just expected to do everything right on the first try because he did.
"Huh." Sam says. Dean lifts his head from the mountain of pillows he's piled up behind him, scratches his belly with the remote, and lifts an eyebrow. Dean's facial expressions on Sam's face are pretty amusing. Sam laughs. "What?" Dean lifts both eyebrows, and they disappear under his bangs.
"Nothing, dude." Sam disengages by flicking his eyes to the television. Monster truck rally. Yeehaw.
"I think I want a salad for dinner." Dean pauses. "I'm never forgiving you for this shit, man."
Sam laughs and has to swallow down spit at the thought of rare beef. "Shut up." He swings his compact legs off the bed, his thighs flexing in a curious way, and wonders if those tennis shoes are dry enough to wear yet.
*
Dean makes him crazy. There's no two ways about that. The irritation is a constant, low bubbling under his skin. Then Dean does something-and the trigger can be anything from blowing his nose on the hem of his shirt to chewing with his mouth open on purpose to peeing without lifting the toilet seat-and Sam just *boom* explodes. He can't fucking help it. He's tried. So so tried. He's tried self-hypnosis, counting to a hundred in fives, imagining Dean is an alien and therefore unaware of his actions. Nothing works.
Except violence and one-upmanship.
They leave the bar, Dean smiling down at Sam with that goddamned "I'm so much better than you, little brother" grin that makes Sam's skin try to peel off, and Sam's fucking angry. Dean climbs in the car twisting the key in the ignition in the most annoying way imaginable. They throw gravel as the Impala cuts out of the parking lot.
Dean smirks. Dean smirks with Sam's own face. His own body is part of the joke.
"It's ok, Sammy, not everyone can be me." And Dean has to push it just that little bit more.
Sam leans over and thumps a hand down between Dean's spread legs. Dean looks down at the hand, and Sam bumps his mouth against Dean's ear. Sam's had enough of Dean's attitude for one day. He's had enough of Dean taunting him about Sam's kinks and Sam's dick and Sam not using his natural assets.
"You're so easy," Sam doesn't usually use the deeper, keen sort of hurtful insights against Dean, because there are limits. But Dean's been pushing those limits so hard since this all started. "You're so fucking obvious, Dean, I didn't need to turn into you to know what you want."
He's always known. He's heard Dean moaning "oh, talk dirty baby, oh fuck, yes, tell me what you want, just tell me." Heard the nasty streams of unbelievable filth Dean can yank out of the nicest, apple pie and church on Sundays girls.
Sam knows. Sam also knows that dirty talk is giving a little more away than what Sam's comfort zone allows. It mean admitting out loud that he's thought about this, that he's got fantasies about it, or that at least he could make some up on the spot.
But Dean has pushed that last button that always forces Sam over himself and right into fucking Dean up.
"You think I don't know why you keep talking at me when you've got me in bed and won't shut up for love or money? You think I don't get that you're trying to get me to talk back, to tell you every single thing I'm gonna do to you, every way I'm going to touch you instead of just doing it? Instead of keeping you pinned to the sheets by nothing more than my thumb pushing inside you?"
Sam has a very visual way of thinking, and he can see Dean with his mouth wide open-and it's Dean in his own body, not Sam's body with Dean in it--coppery stubble on his cheeks almost the same color of his freckles, hands reaching out to touch Sam's face, making high whining noises and barely breathing.
"You want me to talk dirty to you, Dean, when what you should want is me lubing up my other fingers so you can get them up your ass, too. I've never met a guy who likes that as much as you." And that's one of the things he'd hoped wouldn't fall out of his mouth. But he just rides through his blush.
"You shouldn't care what I'm saying so long as I'm working you open, getting you ready in case I feel like fucking you with more than my hand." In his mind, Sam can see Dean mouthing the words fuck me, because he'd never say it, never be able to vocalize it, but he might repeat it silently with his eyes squeezed shut thinking that if he can't see Sam then Sam can't see him either.
"I don't need to talk to get you on your back, to get you to put your hands on your own thighs to keep them spread so I can see what I'm doing, so I can see you just taking it. I don't need to say anything about how you've already come, probably twice, and are hard as a rock again because I've been using my teeth on your hipbones and, yeah, I think I know the right spots on my own body." He pretends that he's thinking about them like they are now. Distancing them from the truth of what they're doing. They both do it, and it's working for them right now, and no matter how mad he is and no matter what other point Sam's trying to make, he's not going to be the one to admit that this is more of a consummation than an aberration.
