(no subject)
Is Supernatural the the dirtiest and coolest fandom ever? It certainly makes me do things I always thought I wouldn't. It feels sort of like being Jensen Ackles' girlfriend.
(Um, House? Craziest show of all time. WEISS! *omg, dies over and over again and wants to snuggle him in a way that betrays my evil*)
Thank you for filling out the poll, people! But I just did what I wanted anyway. Like usual. However, your answers will help an army of SPN fic writers in the future.
With apologies to Brenda. Next up: Chris Kane fucks wimmin (a lot and well)!
Warning: Perversion.
This is totally dedicated to Lenore who wrote the first one of these I read in SPN fandom, launching my insane fangirling of her.
Beta and discussion by unholyglee
How Am I Gonna Keep Myself Away From Me
Dean dealt with Sam suddenly being psychic, him abandoning the family and the family business, and their mother's ghost being more interested in Sam than him. But there were limits, man.
"What the ever-loving hell?" Dean sat up slowly, thinking that if he limited his movements it might make the insanity go away. Like a snake. Or Sam catching him jacking off.
"What?" Sam said.
What the girl who had to be Sam said. Now, if Dean hadn't watched Sam walk into the motel bathroom with a window so small that Sam's fat head couldn't have even fit through it, he would have thought someone who happened to look that much like Sam had snuck into the room. But the moles were the same, the hair was the same, the clothes were the same-and Sam the girl was standing there holding the front of his jeans together with his hand.
"What?" Sam said again.
"What?" Dean answered back.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Sam's voice raised with every word, his enunciation the same but the timbre much higher.
"What the hell's wrong with me?" Dean pointed at Sam. "What the hell's wrong with you?" He slid off the bed, alert, feeling the knife slip right into the palm of his hand-worn, smooth, natural.
"So, you're going to stab me now? That's fucking great." Sam blew his bangs out of his face and fiddled with his jeans, which were too long by far and didn't fit him in the hips.
"You're a girl, Sam." Dean sometimes couldn't help those obvious statements that tripped out of his mouth.
Sam rolled his eyes and made a gesture with his arm flopping all around. The look and gesture were very familiar. "Well, duh, since I was born that way."
Dean blinked rapidly, his brain completely broken. Sam opened his eyes wide and bobbed his, her, head towards him meaning "you're so stupid, god!". "You what again?" Dean cocked his head to the side.
"Was born that way." Sam bit off each word like he was speaking to a head-wound victim.
"You what?" Dean said. He had nothing. He dropped the knife and screwed his face up, frowning. "Wait, did something happen to me?" He was really confused.
"You're seriously dumb, Dean, I'm fucking with you." Sam slapped his/her leg and tugged on her/his jeans. "I guess that girl wasn't kidding about the curse. Figures that some girl you dicked over would whammy me and not you. Typical." Sam huffed back into the bathroom. "I'm short! I hate you, Dean."
"What?" Dean still was not processing what the hell was going on.
"I want pizza for dinner, goddamn it, and you better not argue. I'm pissed off!" Sam called from the bathroom. "I'm going to kick your ass, Dean. My belly aches. I swear to god, Dean, if I get my period I'm going to castrate you."
Sam kept rattling on in a similar vein, but Dean turned his ears off and let it blend in with the sound of the heater coughing and lamp buzzing. He fell back on the bed and squeezed his eyes closed really hard hoping that when he opened them again life would be back to normal.
That didn't work, but that wasn't because it never did in Dean's experience.
*
Sam ate about half a bottle of ibuprofen and glared at the television as they waited on the pizza.
"I really hate you," he whined.
Dean was so conflicted his conflict had confusion growing out of it. He felt guilty for Sam getting punished for something that Dean had done, but he also didn't want to lose his dick--Sam didn't use his anyway. Dean couldn't stand to see Sam in pain, but he didn't really want to talk about that stuff. But he realized he would if Sam needed him to. But he really didn't want to.
"Does it hurt…a lot?" Dean raised his eyebrows and tried to show he was really concerned. As much as he was willing to show he was concerned.
"What do you care? Shut up." Sam rolled around on the bed clutching his belly. He was wearing a pair of Dean's pajama bottoms and an old t-shirt of his own that had holes in the neck.
Dean frowned. "Look, Sam, I'm trying to be as reasonable about this as possible. You're a girl, dude, what the hell do you expect me to do?"
"Shut up." Sam pulled a pillow away from the headboard and pressed it over his face.
"Fine!" Dean turned the television to Unsolved Mysteries.
"Oh god, I don't think it's my period, I think it's ovulation." Sam moaned. Dean blushed at the word and glared at Sam's hidden face. Then he stared a little at Sam's tits because Sam couldn't tell he was anyway.
"You better not be looking at my boobs, man. I swear to god." Sam whipped the pillow off his face and sat up-right glaring. Dean blushed harder, frowning and embarrassed.
"Whatever." He hated Sam as a girl already.
"Whatever, you." Sam pulled the comforter over himself and twisted up into a tight cocoon. If Sam wasn't a girl, Dean would probably go lay down next to him and comfort him quietly by laying there as he watched tv. But Sam was a girl, and Dean had no idea what Sam would do.
*
When the pizza came, Sam refused to come out of the blankets. Dean ate and worried.
*
Sam didn't emerge from the comforter for hours. Dean just turned the lamp off and muted the t.v. He dropped off to sleep to an old western he didn't know the name of.
When he woke up, Sam was sitting Indian-style on the side of his own bed facing him.
"I dreamed about this." Sam said, quiet in the dark, whispering. It felt intimate, like so many other two a.m.s with just him and Sammy and the bad things and dad somewhere else.
"I figured." Dean repressed the urge to smack him in back of the head.
"I thought it was an actual dream." He paused, unfolded his legs and rubbed his eyes. "Because it's so fucked up. I mean, fucked up even for us."
Dean agreed with that. At first. The truth was he really had no ability to judge what was "normal" or "fucked up," and he had realized that a long time before.
"It's nothing weirder than killing ghosts for a living, man." Dean said, and he really meant it. Sam started laughing and fell over on his back.
"What? Why do you have to be an asshole about it? I'm serious." Dean always hated it when Sam was a dick when Dean was trying to be sincere. Sam had pretty much single-handedly killed Dean's ability to express his feelings.
