(no subject)
Girl!Sam! This one's pretty different from girl!Dean - it's more intended as romance than comedy, if that makes a difference, and, uh, welcome to jealous!Dean. Also, Dean as a girl? Is wildly different to write. Sam as a girl? EXACTLY THE SAME. I've confirmed Dean's hypothesis: Sam really IS a girl.
Huge thanks to smangosbubbles for coaxing me through this one. Sorry it took so long to get up, guys!
Gender Studies, Sam/Dean, 5200, NC-17.
As always, note the pairing, and there's both boy/girl and boy/boy here, so um. Read with care?
Gender Studies
Sam and Dean spend the afternoon wading through the swamp around a voodoo priestess’s cabin in New Orleans, and by the time they get back to the hotel, it’s all Sam can do to take a shower and climb into bed.
He wakes up the next morning, later than usual, feeling strange - not actively puking, but it’s possible that he’s contracted cholera or something from the goddamned swamp, so he rolls out of bed - yeah, a little dizzy, and stretches, with every intention of checking the back of his throat and doing a google search.
“Finally, Sleeping Beauty,” Dean says, poking around on the laptop, probably downloading porn, and leans around to look at him. “Do you want pancakes or eggs? I was kind of feeling like waffles but -”
Dean stops talking, kind of abruptly, and stares. Stares some more.
“Sam,” he says, “Sammy,” and Sam looks down, kind of panicked that he has some swamp-induced rash, and -
Breasts. He has breasts. Breasts and no dick, which is totally not okay.
“Sam?” Dean says, again, still staring.
“What?” Sam says, and yes, okay, now he’s definitely panicking.
“You’re a girl,” Dean points out, kind of unnecessarily. “And you’re hot.”
Sam heads back under the blankets.
Dean turns out to be pretty decent about it, all things considered - he doesn’t even try hauling Sam out of bed until dinner, and even then, it’s only for food.
“I got you a milkshake,” he says. “You can’t refuse to come out for a milkshake.”
Sam’s pretty sure he could, but he hasn’t eaten all day, and the jambalaya Dean’s got in a styrofoam container smells pretty good.
“I don’t have any clothes,” he says, because none of his fit. Dean leaves the food on the nightstand and gets Sam one of his shirts and a pair of old sweatpants.
Sam pulls them on under the blankets, very pointedly not looking at anything, and then eats a little bit of dinner, largely because Dean pokes him until he gives in, then steals half his milkshake anyway. They watch a movie, Dean pressed up against his shoulder not really saying anything, and Sam’s kind of stupidly grateful that he’s not taking the entire thing as an opportunity for endless pranks.
At least until the next morning, when Dean hauls every blanket off his bed.
“Rise and shine,” he says, and tries to haul Sam out of bed by one of his feet, which is largely unsuccessful considering a) Sam still has a death grip on the mattress and b) Dean gets distracted.
“Huh,” he says, kind of curious, and lets go, which Sam thinks might be the end of it aside from the fact that his sheets are in the bathroom.
Then Dean grabs his ass.
“WHAT THE HELL,” Sam yells, and rolls out of bed to hide in the corner between the mattress and the wall.
“Got you up, now didn’t it,” Dean says, kind of smug, and drops a bag on the bed. “I brought you some clothes.”
Sam takes the bag and retreats to the bathroom, just so Dean doesn’t get any ideas. There’s at least a pair of jeans, worn in enough that Sam figures the clothes came from the Salvation Army down the street, but the shirts make his head spin a little uncomfortably.
“No,” he says, to Dean, and Dean turns him around and shoves him back in the bathroom.
“That’s what girls wear,” he says, and Sam’s faced with another round of staring at shirts.
It’s not that they’re unreasonable - Dean’s not that stupid - but they’re female, colors he’d never ordinarily wear, tight, a little low-cut.
Dean opens the door and tosses another bag in, from Target, and then Sam wonders what the fuck he was thinking, worrying about shirts, because there are bras and underwear in there. Sam’s pretty sure he’s going to start hyperventilating.
“Christ, Sammy,” Dean says, and tugs him out again, then picks one complete outfit out of the bags, jeans and a bra with a stupid little bow on it and underwear and a red shirt that doesn’t actually cover as much as he wants it to.
“Just get dressed,” he says, and Sam does, keeping his eyes shut. The bra’s kind of a pain, but he figures out that he can fasten it and then turn it around, and that’s okay.
“Thank fucking god,” Dean says, when he comes out again, and gives him a pair of shoes, which are kind of strappy and definitely not flat.
“They were the only thing they had that was big enough,” Dean says. “We’ll get you something better later.”
Sam gives up, but Dean stops him just before he gets in the car, looking at him kind of funny.
“Wear this,” he says, and shrugs out of his jacket, brown leather and still kind of warm. “I don’t want anybody messing with you.”
“What, are you gonna be my boyfriend now?” Sam says, a little dryly, and Dean rolls his eyes.
“You want to get hit on, be my guest,” he says, kind of huffy.
Sam puts on the jacket.
They’re staying outside of the city, but Dean drives in, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, with Sam hunched up in the side seat. “We’re going to see somebody,” he says, “figure out what happened.”
They park pretty deep into the French Quarter, and Dean consults something scribbled on a napkin, then drags Sam into a café.
“God, real coffee,” he says, and Sam wakes up for the first time in two days and puts away three cups of it and two beignets. Dean looks kind of impressed.
“What?” Sam says. “I was hungry.”
Dean’s just kind of picking at his muffin, too busy looking around to eat, so Sam finishes it off, plus a glass of juice, but by the time he’s ready to go, Dean’s busy glaring at half the restaurant. The male half.
“You just stick close to me, Sammy,” he says, and actually holds on to the sleeve of Sam’s jacket.
Sam doesn’t actually mind, because the shoes are easier to balance in with Dean’s weight on the other side, and maybe it’ll get him to stop being so damn jumpy. Dean consults his napkin again, and leads him down a side street, then over one more, into a darker section of the Quarter, oak trees hanging heavy over head.
“Through here,” Dean says, and pushes open the door to an unmarked shop.
“Dean,” Sam hisses, because the candles and jars make it pretty obvious that they’re in exactly the sort of place that probably got him into this mess, but Dean actually seems to relax for the first time all morning.
“It’s okay,” he says, picking up a candle to look at the bottom. “They’re good people.”
“There’s no such thing as good voodoo!” Sam mutters.
“An interesting opinion,” the woman coming out of the back of the store says, looking faintly amused. “Is this him?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, putting down his candle. “I think he ran into something.”
