Fic: 'Starring Dean Winchester As The Other White Meat' (Sam/Dean, R, 1/2)
Title: Starring Dean Winchester As The Other White Meat
Author: Ignited
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Word Count: 14,773
Spoilers: General S2, set after Playthings
Warnings: Sexual content, language, animal transformation, and crack. No beastiality, promise.
Summary: Funnily enough, there isn’t any pie or vengeful witches or waitresses or Sam eating veggies (and whole wheat, what the fuck?) or demonic pregnancies or bodily fluids involved in the unmaking of Dean Winchester. It’s the usual brand of weirdness when the boys are on a hunt, only this time Dean winds up as the other white meat - that is to say, a pig. Sam, unspoken fondness for Dean’s animal self, thinks karma’s got an awesome sense of humor.
Author’s Notes: Because fandom clichés and crack fueled this idea and if you’re gonna mess with Dean and throw transformations into the mix, you gotta go all the way. Massive thanks to regala_electra for the beta, handholding, and enabling.
Part One: Stirring Up The Dirt
“You know what the most fucked up part about this is?” Sam starts, voice rough, a low whisper, fingers clench and his whole body’s tense, too, ready to go off, split second and he’ll just-but he continues, leans against the doorframe, and says, “It’s the fact that I can’t get you out of my head even when you look like that.”
Actually, the most fucked up thing might be that Sam, being the Ginormitron that he is, gets his calves fucking head butted right after, but we’re not up to that part yet.
*
Funnily enough, there isn’t any pie or vengeful witches or waitresses or Sam eating veggies (and whole wheat, what the fuck?) or demonic pregnancies or bodily fluids involved in the unmaking of Dean Winchester.
It’d be too easy if there was.
*
It’s a Thursday when it begins. Sam slides into the booth, Dean leaning against the cool surface of the window, a pair of sunglasses on his face and his hair’s mussed and flat. His mouth’s half-open and he isn’t drooling, nope. He jerks and sits up straight with a snort when Sam hits his shoulder lightly, slouching back across from him again, Sam slumps low like that makes him less noticeable.
“You look like shit, Dean,” Sam says helpfully, his large hands tentatively encircling a big mug of coffee, ‘cause Sammy’s got sensitive fingers, the giant baby. Dean sneers back because dude, he’s looked a hell of a lot worse for wear. Right now he’s the best looking thing in the diner. And then he shifts his weight, sitting forward. Over the edge of his sunglasses he can see the mug of coffee Sam’s drinking, and his, too far to reach, black, no sugar. He wiggles two fingers, gestures towards himself and Sam pushes the cup over, rolling his eyes.
“Comes with the territory, Sam,” he says, sips the coffee. It’s too hot, Dean can feel it burning off a layer of his tongue (and he needs that tongue, the general population needs Dean’s tongue, Sam included in the census), and too goddamn early for Sam to give him the third degree, which doesn’t make any sense as he was there, too, “Don’t get pissy ‘cause you went to bed early, grandma. You missed out, man.”
“I’m sorry that my idea of a good time doesn’t include doing shots off of…” Sam trails off, frowning. “This is like déjà vu.”
“Yeah, it is,” Dean says, shuddering at the second sip of the liquid fire-brand coffee. Desperate times call for desperate measures and Dean sullies his black gold (okay, crap) with crumbly sugar from the chipped sugar container. “Same old story about how my brother’s a pussy.”
Sam’s throwing him a dark glare when he leans back, rubbing his hands down his thighs. Ignores Dean, Sam says, “Where’s the waitress? I’m starving.”
She comes a few moments later and it’s the same routine, with bonus leering over sunglasses this morning-Sam wants eggs and waffles, Dean wants eggs and waffles and pancakes and some sausages and maybe home fries. Huh, that’s kind of, uh, weird, Dean hadn’t felt that hungry before ordering, more hungover than anything else.
Ten minutes later-the joint’s practically empty, speedy service-they get their food.
“You gonna keep your glasses on?” Sam asks, swiping the syrup as Dean frowns, too slow to get it. He starts to eat his eggs though, cutting them up, then globbing forkfuls of the oil-drenched home fries in the runny yolk while Sam’s pouring syrup on his stack of pancakes from up high, like he’s done since he was five years old.
“Like ‘em?” Dean asks, mouth full, looking over the rims. He’d picked them up at a going out of business sale at some nickel and dime department store down the street-normally couldn’t care for cheap ones, always irritated the bridge of his nose and stupidly he’d told Sam about it once and Sam ragged how it’s ‘cause he’s so sensitive, the dicksmack-but these are Ray-Bans, like Cruise in Risky Business. Okay, so Tom Cruise’s totally a pussy but he got to fuck Rebecca DeMornay on a train. Dean’s gotta give him credit for that.
Sam shrugs. “They’re fine if it’s 1983 and I haven’t been born yet.”
“Lame, Sammy, lame,” Dean says, somewhat, ‘cause the food’s fucking delicious and he’s swirling the sausage, speared on a fork, in the pancake syrup on his plate in between large bites. The food’s a welcomed thing, slight hangover or not; there isn’t enough leftover liquor in his system to turn down an offering like this, and he swallows down bites here and there with large gulps.
Sam stares at him with this indecipherable look as Dean looks up through his sunglasses, grins.
He points at Sam’s half-eaten waffles. “You gonna eat that?”
*
The first sign is when Sam tries to spoon his brother.
This isn’t so much out of the ordinary-got less ordinary ‘round about five months ago, thanks to a used up med-kit, one bottle of whiskey, blood, everywhere, and one wasted motel room-as it is friggin’ weird, because uh, Dean’s not really into this position. Of course, he is, sometimes, but you know. Age rules, he’s laid out plainly, huffy look or not, and he’s not taking it up the ass tonight.
He groans and curls his lip, squirming. Sam breathes against the back and top of Dean’s head, wrapping an arm around his side and belly. He smacks his lips, all loud and sweat slicked skin rubs against Dean, the sheets clammy, Sam’s dick pressing up against Dean’s ass.
“Dean,” Sam starts, murmurs against the shell of his ear and it’s really fucking annoying when your brother tries to pull this cuddly shit just to fuck, ‘cause hey genius, already cockfirst into incest, Dean doesn’t need to be romanced into fucking-and then all of a sudden, Sam says, “Are you gaining weight?”
Dean exhales, like he’s been holding his breath, only he hasn’t-it’s a gasped sputter, his brow knit and nuzzling his face into the pillow. “You’re not getting my ass, dipshit.”
“I think you are,” Sam says accusingly, his voice rising a little like he’s still too tired to crow about it. But he moves his hand to rest on Dean’s belly, ignoring when Dean tries to whap it away with a sleepy hand. “I can feel it.”
“Yeah, and get used to feeling up your dick all you want ‘cause I’m not letting you near mine if you keep talking like that,” Dean whispers harshly, rolls his shoulder muscle and tries to push Sam away. “Maybe I am,” he says gruffly, you’ve got a problem with that? as an undercurrent.
Sam waits. Dean wishes he was the one spooning Sam as it’d be easier to smother him in his sleep. Or you know, that they weren’t spooning, like, there’s a reason he’s still ponying up for two beds even if Sam won’t take the fucking hint.
Dean doesn’t want to get into this now, so he murmurs something about stress, burying his face in the pillow. “Now quit hasslin’ me or your dick’s never coming near my ass again.”
*
The second sign’s a week after that, when Dean puts on a good thirty, forty pounds.
And puts on means like, overnight, all of a sudden he’s sliding into a chair next to Sam at the library, wearing one of Sam’s hoodies, all scruffy, his skin pale and sweaty. Even if he looks sick, it’s a great improvement over the past two days, which ran the gamut of all the five, ten, whatever steps for whatever problems. Denial, hiding, anger, and that’s not mentioning the yelling. He’s tried his hand at hiding it, lasts all of a few hours, Sam holds his hands palms out, tells him to calm down, that he’s overreacting (brief memory of flying, Dean freaking out and demonic possession), to which Dean starts groping himself, pinching any extra flesh, moaning, and generally acting like a five year old.
For three minutes. Then he wants sex.
Let it be known that Sam doesn’t give a rat’s ass if Dean puts some weight on or not -it’s the least of their problems in a life where their day (and night) jobs consist of life or death situations and saving people from things they shouldn’t have to know about, that Sam and Dean do. As long as they’re alive and well, and he’s there, it’s fine-something like this? Not important in the big scheme of things. Sam tells him just as much, though admittedly, he knows something bad is going on. Bad enough that they’re checking out this shitty library for clues in addition to the current case.
Without having sex. Again, not a question of appearance-Dean looks kind of the same, his face fuller, the extra weight distributed evenly but mostly concentrated in his belly-it’s that it’s hard to have sex when your partner looks like he might pass out from fever, his eyes half open.
“Dean-”
“It’s probably got something to do with that spirit we’re chasing,” he says almost dismissively, looks like he’d rather be having a cup of coffee then up in a near empty library at ten in the morning. Weird, too, as he’s scruffy when Sam swears he saw Dean shaving earlier.
Meanwhile, Sam’s removing a book from the stack near his arm, notebook and printouts with old, fuzzy pictures, photocopies of carvings laid out in front of him. “Or it could be an incubus.”
“Sam-”
“Like,” and he taps a pen repeatedly, already knowing Dean’s reaction to this theory, “laid its eggs and-”
“Sam, I am not fucking pregnant. You keep on that line of thinking and I’ll kick you right in the crotch. Besides,” Dean says flippantly, waving a hand (pale and pink, freckles blurring out and that’s weird), “it’s magic. It’ll go away like that.”
So they’re at stage number whatever: temporary acceptance until Dean can burn something. Great.