"Oh, it's fucked up, even for us." He kept laughing. Dean really hated not being the psychic one for once. "God, how do these things even happen to us?"
Sam made a smug "I know something you don't face" rolling around on the bed, and Dean felt like Sam had just hit a literal, real button.
"Tell me!" Dean leaped out of the bed and pinned Sam with his weight-Sam on his stomach with his hands over his head, Dean with his chest against Sam's back-and Sam was a lot smaller, frailer, and Dean let up a little so that he wasn't bruising him.
Sam didn't say anything, didn't feint or wiggle or flip him. He just laid there. And that freaked Dean out more than the unfamiliar feel of Sam's body.
"Screw it," Dean rolled off and stomped into the bathroom to pee.
*
Sam had to wear pajamas because that was all they had that would fit him. "I need clothes," he sighed, watching Dean picking up his change off the dresser and pocketing it.
"Yeah, and? What do you want me to do about it?" Dean already knew the answer to that, but he was going to at least struggle a little.
"We need to go to the Goodwill and get me some new clothes, idiot." Sam sat up straight, and Dean's eyes naturally drifted to where the worn t-shirt fell against Sam's tits. When Sam sat like that, Dean could tell they were slightly up-turned and full at the bottom, and he actually checked himself, rubbing his eyelids and coughing.
"You are the lowest dog on the planet, Dean." Sam stood and dug in his bag for his flip-flops. Dean thought it was a great cosmic injustice that feminist man--SAM--woke up with tits.
"Dude, get some bulky sweaters and one of those bras that give you a uniboob." He fished his keys out of his pocket and brushed his palm against the leg of his jeans. He could almost feel the exact weight of Sam's breast in his hand.
God, yeah, Sam was right. He needed help.
"I know what you're thinking, jackass." Sam said from behind him, and Dean smiled to himself because he knew it wasn't because Sam was psychic, just that Sam knew Dean that well.
"They're up-turned, Sam, what the fuck do you want. Cover up!" Fucking with Sam was so easy sometimes; Dean laughed when Sam sighed heavily, annoyed as hell.
*
Dean flipped through the cassettes at the Goodwill as Sam trudged back and forth from the dressing room to the racks trying to figure out his size. No one even blinked an eye at Sam in his flip-flops and pajamas and no bra. Half the people at the Goodwill looked sketchier. Dean kept an eye on Sam out of his peripheral vision.
Dean found a Kansas tape and pocketed it. He was tired of waiting around so he stomped over to Sam's dressing room and cleared his throat. "You tried on every pair of pants in here."
"Dean, did I mention yet you're on my nerves?" Sam flipped back the curtain. He was wearing a pair of baggy jeans and a men's button up shirt over the ratty old t-shirt he'd already been wearing.
"So?" Dean gestured at the neatly hung clothes behind Sam. In the bright fluorescence of the Goodwill-meant to expose IV drug users shop-lifting two-dollar t-shirts and poor families scraping by the best they could-Sam was exposed as pixie cute with his up-turned nose and hair flying everywhere. Dean felt the extreme need to tuck Sam inside his jacket and keep him hidden from the danger lurking even in this unlikely location.
"You're not wearing a bra." Dean dropped his voice to its deepest reaches.
"I never planned on it." Sam shoved him out of the way, an armful of clothes clutched to his chest, and marched to the front of the store. Dean sighed.
Figured. Sam was always political. Damned hippy.
*
Sam bought naproxen sodium, a hot water bottle, and smaller flip-flops at the drugs store. They were really low on money, so Dean went without car wax and Armor All since Sam was more in need than the Impala.
When the guy ringing them up checked out Sam's tits, Dean opened his mouth to offer to feed him his spleen, but Sam beat him to it. "Do you have any idea what it's like to not be taken seriously as a human being because of a trick of fate?"
The guy hurried up with the ringing, shoving the stuff in the bag and keeping his eyes on the counter.
"Yeah!" Dean added, as threateningly as he could.
"Stop doing that, dude," Sam popped Dean under the chin with the heel of his hand.
"OW!" Dean brought his forearm up to block anymore blows.
"Don't threaten people for me. I'm going to beat your ass, dude." Sam paid the clerk and strolled off in a huff. He wasn't moving any faster than he ever did, and he had to hold his shoulders back to off-set the shift in his weight. Dean frowned at his back and rubbed his chin.
"Screw you, Sammy." He wasn't being any more protective than he ever was.
*
"We need to turn you back," Dean said, pulling his seatbelt on.
"There's a ritual that can do it, but we have to wait until the full moon," Sam tossed the bag from the drug store into the backseat after pulling out the bottle of pills.
Dean turned over the ignition. "The dreams?" There was an off-chance that Sam knew something that Dean didn't about weird body-jacking spells for some reason, but Dean seriously doubted it. Sam's expertise was in obscure demonology, not magic.
"No, Dean, I'm really into voodoo." Sam snapped. He was being bitchier than usual, which was a little difficult to even measure, but hey. Dean just snarled at him silently and turned the radio up.
He watched Sam lean on the door of the car watching Dean's hands on the steering wheel.
*
Sam wore pajamas and a tank top and flip-flops, and when they went out he layered on about six shirts and a hoodie and a jacket-just like always. He was just slightly shorter than Dean now, with hips that curved into plump thighs and those stupid boobs. Somehow he looked more like their dad than less. Dean was weirded out when he realized that.
"What?" Sam said, twenty-two years of accusation in one word.
Dean scowled and pounded down the cans he was lining up for target practice. "You just look more like dad is all, you ass." Dean shot him the bird.
Sam popped open the gun, looking into the breach. "Oh, yeah, I noticed that, too. It's the extra weight."
Dean nodded to himself. Yeah, that was probably it.
*
Sam still had nightmares. Dean still woke up to the pictures rattling on the walls and lights flashing on and off. Dean still reflexively got up and tucked himself around Sammy, folded them up together and whispered nonsense to him until the noise and light stopped. But when he did that four nights after Sam turned into a girl, Dean noticed that he could fit all the way around Sam in the way he used to before. Before. Dean pressed his face into Sam's hair, and he still smelled the same. He fell back asleep with his mind playing the "none of that ever happened" trick. Dean's dreams were about a life he never lived, no Cassie, no Stanford, no loss but mom.