"The right words aren't going to keep me from deciding that I want you to suck me instead of me fucking you, and if you've managed to keep your own mouth shut, maybe I'll keep my fingers in your ass when I move up your body and take my dick and rub it against your lips before I let you take it in your mouth." Sam wants to act this out so badly his hips jerk a little. His dick's so hard he's afraid if he shifts the wrong way he's going to ruin all of this by coming in his own pants, because the Dean in his head has his face twisted to the side pressing it to the comforter, the tendon in his neck stretching so so tight, and his thighs are trembling. Dean in his head reaches up both hands for Sam to lean down and kiss him as Sam slides into his body.
Sam breathes out slow, to keep the tremolo out. "I have nice lips, Dean, but they're not made for sucking cock like yours, and if I'm not talking dirty to you then you won't have to hear about how the second we switch back I'm gonna get you just like that all over again so I can see you choking for it." Dean tenses, bites his bottom lip. Bingo.
"See? So easy," Sam flops back into his seat acting a whole lot more cool than he feels.
Dean's silent, the radio playing Red Eye Love to fill the space up, to allow them to both let things go. That's how they do things.
"Sammy," and it's weird to hear his name like that, without the break in the middle, that little hitch Dean's voice has when his says Sam's family name. "I'm going to kick your ass."
"I'd rather you sucked my dick." Sam's smile feels strange on his strange face.
"Maybe that, too." Dean says real low.
Sam wins this round.
~the end (they had a lot more sex)
instaporn. Happy Late Birthday to all the people I keep missing.
Then come back. Because you will NOT get this without reading that.
I asked her what she wanted for her birthday, and she said j/j and I said "what? Woman! I'm already writing that! And then she said this:
Being in Dean's body feels like living life on a two second delay. He lifts his arm and startles himself over and over when he looks down and sees the wrist cuff and the bracelet. There's a callous on the crease of Dean's finger and palm from the edge of the ring. Sam touches it with his thumb over and over, feeling the thick skin slick against the rough tip of Dean's thumb.
Sam can't stop thinking about eating meat and how he's craving salt. He wants a steak. And a pork chop. And maybe a bag of bbq pork rinds. Sam hates Dean's body. And that's weird, because, well, he really doesn't hate anything about Dean's body. Not the freckles on his back or the sharp line of his haircut or the way his shirt pulls tight between his shoulder blades.
Sam has some body image issues. And it's weird for him to watch Dean in his body, confident and cocky like always. But it's like a pantomime, because that's himself, what he would look like if he wasn't embarrassed to be so tall, worried that he was taking up too much space, accidentally intimidating people by virtue of his genetics. Dean as him is what Sam would look like if he was some other guy, some person like Dean, who made part of his charm the fact that he's so ridiculously self-confident. Sam's watching himself if he had maybe been the first born, the one who remembers mom, the one who dad always just expected to do everything right on the first try because he did.
"Huh." Sam says. Dean lifts his head from the mountain of pillows he's piled up behind him, scratches his belly with the remote, and lifts an eyebrow. Dean's facial expressions on Sam's face are pretty amusing. Sam laughs. "What?" Dean lifts both eyebrows, and they disappear under his bangs.
"Nothing, dude." Sam disengages by flicking his eyes to the television. Monster truck rally. Yeehaw.
"I think I want a salad for dinner." Dean pauses. "I'm never forgiving you for this shit, man."
Sam laughs and has to swallow down spit at the thought of rare beef. "Shut up." He swings his compact legs off the bed, his thighs flexing in a curious way, and wonders if those tennis shoes are dry enough to wear yet.
*
Dean makes him crazy. There's no two ways about that. The irritation is a constant, low bubbling under his skin. Then Dean does something-and the trigger can be anything from blowing his nose on the hem of his shirt to chewing with his mouth open on purpose to peeing without lifting the toilet seat-and Sam just *boom* explodes. He can't fucking help it. He's tried. So so tried. He's tried self-hypnosis, counting to a hundred in fives, imagining Dean is an alien and therefore unaware of his actions. Nothing works.
Except violence and one-upmanship.
They leave the bar, Dean smiling down at Sam with that goddamned "I'm so much better than you, little brother" grin that makes Sam's skin try to peel off, and Sam's fucking angry. Dean climbs in the car twisting the key in the ignition in the most annoying way imaginable. They throw gravel as the Impala cuts out of the parking lot.