“It could be a displacement spell.”
Dean frowns, squirming in his seat, all restless. Huffs out, cheeks puffing out, reminding Sam of something, “What, like car keys?”
“No, you idiot. Like mass instead of spiritual energy. Remember that body jumper in New York? Displaced souls,” he says, shrugs and pushes a few strands of hair out of his eyes. He holds his hands out in front, like weighing something, one heavier than the other. “Displaced mass. Similar principles.”
“How can I forget that? You’re lucky I didn’t cut your hair.”
He’s a liar, Dean, who got enjoyment beyond belief being in Sam’s body, even if he’ll never admit it. Seemed to own it, at least he’d say so, and that’s another adventure Sam would like to put behind him for the moment. Instead, he just pinches the bridge of his nose, doesn’t care if frustration starts to creep into his voice. “All talk and no action.”
“My dick certainly got a lot of action,” Dean says, looks down pointedly at his crotch. “It’d like to thank you for doing a good job taking over the controls. Little less pressure next time.”
“Right, I forget how sensitive you can be. Anyway, Dean, this is… weird. It’s definitely magic, but what, I don’t know-” Sam really needs to assign levels of weird, like threat levels or something, a 1 to 10 basis. Right now, they’re at a troubling 7 with a likely forecast of getting knocked up to 8. Load up on rock salt and batten down the hatches.
“It ain’t eggs, Sam.”
“Uh huh,” Sam says, reaching over to stick his fingers under the hem of Dean’s shirt. Fingertips skim over the soft flesh of his belly, far less definition and no sign of anything inside like… Sam doesn’t want to use the ‘p’ word either, and so far, Dean’s right. No pregnancy, nothing moving, not that he can tell anyway. Now if it’s demonic, then, that’s a whole other story.
“I’ve seen enough horror movies that I’ll take a beer gut over a demonic baby, hands down, any friggin’ day of the week,” says Dean, yawning and leaning back in his chair, shirt slightly riding up over the paunch of his belly. He sits up straight and runs his fingers through his hair, ruffles it a little before licking his lips. “You find anything on that spirit? ‘Cause that thing’s still out there and we’re dealing with it first.”
“Looks like the murders started a few decades ago, now they’re happening again. There’s a local grocery store where we might get some answers-owners there are the oldest residents in these parts.”
The thing they’re hunting now is a spirit they think has some connection to the local farms around this small town-maybe a ghost of a dead farmer, or a protector spirit like that scarecrow a year ago. There’s been a few deaths, bodies found laid out in fields of grain, corn-Dean cracked a few jokes about crop circles-all with several vital organs removed. Local townspeople freaking out about a psychopath, like a crazy hitcher, though all signs point to spirit type due to the arrangement of organs and symbols burned into the ground surrounding the bodies. Sam’s got a line on the last known location where people might’ve prayed to the spirit, maybe set up some kind of shrine that hasn’t gone by the wayside, leaving this spirit to reappear and wreak havoc all over again years later.
It’s serious because the body count is rising, and rising or not, Dean will always put saving people’s lives first, especially his brother.
So Sam has to think of that, hard, when Dean starts his usual horndogging, eyeing the library assistant’s skirt (or lack thereof). Oh, sure, that’s normal, and so’s the displeased noise Dean makes when Sam cuffs him on the back of the head, pulling him up by the scruff of his scruffy neck, and out to leave the library.
*
Sam’s asking questions outside one of those mom and pop grocery stores, the kind with a porch and old tin signs that trendy hipsters buy and hang up like rustic Americana’s the kind of thing that glitzes up your den, but the actual place these signs originate, well, they ain’t gonna go there for a visit. Dean sits in the Impala and taps out a rhythm to a James Gang song blaring from the speakers. His eyes stray from Sam’s back to the direction across the street, out of the corner of his eye. Like he can’t help but look, restless, twitch of yearning and feeling horny as all hell.
“Looks like an old barn. A group of people used to meet there in the nineteen forties. Got the address,” Sam pipes up, suddenly leaning an arm against the edge of the driver’s seat window, peering down at Dean inside. By now Dean’s slurping a cherry slushie, hmm-ing in response and looking away from Sam, mouth pursed around the straw.
“I think one day we oughta try one of those mud spas,” Dean states. Sam’s vision slides over his brother and in the same direction he’s looking, an abandoned yard filled with junk, a pool of mud filled with flies square in the middle.
Sam stares at him again, his mouth going open and closed like a fish, brow getting all wrinkled too. “What?”
“You know. You just, like, soak, and man, think of it, Sammy. Throw in a couple of chicks in bikinis and get ‘em all messy. Mud wrestling. I’ll have me some of that.”
“…I don’t know you, sometimes.”
“Shut up, you kinky freak, I know you’re diggin’ it.” Dean bites his lip. The mud looks really cool. And enticing, girls or not. He starts to get up but Sam’s at the door and in the way.
Sam rolls his eyes and taps the edge of the open car door. “Move over. I’m driving.”
“The fuck?”
“You’re in no condition to drive,” Sam explains, and before Dean can say anything, he points a long finger in Dean’s face. “You’re being weirder than usual. Mud? This curse, or whatever it is, it’s affecting you.”
He opens the car door and grabs the slushie, tossing it in a nearby wastebasket to Dean’s dismay. Sam starts to shove Dean over. Thing is, Dean kind of complies-not like he has any choice, what with Sam being a pushy little bitch-and starts to shift his weight awkwardly into the passenger seat. Curses are a pain in the ass when they’re trying to hit you up with a case of whatever the fuck’s popular in hell this week. The extra weight’s not agreeing with him.
His jeans are painfully tight, not in the good hard-on kind of way any longer. Like the ‘trying to breathe’ way. One wrong stretch and they might go and rip. A damn shame, because he likes these jeans. Maybe he should’ve taken up Sam’s offer to borrow his sweats. Even if they were all old and two sizes too big-and that’s Sam for you, always covering up and wearing layers, sometimes baggy, to hide himself, his assets. The sweats are college era, and totally geeky. They’d fit, at least. Not like his t-shirt’s doing him any good either, tight and straining against his belly, his black canvas jacket mercifully covering him.
“Dude, what’re you-Come on,” Dean grouses, hunches a little and angles away when Sam accidentally elbows him in the arm. He sucks in a breath and unzips his jeans, turns around with an innocent look, hoping Sam didn’t see him. “I can still drive.”
“Dean, I’ll buy you the biggest steak on the menu at the next diner we come across if you let me drive,” Sam answers, starts the ignition.
He looks over at Dean, who’s mouth is set in a little ‘o,’ takes a second or two before he nods and asks, “The biggest?”
Sam nods. “Nothing but.”
“Okay,” he says, relents, his stomach growling in agreement.
It’s a few minutes after that, when they’re at a stoplight, that Dean moans and leans back in his seat, wiping a hand over his face. Yeah, something’s up. Food over taking control of the Impala. The car should be first pick as long as the sky’s blue and the world keeps spinning. Meaning, forever, and whatever way he organizes his morals or system of code, the car usually takes precedence nine and a half times out of ten over food. “…You sneaky bastard.”
“That’s me,” Sam replies, tightens his grip on the steering wheel.
“We’re getting that steak and we’re getting that damn spirit. Then you’re gonna figure out what’s wrong with me after we fuck.”
“Dean,” Sam starts to say, tone of warning before Dean cuts him off. “Last time I checked, I’m still a handsome devil and I want sex. You got a problem with that?”
Sam shakes his head. “Of course not,” the way he says it, it’s all solemn and sincere, puppy dog eyes, just on the verge of a conversation involving feelings and that three letter phrase he’s not in the mood to deal with right now. Sam though, follows this with a smile, the kind that’s spreads all slow, his eyes half-lidded, voice rough. Eyes looking Dean down, then slowly, slower, up. “You’re gorgeous.”
“Damn straight.”
“And pretty.”
“Sam-”
“We can buy you some makeup, rouge and lipstick and an eyelash curler, not like you need it-”
“Asshole.”
*
Sam thinks this would be hilarious any other time besides than this week.
The confrontation’s short, shorter than the trip to the old barn at the address Sam received-abandoned, moldy, cobwebs covering the shrine right in the center of a big loft filled to the brim with junk. Old furniture, cardboard boxes, garage sale type stuff. Point is, once they find the shrine they commence with burning it-Dean does, lights up a whole book of matches, smirks even. And like clockwork, the spirit appears, a mix between a scarecrow, a farmer, and something sinister, patchwork eyes and a ragged maw filled with pitchfork teeth. Just the same, Sam and Dean are prepared, Dean using rock salt rounds while Sam recites a few incantations in Latin.
The thing’s dead then, bright flash of light, tang of ozone and ash dusts the wooden floorboards. Dean’s eyes are screwed shut, mouth pursing like he’s swallowed something sour.
“Did it work?”
Sam comes over to him, takes stock of the hoodie and the sweats Dean begrudgingly accepted, does a little three-sixty around him before he stops near in front, grabbing Dean’s side, pushing away his open jacket. “Nope, you still have lovehandles.”
“I’m gonna cut off all your hair when you’re sleeping,” Dean tells him, bats away a hand ineffectually. “Bitch.”
When they get back to the motel, it’s just the same way they-more like Dean-left it: a hurricane zone. All his stuff’s strewn around his queen-sized bed, and he plops down on it, scratches at his stubble with a loud yawn.
“Didn’t you just shave this morning?”
“Yeah.”
“It grew back.”
“That’s what a man’s face tends to do, Sammy. I’m sorry your body’s concentrating all growing power to your legs rather than your scrawny ass beard,” Dean says, tinge of amazing slow burn touching his face when he looks up, almost makes it easy to ignore the sweat and scruff.