She makes a soft, somewhat dismissive noise, and hauls Sam into a chair. “Open,” she says, and looks into his mouth, pokes his stomach, looks at the palms of his hands. She’s got dark blue teeth and braided hair, tattoos on her palms, and Sam’s not really thrilled about having her touch him.
“You should know better than to fix the balance of things when you yourself are so conflicted,” she says, finally, “but it can be broken.”
Sam’s not really sure he’s conflicted about anything, but he’s not going to argue with any more voodoo people.
“Thank fucking god,” Dean says, and goes to poke around in some jars.
The woman gives him a book, but hands over three candles and a rolled up package of something to Dean. “Take care of your brother,” she says, and disappears again.
“Cool!” Dean says, and steals the book as they’re walking back to the car, paging through it.
“Huh,” he says, then, “huh,” and kind of snickers.
“What?” Sam says, sliding into the passenger seat.
“Sex magic,” Dean says, kind of smirking, “you got cursed by sex magic,” and Sam snatches the book away from him and just kind of stares at it for awhile, like maybe it’ll be something different if he looks at it long enough, like maybe it won’t mean that the only way to get his body back is that.
“It’s okay,” Dean says, kind of smirking, “I have lots of practice picking up girls in bars.”
“Dean,” Sam says, still looking at it.
“Okay, libraries,” Dean says, pulling out, and Sam rubs a hand over his face.
“Got any practice picking up guys?” he says, and Dean looks a lot less amused after that.
Sam’s slept with one person since Jessica, and he’s pretty sure Madison proved what a bad idea it was, trying to move on. He likes sex - maybe not as much as Dean, but enough - and getting himself off in the shower week after week isn’t that great, but Sam needs it to mean something, needs it to be more than a stranger in a bar who he’s never going to see again.
He tries anyway, because he doesn’t have Dean’s back, like this, and after four or five shots, the men he’s talking to don’t seem so bad, the prospect doesn’t look so awful. The jukebox isn’t great, but it’s enough of a rhythm to follow, and he’s doing okay. Dean shows up half an hour into it, though, tight-faced, and walks through the rest of the dance floor to cut in, settles his hands on Sam’s waist.
“I’m not letting you do this,” he says, and Sam wants to say that it’s fine, that he’s fine, but he’s too drunk for it, so he lets Dean pull him in close as the music goes slow, keep him there.
“I could,” he says, and the room’s a little blurry, but Dean’s solid, and he’s got his arms around Sam’s waist, casual but firm.
“You want to do something stupid and hurt yourself,” Dean murmurs, keeping him close, and Sam realizes he’s angry, “you don’t leave while I’m doing our laundry and getting our dinner, make me come find you.”
“Sorry,” he whispers, and gets his head on Dean’s shoulder, because he hates when Dean’s pissed off with him, and Dean eases off a little, starts breathing again.
“I know it’s hard,” he says, spreading his palm against the small of Sam’s back, taking easy steps. “But I’ll handle it, Sammy. The book said - it’ll wear off, maybe. We’ll give it some time.”
Sam’s pretty sure it’s not going to wear off, all things considered, but he trusts Dean enough to know that he’s not going to let him do anything he doesn’t want to. It’s almost a relief.
He falls asleep in the car on the way home, and Dean doesn’t even bother to wake him, just gets an arm beneath his knees and the other behind his shoulders and picks him up, nudges the car door shut with his leg and fumbles the room key out of his pocket without putting Sam down.
“Get some sleep,” he murmurs, and tucks Sam in beneath the blankets, turns off the light.
Sam feels kind of like death warmed over the next morning, but Dean’s already packed everything and loaded the car, so he just kind of stumbles in.
“Guess you don’t want anything?” Dean hazards, when they stop at IHOP, but Sam’s kind of hungry underneath the hangover, and manages to eat two stacks of blueberry pancakes plus some of Dean’s bacon.
“That’s weird,” Dean says, finally, watching him eat.
“Look who’s talking,” Sam snorts. By the time they pull out, he doesn’t feel bad anymore, and the road’s open and calling.
He’s not as bad with the weapons as he thought he’d be. The shotgun’s got too much kick for him now, but his sense of balance is better, his reflexes faster. Dean’s not thrilled about it when Sam finds evidence of a haunting in Texas, but he makes the turn, and it’s not until they’re waist deep in grave dirt that Sam figures out exactly why this isn’t going to work.
“I’ll keep watch,” Sam says, already pulling himself up and out while Dean pries open the lid of the coffin.
“Fuck no,” Dean says, and pulls him back down, which is right about when the ghost shows up.
“Got it,” Sam says, and goes for the rock salt so Dean can just finish the fucking job, and then Dean pulls him back, puts himself between Sam and the goddamned ghost, and goes for the gun.
Sam gets the lid the rest of the way off and starts salting, and then Dean pulls him back again. “It’s gonna go for whoever’s doing that,” he mutters, and Sam gives up and lets him throw down the match.
After, in the car, Dean’s kind of shaky, like he doesn’t know what to do first.
“You okay?” he says, and then actually starts touching Sam all over, like he’s checking for breaks, making sure he’s all right.
Sam wants to be pissed off, but this close, Sam can tell Dean’s not okay, pale and more unsettled than Sam’s seen him in a long time.
“I’m fine,” he says, and leans into Dean a little, pressed up against the car door. “Relax.”
Dean doesn’t, though, so when they get back to the hotel room, Sam shoves him into the shower, full heat, and sits outside the door talking about nothing while Dean washes off.
Sam lets him crawl into bed with him after, something he’s been doing more often lately, but Dean flinches when he pulls out the laptop.
“Want to play solitare?” Sam says, finally, and decides to just let it the hell go.
After that, they pick one man jobs; Sam does the research, Dean does the time.
Being a girl - all things considered - isn’t that bad. He can’t pee standing up anymore, which means twice as many rest stop breaks, but it’s easier to get information, and most things feel pretty much the same. Dean, though - Sam doesn’t have the faintest idea what to do with him, because he’s been wound tight since it happened, in and out like he wants something he’s got no idea how to take.
Sam thinks maybe it’s touch - for all the women Dean has slept with, he’s never done too well with casual gestures, probably because Dean doesn’t know how to open himself up. Sam’s pretty sure he wants it, has always wanted it, but it’s different now that Sam’s a girl. He could let himself, and it wouldn’t be wrong, but there’s a twisted sort of logic in there that’s afraid of getting too close.
About a month after it happens, Dean’s back and forth starts getting to him - he’s tired all the time, not hungry, shoulders tight. Sam wants to sleep in a real bed, and he’s sick of driving, sick of Dean swinging between affectionate and distant, sick of everything.