Dean smirks. Dean smirks with Sam's own face. His own body is part of the joke.
"It's ok, Sammy, not everyone can be me." And Dean has to push it just that little bit more.
Sam leans over and thumps a hand down between Dean's spread legs. Dean looks down at the hand, and Sam bumps his mouth against Dean's ear. Sam's had enough of Dean's attitude for one day. He's had enough of Dean taunting him about Sam's kinks and Sam's dick and Sam not using his natural assets.
"You're so easy," Sam doesn't usually use the deeper, keen sort of hurtful insights against Dean, because there are limits. But Dean's been pushing those limits so hard since this all started. "You're so fucking obvious, Dean, I didn't need to turn into you to know what you want."
He's always known. He's heard Dean moaning "oh, talk dirty baby, oh fuck, yes, tell me what you want, just tell me." Heard the nasty streams of unbelievable filth Dean can yank out of the nicest, apple pie and church on Sundays girls.
Sam knows. Sam also knows that dirty talk is giving a little more away than what Sam's comfort zone allows. It mean admitting out loud that he's thought about this, that he's got fantasies about it, or that at least he could make some up on the spot.
But Dean has pushed that last button that always forces Sam over himself and right into fucking Dean up.
"You think I don't know why you keep talking at me when you've got me in bed and won't shut up for love or money? You think I don't get that you're trying to get me to talk back, to tell you every single thing I'm gonna do to you, every way I'm going to touch you instead of just doing it? Instead of keeping you pinned to the sheets by nothing more than my thumb pushing inside you?"
Sam has a very visual way of thinking, and he can see Dean with his mouth wide open-and it's Dean in his own body, not Sam's body with Dean in it--coppery stubble on his cheeks almost the same color of his freckles, hands reaching out to touch Sam's face, making high whining noises and barely breathing.
"You want me to talk dirty to you, Dean, when what you should want is me lubing up my other fingers so you can get them up your ass, too. I've never met a guy who likes that as much as you." And that's one of the things he'd hoped wouldn't fall out of his mouth. But he just rides through his blush.
"You shouldn't care what I'm saying so long as I'm working you open, getting you ready in case I feel like fucking you with more than my hand." In his mind, Sam can see Dean mouthing the words fuck me, because he'd never say it, never be able to vocalize it, but he might repeat it silently with his eyes squeezed shut thinking that if he can't see Sam then Sam can't see him either.
"I don't need to talk to get you on your back, to get you to put your hands on your own thighs to keep them spread so I can see what I'm doing, so I can see you just taking it. I don't need to say anything about how you've already come, probably twice, and are hard as a rock again because I've been using my teeth on your hipbones and, yeah, I think I know the right spots on my own body." He pretends that he's thinking about them like they are now. Distancing them from the truth of what they're doing. They both do it, and it's working for them right now, and no matter how mad he is and no matter what other point Sam's trying to make, he's not going to be the one to admit that this is more of a consummation than an aberration.
"The right words aren't going to keep me from deciding that I want you to suck me instead of me fucking you, and if you've managed to keep your own mouth shut, maybe I'll keep my fingers in your ass when I move up your body and take my dick and rub it against your lips before I let you take it in your mouth." Sam wants to act this out so badly his hips jerk a little. His dick's so hard he's afraid if he shifts the wrong way he's going to ruin all of this by coming in his own pants, because the Dean in his head has his face twisted to the side pressing it to the comforter, the tendon in his neck stretching so so tight, and his thighs are trembling. Dean in his head reaches up both hands for Sam to lean down and kiss him as Sam slides into his body.
Sam breathes out slow, to keep the tremolo out. "I have nice lips, Dean, but they're not made for sucking cock like yours, and if I'm not talking dirty to you then you won't have to hear about how the second we switch back I'm gonna get you just like that all over again so I can see you choking for it." Dean tenses, bites his bottom lip. Bingo.
"See? So easy," Sam flops back into his seat acting a whole lot more cool than he feels.
Dean's silent, the radio playing Red Eye Love to fill the space up, to allow them to both let things go. That's how they do things.
"Sammy," and it's weird to hear his name like that, without the break in the middle, that little hitch Dean's voice has when his says Sam's family name. "I'm going to kick your ass."
"I'd rather you sucked my dick." Sam's smile feels strange on his strange face.
"Maybe that, too." Dean says real low.
Sam wins this round.
~the end (they had a lot more sex)
instaporn. Happy Late Birthday to all the people I keep missing.