“No, it’s like… A lot, Dean. Go look.”
And he’s right, because it looks like he hasn’t shaved in a week.
“Shit.”
*
Dean’s thinking Sam may be onto something when he sighs and sits down in the bedside chair gingerly, tired and sore in all the wrong places. Apparently it takes his body to go out of whack for Sam to decide they should be researching rather than occupying themselves with sex the night before, but Dean doesn’t give two shits about Sam’s need to freaking ruin the moment when they get back and Sam’s on a few hours of sleep, ‘thinking of Dean’ rather than himself (or, you know, Dean’s needs, which consist entirely of sex. And maybe food. Shit, maybe he’s right; he’s admittedly hornier than usual. Uh.)
Or it could be that he’s pregnant.
Please, god, no, comes the thought, pulling his too-tight shirt on over his head. It’s mid-afternoon and they’ve-okay, so he’s slept just ‘til noon. Now Sam’s in the bathroom taking forever, probably fixing his long tresses or whatever you call it-Dean had him go out to grab lunch, and Sam’s finally stopped his moaning from the bathroom about “lugging all that crap” back to the motel.
Maybe yeah, Dean is feeling sore, he’s feeling sweaty, tired, and just shitty, but there’s a positive point-mixed in, somehow-in that he got some sex out of Sam, albeit shorter than usual-taking out a spirit, few hours of sleep, not the way you look dumbass, he’d said-but it’s something to tide him over. (Something good. Real good. Felt freaking awesome until Sam said three times was enough and started snoring because he’s an asshole.)
“Maybe it was something you ate,” Sam says when he comes out, Dean glaring at the smooth and perfect-Jesus, stop thinkin’ man-state of his brother, all taut muscle, smooth, flat belly, and Dean’s jeans are gonna give today, count on it.
“Maybe I’m gonna punch you in the face if you don’t stop giving me shit about my eating habits,” Dean cautions him, puts a hand on his thigh and looks up at Sam. “You eat as much as I do. More.”
Sam shrugs. “Yeah, but it’s not like I make a big deal out of it.”
It’s true-Sam’s like six-four, six-five, six thousand feet tall or so, gotta pack away a lot of food understandably, only he doesn’t get as much of a kick out of it as Dean does. They’re Winchester men, manly, give ‘em all the meat and hearty food they can handle-even Sam here, looks a hell of a lot better a year out of college than he did when Dean swung by, got some meat on his bones and doesn’t look so scrawny anymore.
He starts pulling a shirt on, already in jeans and boots, saying, “Or it could be one of your one night stands.”
Dean rubs the back of his neck, winces. “Unlike you, I make sure to leave the ladies satisfied. It’s called multiple orgasms, Sammy. Look it up.”
Ignoring Dean, he continues, “Could be a time released curse.”
Dean rolls his eyes, wiping his face. “This is fucking stupid.”
“Well, we’ve got to explore all avenues. Otherwise…” Sam sits down on the edge of his bed, hunches forward, elbows on knees. “I think… your body’s changing. Slowly. Into what, I don’t know.”
“Into? Whoa, wait a minute. Like… into, we talkin’ something freaky? Like The Fly? Goldblum, not Price, though either one - no. No fucking way.”
“No. More like, um, I don’t know. Maybe some kind of animal.”
“What?”
“The mud thing, earlier. Your beard. Dean, you were checking out the freaking dumpster when we left that diner yesterday.”
Dean frowns, and he makes a face, his eyes widening in annoyance. “I was hungry!”
“For dumpster food?”
“It’s all goin’ to the same place, Sam,” Dean points out and if his body chooses this moment to burp, well, he isn’t gonna contain it. He scratches his beard, tries not to let his confusion show at the fact that it feels, probably looks like, he hasn’t shaved in days and days-and he did, hours ago. Thing keeps growing back, fast. “This is too friggin’ weird.”
Sam’s standing up and hesitating, like he’s about to sit next to Dean, have a freaking heart to heart-which Dean will not be able to take and will punch him in the face if he tries to pull some shit like that-
“You give me a pat on the head and a hug and I’ll kick your ass,” Dean says, holds up a finger in warning.
His brother waves his hands, all impatient and not caring he looks stupid. Must be serious. “What do you want me to do, Dean? This isn’t something we’ve dealt with before. This is strong magic. Your body’s changing and we don’t know when it’s going to stop. You’ve been looking like you’ve had a fever for the past few days. You’re turning pink.”
He’s got a point; the room’s like a furnace and Dean’s sweating. He hunches forward, then back, rocks and taps his foot. Sam comes over, grabbing Dean’s shoulder to which Dean’s thankful for, because another minute and he might fall over or something.
“Dean!”
“It’s okay. I just feel hot, you know? Besides the normal kinda hot,” he offers weakly, grits his teeth and frowns. “Is the A/C on?”
Sam nods in its direction. “Uh, yeah.”
Dean squirms a little. “I don’t know. I feel really tired.”
“How about I pick up something at the pharmacy?”
Dean makes a face and decides it’s a good time to get up. Sam holds his shoulders, yanks his hands back when Dean shrugs him off, nudging Sam away. “Don’t treat me like a little kid, okay?”
“You can barely stand, dumbass. Stop acting like a baby.”
“Who’s the little brother again?”
“Me. That doesn’t give you carte blanche to be an asshole,” Sam snaps, eyebrows going up before his brow knits with frustration. “Now you’re gonna be my fucked up transformed brother if you don’t let me take care of you, all right?”
Dean stares at Sam for a moment, then raises his eyebrows, throws Sam an appreciative look, albeit begrudgingly. “Fine.”
He bounces on the balls of his feet, restless and hyper all of a sudden, face near ridiculous and itching. Not like he’ll go and shave ‘til he’s baby smooth, like Sam (of course) but you know, it’s not like he’s away on the road for ages that he won’t shave enough-here it’s full-on scruffy, like Dad. “I’m gonna go shave.”
“That’s it,” Sam says, moves to pick up his jacket. “When you’re done, you think you can try cleaning up your stuff?”
“What’s wrong with my stuff?”
“It’s a sty, man.”
Dean shrugs. “It’s fine.”
“No, it isn’t,” Sam says, nods his chin in the direction of the empty food containers and wrappers scattered on the bedside table, Dean’s bed, floor, and there’s the duffel too, overflowing. “You want to be charged extra for cleaning?”
“But it’s nice and homey.” Dean’s eyes widen. “While you’re at it, go pick up a tranquilizer dart. What the hell.” He sighs heavily. “I hate magic. Better to sleep through this bullshit.”
*
This motel’s lodged in the nineteen sixties, as they tend to be when they smell like something’s died and rubbed its scent all over the carpeting during its death throes - old or new furniture, doesn’t matter; evil’s lodged in this place. Maybe not their kind of evil, but who the hell puts up a velvet painting of a clown in a motel room?
Sam’s gaze casts downwards when he drops his keys and a plastic bag of pharmacy items-and no, no food, painkillers will help, he’ll tell him-on the side table, right on top of the usual paraphernalia-maps, printouts, laptop, and-and a bra, obviously.
Black lace. Sam reasons if he ever wore a bra, it’d be the kind that could cover breasts, not this flimsy thing. So. Dean’s carrying souvenirs in the form of undergarments, how nice and totally not creepy whatsoever.
“That better be you, Sam,” Dean says, and his voice sounds like it’s coming from the other room, the bathroom, “Get in here so I can kill you.”
Statements like these are a dime a dozen, so common that Sam wouldn’t flinch; only these past few days, things are a little-screw that, a lot-weirder than normal, and there’s a constant thumping against the bathroom door.
“Dude, it’s not my problem if you’re using up all the toilet paper,” Sam says, flips open his laptop on the table with a hand as he pulls off his jacket. “I’m not your maid.”
A few moments after the words come out of his mouth, Sam reasons something’s wrong because prime insult material and Dean keeps thumping the door instead.
“Open the door, man,” Dean says, and two things pop into Sam’s head, frantic and alarmed: the strain of worry in Dean’s voice, uncharacteristic of him, and the fact that Dean’s voice didn’t actually make a sound-it’s a strong tone, voice ringing clear through Sam’s brain, but not carried by air. An echo bouncing off the walls in his head and Dean isn’t physically present to deliver it. Like brain waves, or maybe telepathy.
Last time he’s checked, his psychic ‘powers’ don’t include telepathy.
Dean’s still talking, a bodiless narration, continues with, ‘You laugh and I’ll cut your dick off.’
Bodily harm, now that’s harsh, and freaking worth it when Sam opens the door and sees nothing, an empty bathroom done in plain white walls and tile. Nothing for a good few feet anyway, until he looks all the way down, and there, hunched under the rusty plumbing of the sink, beside a pile of a tattered shirt, boxers, and sweats, is a pig. The pig’s coat’s the same color as Dean’s hair, sandy brown, but with a reddish tinge. On all fours, before a few seconds pass and it’s seated, back legs splayed out, front legs on the tile in front of its belly, Dean’s amulet hanging around the pig’s neck.
Sam just stares, his face unable to register any emotion for a good three seconds before a facial spasm takes over and he bursts out laughing.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ Dean growls, stamps the floor with a foot (hoof) as he struggles, skitters to his feet, walking past Sam into the main room. ‘And get your ass on that laptop and start figuring out what’s wrong with me.’
“Oh, now you’re willing to listen to reason,” Sam says, and he swears even if Dean wasn’t like, two, two and a half feet high or whatever, he’s avoiding Sam’s gaze, all nonchalant as only he can be. “This isn’t good, Dean. The spell’s in full effect.”