Dean finds a tiny bed and breakfast tucked away in Vermont. He pulls in at two in the afternoon and gets a queen, which makes Sam a little more inclined to forgive him for staying out until three the night before, then leaves Sam to settle in while he moves the car. Sam can barely keep his eyes open, let alone unpack, so he crawls into bed, barely manages to get the covers pulled up.
“You okay?” Dean says, a couple minutes later, when he lets himself in and spoons up behind Sam - not talking himself out of it right now, apparently.
“Just tired,” Sam says, leaning back into it, because Dean’s warm as hell and it feels good to be close, to be safe, and he falls asleep that way, Dean’s arms wrapped around him.
Sam wakes up hurting, a low, intense ache in his stomach, curls in on himself only to discover there’s blood all over the sheets, and Dean notices about three seconds after he does.
“Sam?” he says, sounding seriously freaked out. “Did you cut yourself? Do you need a doctor?”
Sam kind of wants to beat him over the head with the copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves Jess made him read when he pulled this stunt with her, but he recognizes that Dean’s trying, even if he’s denser than lead.
“No, it’s normal,” he manages to get out, and doesn’t even start thinking about how much he’d like to follow Dean over the edge into panic, because one of them has to keep it together.
“Oh,” Dean says, then, “oh,” and backs off a little, then leans again, like he doesn’t want to seem like he’s freaked out.
“I’ll run you a bath,” Dean says, kind of decisively, and he sounds glad to have something to do. Sam wonders just how much time he spent around Jo, because this isn’t the kind of thing you figure out with women you pick up in bars.
Sam hears the door open and shut while he’s soaking - god, he loves hot water, and it’s a real bathtub, deep enough that he can actually submerge - but Dean comes back about twenty minutes later and sits down on the edge.
“Hey,” he says, not even trying to look, which Sam finds kind of hilarious, all things considered. It turns out Dean’s kind of a decent guy, which he really never expected.
“Hey,” Sam replies, and Dean reaches out to brush Sam’s hair out of his eyes.
“I brought you stuff,” he says. “And ice cream.”
Sam’s pretty big on ice cream. “Chocolate?” he says, and Dean snorts.
“How stupid do you think I am, bitch?” he says, laughing, and leaves Sam to soak a little longer.
The bag he leaves in the bathroom has stuff, plus a bottle of Midol and some stick on heating patches, which Sam is seriously considering putting in the running for “best invention on the planet.”
“I kinda called Jo,” Dean admits, when Sam comes out again, while he’s rummaging through Dean’s bag for something to wear. He’s scowling a little, like he didn’t really enjoy the conversation. “So she knows.”
Sam’s kind of relieved, because Dean actually knowing what brand of painkiller to buy is totally beyond the realm of what his brain can manage. “Thanks,” he says, and crawls in with him, lets Dean settle in against his back when he turns on the TV.
“Let me know if you need - something,” Dean says, a little like he’s trying not to freak out again, so Sam just leans back against him.
“I’m okay,” he murmurs, and is surprised to find that he really, really is.
Dean stays in with him the next couple days. He manages a backrub that’s so good it knocks Sam out for four hours, and keeps stuffing him with Cherry Garcia. It’s not great, but it’s not as bad as he thought it might be, and Dean doesn’t do anything stupid, though Sam thinks Jo might have had something to do with that.
Sam starts hanging out at a little coffee shop in town, doing research, and by Thursday the people at the counter all recognize him. One of the guys at the counter starts bringing by his drinks before he orders them, and Sam feels a little obligated to talk to him - he’s the kind of guy he would’ve been friends with at Stanford, one he would’ve had over for football games and Friday night parties - but it doesn’t take him too long to realize that he likes their conversation for its own sake. He’s a little startled, though, when the guy - whose name turns out to be Jake - asks him if he wants to get dinner.
Then he realizes that in a different context, what they’ve been doing all afternoon could more than be classified as flirting. He says yes to Friday night at 7.
At six thirty, Sam’s still trying to find a shirt he likes when Dean walks in, kind of muddy and definitely smug. “I got a couple pixies,” he says, and sprawls out across the bed.
Sam would be pissed at him for getting mud on the bedspread, but he still can’t find the blue button down. It turns out to be in the bottom of Dean’s bag.
“Hot date, bitch?” Dean says, kind of amused, and Sam manages to get the shirt on and find his wallet.
“I don’t know about hot,” he mutters, and runs a brush through his hair, which is yet another annoying side effect of being a girl: it’s past his shoulders now.
Dean sits up, kind of abruptly. “You’re going on a date?”
“Just dinner,” Sam says, and, because Dean looks like he’s going straight into overprotective mode, do not pass go, do not collect $200, “I’ll leave my phone on.”
He has to turn it off, though, because Dean calls three times during the salad course alone. Jake’s sweet, and half a bottle of wine later, Sam’s feeling substantially better about being on a date with another guy. In fact, he’s feeling good enough about it to think there might be a repeat experiment later in the week.
Then Dean shows up.
“Sammy,” he says, leaning up against their table, and Sam’s going to fucking kill him. “We need to talk.”
“We’re kind of eating, Dean,” he manages, through gritted teeth. “I’ll see you back at the hotel.”
Jake mostly just looks confused. “This is Dean,” Sam says. “He’s leaving.”
“Sam,” Dean says, “please?” and god damn it, it’s not like he’s ever been able to say no.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, to Jake. “Right back.”
Then he follows Dean outside.
“You can’t,” Dean says, hands opening then tightening into fists, pacing back and forth across the front drive. “You can’t.”
“Spend time with somebody other than you?” Sam snaps.
“No - ” Dean says, scrubbing a hand over his face, “no, Sam, I - ”
“Yeah,” Sam says, flatly. “You.”
“Sam,” Dean tries again, and Sam hands him his cell phone.
“Stop trying to protect me, Dean,” he says, and walks back inside.
Jake’s already paying the check.
“He’s gone,” Sam says, kind of tired, sitting down again. “Let’s just - please, can we just finish eating?”
“No offense,” Jake says, “but if you’re sitting in here with me while he’s out there waiting, you’re way less intelligent than I gave you credit for.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, realization hitting him like a slow wave, and pushes his chair back. “Yeah, I’ll - call you,” he manages, and ducks around a crowd of people to hit the parking lot at a run.
“Dean,” he manages, spreading a hand against the window, and thank god, at least he hasn’t pulled away yet, the engine’s barely turned over.
Dean pushes the car door open so fast that Sam actually has to step back, and then it’s all of three seconds before Dean’s got his arms around him.