*
Sam's Dionne Warwick lead them to Florence, Kentucky. It was spring time, and everything was getting green and smelling like wet earth. Sam had embarked on some kind of political campaign where he wore tank tops and no bra all the damned time and then bitched out anyone who dared notice his nipples and barely contained cleavage. No more ten shirts, no more hoodies, no more covered from chin to flip-flops.
At first Dean was embarrassed, mortified-it was his sister, dude, or so everyone thought. People would look at Dean like "hey, buddy, get your sister covered up, what kind of a brother are you, anyway?" In Dean's head no one thought Sam was his girlfriend, even though the guy at the Exxon had said, "Dude, your wife is hot." before Dean laid him out.
Sam pissed Dean off in the usual ways, though, for Dean to get too upset about Sam's low-slung jeans and the sudden alteration in his life-long body-consciousness. Dean decided to be amused. Of course Sammy would turn being a girl into a life lesson for everyone else.
Dean leaned against the car with his arms crossed over his chest, jacket off and laying in the backseat, feeling the sun on his face as he watched Sam duck his head and smile at the girl on the doorstep. The girl touched Sam's arm then her hair, and laughed a little too loud at Sam's feeble attempts at humor. Dean scratched the side of his nose and remembered that he did not hit girls.
When Sam climbed in the car, Dean cut him a hard look.
"What?" Sam held up a phone number with a sassy smile, dimpled and white teeth and his eyes greener than usual.
"That's low, man." Dean hit the gas, and Sam rocked in his seat.
"What?" Sam repeated, sounding hurt instead of angry.
"Leading on that lesbian like that." Dean wanted to use another word, but Sam would have coldcocked him for sure-every day with Sam was another day on Sesame Street, tolerance and understanding and let's all hug.
"Dean, she wasn't hitting on me, dude, she was just being girly." Sam sighed, and it was obvious he really believed that. But Dean had had some experience watching people hit on Sam, and he knew what it fucking looked like.
"You're an idiot, Sammy, she wanted to fuck your brains out," Dean flicked the radio on, universal signal for "shut the fuck up, Sam, before I unload a six pack of smackdown on you".
"Whatever, Dean, you're the most…over-protective jackass on the planet." Sam sighed and turned his face into the window. Dean really hated it when Sam self-edited in the middle of speaking; it made Dean stew over what he was really going to say.
*
Sam did girl things. Like taking too long in the shower.
"Seriously, dude, does it take longer to wash girl parts?" Dean lounged against the headboard of the bed with a bag of Cheetos in his lap and a can of beer in his hand.
Sam stood dripping on the carpet with a towel around his head and another barely covering him from chest to high on his thigh. He glared at Dean. Glared like he could rip Dean's skin off with his eyes. Actually, he probably could. Dean got invested in a loop wondering how they could practice that so that Sam could just flay bad guys alive. ZIP! No skin! Dean grinned.
"I'm having some personal issues, Dean, mind your own business," Sam gritted out, and Dean had forgotten all about the bathroom thing.
"You mean you're horny." Dean chomped on a Cheeto. "I'm actually sort of bitter, now that I've adjusted, that it's you with the pussy and tits, dude. You're a fucking loser. I could have worked that."
Sometimes Dean really didn't engage his brain when he talked. Like just then. Pretty much all Dean was thinking was "mmmmm, cheese and salt and beer and pussy yay! and tits yay!" and not at all about Sam being a rage-a-holic, emotionally disturbed prissy bitch.
Sam Jean Greyed him from across the room, just WHOOOOOOOOSH, and Dean bounced off the bed onto the floor with a SMACK. Cheetos flew around the room like shrapnel and beer shot up to the ceiling. The floor of the motel was a thin layer of grimy carpet over concrete, and Dean's cheek started to bruise immediately as the endorphin rush of "oh, no, PAIN!" wore off.
Sam stood over Dean, raging, but what was new--besides that not only would Sam shoot his brother in a rage, he would also bust out the physic smackdown without even pausing to let Dean backtrack and apologize. Dean worked his jaw back and forth and accidentally looked up Sam's towel. Seriously. It was an accident, because he was mainly mesmerized by the fact that Sam's unforgivably gorgeous legs were shaved.
"Wait, your legs are shaved." Dean hadn't learned any lesson from being body-slammed by an invisible fist.
"So? I was curious. Experimenting." Sam was still pissed off. He smelled like cheap lotion and the faint scent of bleach left by the overly hygienic laundry service.
Dean touched the side of his face and pulled his hand away.
"You're not bleeding," Sam reached down, his towel clutched in his other hand. The towel on his head slipped off, and Dean caught it, letting Sam pull him upright.
"Experimenting?" Dean said, and even as he did, it sounded so dirty and full of innuendo that he was ashamed of himself. He blushed feeling his ears heat up. Sam sighed, but it wasn't his annoyed sigh or his emotional sigh.
"Damn it, Dean, I was trying so hard here!" His voice cracked just a little, his fingers turned Dean's head, and Dean thought it was to look at the bruise coming up on his cheek, but Sam turned Dean's face down to the floor, averted, and grabbed Dean's hand, pressing it against the towel between Sam's legs.
"Don't look up," Sam grated out, always bossy, but Dean couldn't click over to annoyance because Sam pulled Dean down on the bed with him, Sam falling on his back and the towel brushed away by Sam's hand. Dean let Sam move his hand, felt Sam's legs open with one foot coming between Dean's sprawled legs. The weight of Sam's leg on the back of Dean's thigh became the focal point of Dean's desperate attempt to not feel the heat and slick skin under his fingers or hear Sam's sex-voice murmuring. Dean pressed his face into the mattress and let Sam use Dean's fingers to get himself off.
"Dean, you know what to do, right?" Sam twisted a little, pressed down with the leg over Dean's. "I know you know what to do, Dean." He lifted his hips, and Dean's fingers slid down. Dean's body wasn't fooled by Dean's attempts at internal subterfuge. His mouth watered and his dick throbbed and he was about to get a hip-flexor strain from not thrusting into the mattress.