‘No shit,’ he says, nudging a chair towards his bed with his head and snout, snuffling noises like it’s taxing his piggish body. He starts to pull at the sheets and tries balancing against the bedside and chair before he falls to all fours heavily, snorting and groaning. ‘Motherfucker.’
Apparently being a pig means Dean’s running on all cylinders cursing-wise. He tries to climb up the chair but it’s awkward and not going to happen at all, his stout body straining under Sam’s gaze.
“Do you need me to…?”
‘No,’ Dean grits out, his voice sounding tired and rough. It’s the embodiment of the relief Sam feels at being able to hear Dean’s voice regardless of form-makes it easier to communicate but at the same time, he’s missing a familiar sense of actions reading different from words, because if anyone’s the King of not communicating, it’s Dean.
Sam moves over and bends down, picking Dean up. It’s hard to do so because for one, Dean starts flailing his legs and kicking every which way, and two, he’s kind of big and really heavy. Sam’s back is killing him.
Far as Sam can tell, it looks like it’s a species of pig he hasn’t really seen up close before-hell, it might not even exist, it’s magic after all. At least, it’s not like a farm pig, Dean’s not that big, and not fully mature anyway-because that’d be near impossible to pick up, upper body strength be damned. But he’s still pretty heavy (heck, maybe even as heavy as he was before all of this-before the magic kicked in, normal weight-but Sam sure as hell isn’t gonna say that).
‘Dude, get off of me!’ Dean cries out, body squealing, jerking and digging his hooves into Sam’s arms and chest if he can reach it. Even his voice is wheezing, like he’s been up for days on end.
“Shut up,” Sam commands, half-placing, half-dropping Dean on top of the bed with a loud thump. Dean takes a few steps forward tentatively; leaves hoof shaped marks all over the surface of the bedspread. “You’re welcome.”
‘I hate this,’ Dean says, ignoring Sam’s comment, lies down on his belly and watches Sam sit easily on the other end of the bed, typing away at his laptop, making notes in a notebook lying near his thigh. ‘You left and then I felt like I was gonna pass out on the toilet and then this happened. Damn near strangled myself with my shirt.’
Sam quirks his eyebrows and opens his mouth to speak, but Dean’s voice rambles on as he noses the bed sheets, sniffing them. ‘The toilet. Like Elvis. I don’t wanna croak on the toilet, Sammy. And I was in there for like, a half-hour, because you wouldn’t get your ass here and I couldn’t reach the doorknob and get out so I had to keep banging on the door and my whole face hurts.’
He snorts again and rubs his snout against the sheets; Sam doesn’t even want to bring up the fact that Dean was probably jerking off in those same sheets earlier because, well, he’s a pig, it’s not like he’d mind. So it makes sense. Logic, there.
“At least I can understand you,” Sam tries, can’t help it if sounds eager because he’s sure as hell happy that he can understand him, that there isn’t just this pig snorting around Dean’s dirty sheets and knowing that animal’s his older brother. He really doesn’t need to have Dean doing whatever the hell he wants and using the fact that he’s a pig and can’t talk as an excuse. Looks like it is telepathy, though why Dean’s able to do it and why Sam can pick up on it and-wait, Dean’s turned into a pig, screw logic right now. “That’s something.”
‘Whatever,’ Dean says, stretches out his legs and huffs impatiently. He makes noises the whole time, little rumbling snorts deep in his throat, whuffs and growls, legs kicking against the bed sheets. He sits on the bed, staring at Sam, legs splay out. ‘I’m tired and hungry. Get me some food.’
“You had lunch earlier,” Sam points out, eyebrows up. “You don’t need any more food.”
‘I’m gonna eat your damn notebook if you don’t get me some food.’
“You wouldn’t-” Sam grips the edge of the laptop screen as Dean cocks his head, and Sam swears it looks like Dean’s raising an eyebrow at him, if he had any eyebrows.
‘Go ahead, poindexter. Give me two minutes and I’ll eat your emo poetry like that.’
“I don’t write poetry, Dean!”
At this point, it’s like being an outside viewer to the strange, disjointed thing that is Sam’s life, where he’s having a one-sided conversation with his brother, the pig, Dean’s bodiless voice as the narrator. He’ll laugh later when he’s not teetering on the edge of amusement and that familiar mantra of this cannot get any more fucked up.
‘Coulda fooled me, throwin’ those purple prose words around,’ Dean says, and he yawns, licks his mouth, not as appealing when it’s a pig tongue and a pig’s mouth, Sam realizes. ‘Seriously, I’ll eat it, Sam. I can’t control this body.’
“Why am I not surprised?” Sam says dryly, shutting his laptop and shoving it-and his notebook-underneath the pillow on his own bed. “Same old excuse.”
Dean starts to move forward but thinks the better of it, ‘cause he’ll fall off the bed and Sam sure isn’t going to pick him up again. He gets up and moves a little, rolls onto his back and leans his head forward, forelegs resting on his belly, back legs sticking up in the air. ‘I want something salty.’
Sam rolls his eyes as he picks up the motel room keys, hearing soft snorting behind him. “Keep it down. The last thing we want is them throwing us out for me bringing a pig into the room.”
‘Oh, and bring me a beer.’
“You’re a pig, moron.”
Dean sort of shrugs, wriggles in place. ‘So what?’
“I’m gonna bring you pork rinds if you keep this up,” Sam says, getting a loud snort in return.
‘That’s cold,’ Dean says and when Sam’s just about to leave, he calls out and says, ‘Be a good brother and put the TV on. I can’t use the remote. No fingers.’
Yeah, beyond fucked up, just so we’re clear.
*
So the thing is, being a pig? Has its ups and downs.
Right now, it’s a definite down when Dean tries to lower the volume on Skinemax-sure, normal volume’s fine but sometimes you just don’t wanna hear cheesy dialogue when you’re just trying to get off-and instead manages to switch it over to Lifetime, where one of those chicks from whatever shows Sammy secretly watches is dealing with a life threatening illness or a surprise pregnancy or both. Maybe this weepy chick just found out she’s knocked up and she’s having a tumor.
No fingers. Freaking hell, man, he can’t even jerk off to begin with, let alone change channels. Also, he doesn’t even feel, uh, excited, and maybe that’s for the best. Oh man, what if he’s only attracted to other pigs? Stupid thoughts; that one’s gonna leave psychological damage.
Must be some ups to the downs, has to be, some kinda silver lining, something to balance this heap of wrongness, ‘specially when Dean manages to fall off the bed with a loud thump, groans inwardly because Sam’s just gonna have to stuff it and stop bitching when he’ll have to pick him up again.
There’s that, too, of being stuck-no, of having-because this ain’t switching or anything, he damn well transformed on the toilet-a body that can’t do much, that can’t like, move for one thing. It’s a little scary and a lot weird being so low to the ground and being unable to move - graceful or not, he thinks his body’s normally more than decent (he is the handsome brother to the giant, after all) and here, this? This is embarrassing.
And there’s another thought, one he doesn’t want to acknowledge but it pops up when he’s struck with this notion of being stuck forever.
A few years down the road, Sam Winchester, demon hunter extraordinaire, and his pet pig. You know, the one that gets in the way constantly because oh, did you hear, that used to be his brother.
Dean shudders inwardly and starts pacing, ignoring the two driving urges to eat and sleep. Might as well get used to this for the time being ‘cause Sammy’s gonna get his ass handed to him if Dean isn’t up to helping his brother, curse or not.
And if he eats the package of Twizzlers Sam’s left peeking out of his bag on the floor, wrapping and all, well, that’s not his fucking fault.
*
The first thing Sam does is disregard anything Dean tells him because just recently he wanted to dive headfirst into a mud hole, and that’s before he became a pig, so his great ideas are a little crazier than normal. And Dean’s normal is already bent towards insanity. He checks out the local pet store, manages to pick up some food based on a few questions he asked the sales person-which, yeah, sure came out a little weird bursting into the store asking if they had any pig food but uh, desperate times. Desperate measures.
They offer to throw in a harness and leash for half off to which Sam declines out of fear for his own safety (and his items, he doesn’t want to know what Dean could do to them now).
“It says here that pigs are omnivores. A diet with 12% protein and a ‘lot of fiber and roughage’ which is stuff like greens, fruits, and vegetables,” Sam says an hour later, frowns and his eyes go wide when Dean pushes his shoulder, nudging him sideways to try and look at the laptop.
‘Screw what it says. I’m not eating hay or any shit like that,’ Dean states, his eyes going a little squinty, like he needs little pig spectacles balanced on his snout. At least, even more than usual, because Dean might get grouchy about it, but he does suffer from eyestrain when he’s on the computer. Funny thing is, he’s got the same kind of long lashes. Weird. ‘Why the hell are you looking at that stuff anyway?’
“It’s not hay, Dean. And I’m looking up this stuff to know how to, uh, handle you.”
‘You sure know how to get a girl all hot and bothered, Sammy.’
“Shut up,” Sam replies tolerantly, nudges Dean away with a light brush of his forearm when he resumes typing, Dean lying down next to him. “Just in case this lasts for a while.”
Before Dean can respond, Sam adds, “Sometimes these things tend to last for a few weeks or more. Months aren’t uncommon. Cases running for years have been known to occur.”
‘Years?’ Dean’s voice is loud and confused in Sam’s head, and Sam can easily conjure up a mental image of his brother’s expression on his real face, the tension in his body language transformed and replaced in this animal next to him. ‘Oh god, kill me now. I mean it, kill me. No wait, if I’m sent to hog heaven, someone could cook me and eat me. Jesus.’
“Yeah, I know,” Sam answers, ignores the way his stomach’s twisting in knots, that may be thanks to the soft bristle scrape of Dean’s fur against the bare skin of his exposed arm near the t-shirt sleeve. “We’ll figure it out.”
