the reluctant lobotomist (fourfreedoms) wrote,
the reluctant lobotomist
fourfreedoms

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School won't take the fic away from me, no way!

Title: Notional
Disclaimer: I am claiming no ownership.
Summary: Dean as a girl is almost nothing like Dean as a boy.
Pairing: Wincest
Chapters: 1/1
Genre: genderswap
Rating: NC-17
Acknowledgements: Thanks go out to Misha, Kaley, and of course, Dean Twinchester, memphis86 for beta-ing this, despite the fact that it was her birthday present.
Notes: This is like the porniest thing I've ever written. Not even kidding.



So there was a lot of brainstorming that went into the this title. maypirate suggested "Tits or GTFO" but because I actually wanted you to take this fic seriously, that was right out. Anyway, enjoy.

*

Maureen answered the door on a rainy night, woken up from a fitful rest by furious pounding on the front door. She threw open the heavy oak door that had been creaking along since its installation in the 1920s with a firm shove. She hoped it wasn’t Jonah, who she’d thrown out last week after the cheating and the lying and the spending, or her crazy sister Caroline who had a horrible habit of turning up when she was least expected and least wanted. Maybe it was one of her customers, but even they knew not to come at this hour in the middle of a storm. She only hoped none would be so desperate.

She was not in the least prepared to find the sodden young man, holding a soaked and almost naked young woman in his arms.

“What happened?” she breathed out, watching the way the brunette girl’s head lolled against the young man’s shoulder. She poked her head out the door and looked down the street. What on earth had just happened? A car accident maybe?

No, that wasn’t right. The only car out of place on the entire street was a shiny black monster of a classic car that made Maureen grimace.

“Are you Maureen Cassidy?” the man ignored her question, arms trembling a little as he held onto the woman.

Maureen drew her robe tight around her, eyes wide. Who were these people? She swallowed. “I—yes, but what happened? Who are you?”

Sam swallowed, ignoring her questions. “Can we come in?”

She stared at him for a long moment, the circles under his eyes, the way his broad shoulders seemed to be carrying more than the weight of the girl in his arms, and without knowing more than that she stepped back from the doorway. “Of course.”

The young man lay the girl down on the couch tenderly. The way he never truly let go of her, the way his body curled protectively around hers—Maureen guessed he loved her very much.

“Is everything going to be all right?” she asked tentatively.

The man looked up at her, nodding, shoulders finally relaxed. “I’m Sam and this is my brother, Dean.”

Maureen narrowed her eyes. “But that’s a w—oh!”

Sam nodded at the realization on her face. “Can you help us?”

“I—a spell like that?” she felt horrible. “I’m nowhere near powerful enough to lift it.”

Sam shook his head. “No, the spell will wear off, but we need a place to lay low, a friend gave us your name.”

Maureen was probably too trusting. One look at a person and she felt she had an entire map of who they were. Sam and Dean looked so good they were practically drowning in it. That didn’t mean that whatever they were running from wasn’t going to come to her doorstep. She figured, once more unto the breach, she’d handle those things as they came.

She spread hers arms to encompass the entire house. “You’re welcome for as long as you need, I have the room.”



*

Dean woke up on the third day of their stay at Maureen’s. Sam had been going through her vast library and nearly killed himself racing down the hall when he heard Dean calling his name. Maureen was grocery shopping, but she’d left an array of poultices and compresses and potions to give to Dean the minute he—no, she—was conscious.

Dean’s wide green eyes were mad with fear when Sam stumbled into the room and Sam had to spend a full hour talking her through the new changes. She was jittering and crying with all new hormones and she kept complaining that her breasts hurt.

Dean got up to go to the bathroom and started spazzing out again the minute she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Shoulder-length honey-brown hair and a narrow pointed jaw in the place of her old reflection. The cheek bones and the curve of her mouth had remained the same, but everything, from the breadth of her shoulders to her shoe size had changed dramatically. Sam buried his face in his palms and wondered what he was going to do with himself for as long as the spell lasted.

He’d been knocked out when it happened, just barely coming to as the sorceress was shouting over Dean’s prone form. He remembered clearly the way Dean had screamed, voice going high and ragged, on and on, until finally it had ended, and that had almost been more terrible. Dean was okay now, aside from the boobs, she told him that nothing else hurt, but Sam didn’t have the slightest idea how to get rid of that horrible despairing expression on her face.

It was several days before Dean would step outside the bedroom, and only because Sam insisted that eventually the spell would wear off. There simply wasn’t a spell strong enough to completely overwrite Dean’s DNA for long.

Maureen hung out on the fringes. She didn’t actually speak to Dean for several days. She laid out suitable clothing at the foot of Dean’s bed while he slept and she forced Sam to stop brooding night after night, trying to entertain him with half-hearted games of gin rummy or scrabble.