Sam's voice dropped to a hissed whisper. "It's ok, I knew this would happen. It's ok, Dean, it's ok."
Sam's hand touched the skin exposed between Dean's t-shirt and jeans, rubbed at the skin, and Sam pressed up with his hips against Dean's trapped hand, and it was a little too much for someone trying to be a lot more virtuous they then really were. Dean rolled over and wedged his face between Sam's shoulder and chin, curled his middle finger against the hard flesh between Sam's legs calling to him and pulled at Sam's neck with his teeth.
Sam scratched at his bicep with ragged, bitten nails making noises that Dean knew he'd wish he had never heard later. Dean shoved his arm under Sam's shoulders so he could roll him a little towards him, just enough to get the towel undone with his teeth. Dean trailed his hand up from between Sam's legs slowly. He felt that the painful throb in his cheek was maybe a little bit of payment for getting to touch Sam's soft belly and the crease on the underside of his breast, the fold on his side above his hips when Sam curled around Dean rubbing against the denim of his jeans.
Dean rocked them back over so he could slide down a little and scrape the stubble on his cheek softly over Sam's nipples and listen to him laugh and gasp. Sam shoved at Dean's head and pulled his hair. The give of Sam's breast under his closed mouth made Dean's eyes drop closed. Sam's nipple against the end of Dean's tongue was the mystery of the universe and life after death, all the stuff that Dean lied about at dawn, pretended he'd never said to all the girls who were never this, who were never Sam.
Sam tasted bitter from the cheap lotion across his ribs and low on his belly. But in the one place that counted he was fireworks and Christmas and Dean tasted nothing but Sam. Dean worshiped Sam a little, crouched on his knees and having to keep his eyes locked shut for fear of giving too much away with his eyes. Dean fell in love with the bad shave job on the insides of Sam's thighs and the way Sam shifted away when Dean hit a place that felt too good. Dean felt himself slipping, slipping, like he did with every woman he got too close to, slipping into rapture and awe and something he knew was unhealthy.
He knew if Sam had been born a girl, Dean might have been a lot worse person than he turned out to be. He'd always known that, but when Sam came hard, arching off the bed and almost giving Dean a bloody nose with his pelvis, Dean knew it.
Dean touched his nose and his cheek and got up off the floor. Sam's eyes were closed, so he didn't see Dean's face, open and tormented and longing, before he bee-lined for the bathroom to get in the shower. He wasn't going to let Sam touch him. That Dean knew would be the end of any kind of control he pretended to have.
Sam was dressed and confrontational when Dean got out of the shower. He glared at Dean from under his wet bangs. "I can't help my biological impulses, Dean." He made it sound like the biological impulses were all Dean's fault, and Dean realized Sam actually did think that anyway, so he glared back and pointed at the beer and Cheetos everywhere.
"I'm not cleaning that up, Firestarter." He flopped onto his bed that smelled like woman and Sam, and pretended to be engrossed in the boring-ass documentary about wine Sam was watching.
*
Dean really couldn't tell Sam no, and he didn't lie about that.
When Sam pressed against him, all curves and giving everywhere, Dean rolled his head against the wall, which only made it easier for Sam to lick his neck. Sam scratched the inside of Dean's arm hard enough to hurt.
When Sam followed him into the deserted rest stop men's room and stood behind him, pressed again his back and shoved his hand right down Dean's jeans, Dean braced both arms on the wall and let Sam jack him off. Sam made more noise than Dean did.
When Sam bought condoms with his Snapple, Dean almost smacked the smug grin off the Rexall's clerk's fucking face. Sam glared the guy into submission.
When Dean wrapped around Sam after Sam knocked the television over with his mojo because of a nightmare, Sam turned over and the way he pressed his face into the crook of Dean's neck and his hand fell on Dean's thigh felt natural. Sam woke up and slid his hand from Dean's thigh to his dick and slid his mouth from Dean's neck to his mouth, and Dean knew this was it. Sam had been saving that, pressing his mouth open and wet with his tongue working over the grooves on Dean's mouth. He had been saving it for a special occasion, and Dean knew it because he knew Sam liked gestures and had a whole way of making the world fit together right with symbols and mile markers. Sam was in charge, like always, pulling Dean's pajamas down and barking out orders and pullingpullingpulling until Sam didn't end and Dean had a hard time remembering he was someone aside from Sam and all that Sam was giving and demanding. Sam's skin stuck to his and his mouth opened over his so that even their breath was one breath, fastened together with years and desperation and unsaid words and the way Sam bit his tongue in pain when Dean slid inside him.
Dean whispered, "Sam, Sammy, Sam," but he didn't have to, because there was nothing else but Sam; that was the only word he knew anymore.
Sam whispered, "Dean," but Dean didn't answer because he had no answer to anything but Sam.
At some point, it was over, but Dean only realized that when he woke up the next morning to the sound of the shower through the open bathroom door. Dean didn't flip back the sheet because he had enough experience with flaking and tightness to know the feeling of dried blood on his skin. He didn't let his brain kick in; he had a lot of experience with that, too.
*
Sam kept assaulting him, and Dean kept falling further and further down the never-ending well of the sort of soul-deep fear that had no name. Dean knew Sam would turn back, because Sam could do anything. Dean sort of saw Sam turing back as the end point in reality. Beyond that marker all was vast blankness, not even a void because a void implied the lack of something.
One afternoon, in Lake Charles, Louisiana, riding hard onto the apocalypse, Sam pulled up the strap on her tank top and said, "You know, the only thing that changed for me was not knowing how to work my parts right, Dean, not the thing where I wanted to sleep with you."
She smiled at him, dimples and forever and impossible promises.
Dean didn't know what to say to that. He didn't think what he had to say to that mattered, because Sam would get what she wanted, and Dean would keep silent about how he loved the feel of the curve of Sam's breast against his fingers or how he could feel the swell of her hip against his own even when it wasn't there.
"You'll get used to it," Sam said, the smile blipping away, because Dean had given too much away with his eyes again, obviously. "You got used to this."
Dean knew he'd miss the taste of Sam, the unique taste that was just Sam, secret and just for Dean, because he knew himself. Yeah, he would give Sam what he needed, but this Sam, this one bending down to get a stone out of her flip-flop with the perfect thighs and high wailing cries, was the one he was in love with. The other Sam was his brother.