Continued in Part Two
Author: Ignited
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Word Count: 14,773
Spoilers: General S2, set after Playthings
Warnings: Sexual content, language, animal transformation, and crack. No beastiality, promise.
Summary: Funnily enough, there isn’t any pie or vengeful witches or waitresses or Sam eating veggies (and whole wheat, what the fuck?) or demonic pregnancies or bodily fluids involved in the unmaking of Dean Winchester. It’s the usual brand of weirdness when the boys are on a hunt, only this time Dean winds up as the other white meat - that is to say, a pig. Sam, unspoken fondness for Dean’s animal self, thinks karma’s got an awesome sense of humor.
Author’s Notes: Because fandom clichés and crack fueled this idea and if you’re gonna mess with Dean and throw transformations into the mix, you gotta go all the way. Massive thanks to regala_electra for the beta, handholding, and enabling.
Part One: Stirring Up The Dirt
“You know what the most fucked up part about this is?” Sam starts, voice rough, a low whisper, fingers clench and his whole body’s tense, too, ready to go off, split second and he’ll just-but he continues, leans against the doorframe, and says, “It’s the fact that I can’t get you out of my head even when you look like that.”
Actually, the most fucked up thing might be that Sam, being the Ginormitron that he is, gets his calves fucking head butted right after, but we’re not up to that part yet.
*
Funnily enough, there isn’t any pie or vengeful witches or waitresses or Sam eating veggies (and whole wheat, what the fuck?) or demonic pregnancies or bodily fluids involved in the unmaking of Dean Winchester.
It’d be too easy if there was.
*
It’s a Thursday when it begins. Sam slides into the booth, Dean leaning against the cool surface of the window, a pair of sunglasses on his face and his hair’s mussed and flat. His mouth’s half-open and he isn’t drooling, nope. He jerks and sits up straight with a snort when Sam hits his shoulder lightly, slouching back across from him again, Sam slumps low like that makes him less noticeable.
“You look like shit, Dean,” Sam says helpfully, his large hands tentatively encircling a big mug of coffee, ‘cause Sammy’s got sensitive fingers, the giant baby. Dean sneers back because dude, he’s looked a hell of a lot worse for wear. Right now he’s the best looking thing in the diner. And then he shifts his weight, sitting forward. Over the edge of his sunglasses he can see the mug of coffee Sam’s drinking, and his, too far to reach, black, no sugar. He wiggles two fingers, gestures towards himself and Sam pushes the cup over, rolling his eyes.
“Comes with the territory, Sam,” he says, sips the coffee. It’s too hot, Dean can feel it burning off a layer of his tongue (and he needs that tongue, the general population needs Dean’s tongue, Sam included in the census), and too goddamn early for Sam to give him the third degree, which doesn’t make any sense as he was there, too, “Don’t get pissy ‘cause you went to bed early, grandma. You missed out, man.”
“I’m sorry that my idea of a good time doesn’t include doing shots off of…” Sam trails off, frowning. “This is like déjà vu.”
“Yeah, it is,” Dean says, shuddering at the second sip of the liquid fire-brand coffee. Desperate times call for desperate measures and Dean sullies his black gold (okay, crap) with crumbly sugar from the chipped sugar container. “Same old story about how my brother’s a pussy.”
Sam’s throwing him a dark glare when he leans back, rubbing his hands down his thighs. Ignores Dean, Sam says, “Where’s the waitress? I’m starving.”
She comes a few moments later and it’s the same routine, with bonus leering over sunglasses this morning-Sam wants eggs and waffles, Dean wants eggs and waffles and pancakes and some sausages and maybe home fries. Huh, that’s kind of, uh, weird, Dean hadn’t felt that hungry before ordering, more hungover than anything else.
Ten minutes later-the joint’s practically empty, speedy service-they get their food.
“You gonna keep your glasses on?” Sam asks, swiping the syrup as Dean frowns, too slow to get it. He starts to eat his eggs though, cutting them up, then globbing forkfuls of the oil-drenched home fries in the runny yolk while Sam’s pouring syrup on his stack of pancakes from up high, like he’s done since he was five years old.
“Like ‘em?” Dean asks, mouth full, looking over the rims. He’d picked them up at a going out of business sale at some nickel and dime department store down the street-normally couldn’t care for cheap ones, always irritated the bridge of his nose and stupidly he’d told Sam about it once and Sam ragged how it’s ‘cause he’s so sensitive, the dicksmack-but these are Ray-Bans, like Cruise in Risky Business. Okay, so Tom Cruise’s totally a pussy but he got to fuck Rebecca DeMornay on a train. Dean’s gotta give him credit for that.
Sam shrugs. “They’re fine if it’s 1983 and I haven’t been born yet.”
“Lame, Sammy, lame,” Dean says, somewhat, ‘cause the food’s fucking delicious and he’s swirling the sausage, speared on a fork, in the pancake syrup on his plate in between large bites. The food’s a welcomed thing, slight hangover or not; there isn’t enough leftover liquor in his system to turn down an offering like this, and he swallows down bites here and there with large gulps.
Sam stares at him with this indecipherable look as Dean looks up through his sunglasses, grins.
He points at Sam’s half-eaten waffles. “You gonna eat that?”
*
The first sign is when Sam tries to spoon his brother.
This isn’t so much out of the ordinary-got less ordinary ‘round about five months ago, thanks to a used up med-kit, one bottle of whiskey, blood, everywhere, and one wasted motel room-as it is friggin’ weird, because uh, Dean’s not really into this position. Of course, he is, sometimes, but you know. Age rules, he’s laid out plainly, huffy look or not, and he’s not taking it up the ass tonight.
He groans and curls his lip, squirming. Sam breathes against the back and top of Dean’s head, wrapping an arm around his side and belly. He smacks his lips, all loud and sweat slicked skin rubs against Dean, the sheets clammy, Sam’s dick pressing up against Dean’s ass.
“Dean,” Sam starts, murmurs against the shell of his ear and it’s really fucking annoying when your brother tries to pull this cuddly shit just to fuck, ‘cause hey genius, already cockfirst into incest, Dean doesn’t need to be romanced into fucking-and then all of a sudden, Sam says, “Are you gaining weight?”
Dean exhales, like he’s been holding his breath, only he hasn’t-it’s a gasped sputter, his brow knit and nuzzling his face into the pillow. “You’re not getting my ass, dipshit.”
“I think you are,” Sam says accusingly, his voice rising a little like he’s still too tired to crow about it. But he moves his hand to rest on Dean’s belly, ignoring when Dean tries to whap it away with a sleepy hand. “I can feel it.”
“Yeah, and get used to feeling up your dick all you want ‘cause I’m not letting you near mine if you keep talking like that,” Dean whispers harshly, rolls his shoulder muscle and tries to push Sam away. “Maybe I am,” he says gruffly, you’ve got a problem with that? as an undercurrent.
Sam waits. Dean wishes he was the one spooning Sam as it’d be easier to smother him in his sleep. Or you know, that they weren’t spooning, like, there’s a reason he’s still ponying up for two beds even if Sam won’t take the fucking hint.
Dean doesn’t want to get into this now, so he murmurs something about stress, burying his face in the pillow. “Now quit hasslin’ me or your dick’s never coming near my ass again.”
*
The second sign’s a week after that, when Dean puts on a good thirty, forty pounds.
And puts on means like, overnight, all of a sudden he’s sliding into a chair next to Sam at the library, wearing one of Sam’s hoodies, all scruffy, his skin pale and sweaty. Even if he looks sick, it’s a great improvement over the past two days, which ran the gamut of all the five, ten, whatever steps for whatever problems. Denial, hiding, anger, and that’s not mentioning the yelling. He’s tried his hand at hiding it, lasts all of a few hours, Sam holds his hands palms out, tells him to calm down, that he’s overreacting (brief memory of flying, Dean freaking out and demonic possession), to which Dean starts groping himself, pinching any extra flesh, moaning, and generally acting like a five year old.
For three minutes. Then he wants sex.
Let it be known that Sam doesn’t give a rat’s ass if Dean puts some weight on or not -it’s the least of their problems in a life where their day (and night) jobs consist of life or death situations and saving people from things they shouldn’t have to know about, that Sam and Dean do. As long as they’re alive and well, and he’s there, it’s fine-something like this? Not important in the big scheme of things. Sam tells him just as much, though admittedly, he knows something bad is going on. Bad enough that they’re checking out this shitty library for clues in addition to the current case.
Without having sex. Again, not a question of appearance-Dean looks kind of the same, his face fuller, the extra weight distributed evenly but mostly concentrated in his belly-it’s that it’s hard to have sex when your partner looks like he might pass out from fever, his eyes half open.
“Dean-”
“It’s probably got something to do with that spirit we’re chasing,” he says almost dismissively, looks like he’d rather be having a cup of coffee then up in a near empty library at ten in the morning. Weird, too, as he’s scruffy when Sam swears he saw Dean shaving earlier.
Meanwhile, Sam’s removing a book from the stack near his arm, notebook and printouts with old, fuzzy pictures, photocopies of carvings laid out in front of him. “Or it could be an incubus.”
“Sam-”
“Like,” and he taps a pen repeatedly, already knowing Dean’s reaction to this theory, “laid its eggs and-”
“Sam, I am not fucking pregnant. You keep on that line of thinking and I’ll kick you right in the crotch. Besides,” Dean says flippantly, waving a hand (pale and pink, freckles blurring out and that’s weird), “it’s magic. It’ll go away like that.”
So they’re at stage number whatever: temporary acceptance until Dean can burn something. Great.
“It could be a displacement spell.”