“Sammy,” Dean says, low and a little rough.
“Yeah,” Sam whispers, “yeah,” and Dean doesn’t even wait for him to catch his breath, just pushes him back against the car and kisses him, hard.
Sam kisses back, hands closing in Dean’s jacket, pulling Dean in until he’s pressed up against him, close and warm.
“Sam,” Dean says, again, against his mouth, and Sam realizes in a rush that Dean hasn’t been overprotective, he’s been jealous.
“It’s okay,” Sam manages, sliding his hands down, to spread across Dean’s back, keep him close, “I just want - you.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, a little hoarse, “yeah, just you.” He kisses him again, mouth warm and steady over Sam’s, and by the time they surface for air, he realizes people are staring.
“Dean,” he manages, and Dean’s got his hands in the back pockets of Sam’s jeans, just keeping their bodies together. “We’re kind of making a scene.”
“I don’t care,” Dean says, because he’s noticed too, but Sam manages to get them both into the car before Dean decides sex on the hood is a good idea.
Dean all but carries him upstairs, Sam’s legs wrapped around his waist. They let go of each other long enough to get into the room, and then Dean’s kissing him again, unbuttoning Sam’s shirt, almost careful.
“Jesus, I’m not going to break,” Sam says, and just pulls Dean down onto the bed, throws his jacket somewhere in the direction of a chair, because he hasn’t gotten off in a month and a half - girls are too complicated for the shower and Dean’s always around.
Dean stretches out beside him, smirking a little. “Desperate, Sammy?”
Sam goes for him, which doesn’t exactly end the way he planned, considering Dean’s got the weight advantage now. “I win, bitch,” Dean says, kind of triumphantly, sprawled out on top of him, and then flushes all of a sudden.
Sam’s pretty sure he knows why.
“I definitely let you,” he murmurs, against Dean’s mouth, and then Dean gets the picture and pins him to the bed, pressing his hips up against Sam’s, rubbing just a little as he goes in for another kiss.
By the time they’re both naked, all of a minute later, Sam can’t think straight, so when Dean rolls off him to go rummage in his bag, he’s pretty far from thrilled. At least Dean looks kind of ridiculous walking around hard, which is a small consolation, considering.
“What the fuck?” Sam manages, still breathing hard, and Dean tosses him a condom.
“Hold onto that,” he says, and pulls out the candles from the shop, sets them up on the bedside table, and finds a lighter.
“Seriously,” Sam says, shifting a little, “I don’t actually need atmosphere.” Dean snorts and turns off the lights, settling back in bed.
It takes Sam’s eyes a minute to adjust to the light, and by the time he does, Dean’s over him again, licking across his collarbone, a hand spread across his ribs. “I don’t know about you, Sammy,” he murmurs, down a little, and oh jesus, Dean’s brushing his thumb over a nipple, “but I kind of want the real you back.”
Sam could care less about whether he’s himself or not. He wants Dean. Now.
“Yeah, okay,” Sam manages, and actually gets the condom open, which he’s kind of amazed at.
“I can - ” Dean says, nudging a hand between his legs, touching just a little with his fingertips, and Sam actually has to shift away.
“I don’t need foreplay either,” Sam says, trying to catch his breath. “Trust me.”
“Jesus, Sam,” Dean says, and suddenly he’s breathing hard too, nudging Sam’s hips up with a hand, taking the condom from him to roll it on.
It doesn’t actually work the first time Dean goes for it, which is mostly Sam’s fault but makes him laugh anyway. Dean bites his shoulder to shut him up, but he’s looking kind of amused, too. “Shut up,” he mutters, and Sam hits him, still laughing.
“I thought you were supposed to be good at this,” he says, and then Dean lifts Sam’s hips and slides into him, not really bothering to take it slow, and Sam can’t breathe.
“I am,” Dean says, and kisses him, slow and deep, then just thrusts, like he’s not working at it at all, and Sam’s whole back arches.
Dean goes a little deeper the next time, nudging Sam back against the pillows, changing the angle a little, then gets a hand between them, barely touching, but Sam feels warm all over.
“God, you feel good,” Dean says, against his jaw, and thrusts again, that same easy rhythm. Sam comes, hard, a minute later, Dean pressed up against him.
Dean manages all of one more thrust after that before he comes too, face pressed against Sam’s shoulder. Sam’s totally content to just let him stay there, warm and reassuring, but Dean rolls off to throw away the condom, and Sam suddenly feels weird all over.
“Hey,” he manages, then, “Dean,” like Dean’s actually going to be able to fix whatever it is. He hurts all over, sharp and acute. Sam blinks a couple times, trying to breathe through it, and then suddenly it’s over.
“Welcome back,” Dean says, then pulls him in and hugs him, hard, then punches him right in the shoulder. “If you ever fucking do that to me again - ”
Sam tackles him - one of the few proven methods for shutting Dean the hell up - and actually manages to win this time, with Dean squirming around on the bed beneath him.
“NOT FAIR,” he yells, and Sam snickers, keeps him pinned, at least until Dean shoves up and they both end up falling off the bed, taking half the blankets with them.
“Goddamn it,” Dean says, still kind of underneath him, pulling the sheets off of his head, and Sam can’t stop laughing, because it feels good to be himself again.
“Hey,” Sam says, leaning down a little, because Dean’s scowling, “you okay?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, and Sam cups his face and kisses him, warm and slow, over and over, until Dean’s arching up beneath him for a totally different reason.
Sam pulls him over onto his side, wrapping a hand around both their erections - seriously, he’s never going to fail to appreciate his dick again - and just strokes, until he can’t breathe and Dean’s shivering all over. Then he pushes Dean back, settles over him, and lets Dean rub up against him, flushed and warm.
“Jesus, Sammy,” he says, and Sam licks into the hollow of his throat and Dean comes all over him.
Sam finishes stroking himself off and follows him over the edge, sprawling out next to Dean when he can think again, and Dean settles in against his side, drowsy.
“Maybe we should get back on the bed,” Sam says, a little dryly, and Dean rolls his eyes.
“Your fault we’re down here,” he says, yawning, and Sam reaches up and rubs the back of Dean’s neck, pulling a pillow down. Dean’s been looking after him for six weeks, and Sam’s pretty sure it’s more than time to return the favor.
“Get some sleep,” he says, soft, and Dean reaches up to wrap his fingers around Sam’s wrist, settling his head on his shoulder.
“Sorry for ruining your date,” he says, and Sam laughs, pulls the blanket up around them.
“I’m pretty sure it was worth it,” he says, dryly, and Dean looks kind of offended.