*
(Um, House? Craziest show of all time. WEISS! *omg, dies over and over again and wants to snuggle him in a way that betrays my evil*)
Thank you for filling out the poll, people! But I just did what I wanted anyway. Like usual. However, your answers will help an army of SPN fic writers in the future.
With apologies to Brenda. Next up: Chris Kane fucks wimmin (a lot and well)!
Warning: Perversion.
This is totally dedicated to Lenore who wrote the first one of these I read in SPN fandom, launching my insane fangirling of her.
Beta and discussion by unholyglee
How Am I Gonna Keep Myself Away From Me
Dean dealt with Sam suddenly being psychic, him abandoning the family and the family business, and their mother's ghost being more interested in Sam than him. But there were limits, man.
"What the ever-loving hell?" Dean sat up slowly, thinking that if he limited his movements it might make the insanity go away. Like a snake. Or Sam catching him jacking off.
"What?" Sam said.
What the girl who had to be Sam said. Now, if Dean hadn't watched Sam walk into the motel bathroom with a window so small that Sam's fat head couldn't have even fit through it, he would have thought someone who happened to look that much like Sam had snuck into the room. But the moles were the same, the hair was the same, the clothes were the same-and Sam the girl was standing there holding the front of his jeans together with his hand.
"What?" Sam said again.
"What?" Dean answered back.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Sam's voice raised with every word, his enunciation the same but the timbre much higher.
"What the hell's wrong with me?" Dean pointed at Sam. "What the hell's wrong with you?" He slid off the bed, alert, feeling the knife slip right into the palm of his hand-worn, smooth, natural.
"So, you're going to stab me now? That's fucking great." Sam blew his bangs out of his face and fiddled with his jeans, which were too long by far and didn't fit him in the hips.
"You're a girl, Sam." Dean sometimes couldn't help those obvious statements that tripped out of his mouth.
Sam rolled his eyes and made a gesture with his arm flopping all around. The look and gesture were very familiar. "Well, duh, since I was born that way."
Dean blinked rapidly, his brain completely broken. Sam opened his eyes wide and bobbed his, her, head towards him meaning "you're so stupid, god!". "You what again?" Dean cocked his head to the side.
"Was born that way." Sam bit off each word like he was speaking to a head-wound victim.
"You what?" Dean said. He had nothing. He dropped the knife and screwed his face up, frowning. "Wait, did something happen to me?" He was really confused.
"You're seriously dumb, Dean, I'm fucking with you." Sam slapped his/her leg and tugged on her/his jeans. "I guess that girl wasn't kidding about the curse. Figures that some girl you dicked over would whammy me and not you. Typical." Sam huffed back into the bathroom. "I'm short! I hate you, Dean."
"What?" Dean still was not processing what the hell was going on.
"I want pizza for dinner, goddamn it, and you better not argue. I'm pissed off!" Sam called from the bathroom. "I'm going to kick your ass, Dean. My belly aches. I swear to god, Dean, if I get my period I'm going to castrate you."
Sam kept rattling on in a similar vein, but Dean turned his ears off and let it blend in with the sound of the heater coughing and lamp buzzing. He fell back on the bed and squeezed his eyes closed really hard hoping that when he opened them again life would be back to normal.
That didn't work, but that wasn't because it never did in Dean's experience.
*
Sam ate about half a bottle of ibuprofen and glared at the television as they waited on the pizza.
"I really hate you," he whined.
Dean was so conflicted his conflict had confusion growing out of it. He felt guilty for Sam getting punished for something that Dean had done, but he also didn't want to lose his dick--Sam didn't use his anyway. Dean couldn't stand to see Sam in pain, but he didn't really want to talk about that stuff. But he realized he would if Sam needed him to. But he really didn't want to.
"Does it hurt…a lot?" Dean raised his eyebrows and tried to show he was really concerned. As much as he was willing to show he was concerned.
"What do you care? Shut up." Sam rolled around on the bed clutching his belly. He was wearing a pair of Dean's pajama bottoms and an old t-shirt of his own that had holes in the neck.
Dean frowned. "Look, Sam, I'm trying to be as reasonable about this as possible. You're a girl, dude, what the hell do you expect me to do?"
"Shut up." Sam pulled a pillow away from the headboard and pressed it over his face.
"Fine!" Dean turned the television to Unsolved Mysteries.
"Oh god, I don't think it's my period, I think it's ovulation." Sam moaned. Dean blushed at the word and glared at Sam's hidden face. Then he stared a little at Sam's tits because Sam couldn't tell he was anyway.
"You better not be looking at my boobs, man. I swear to god." Sam whipped the pillow off his face and sat up-right glaring. Dean blushed harder, frowning and embarrassed.
"Whatever." He hated Sam as a girl already.
"Whatever, you." Sam pulled the comforter over himself and twisted up into a tight cocoon. If Sam wasn't a girl, Dean would probably go lay down next to him and comfort him quietly by laying there as he watched tv. But Sam was a girl, and Dean had no idea what Sam would do.
*
When the pizza came, Sam refused to come out of the blankets. Dean ate and worried.
*
Sam didn't emerge from the comforter for hours. Dean just turned the lamp off and muted the t.v. He dropped off to sleep to an old western he didn't know the name of.
When he woke up, Sam was sitting Indian-style on the side of his own bed facing him.
"I dreamed about this." Sam said, quiet in the dark, whispering. It felt intimate, like so many other two a.m.s with just him and Sammy and the bad things and dad somewhere else.
"I figured." Dean repressed the urge to smack him in back of the head.
"I thought it was an actual dream." He paused, unfolded his legs and rubbed his eyes. "Because it's so fucked up. I mean, fucked up even for us."
Dean agreed with that. At first. The truth was he really had no ability to judge what was "normal" or "fucked up," and he had realized that a long time before.
"It's nothing weirder than killing ghosts for a living, man." Dean said, and he really meant it. Sam started laughing and fell over on his back.
"What? Why do you have to be an asshole about it? I'm serious." Dean always hated it when Sam was a dick when Dean was trying to be sincere. Sam had pretty much single-handedly killed Dean's ability to express his feelings.