Dean frowns, squirming in his seat, all restless. Huffs out, cheeks puffing out, reminding Sam of something, “What, like car keys?”
“No, you idiot. Like mass instead of spiritual energy. Remember that body jumper in New York? Displaced souls,” he says, shrugs and pushes a few strands of hair out of his eyes. He holds his hands out in front, like weighing something, one heavier than the other. “Displaced mass. Similar principles.”
“How can I forget that? You’re lucky I didn’t cut your hair.”
He’s a liar, Dean, who got enjoyment beyond belief being in Sam’s body, even if he’ll never admit it. Seemed to own it, at least he’d say so, and that’s another adventure Sam would like to put behind him for the moment. Instead, he just pinches the bridge of his nose, doesn’t care if frustration starts to creep into his voice. “All talk and no action.”
“My dick certainly got a lot of action,” Dean says, looks down pointedly at his crotch. “It’d like to thank you for doing a good job taking over the controls. Little less pressure next time.”
“Right, I forget how sensitive you can be. Anyway, Dean, this is… weird. It’s definitely magic, but what, I don’t know-” Sam really needs to assign levels of weird, like threat levels or something, a 1 to 10 basis. Right now, they’re at a troubling 7 with a likely forecast of getting knocked up to 8. Load up on rock salt and batten down the hatches.
“It ain’t eggs, Sam.”
“Uh huh,” Sam says, reaching over to stick his fingers under the hem of Dean’s shirt. Fingertips skim over the soft flesh of his belly, far less definition and no sign of anything inside like… Sam doesn’t want to use the ‘p’ word either, and so far, Dean’s right. No pregnancy, nothing moving, not that he can tell anyway. Now if it’s demonic, then, that’s a whole other story.
“I’ve seen enough horror movies that I’ll take a beer gut over a demonic baby, hands down, any friggin’ day of the week,” says Dean, yawning and leaning back in his chair, shirt slightly riding up over the paunch of his belly. He sits up straight and runs his fingers through his hair, ruffles it a little before licking his lips. “You find anything on that spirit? ‘Cause that thing’s still out there and we’re dealing with it first.”
“Looks like the murders started a few decades ago, now they’re happening again. There’s a local grocery store where we might get some answers-owners there are the oldest residents in these parts.”
The thing they’re hunting now is a spirit they think has some connection to the local farms around this small town-maybe a ghost of a dead farmer, or a protector spirit like that scarecrow a year ago. There’s been a few deaths, bodies found laid out in fields of grain, corn-Dean cracked a few jokes about crop circles-all with several vital organs removed. Local townspeople freaking out about a psychopath, like a crazy hitcher, though all signs point to spirit type due to the arrangement of organs and symbols burned into the ground surrounding the bodies. Sam’s got a line on the last known location where people might’ve prayed to the spirit, maybe set up some kind of shrine that hasn’t gone by the wayside, leaving this spirit to reappear and wreak havoc all over again years later.
It’s serious because the body count is rising, and rising or not, Dean will always put saving people’s lives first, especially his brother.
So Sam has to think of that, hard, when Dean starts his usual horndogging, eyeing the library assistant’s skirt (or lack thereof). Oh, sure, that’s normal, and so’s the displeased noise Dean makes when Sam cuffs him on the back of the head, pulling him up by the scruff of his scruffy neck, and out to leave the library.
*
Sam’s asking questions outside one of those mom and pop grocery stores, the kind with a porch and old tin signs that trendy hipsters buy and hang up like rustic Americana’s the kind of thing that glitzes up your den, but the actual place these signs originate, well, they ain’t gonna go there for a visit. Dean sits in the Impala and taps out a rhythm to a James Gang song blaring from the speakers. His eyes stray from Sam’s back to the direction across the street, out of the corner of his eye. Like he can’t help but look, restless, twitch of yearning and feeling horny as all hell.
“Looks like an old barn. A group of people used to meet there in the nineteen forties. Got the address,” Sam pipes up, suddenly leaning an arm against the edge of the driver’s seat window, peering down at Dean inside. By now Dean’s slurping a cherry slushie, hmm-ing in response and looking away from Sam, mouth pursed around the straw.
“I think one day we oughta try one of those mud spas,” Dean states. Sam’s vision slides over his brother and in the same direction he’s looking, an abandoned yard filled with junk, a pool of mud filled with flies square in the middle.
Sam stares at him again, his mouth going open and closed like a fish, brow getting all wrinkled too. “What?”
“You know. You just, like, soak, and man, think of it, Sammy. Throw in a couple of chicks in bikinis and get ‘em all messy. Mud wrestling. I’ll have me some of that.”
“…I don’t know you, sometimes.”
“Shut up, you kinky freak, I know you’re diggin’ it.” Dean bites his lip. The mud looks really cool. And enticing, girls or not. He starts to get up but Sam’s at the door and in the way.
Sam rolls his eyes and taps the edge of the open car door. “Move over. I’m driving.”
“The fuck?”
“You’re in no condition to drive,” Sam explains, and before Dean can say anything, he points a long finger in Dean’s face. “You’re being weirder than usual. Mud? This curse, or whatever it is, it’s affecting you.”
He opens the car door and grabs the slushie, tossing it in a nearby wastebasket to Dean’s dismay. Sam starts to shove Dean over. Thing is, Dean kind of complies-not like he has any choice, what with Sam being a pushy little bitch-and starts to shift his weight awkwardly into the passenger seat. Curses are a pain in the ass when they’re trying to hit you up with a case of whatever the fuck’s popular in hell this week. The extra weight’s not agreeing with him.
His jeans are painfully tight, not in the good hard-on kind of way any longer. Like the ‘trying to breathe’ way. One wrong stretch and they might go and rip. A damn shame, because he likes these jeans. Maybe he should’ve taken up Sam’s offer to borrow his sweats. Even if they were all old and two sizes too big-and that’s Sam for you, always covering up and wearing layers, sometimes baggy, to hide himself, his assets. The sweats are college era, and totally geeky. They’d fit, at least. Not like his t-shirt’s doing him any good either, tight and straining against his belly, his black canvas jacket mercifully covering him.
“Dude, what’re you-Come on,” Dean grouses, hunches a little and angles away when Sam accidentally elbows him in the arm. He sucks in a breath and unzips his jeans, turns around with an innocent look, hoping Sam didn’t see him. “I can still drive.”
“Dean, I’ll buy you the biggest steak on the menu at the next diner we come across if you let me drive,” Sam answers, starts the ignition.
He looks over at Dean, who’s mouth is set in a little ‘o,’ takes a second or two before he nods and asks, “The biggest?”
Sam nods. “Nothing but.”
“Okay,” he says, relents, his stomach growling in agreement.
It’s a few minutes after that, when they’re at a stoplight, that Dean moans and leans back in his seat, wiping a hand over his face. Yeah, something’s up. Food over taking control of the Impala. The car should be first pick as long as the sky’s blue and the world keeps spinning. Meaning, forever, and whatever way he organizes his morals or system of code, the car usually takes precedence nine and a half times out of ten over food. “…You sneaky bastard.”
“That’s me,” Sam replies, tightens his grip on the steering wheel.
“We’re getting that steak and we’re getting that damn spirit. Then you’re gonna figure out what’s wrong with me after we fuck.”
“Dean,” Sam starts to say, tone of warning before Dean cuts him off. “Last time I checked, I’m still a handsome devil and I want sex. You got a problem with that?”
Sam shakes his head. “Of course not,” the way he says it, it’s all solemn and sincere, puppy dog eyes, just on the verge of a conversation involving feelings and that three letter phrase he’s not in the mood to deal with right now. Sam though, follows this with a smile, the kind that’s spreads all slow, his eyes half-lidded, voice rough. Eyes looking Dean down, then slowly, slower, up. “You’re gorgeous.”
“Damn straight.”
“And pretty.”
“Sam-”
“We can buy you some makeup, rouge and lipstick and an eyelash curler, not like you need it-”
“Asshole.”
*
Sam thinks this would be hilarious any other time besides than this week.
The confrontation’s short, shorter than the trip to the old barn at the address Sam received-abandoned, moldy, cobwebs covering the shrine right in the center of a big loft filled to the brim with junk. Old furniture, cardboard boxes, garage sale type stuff. Point is, once they find the shrine they commence with burning it-Dean does, lights up a whole book of matches, smirks even. And like clockwork, the spirit appears, a mix between a scarecrow, a farmer, and something sinister, patchwork eyes and a ragged maw filled with pitchfork teeth. Just the same, Sam and Dean are prepared, Dean using rock salt rounds while Sam recites a few incantations in Latin.
The thing’s dead then, bright flash of light, tang of ozone and ash dusts the wooden floorboards. Dean’s eyes are screwed shut, mouth pursing like he’s swallowed something sour.
“Did it work?”
Sam comes over to him, takes stock of the hoodie and the sweats Dean begrudgingly accepted, does a little three-sixty around him before he stops near in front, grabbing Dean’s side, pushing away his open jacket. “Nope, you still have lovehandles.”
“I’m gonna cut off all your hair when you’re sleeping,” Dean tells him, bats away a hand ineffectually. “Bitch.”
When they get back to the motel, it’s just the same way they-more like Dean-left it: a hurricane zone. All his stuff’s strewn around his queen-sized bed, and he plops down on it, scratches at his stubble with a loud yawn.
“Didn’t you just shave this morning?”
“Yeah.”
“It grew back.”
“That’s what a man’s face tends to do, Sammy. I’m sorry your body’s concentrating all growing power to your legs rather than your scrawny ass beard,” Dean says, tinge of amazing slow burn touching his face when he looks up, almost makes it easy to ignore the sweat and scruff.
“No, it’s like… A lot, Dean. Go look.”