“I was totally awesome,” he mutters.
“Definitely sure,” Sam amends, and pulls Dean down, close, to keep him safe as he falls asleep.
Huge thanks to smangosbubbles for coaxing me through this one. Sorry it took so long to get up, guys!
Gender Studies, Sam/Dean, 5200, NC-17.
As always, note the pairing, and there's both boy/girl and boy/boy here, so um. Read with care?
Gender Studies
Sam and Dean spend the afternoon wading through the swamp around a voodoo priestess’s cabin in New Orleans, and by the time they get back to the hotel, it’s all Sam can do to take a shower and climb into bed.
He wakes up the next morning, later than usual, feeling strange - not actively puking, but it’s possible that he’s contracted cholera or something from the goddamned swamp, so he rolls out of bed - yeah, a little dizzy, and stretches, with every intention of checking the back of his throat and doing a google search.
“Finally, Sleeping Beauty,” Dean says, poking around on the laptop, probably downloading porn, and leans around to look at him. “Do you want pancakes or eggs? I was kind of feeling like waffles but -”
Dean stops talking, kind of abruptly, and stares. Stares some more.
“Sam,” he says, “Sammy,” and Sam looks down, kind of panicked that he has some swamp-induced rash, and -
Breasts. He has breasts. Breasts and no dick, which is totally not okay.
“Sam?” Dean says, again, still staring.
“What?” Sam says, and yes, okay, now he’s definitely panicking.
“You’re a girl,” Dean points out, kind of unnecessarily. “And you’re hot.”
Sam heads back under the blankets.
Dean turns out to be pretty decent about it, all things considered - he doesn’t even try hauling Sam out of bed until dinner, and even then, it’s only for food.
“I got you a milkshake,” he says. “You can’t refuse to come out for a milkshake.”
Sam’s pretty sure he could, but he hasn’t eaten all day, and the jambalaya Dean’s got in a styrofoam container smells pretty good.
“I don’t have any clothes,” he says, because none of his fit. Dean leaves the food on the nightstand and gets Sam one of his shirts and a pair of old sweatpants.
Sam pulls them on under the blankets, very pointedly not looking at anything, and then eats a little bit of dinner, largely because Dean pokes him until he gives in, then steals half his milkshake anyway. They watch a movie, Dean pressed up against his shoulder not really saying anything, and Sam’s kind of stupidly grateful that he’s not taking the entire thing as an opportunity for endless pranks.
At least until the next morning, when Dean hauls every blanket off his bed.
“Rise and shine,” he says, and tries to haul Sam out of bed by one of his feet, which is largely unsuccessful considering a) Sam still has a death grip on the mattress and b) Dean gets distracted.
“Huh,” he says, kind of curious, and lets go, which Sam thinks might be the end of it aside from the fact that his sheets are in the bathroom.
Then Dean grabs his ass.
“WHAT THE HELL,” Sam yells, and rolls out of bed to hide in the corner between the mattress and the wall.
“Got you up, now didn’t it,” Dean says, kind of smug, and drops a bag on the bed. “I brought you some clothes.”
Sam takes the bag and retreats to the bathroom, just so Dean doesn’t get any ideas. There’s at least a pair of jeans, worn in enough that Sam figures the clothes came from the Salvation Army down the street, but the shirts make his head spin a little uncomfortably.
“No,” he says, to Dean, and Dean turns him around and shoves him back in the bathroom.
“That’s what girls wear,” he says, and Sam’s faced with another round of staring at shirts.
It’s not that they’re unreasonable - Dean’s not that stupid - but they’re female, colors he’d never ordinarily wear, tight, a little low-cut.
Dean opens the door and tosses another bag in, from Target, and then Sam wonders what the fuck he was thinking, worrying about shirts, because there are bras and underwear in there. Sam’s pretty sure he’s going to start hyperventilating.
“Christ, Sammy,” Dean says, and tugs him out again, then picks one complete outfit out of the bags, jeans and a bra with a stupid little bow on it and underwear and a red shirt that doesn’t actually cover as much as he wants it to.
“Just get dressed,” he says, and Sam does, keeping his eyes shut. The bra’s kind of a pain, but he figures out that he can fasten it and then turn it around, and that’s okay.
“Thank fucking god,” Dean says, when he comes out again, and gives him a pair of shoes, which are kind of strappy and definitely not flat.
“They were the only thing they had that was big enough,” Dean says. “We’ll get you something better later.”
Sam gives up, but Dean stops him just before he gets in the car, looking at him kind of funny.
“Wear this,” he says, and shrugs out of his jacket, brown leather and still kind of warm. “I don’t want anybody messing with you.”
“What, are you gonna be my boyfriend now?” Sam says, a little dryly, and Dean rolls his eyes.
“You want to get hit on, be my guest,” he says, kind of huffy.
Sam puts on the jacket.
They’re staying outside of the city, but Dean drives in, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, with Sam hunched up in the side seat. “We’re going to see somebody,” he says, “figure out what happened.”
They park pretty deep into the French Quarter, and Dean consults something scribbled on a napkin, then drags Sam into a café.
“God, real coffee,” he says, and Sam wakes up for the first time in two days and puts away three cups of it and two beignets. Dean looks kind of impressed.
“What?” Sam says. “I was hungry.”
Dean’s just kind of picking at his muffin, too busy looking around to eat, so Sam finishes it off, plus a glass of juice, but by the time he’s ready to go, Dean’s busy glaring at half the restaurant. The male half.
“You just stick close to me, Sammy,” he says, and actually holds on to the sleeve of Sam’s jacket.
Sam doesn’t actually mind, because the shoes are easier to balance in with Dean’s weight on the other side, and maybe it’ll get him to stop being so damn jumpy. Dean consults his napkin again, and leads him down a side street, then over one more, into a darker section of the Quarter, oak trees hanging heavy over head.
“Through here,” Dean says, and pushes open the door to an unmarked shop.
“Dean,” Sam hisses, because the candles and jars make it pretty obvious that they’re in exactly the sort of place that probably got him into this mess, but Dean actually seems to relax for the first time all morning.
“It’s okay,” he says, picking up a candle to look at the bottom. “They’re good people.”
“There’s no such thing as good voodoo!” Sam mutters.
“An interesting opinion,” the woman coming out of the back of the store says, looking faintly amused. “Is this him?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, putting down his candle. “I think he ran into something.”
She makes a soft, somewhat dismissive noise, and hauls Sam into a chair. “Open,” she says, and looks into his mouth, pokes his stomach, looks at the palms of his hands. She’s got dark blue teeth and braided hair, tattoos on her palms, and Sam’s not really thrilled about having her touch him.