"Oh, it's fucked up, even for us." He kept laughing. Dean really hated not being the psychic one for once. "God, how do these things even happen to us?"
Sam made a smug "I know something you don't face" rolling around on the bed, and Dean felt like Sam had just hit a literal, real button.
"Tell me!" Dean leaped out of the bed and pinned Sam with his weight-Sam on his stomach with his hands over his head, Dean with his chest against Sam's back-and Sam was a lot smaller, frailer, and Dean let up a little so that he wasn't bruising him.
Sam didn't say anything, didn't feint or wiggle or flip him. He just laid there. And that freaked Dean out more than the unfamiliar feel of Sam's body.
"Screw it," Dean rolled off and stomped into the bathroom to pee.
*
Sam had to wear pajamas because that was all they had that would fit him. "I need clothes," he sighed, watching Dean picking up his change off the dresser and pocketing it.
"Yeah, and? What do you want me to do about it?" Dean already knew the answer to that, but he was going to at least struggle a little.
"We need to go to the Goodwill and get me some new clothes, idiot." Sam sat up straight, and Dean's eyes naturally drifted to where the worn t-shirt fell against Sam's tits. When Sam sat like that, Dean could tell they were slightly up-turned and full at the bottom, and he actually checked himself, rubbing his eyelids and coughing.
"You are the lowest dog on the planet, Dean." Sam stood and dug in his bag for his flip-flops. Dean thought it was a great cosmic injustice that feminist man--SAM--woke up with tits.
"Dude, get some bulky sweaters and one of those bras that give you a uniboob." He fished his keys out of his pocket and brushed his palm against the leg of his jeans. He could almost feel the exact weight of Sam's breast in his hand.
God, yeah, Sam was right. He needed help.
"I know what you're thinking, jackass." Sam said from behind him, and Dean smiled to himself because he knew it wasn't because Sam was psychic, just that Sam knew Dean that well.
"They're up-turned, Sam, what the fuck do you want. Cover up!" Fucking with Sam was so easy sometimes; Dean laughed when Sam sighed heavily, annoyed as hell.
*
Dean flipped through the cassettes at the Goodwill as Sam trudged back and forth from the dressing room to the racks trying to figure out his size. No one even blinked an eye at Sam in his flip-flops and pajamas and no bra. Half the people at the Goodwill looked sketchier. Dean kept an eye on Sam out of his peripheral vision.
Dean found a Kansas tape and pocketed it. He was tired of waiting around so he stomped over to Sam's dressing room and cleared his throat. "You tried on every pair of pants in here."
"Dean, did I mention yet you're on my nerves?" Sam flipped back the curtain. He was wearing a pair of baggy jeans and a men's button up shirt over the ratty old t-shirt he'd already been wearing.
"So?" Dean gestured at the neatly hung clothes behind Sam. In the bright fluorescence of the Goodwill-meant to expose IV drug users shop-lifting two-dollar t-shirts and poor families scraping by the best they could-Sam was exposed as pixie cute with his up-turned nose and hair flying everywhere. Dean felt the extreme need to tuck Sam inside his jacket and keep him hidden from the danger lurking even in this unlikely location.
"You're not wearing a bra." Dean dropped his voice to its deepest reaches.
"I never planned on it." Sam shoved him out of the way, an armful of clothes clutched to his chest, and marched to the front of the store. Dean sighed.
Figured. Sam was always political. Damned hippy.
*
Sam bought naproxen sodium, a hot water bottle, and smaller flip-flops at the drugs store. They were really low on money, so Dean went without car wax and Armor All since Sam was more in need than the Impala.
When the guy ringing them up checked out Sam's tits, Dean opened his mouth to offer to feed him his spleen, but Sam beat him to it. "Do you have any idea what it's like to not be taken seriously as a human being because of a trick of fate?"
The guy hurried up with the ringing, shoving the stuff in the bag and keeping his eyes on the counter.
"Yeah!" Dean added, as threateningly as he could.
"Stop doing that, dude," Sam popped Dean under the chin with the heel of his hand.
"OW!" Dean brought his forearm up to block anymore blows.
"Don't threaten people for me. I'm going to beat your ass, dude." Sam paid the clerk and strolled off in a huff. He wasn't moving any faster than he ever did, and he had to hold his shoulders back to off-set the shift in his weight. Dean frowned at his back and rubbed his chin.
"Screw you, Sammy." He wasn't being any more protective than he ever was.
*
"We need to turn you back," Dean said, pulling his seatbelt on.
"There's a ritual that can do it, but we have to wait until the full moon," Sam tossed the bag from the drug store into the backseat after pulling out the bottle of pills.
Dean turned over the ignition. "The dreams?" There was an off-chance that Sam knew something that Dean didn't about weird body-jacking spells for some reason, but Dean seriously doubted it. Sam's expertise was in obscure demonology, not magic.
"No, Dean, I'm really into voodoo." Sam snapped. He was being bitchier than usual, which was a little difficult to even measure, but hey. Dean just snarled at him silently and turned the radio up.
He watched Sam lean on the door of the car watching Dean's hands on the steering wheel.
*
Sam wore pajamas and a tank top and flip-flops, and when they went out he layered on about six shirts and a hoodie and a jacket-just like always. He was just slightly shorter than Dean now, with hips that curved into plump thighs and those stupid boobs. Somehow he looked more like their dad than less. Dean was weirded out when he realized that.
"What?" Sam said, twenty-two years of accusation in one word.
Dean scowled and pounded down the cans he was lining up for target practice. "You just look more like dad is all, you ass." Dean shot him the bird.
Sam popped open the gun, looking into the breach. "Oh, yeah, I noticed that, too. It's the extra weight."
Dean nodded to himself. Yeah, that was probably it.
*
Sam still had nightmares. Dean still woke up to the pictures rattling on the walls and lights flashing on and off. Dean still reflexively got up and tucked himself around Sammy, folded them up together and whispered nonsense to him until the noise and light stopped. But when he did that four nights after Sam turned into a girl, Dean noticed that he could fit all the way around Sam in the way he used to before. Before. Dean pressed his face into Sam's hair, and he still smelled the same. He fell back asleep with his mind playing the "none of that ever happened" trick. Dean's dreams were about a life he never lived, no Cassie, no Stanford, no loss but mom.