And he’s right, because it looks like he hasn’t shaved in a week.
“Shit.”
*
Dean’s thinking Sam may be onto something when he sighs and sits down in the bedside chair gingerly, tired and sore in all the wrong places. Apparently it takes his body to go out of whack for Sam to decide they should be researching rather than occupying themselves with sex the night before, but Dean doesn’t give two shits about Sam’s need to freaking ruin the moment when they get back and Sam’s on a few hours of sleep, ‘thinking of Dean’ rather than himself (or, you know, Dean’s needs, which consist entirely of sex. And maybe food. Shit, maybe he’s right; he’s admittedly hornier than usual. Uh.)
Or it could be that he’s pregnant.
Please, god, no, comes the thought, pulling his too-tight shirt on over his head. It’s mid-afternoon and they’ve-okay, so he’s slept just ‘til noon. Now Sam’s in the bathroom taking forever, probably fixing his long tresses or whatever you call it-Dean had him go out to grab lunch, and Sam’s finally stopped his moaning from the bathroom about “lugging all that crap” back to the motel.
Maybe yeah, Dean is feeling sore, he’s feeling sweaty, tired, and just shitty, but there’s a positive point-mixed in, somehow-in that he got some sex out of Sam, albeit shorter than usual-taking out a spirit, few hours of sleep, not the way you look dumbass, he’d said-but it’s something to tide him over. (Something good. Real good. Felt freaking awesome until Sam said three times was enough and started snoring because he’s an asshole.)
“Maybe it was something you ate,” Sam says when he comes out, Dean glaring at the smooth and perfect-Jesus, stop thinkin’ man-state of his brother, all taut muscle, smooth, flat belly, and Dean’s jeans are gonna give today, count on it.
“Maybe I’m gonna punch you in the face if you don’t stop giving me shit about my eating habits,” Dean cautions him, puts a hand on his thigh and looks up at Sam. “You eat as much as I do. More.”
Sam shrugs. “Yeah, but it’s not like I make a big deal out of it.”
It’s true-Sam’s like six-four, six-five, six thousand feet tall or so, gotta pack away a lot of food understandably, only he doesn’t get as much of a kick out of it as Dean does. They’re Winchester men, manly, give ‘em all the meat and hearty food they can handle-even Sam here, looks a hell of a lot better a year out of college than he did when Dean swung by, got some meat on his bones and doesn’t look so scrawny anymore.
He starts pulling a shirt on, already in jeans and boots, saying, “Or it could be one of your one night stands.”
Dean rubs the back of his neck, winces. “Unlike you, I make sure to leave the ladies satisfied. It’s called multiple orgasms, Sammy. Look it up.”
Ignoring Dean, he continues, “Could be a time released curse.”
Dean rolls his eyes, wiping his face. “This is fucking stupid.”
“Well, we’ve got to explore all avenues. Otherwise…” Sam sits down on the edge of his bed, hunches forward, elbows on knees. “I think… your body’s changing. Slowly. Into what, I don’t know.”
“Into? Whoa, wait a minute. Like… into, we talkin’ something freaky? Like The Fly? Goldblum, not Price, though either one - no. No fucking way.”
“No. More like, um, I don’t know. Maybe some kind of animal.”
“What?”
“The mud thing, earlier. Your beard. Dean, you were checking out the freaking dumpster when we left that diner yesterday.”
Dean frowns, and he makes a face, his eyes widening in annoyance. “I was hungry!”
“For dumpster food?”
“It’s all goin’ to the same place, Sam,” Dean points out and if his body chooses this moment to burp, well, he isn’t gonna contain it. He scratches his beard, tries not to let his confusion show at the fact that it feels, probably looks like, he hasn’t shaved in days and days-and he did, hours ago. Thing keeps growing back, fast. “This is too friggin’ weird.”
Sam’s standing up and hesitating, like he’s about to sit next to Dean, have a freaking heart to heart-which Dean will not be able to take and will punch him in the face if he tries to pull some shit like that-
“You give me a pat on the head and a hug and I’ll kick your ass,” Dean says, holds up a finger in warning.
His brother waves his hands, all impatient and not caring he looks stupid. Must be serious. “What do you want me to do, Dean? This isn’t something we’ve dealt with before. This is strong magic. Your body’s changing and we don’t know when it’s going to stop. You’ve been looking like you’ve had a fever for the past few days. You’re turning pink.”
He’s got a point; the room’s like a furnace and Dean’s sweating. He hunches forward, then back, rocks and taps his foot. Sam comes over, grabbing Dean’s shoulder to which Dean’s thankful for, because another minute and he might fall over or something.
“Dean!”
“It’s okay. I just feel hot, you know? Besides the normal kinda hot,” he offers weakly, grits his teeth and frowns. “Is the A/C on?”
Sam nods in its direction. “Uh, yeah.”
Dean squirms a little. “I don’t know. I feel really tired.”
“How about I pick up something at the pharmacy?”
Dean makes a face and decides it’s a good time to get up. Sam holds his shoulders, yanks his hands back when Dean shrugs him off, nudging Sam away. “Don’t treat me like a little kid, okay?”
“You can barely stand, dumbass. Stop acting like a baby.”
“Who’s the little brother again?”
“Me. That doesn’t give you carte blanche to be an asshole,” Sam snaps, eyebrows going up before his brow knits with frustration. “Now you’re gonna be my fucked up transformed brother if you don’t let me take care of you, all right?”
Dean stares at Sam for a moment, then raises his eyebrows, throws Sam an appreciative look, albeit begrudgingly. “Fine.”
He bounces on the balls of his feet, restless and hyper all of a sudden, face near ridiculous and itching. Not like he’ll go and shave ‘til he’s baby smooth, like Sam (of course) but you know, it’s not like he’s away on the road for ages that he won’t shave enough-here it’s full-on scruffy, like Dad. “I’m gonna go shave.”
“That’s it,” Sam says, moves to pick up his jacket. “When you’re done, you think you can try cleaning up your stuff?”
“What’s wrong with my stuff?”
“It’s a sty, man.”
Dean shrugs. “It’s fine.”
“No, it isn’t,” Sam says, nods his chin in the direction of the empty food containers and wrappers scattered on the bedside table, Dean’s bed, floor, and there’s the duffel too, overflowing. “You want to be charged extra for cleaning?”
“But it’s nice and homey.” Dean’s eyes widen. “While you’re at it, go pick up a tranquilizer dart. What the hell.” He sighs heavily. “I hate magic. Better to sleep through this bullshit.”
*
This motel’s lodged in the nineteen sixties, as they tend to be when they smell like something’s died and rubbed its scent all over the carpeting during its death throes - old or new furniture, doesn’t matter; evil’s lodged in this place. Maybe not their kind of evil, but who the hell puts up a velvet painting of a clown in a motel room?
Sam’s gaze casts downwards when he drops his keys and a plastic bag of pharmacy items-and no, no food, painkillers will help, he’ll tell him-on the side table, right on top of the usual paraphernalia-maps, printouts, laptop, and-and a bra, obviously.
Black lace. Sam reasons if he ever wore a bra, it’d be the kind that could cover breasts, not this flimsy thing. So. Dean’s carrying souvenirs in the form of undergarments, how nice and totally not creepy whatsoever.
“That better be you, Sam,” Dean says, and his voice sounds like it’s coming from the other room, the bathroom, “Get in here so I can kill you.”
Statements like these are a dime a dozen, so common that Sam wouldn’t flinch; only these past few days, things are a little-screw that, a lot-weirder than normal, and there’s a constant thumping against the bathroom door.
“Dude, it’s not my problem if you’re using up all the toilet paper,” Sam says, flips open his laptop on the table with a hand as he pulls off his jacket. “I’m not your maid.”
A few moments after the words come out of his mouth, Sam reasons something’s wrong because prime insult material and Dean keeps thumping the door instead.
“Open the door, man,” Dean says, and two things pop into Sam’s head, frantic and alarmed: the strain of worry in Dean’s voice, uncharacteristic of him, and the fact that Dean’s voice didn’t actually make a sound-it’s a strong tone, voice ringing clear through Sam’s brain, but not carried by air. An echo bouncing off the walls in his head and Dean isn’t physically present to deliver it. Like brain waves, or maybe telepathy.
Last time he’s checked, his psychic ‘powers’ don’t include telepathy.
Dean’s still talking, a bodiless narration, continues with, ‘You laugh and I’ll cut your dick off.’
Bodily harm, now that’s harsh, and freaking worth it when Sam opens the door and sees nothing, an empty bathroom done in plain white walls and tile. Nothing for a good few feet anyway, until he looks all the way down, and there, hunched under the rusty plumbing of the sink, beside a pile of a tattered shirt, boxers, and sweats, is a pig. The pig’s coat’s the same color as Dean’s hair, sandy brown, but with a reddish tinge. On all fours, before a few seconds pass and it’s seated, back legs splayed out, front legs on the tile in front of its belly, Dean’s amulet hanging around the pig’s neck.
Sam just stares, his face unable to register any emotion for a good three seconds before a facial spasm takes over and he bursts out laughing.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ Dean growls, stamps the floor with a foot (hoof) as he struggles, skitters to his feet, walking past Sam into the main room. ‘And get your ass on that laptop and start figuring out what’s wrong with me.’
“Oh, now you’re willing to listen to reason,” Sam says, and he swears even if Dean wasn’t like, two, two and a half feet high or whatever, he’s avoiding Sam’s gaze, all nonchalant as only he can be. “This isn’t good, Dean. The spell’s in full effect.”
‘No shit,’ he says, nudging a chair towards his bed with his head and snout, snuffling noises like it’s taxing his piggish body. He starts to pull at the sheets and tries balancing against the bedside and chair before he falls to all fours heavily, snorting and groaning. ‘Motherfucker.’