“You should know better than to fix the balance of things when you yourself are so conflicted,” she says, finally, “but it can be broken.”
Sam’s not really sure he’s conflicted about anything, but he’s not going to argue with any more voodoo people.
“Thank fucking god,” Dean says, and goes to poke around in some jars.
The woman gives him a book, but hands over three candles and a rolled up package of something to Dean. “Take care of your brother,” she says, and disappears again.
“Cool!” Dean says, and steals the book as they’re walking back to the car, paging through it.
“Huh,” he says, then, “huh,” and kind of snickers.
“What?” Sam says, sliding into the passenger seat.
“Sex magic,” Dean says, kind of smirking, “you got cursed by sex magic,” and Sam snatches the book away from him and just kind of stares at it for awhile, like maybe it’ll be something different if he looks at it long enough, like maybe it won’t mean that the only way to get his body back is that.
“It’s okay,” Dean says, kind of smirking, “I have lots of practice picking up girls in bars.”
“Dean,” Sam says, still looking at it.
“Okay, libraries,” Dean says, pulling out, and Sam rubs a hand over his face.
“Got any practice picking up guys?” he says, and Dean looks a lot less amused after that.
Sam’s slept with one person since Jessica, and he’s pretty sure Madison proved what a bad idea it was, trying to move on. He likes sex - maybe not as much as Dean, but enough - and getting himself off in the shower week after week isn’t that great, but Sam needs it to mean something, needs it to be more than a stranger in a bar who he’s never going to see again.
He tries anyway, because he doesn’t have Dean’s back, like this, and after four or five shots, the men he’s talking to don’t seem so bad, the prospect doesn’t look so awful. The jukebox isn’t great, but it’s enough of a rhythm to follow, and he’s doing okay. Dean shows up half an hour into it, though, tight-faced, and walks through the rest of the dance floor to cut in, settles his hands on Sam’s waist.
“I’m not letting you do this,” he says, and Sam wants to say that it’s fine, that he’s fine, but he’s too drunk for it, so he lets Dean pull him in close as the music goes slow, keep him there.
“I could,” he says, and the room’s a little blurry, but Dean’s solid, and he’s got his arms around Sam’s waist, casual but firm.
“You want to do something stupid and hurt yourself,” Dean murmurs, keeping him close, and Sam realizes he’s angry, “you don’t leave while I’m doing our laundry and getting our dinner, make me come find you.”
“Sorry,” he whispers, and gets his head on Dean’s shoulder, because he hates when Dean’s pissed off with him, and Dean eases off a little, starts breathing again.
“I know it’s hard,” he says, spreading his palm against the small of Sam’s back, taking easy steps. “But I’ll handle it, Sammy. The book said - it’ll wear off, maybe. We’ll give it some time.”
Sam’s pretty sure it’s not going to wear off, all things considered, but he trusts Dean enough to know that he’s not going to let him do anything he doesn’t want to. It’s almost a relief.
He falls asleep in the car on the way home, and Dean doesn’t even bother to wake him, just gets an arm beneath his knees and the other behind his shoulders and picks him up, nudges the car door shut with his leg and fumbles the room key out of his pocket without putting Sam down.
“Get some sleep,” he murmurs, and tucks Sam in beneath the blankets, turns off the light.
Sam feels kind of like death warmed over the next morning, but Dean’s already packed everything and loaded the car, so he just kind of stumbles in.
“Guess you don’t want anything?” Dean hazards, when they stop at IHOP, but Sam’s kind of hungry underneath the hangover, and manages to eat two stacks of blueberry pancakes plus some of Dean’s bacon.
“That’s weird,” Dean says, finally, watching him eat.
“Look who’s talking,” Sam snorts. By the time they pull out, he doesn’t feel bad anymore, and the road’s open and calling.
He’s not as bad with the weapons as he thought he’d be. The shotgun’s got too much kick for him now, but his sense of balance is better, his reflexes faster. Dean’s not thrilled about it when Sam finds evidence of a haunting in Texas, but he makes the turn, and it’s not until they’re waist deep in grave dirt that Sam figures out exactly why this isn’t going to work.
“I’ll keep watch,” Sam says, already pulling himself up and out while Dean pries open the lid of the coffin.
“Fuck no,” Dean says, and pulls him back down, which is right about when the ghost shows up.
“Got it,” Sam says, and goes for the rock salt so Dean can just finish the fucking job, and then Dean pulls him back, puts himself between Sam and the goddamned ghost, and goes for the gun.
Sam gets the lid the rest of the way off and starts salting, and then Dean pulls him back again. “It’s gonna go for whoever’s doing that,” he mutters, and Sam gives up and lets him throw down the match.
After, in the car, Dean’s kind of shaky, like he doesn’t know what to do first.
“You okay?” he says, and then actually starts touching Sam all over, like he’s checking for breaks, making sure he’s all right.
Sam wants to be pissed off, but this close, Sam can tell Dean’s not okay, pale and more unsettled than Sam’s seen him in a long time.
“I’m fine,” he says, and leans into Dean a little, pressed up against the car door. “Relax.”
Dean doesn’t, though, so when they get back to the hotel room, Sam shoves him into the shower, full heat, and sits outside the door talking about nothing while Dean washes off.
Sam lets him crawl into bed with him after, something he’s been doing more often lately, but Dean flinches when he pulls out the laptop.
“Want to play solitare?” Sam says, finally, and decides to just let it the hell go.
After that, they pick one man jobs; Sam does the research, Dean does the time.
Being a girl - all things considered - isn’t that bad. He can’t pee standing up anymore, which means twice as many rest stop breaks, but it’s easier to get information, and most things feel pretty much the same. Dean, though - Sam doesn’t have the faintest idea what to do with him, because he’s been wound tight since it happened, in and out like he wants something he’s got no idea how to take.
Sam thinks maybe it’s touch - for all the women Dean has slept with, he’s never done too well with casual gestures, probably because Dean doesn’t know how to open himself up. Sam’s pretty sure he wants it, has always wanted it, but it’s different now that Sam’s a girl. He could let himself, and it wouldn’t be wrong, but there’s a twisted sort of logic in there that’s afraid of getting too close.
About a month after it happens, Dean’s back and forth starts getting to him - he’s tired all the time, not hungry, shoulders tight. Sam wants to sleep in a real bed, and he’s sick of driving, sick of Dean swinging between affectionate and distant, sick of everything.