*
Sam's Dionne Warwick lead them to Florence, Kentucky. It was spring time, and everything was getting green and smelling like wet earth. Sam had embarked on some kind of political campaign where he wore tank tops and no bra all the damned time and then bitched out anyone who dared notice his nipples and barely contained cleavage. No more ten shirts, no more hoodies, no more covered from chin to flip-flops.
At first Dean was embarrassed, mortified-it was his sister, dude, or so everyone thought. People would look at Dean like "hey, buddy, get your sister covered up, what kind of a brother are you, anyway?" In Dean's head no one thought Sam was his girlfriend, even though the guy at the Exxon had said, "Dude, your wife is hot." before Dean laid him out.
Sam pissed Dean off in the usual ways, though, for Dean to get too upset about Sam's low-slung jeans and the sudden alteration in his life-long body-consciousness. Dean decided to be amused. Of course Sammy would turn being a girl into a life lesson for everyone else.
Dean leaned against the car with his arms crossed over his chest, jacket off and laying in the backseat, feeling the sun on his face as he watched Sam duck his head and smile at the girl on the doorstep. The girl touched Sam's arm then her hair, and laughed a little too loud at Sam's feeble attempts at humor. Dean scratched the side of his nose and remembered that he did not hit girls.
When Sam climbed in the car, Dean cut him a hard look.
"What?" Sam held up a phone number with a sassy smile, dimpled and white teeth and his eyes greener than usual.
"That's low, man." Dean hit the gas, and Sam rocked in his seat.
"What?" Sam repeated, sounding hurt instead of angry.
"Leading on that lesbian like that." Dean wanted to use another word, but Sam would have coldcocked him for sure-every day with Sam was another day on Sesame Street, tolerance and understanding and let's all hug.
"Dean, she wasn't hitting on me, dude, she was just being girly." Sam sighed, and it was obvious he really believed that. But Dean had had some experience watching people hit on Sam, and he knew what it fucking looked like.
"You're an idiot, Sammy, she wanted to fuck your brains out," Dean flicked the radio on, universal signal for "shut the fuck up, Sam, before I unload a six pack of smackdown on you".
"Whatever, Dean, you're the most…over-protective jackass on the planet." Sam sighed and turned his face into the window. Dean really hated it when Sam self-edited in the middle of speaking; it made Dean stew over what he was really going to say.
*
Sam did girl things. Like taking too long in the shower.
"Seriously, dude, does it take longer to wash girl parts?" Dean lounged against the headboard of the bed with a bag of Cheetos in his lap and a can of beer in his hand.
Sam stood dripping on the carpet with a towel around his head and another barely covering him from chest to high on his thigh. He glared at Dean. Glared like he could rip Dean's skin off with his eyes. Actually, he probably could. Dean got invested in a loop wondering how they could practice that so that Sam could just flay bad guys alive. ZIP! No skin! Dean grinned.
"I'm having some personal issues, Dean, mind your own business," Sam gritted out, and Dean had forgotten all about the bathroom thing.
"You mean you're horny." Dean chomped on a Cheeto. "I'm actually sort of bitter, now that I've adjusted, that it's you with the pussy and tits, dude. You're a fucking loser. I could have worked that."
Sometimes Dean really didn't engage his brain when he talked. Like just then. Pretty much all Dean was thinking was "mmmmm, cheese and salt and beer and pussy yay! and tits yay!" and not at all about Sam being a rage-a-holic, emotionally disturbed prissy bitch.
Sam Jean Greyed him from across the room, just WHOOOOOOOOSH, and Dean bounced off the bed onto the floor with a SMACK. Cheetos flew around the room like shrapnel and beer shot up to the ceiling. The floor of the motel was a thin layer of grimy carpet over concrete, and Dean's cheek started to bruise immediately as the endorphin rush of "oh, no, PAIN!" wore off.
Sam stood over Dean, raging, but what was new--besides that not only would Sam shoot his brother in a rage, he would also bust out the physic smackdown without even pausing to let Dean backtrack and apologize. Dean worked his jaw back and forth and accidentally looked up Sam's towel. Seriously. It was an accident, because he was mainly mesmerized by the fact that Sam's unforgivably gorgeous legs were shaved.
"Wait, your legs are shaved." Dean hadn't learned any lesson from being body-slammed by an invisible fist.
"So? I was curious. Experimenting." Sam was still pissed off. He smelled like cheap lotion and the faint scent of bleach left by the overly hygienic laundry service.
Dean touched the side of his face and pulled his hand away.
"You're not bleeding," Sam reached down, his towel clutched in his other hand. The towel on his head slipped off, and Dean caught it, letting Sam pull him upright.
"Experimenting?" Dean said, and even as he did, it sounded so dirty and full of innuendo that he was ashamed of himself. He blushed feeling his ears heat up. Sam sighed, but it wasn't his annoyed sigh or his emotional sigh.
"Damn it, Dean, I was trying so hard here!" His voice cracked just a little, his fingers turned Dean's head, and Dean thought it was to look at the bruise coming up on his cheek, but Sam turned Dean's face down to the floor, averted, and grabbed Dean's hand, pressing it against the towel between Sam's legs.
"Don't look up," Sam grated out, always bossy, but Dean couldn't click over to annoyance because Sam pulled Dean down on the bed with him, Sam falling on his back and the towel brushed away by Sam's hand. Dean let Sam move his hand, felt Sam's legs open with one foot coming between Dean's sprawled legs. The weight of Sam's leg on the back of Dean's thigh became the focal point of Dean's desperate attempt to not feel the heat and slick skin under his fingers or hear Sam's sex-voice murmuring. Dean pressed his face into the mattress and let Sam use Dean's fingers to get himself off.
"Dean, you know what to do, right?" Sam twisted a little, pressed down with the leg over Dean's. "I know you know what to do, Dean." He lifted his hips, and Dean's fingers slid down. Dean's body wasn't fooled by Dean's attempts at internal subterfuge. His mouth watered and his dick throbbed and he was about to get a hip-flexor strain from not thrusting into the mattress.
Sam's voice dropped to a hissed whisper. "It's ok, I knew this would happen. It's ok, Dean, it's ok."