Apparently being a pig means Dean’s running on all cylinders cursing-wise. He tries to climb up the chair but it’s awkward and not going to happen at all, his stout body straining under Sam’s gaze.
“Do you need me to…?”
‘No,’ Dean grits out, his voice sounding tired and rough. It’s the embodiment of the relief Sam feels at being able to hear Dean’s voice regardless of form-makes it easier to communicate but at the same time, he’s missing a familiar sense of actions reading different from words, because if anyone’s the King of not communicating, it’s Dean.
Sam moves over and bends down, picking Dean up. It’s hard to do so because for one, Dean starts flailing his legs and kicking every which way, and two, he’s kind of big and really heavy. Sam’s back is killing him.
Far as Sam can tell, it looks like it’s a species of pig he hasn’t really seen up close before-hell, it might not even exist, it’s magic after all. At least, it’s not like a farm pig, Dean’s not that big, and not fully mature anyway-because that’d be near impossible to pick up, upper body strength be damned. But he’s still pretty heavy (heck, maybe even as heavy as he was before all of this-before the magic kicked in, normal weight-but Sam sure as hell isn’t gonna say that).
‘Dude, get off of me!’ Dean cries out, body squealing, jerking and digging his hooves into Sam’s arms and chest if he can reach it. Even his voice is wheezing, like he’s been up for days on end.
“Shut up,” Sam commands, half-placing, half-dropping Dean on top of the bed with a loud thump. Dean takes a few steps forward tentatively; leaves hoof shaped marks all over the surface of the bedspread. “You’re welcome.”
‘I hate this,’ Dean says, ignoring Sam’s comment, lies down on his belly and watches Sam sit easily on the other end of the bed, typing away at his laptop, making notes in a notebook lying near his thigh. ‘You left and then I felt like I was gonna pass out on the toilet and then this happened. Damn near strangled myself with my shirt.’
Sam quirks his eyebrows and opens his mouth to speak, but Dean’s voice rambles on as he noses the bed sheets, sniffing them. ‘The toilet. Like Elvis. I don’t wanna croak on the toilet, Sammy. And I was in there for like, a half-hour, because you wouldn’t get your ass here and I couldn’t reach the doorknob and get out so I had to keep banging on the door and my whole face hurts.’
He snorts again and rubs his snout against the sheets; Sam doesn’t even want to bring up the fact that Dean was probably jerking off in those same sheets earlier because, well, he’s a pig, it’s not like he’d mind. So it makes sense. Logic, there.
“At least I can understand you,” Sam tries, can’t help it if sounds eager because he’s sure as hell happy that he can understand him, that there isn’t just this pig snorting around Dean’s dirty sheets and knowing that animal’s his older brother. He really doesn’t need to have Dean doing whatever the hell he wants and using the fact that he’s a pig and can’t talk as an excuse. Looks like it is telepathy, though why Dean’s able to do it and why Sam can pick up on it and-wait, Dean’s turned into a pig, screw logic right now. “That’s something.”
‘Whatever,’ Dean says, stretches out his legs and huffs impatiently. He makes noises the whole time, little rumbling snorts deep in his throat, whuffs and growls, legs kicking against the bed sheets. He sits on the bed, staring at Sam, legs splay out. ‘I’m tired and hungry. Get me some food.’
“You had lunch earlier,” Sam points out, eyebrows up. “You don’t need any more food.”
‘I’m gonna eat your damn notebook if you don’t get me some food.’
“You wouldn’t-” Sam grips the edge of the laptop screen as Dean cocks his head, and Sam swears it looks like Dean’s raising an eyebrow at him, if he had any eyebrows.
‘Go ahead, poindexter. Give me two minutes and I’ll eat your emo poetry like that.’
“I don’t write poetry, Dean!”
At this point, it’s like being an outside viewer to the strange, disjointed thing that is Sam’s life, where he’s having a one-sided conversation with his brother, the pig, Dean’s bodiless voice as the narrator. He’ll laugh later when he’s not teetering on the edge of amusement and that familiar mantra of this cannot get any more fucked up.
‘Coulda fooled me, throwin’ those purple prose words around,’ Dean says, and he yawns, licks his mouth, not as appealing when it’s a pig tongue and a pig’s mouth, Sam realizes. ‘Seriously, I’ll eat it, Sam. I can’t control this body.’
“Why am I not surprised?” Sam says dryly, shutting his laptop and shoving it-and his notebook-underneath the pillow on his own bed. “Same old excuse.”
Dean starts to move forward but thinks the better of it, ‘cause he’ll fall off the bed and Sam sure isn’t going to pick him up again. He gets up and moves a little, rolls onto his back and leans his head forward, forelegs resting on his belly, back legs sticking up in the air. ‘I want something salty.’
Sam rolls his eyes as he picks up the motel room keys, hearing soft snorting behind him. “Keep it down. The last thing we want is them throwing us out for me bringing a pig into the room.”
‘Oh, and bring me a beer.’
“You’re a pig, moron.”
Dean sort of shrugs, wriggles in place. ‘So what?’
“I’m gonna bring you pork rinds if you keep this up,” Sam says, getting a loud snort in return.
‘That’s cold,’ Dean says and when Sam’s just about to leave, he calls out and says, ‘Be a good brother and put the TV on. I can’t use the remote. No fingers.’
Yeah, beyond fucked up, just so we’re clear.
*
So the thing is, being a pig? Has its ups and downs.
Right now, it’s a definite down when Dean tries to lower the volume on Skinemax-sure, normal volume’s fine but sometimes you just don’t wanna hear cheesy dialogue when you’re just trying to get off-and instead manages to switch it over to Lifetime, where one of those chicks from whatever shows Sammy secretly watches is dealing with a life threatening illness or a surprise pregnancy or both. Maybe this weepy chick just found out she’s knocked up and she’s having a tumor.
No fingers. Freaking hell, man, he can’t even jerk off to begin with, let alone change channels. Also, he doesn’t even feel, uh, excited, and maybe that’s for the best. Oh man, what if he’s only attracted to other pigs? Stupid thoughts; that one’s gonna leave psychological damage.
Must be some ups to the downs, has to be, some kinda silver lining, something to balance this heap of wrongness, ‘specially when Dean manages to fall off the bed with a loud thump, groans inwardly because Sam’s just gonna have to stuff it and stop bitching when he’ll have to pick him up again.
There’s that, too, of being stuck-no, of having-because this ain’t switching or anything, he damn well transformed on the toilet-a body that can’t do much, that can’t like, move for one thing. It’s a little scary and a lot weird being so low to the ground and being unable to move - graceful or not, he thinks his body’s normally more than decent (he is the handsome brother to the giant, after all) and here, this? This is embarrassing.
And there’s another thought, one he doesn’t want to acknowledge but it pops up when he’s struck with this notion of being stuck forever.
A few years down the road, Sam Winchester, demon hunter extraordinaire, and his pet pig. You know, the one that gets in the way constantly because oh, did you hear, that used to be his brother.
Dean shudders inwardly and starts pacing, ignoring the two driving urges to eat and sleep. Might as well get used to this for the time being ‘cause Sammy’s gonna get his ass handed to him if Dean isn’t up to helping his brother, curse or not.
And if he eats the package of Twizzlers Sam’s left peeking out of his bag on the floor, wrapping and all, well, that’s not his fucking fault.
*
The first thing Sam does is disregard anything Dean tells him because just recently he wanted to dive headfirst into a mud hole, and that’s before he became a pig, so his great ideas are a little crazier than normal. And Dean’s normal is already bent towards insanity. He checks out the local pet store, manages to pick up some food based on a few questions he asked the sales person-which, yeah, sure came out a little weird bursting into the store asking if they had any pig food but uh, desperate times. Desperate measures.
They offer to throw in a harness and leash for half off to which Sam declines out of fear for his own safety (and his items, he doesn’t want to know what Dean could do to them now).
“It says here that pigs are omnivores. A diet with 12% protein and a ‘lot of fiber and roughage’ which is stuff like greens, fruits, and vegetables,” Sam says an hour later, frowns and his eyes go wide when Dean pushes his shoulder, nudging him sideways to try and look at the laptop.
‘Screw what it says. I’m not eating hay or any shit like that,’ Dean states, his eyes going a little squinty, like he needs little pig spectacles balanced on his snout. At least, even more than usual, because Dean might get grouchy about it, but he does suffer from eyestrain when he’s on the computer. Funny thing is, he’s got the same kind of long lashes. Weird. ‘Why the hell are you looking at that stuff anyway?’
“It’s not hay, Dean. And I’m looking up this stuff to know how to, uh, handle you.”
‘You sure know how to get a girl all hot and bothered, Sammy.’
“Shut up,” Sam replies tolerantly, nudges Dean away with a light brush of his forearm when he resumes typing, Dean lying down next to him. “Just in case this lasts for a while.”
Before Dean can respond, Sam adds, “Sometimes these things tend to last for a few weeks or more. Months aren’t uncommon. Cases running for years have been known to occur.”
‘Years?’ Dean’s voice is loud and confused in Sam’s head, and Sam can easily conjure up a mental image of his brother’s expression on his real face, the tension in his body language transformed and replaced in this animal next to him. ‘Oh god, kill me now. I mean it, kill me. No wait, if I’m sent to hog heaven, someone could cook me and eat me. Jesus.’
“Yeah, I know,” Sam answers, ignores the way his stomach’s twisting in knots, that may be thanks to the soft bristle scrape of Dean’s fur against the bare skin of his exposed arm near the t-shirt sleeve. “We’ll figure it out.”
Continued in Part Two