Dean finds a tiny bed and breakfast tucked away in Vermont. He pulls in at two in the afternoon and gets a queen, which makes Sam a little more inclined to forgive him for staying out until three the night before, then leaves Sam to settle in while he moves the car. Sam can barely keep his eyes open, let alone unpack, so he crawls into bed, barely manages to get the covers pulled up.
“You okay?” Dean says, a couple minutes later, when he lets himself in and spoons up behind Sam - not talking himself out of it right now, apparently.
“Just tired,” Sam says, leaning back into it, because Dean’s warm as hell and it feels good to be close, to be safe, and he falls asleep that way, Dean’s arms wrapped around him.
Sam wakes up hurting, a low, intense ache in his stomach, curls in on himself only to discover there’s blood all over the sheets, and Dean notices about three seconds after he does.
“Sam?” he says, sounding seriously freaked out. “Did you cut yourself? Do you need a doctor?”
Sam kind of wants to beat him over the head with the copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves Jess made him read when he pulled this stunt with her, but he recognizes that Dean’s trying, even if he’s denser than lead.
“No, it’s normal,” he manages to get out, and doesn’t even start thinking about how much he’d like to follow Dean over the edge into panic, because one of them has to keep it together.
“Oh,” Dean says, then, “oh,” and backs off a little, then leans again, like he doesn’t want to seem like he’s freaked out.
“I’ll run you a bath,” Dean says, kind of decisively, and he sounds glad to have something to do. Sam wonders just how much time he spent around Jo, because this isn’t the kind of thing you figure out with women you pick up in bars.
Sam hears the door open and shut while he’s soaking - god, he loves hot water, and it’s a real bathtub, deep enough that he can actually submerge - but Dean comes back about twenty minutes later and sits down on the edge.
“Hey,” he says, not even trying to look, which Sam finds kind of hilarious, all things considered. It turns out Dean’s kind of a decent guy, which he really never expected.
“Hey,” Sam replies, and Dean reaches out to brush Sam’s hair out of his eyes.
“I brought you stuff,” he says. “And ice cream.”
Sam’s pretty big on ice cream. “Chocolate?” he says, and Dean snorts.
“How stupid do you think I am, bitch?” he says, laughing, and leaves Sam to soak a little longer.
The bag he leaves in the bathroom has stuff, plus a bottle of Midol and some stick on heating patches, which Sam is seriously considering putting in the running for “best invention on the planet.”
“I kinda called Jo,” Dean admits, when Sam comes out again, while he’s rummaging through Dean’s bag for something to wear. He’s scowling a little, like he didn’t really enjoy the conversation. “So she knows.”
Sam’s kind of relieved, because Dean actually knowing what brand of painkiller to buy is totally beyond the realm of what his brain can manage. “Thanks,” he says, and crawls in with him, lets Dean settle in against his back when he turns on the TV.
“Let me know if you need - something,” Dean says, a little like he’s trying not to freak out again, so Sam just leans back against him.
“I’m okay,” he murmurs, and is surprised to find that he really, really is.
Dean stays in with him the next couple days. He manages a backrub that’s so good it knocks Sam out for four hours, and keeps stuffing him with Cherry Garcia. It’s not great, but it’s not as bad as he thought it might be, and Dean doesn’t do anything stupid, though Sam thinks Jo might have had something to do with that.
Sam starts hanging out at a little coffee shop in town, doing research, and by Thursday the people at the counter all recognize him. One of the guys at the counter starts bringing by his drinks before he orders them, and Sam feels a little obligated to talk to him - he’s the kind of guy he would’ve been friends with at Stanford, one he would’ve had over for football games and Friday night parties - but it doesn’t take him too long to realize that he likes their conversation for its own sake. He’s a little startled, though, when the guy - whose name turns out to be Jake - asks him if he wants to get dinner.
Then he realizes that in a different context, what they’ve been doing all afternoon could more than be classified as flirting. He says yes to Friday night at 7.
At six thirty, Sam’s still trying to find a shirt he likes when Dean walks in, kind of muddy and definitely smug. “I got a couple pixies,” he says, and sprawls out across the bed.
Sam would be pissed at him for getting mud on the bedspread, but he still can’t find the blue button down. It turns out to be in the bottom of Dean’s bag.
“Hot date, bitch?” Dean says, kind of amused, and Sam manages to get the shirt on and find his wallet.
“I don’t know about hot,” he mutters, and runs a brush through his hair, which is yet another annoying side effect of being a girl: it’s past his shoulders now.
Dean sits up, kind of abruptly. “You’re going on a date?”
“Just dinner,” Sam says, and, because Dean looks like he’s going straight into overprotective mode, do not pass go, do not collect $200, “I’ll leave my phone on.”
He has to turn it off, though, because Dean calls three times during the salad course alone. Jake’s sweet, and half a bottle of wine later, Sam’s feeling substantially better about being on a date with another guy. In fact, he’s feeling good enough about it to think there might be a repeat experiment later in the week.
Then Dean shows up.
“Sammy,” he says, leaning up against their table, and Sam’s going to fucking kill him. “We need to talk.”
“We’re kind of eating, Dean,” he manages, through gritted teeth. “I’ll see you back at the hotel.”
Jake mostly just looks confused. “This is Dean,” Sam says. “He’s leaving.”
“Sam,” Dean says, “please?” and god damn it, it’s not like he’s ever been able to say no.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, to Jake. “Right back.”
Then he follows Dean outside.
“You can’t,” Dean says, hands opening then tightening into fists, pacing back and forth across the front drive. “You can’t.”
“Spend time with somebody other than you?” Sam snaps.
“No - ” Dean says, scrubbing a hand over his face, “no, Sam, I - ”
“Yeah,” Sam says, flatly. “You.”
“Sam,” Dean tries again, and Sam hands him his cell phone.
“Stop trying to protect me, Dean,” he says, and walks back inside.
Jake’s already paying the check.
“He’s gone,” Sam says, kind of tired, sitting down again. “Let’s just - please, can we just finish eating?”
“No offense,” Jake says, “but if you’re sitting in here with me while he’s out there waiting, you’re way less intelligent than I gave you credit for.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, realization hitting him like a slow wave, and pushes his chair back. “Yeah, I’ll - call you,” he manages, and ducks around a crowd of people to hit the parking lot at a run.
“Dean,” he manages, spreading a hand against the window, and thank god, at least he hasn’t pulled away yet, the engine’s barely turned over.
Dean pushes the car door open so fast that Sam actually has to step back, and then it’s all of three seconds before Dean’s got his arms around him.
“Sammy,” Dean says, low and a little rough.
“Yeah,” Sam whispers, “yeah,” and Dean doesn’t even wait for him to catch his breath, just pushes him back against the car and kisses him, hard.