Sam's hand touched the skin exposed between Dean's t-shirt and jeans, rubbed at the skin, and Sam pressed up with his hips against Dean's trapped hand, and it was a little too much for someone trying to be a lot more virtuous they then really were. Dean rolled over and wedged his face between Sam's shoulder and chin, curled his middle finger against the hard flesh between Sam's legs calling to him and pulled at Sam's neck with his teeth.
Sam scratched at his bicep with ragged, bitten nails making noises that Dean knew he'd wish he had never heard later. Dean shoved his arm under Sam's shoulders so he could roll him a little towards him, just enough to get the towel undone with his teeth. Dean trailed his hand up from between Sam's legs slowly. He felt that the painful throb in his cheek was maybe a little bit of payment for getting to touch Sam's soft belly and the crease on the underside of his breast, the fold on his side above his hips when Sam curled around Dean rubbing against the denim of his jeans.
Dean rocked them back over so he could slide down a little and scrape the stubble on his cheek softly over Sam's nipples and listen to him laugh and gasp. Sam shoved at Dean's head and pulled his hair. The give of Sam's breast under his closed mouth made Dean's eyes drop closed. Sam's nipple against the end of Dean's tongue was the mystery of the universe and life after death, all the stuff that Dean lied about at dawn, pretended he'd never said to all the girls who were never this, who were never Sam.
Sam tasted bitter from the cheap lotion across his ribs and low on his belly. But in the one place that counted he was fireworks and Christmas and Dean tasted nothing but Sam. Dean worshiped Sam a little, crouched on his knees and having to keep his eyes locked shut for fear of giving too much away with his eyes. Dean fell in love with the bad shave job on the insides of Sam's thighs and the way Sam shifted away when Dean hit a place that felt too good. Dean felt himself slipping, slipping, like he did with every woman he got too close to, slipping into rapture and awe and something he knew was unhealthy.
He knew if Sam had been born a girl, Dean might have been a lot worse person than he turned out to be. He'd always known that, but when Sam came hard, arching off the bed and almost giving Dean a bloody nose with his pelvis, Dean knew it.
Dean touched his nose and his cheek and got up off the floor. Sam's eyes were closed, so he didn't see Dean's face, open and tormented and longing, before he bee-lined for the bathroom to get in the shower. He wasn't going to let Sam touch him. That Dean knew would be the end of any kind of control he pretended to have.
Sam was dressed and confrontational when Dean got out of the shower. He glared at Dean from under his wet bangs. "I can't help my biological impulses, Dean." He made it sound like the biological impulses were all Dean's fault, and Dean realized Sam actually did think that anyway, so he glared back and pointed at the beer and Cheetos everywhere.
"I'm not cleaning that up, Firestarter." He flopped onto his bed that smelled like woman and Sam, and pretended to be engrossed in the boring-ass documentary about wine Sam was watching.
*
Dean really couldn't tell Sam no, and he didn't lie about that.
When Sam pressed against him, all curves and giving everywhere, Dean rolled his head against the wall, which only made it easier for Sam to lick his neck. Sam scratched the inside of Dean's arm hard enough to hurt.
When Sam followed him into the deserted rest stop men's room and stood behind him, pressed again his back and shoved his hand right down Dean's jeans, Dean braced both arms on the wall and let Sam jack him off. Sam made more noise than Dean did.
When Sam bought condoms with his Snapple, Dean almost smacked the smug grin off the Rexall's clerk's fucking face. Sam glared the guy into submission.
When Dean wrapped around Sam after Sam knocked the television over with his mojo because of a nightmare, Sam turned over and the way he pressed his face into the crook of Dean's neck and his hand fell on Dean's thigh felt natural. Sam woke up and slid his hand from Dean's thigh to his dick and slid his mouth from Dean's neck to his mouth, and Dean knew this was it. Sam had been saving that, pressing his mouth open and wet with his tongue working over the grooves on Dean's mouth. He had been saving it for a special occasion, and Dean knew it because he knew Sam liked gestures and had a whole way of making the world fit together right with symbols and mile markers. Sam was in charge, like always, pulling Dean's pajamas down and barking out orders and pullingpullingpulling until Sam didn't end and Dean had a hard time remembering he was someone aside from Sam and all that Sam was giving and demanding. Sam's skin stuck to his and his mouth opened over his so that even their breath was one breath, fastened together with years and desperation and unsaid words and the way Sam bit his tongue in pain when Dean slid inside him.
Dean whispered, "Sam, Sammy, Sam," but he didn't have to, because there was nothing else but Sam; that was the only word he knew anymore.
Sam whispered, "Dean," but Dean didn't answer because he had no answer to anything but Sam.
At some point, it was over, but Dean only realized that when he woke up the next morning to the sound of the shower through the open bathroom door. Dean didn't flip back the sheet because he had enough experience with flaking and tightness to know the feeling of dried blood on his skin. He didn't let his brain kick in; he had a lot of experience with that, too.
*
Sam kept assaulting him, and Dean kept falling further and further down the never-ending well of the sort of soul-deep fear that had no name. Dean knew Sam would turn back, because Sam could do anything. Dean sort of saw Sam turing back as the end point in reality. Beyond that marker all was vast blankness, not even a void because a void implied the lack of something.
One afternoon, in Lake Charles, Louisiana, riding hard onto the apocalypse, Sam pulled up the strap on her tank top and said, "You know, the only thing that changed for me was not knowing how to work my parts right, Dean, not the thing where I wanted to sleep with you."
She smiled at him, dimples and forever and impossible promises.
Dean didn't know what to say to that. He didn't think what he had to say to that mattered, because Sam would get what she wanted, and Dean would keep silent about how he loved the feel of the curve of Sam's breast against his fingers or how he could feel the swell of her hip against his own even when it wasn't there.
"You'll get used to it," Sam said, the smile blipping away, because Dean had given too much away with his eyes again, obviously. "You got used to this."
Dean knew he'd miss the taste of Sam, the unique taste that was just Sam, secret and just for Dean, because he knew himself. Yeah, he would give Sam what he needed, but this Sam, this one bending down to get a stone out of her flip-flop with the perfect thighs and high wailing cries, was the one he was in love with. The other Sam was his brother.
*