Sam kisses back, hands closing in Dean’s jacket, pulling Dean in until he’s pressed up against him, close and warm.
“Sam,” Dean says, again, against his mouth, and Sam realizes in a rush that Dean hasn’t been overprotective, he’s been jealous.
“It’s okay,” Sam manages, sliding his hands down, to spread across Dean’s back, keep him close, “I just want - you.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, a little hoarse, “yeah, just you.” He kisses him again, mouth warm and steady over Sam’s, and by the time they surface for air, he realizes people are staring.
“Dean,” he manages, and Dean’s got his hands in the back pockets of Sam’s jeans, just keeping their bodies together. “We’re kind of making a scene.”
“I don’t care,” Dean says, because he’s noticed too, but Sam manages to get them both into the car before Dean decides sex on the hood is a good idea.
Dean all but carries him upstairs, Sam’s legs wrapped around his waist. They let go of each other long enough to get into the room, and then Dean’s kissing him again, unbuttoning Sam’s shirt, almost careful.
“Jesus, I’m not going to break,” Sam says, and just pulls Dean down onto the bed, throws his jacket somewhere in the direction of a chair, because he hasn’t gotten off in a month and a half - girls are too complicated for the shower and Dean’s always around.
Dean stretches out beside him, smirking a little. “Desperate, Sammy?”
Sam goes for him, which doesn’t exactly end the way he planned, considering Dean’s got the weight advantage now. “I win, bitch,” Dean says, kind of triumphantly, sprawled out on top of him, and then flushes all of a sudden.
Sam’s pretty sure he knows why.
“I definitely let you,” he murmurs, against Dean’s mouth, and then Dean gets the picture and pins him to the bed, pressing his hips up against Sam’s, rubbing just a little as he goes in for another kiss.
By the time they’re both naked, all of a minute later, Sam can’t think straight, so when Dean rolls off him to go rummage in his bag, he’s pretty far from thrilled. At least Dean looks kind of ridiculous walking around hard, which is a small consolation, considering.
“What the fuck?” Sam manages, still breathing hard, and Dean tosses him a condom.
“Hold onto that,” he says, and pulls out the candles from the shop, sets them up on the bedside table, and finds a lighter.
“Seriously,” Sam says, shifting a little, “I don’t actually need atmosphere.” Dean snorts and turns off the lights, settling back in bed.
It takes Sam’s eyes a minute to adjust to the light, and by the time he does, Dean’s over him again, licking across his collarbone, a hand spread across his ribs. “I don’t know about you, Sammy,” he murmurs, down a little, and oh jesus, Dean’s brushing his thumb over a nipple, “but I kind of want the real you back.”
Sam could care less about whether he’s himself or not. He wants Dean. Now.
“Yeah, okay,” Sam manages, and actually gets the condom open, which he’s kind of amazed at.
“I can - ” Dean says, nudging a hand between his legs, touching just a little with his fingertips, and Sam actually has to shift away.
“I don’t need foreplay either,” Sam says, trying to catch his breath. “Trust me.”
“Jesus, Sam,” Dean says, and suddenly he’s breathing hard too, nudging Sam’s hips up with a hand, taking the condom from him to roll it on.
It doesn’t actually work the first time Dean goes for it, which is mostly Sam’s fault but makes him laugh anyway. Dean bites his shoulder to shut him up, but he’s looking kind of amused, too. “Shut up,” he mutters, and Sam hits him, still laughing.
“I thought you were supposed to be good at this,” he says, and then Dean lifts Sam’s hips and slides into him, not really bothering to take it slow, and Sam can’t breathe.
“I am,” Dean says, and kisses him, slow and deep, then just thrusts, like he’s not working at it at all, and Sam’s whole back arches.
Dean goes a little deeper the next time, nudging Sam back against the pillows, changing the angle a little, then gets a hand between them, barely touching, but Sam feels warm all over.
“God, you feel good,” Dean says, against his jaw, and thrusts again, that same easy rhythm. Sam comes, hard, a minute later, Dean pressed up against him.
Dean manages all of one more thrust after that before he comes too, face pressed against Sam’s shoulder. Sam’s totally content to just let him stay there, warm and reassuring, but Dean rolls off to throw away the condom, and Sam suddenly feels weird all over.
“Hey,” he manages, then, “Dean,” like Dean’s actually going to be able to fix whatever it is. He hurts all over, sharp and acute. Sam blinks a couple times, trying to breathe through it, and then suddenly it’s over.
“Welcome back,” Dean says, then pulls him in and hugs him, hard, then punches him right in the shoulder. “If you ever fucking do that to me again - ”
Sam tackles him - one of the few proven methods for shutting Dean the hell up - and actually manages to win this time, with Dean squirming around on the bed beneath him.
“NOT FAIR,” he yells, and Sam snickers, keeps him pinned, at least until Dean shoves up and they both end up falling off the bed, taking half the blankets with them.
“Goddamn it,” Dean says, still kind of underneath him, pulling the sheets off of his head, and Sam can’t stop laughing, because it feels good to be himself again.
“Hey,” Sam says, leaning down a little, because Dean’s scowling, “you okay?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, and Sam cups his face and kisses him, warm and slow, over and over, until Dean’s arching up beneath him for a totally different reason.
Sam pulls him over onto his side, wrapping a hand around both their erections - seriously, he’s never going to fail to appreciate his dick again - and just strokes, until he can’t breathe and Dean’s shivering all over. Then he pushes Dean back, settles over him, and lets Dean rub up against him, flushed and warm.
“Jesus, Sammy,” he says, and Sam licks into the hollow of his throat and Dean comes all over him.
Sam finishes stroking himself off and follows him over the edge, sprawling out next to Dean when he can think again, and Dean settles in against his side, drowsy.
“Maybe we should get back on the bed,” Sam says, a little dryly, and Dean rolls his eyes.
“Your fault we’re down here,” he says, yawning, and Sam reaches up and rubs the back of Dean’s neck, pulling a pillow down. Dean’s been looking after him for six weeks, and Sam’s pretty sure it’s more than time to return the favor.
“Get some sleep,” he says, soft, and Dean reaches up to wrap his fingers around Sam’s wrist, settling his head on his shoulder.
“Sorry for ruining your date,” he says, and Sam laughs, pulls the blanket up around them.
“I’m pretty sure it was worth it,” he says, dryly, and Dean looks kind of offended.
“I was totally awesome,” he mutters.
“Definitely sure,” Sam amends, and pulls Dean down, close, to keep him safe as he falls asleep.