Finally, after Sam left, Dean came down to talk with her. She was subdued and tired, nothing like the wiseass Dean Winchester she’d heard tell of from the hunters who’d blown through her doors. He didn’t try to size her up like Jonah. But God and all his angels knew exactly what sort of womanizer the elder Winchester was, it was almost odd to watch the way his eyes slid over her, and Maureen knew she was pretty. Jonah would never have made her life miserable otherwise.

She wanted to ask how exactly it had happened—what Dean had done, why Sam was so sure it would wear off, but she could tell that the elder Winchester wasn’t up to talking. Dean asked about her instead. About how she made her living, and how long she’d been a practicing witch.

They talked about movies and music and books. Dean had a secret affinity for mystery novels and she showed him her extensive collection in the garage, all sorted into paper bags by author. Dean leafed through them, telling Maureen which ones she’d already read, and which ones she wouldn’t even consider. She stared hard at the back of an Elizabeth George novel, and Mary sort of wondered if she’d purposely avoided the female mystery novelists before, when she was still a he. It wouldn’t have surprised her.

*

Maureen took Dean shopping after the second week. She said she was a little out of the loop on what young women wore these days. She had an endless parade of shirtwaists and plaid knee-length pencil skirts and wing-tipped heels. She liked old things. Sam thought that when Jess was alive she would’ve killed for the clothes that Maureen wore.

Sam didn’t know what he expected Dean to come back with: “fuck-me” boots, the entire Frederick’s line, and glossy red lip stick maybe. Instead Dean had four bags worth of Junk Food music and movie tees, sports bras galore, boyfriend jeans from the Gap, a bright blue scarf from American Apparel, and three new pairs of shoes. Only one of them, a pair of blue and orange Pumas was at all practical. Maureen told him later that she’d had to drag Dean out of Eddie Bauer, but once Dean had got going she didn’t stop.

Dean modeled every outfit for Sam, disappearing back into her room for every outfit change, while Sam watched amused over the screen of his laptop. It hit him then that Dean really was a girl, he wasn’t just hiding in some costume. He’d got the hormones and brain patterns and behaviors along with the long hair and softer jaw and cinched waist.

He was quieter now, more prone to embarrassment, far less vulgar. Sam was really forced to wonder about nature versus nurture. Dean used to draw attention in from every source— men, women, children, geriatrics on the verge of kicking it, and he’d reveled in it. Now, the appreciative stares she got from men only served to make her angry and annoyed and hunch into Sam.

Maureen shrugged when Sam told her he was afraid Dean was depressed.

“She’s adjusting, Sam…” she looked sad for one long moment. “For a straight man, being a woman is often a fate worse than death, she’s doing pretty well.”

*

Sam knew the first time Dean experimented with the equipment. Dean woke up that morning early, and went about the house with a smile on her face. She helped Maureen make breakfast and stopped looking like her world was coming to an end.

She sparred with Sam for the first time. She got fed up after only thirty minutes, trying to use weight and strength and reach that simply weren’t there. Sam found himself being kicked in the knee caps a lot.

Dean’s prowess with their arsenal of guns remained unchanged, but it was a full week before she could handle the kick of the gun and couch the weapon properly. She went back to being to mopey and upset after that. Scathing was the best word for it. Dean had been calling him creative names since he’d first had the facility to do so, now the insults and insights cut to the quick.

Sam tried his best to leave Dean alone. He was used to Dean’s moodiness, but Maureen couldn’t quite handle it. One night after a silent and strained dinner, Maureen shooting Sam pointed looks the entire time, Sam followed Dean into her room.

“What?” she shouted, looking for all the world like she wanted to throw something at his head.

Sam sighed. “Dean…”

“Hunting is the only thing I know how to do!” Dean shouted, thin shoulders hunched inwards, eyes downcast. “I’m nothing without it!” She threw a book against the wall.

“Dean, that is just not true,” Sam told her, arms crossed. “And it’s only temporary. You aren’t going to be like this for very long!”

Dean was silent, back turned to her brother, finally she spoke up. “How long, Sam, how long?”

“I don’t know, Dean, I just—”

“Forget it,” Dean said, voice dull. She shoved him out of her room and slammed the door behind him.

Sam started going on hunts alone after that. Only jobs within driving distance of Maureen’s house, but he felt Dean’s absence like a toothache. He worried and worried over it in his mind, but he couldn’t get her to come along, and Sam would never make her.

*

Dean as a girl dispensed affection regularly, wore floaty skirts, and raffia platforms. She was nothing like the girls Dean went for and maybe that was key. She was still loud and brash, she drank shots like the fifty or so pound difference in her form hadn’t changed her tolerance. But she cleaned guns with short nails painted pale peach by Maureen. And they fought all the time, like they’d stopped being family, and merely people who’d known each other for too long.

Sam felt like he was breaking under the strain.

Dean remained at the house with Maureen who was home a lot. She part-timed at a book store off of Main Street (to get herself out of the house, she said) but that was only ten hours a week. She spent the rest doing what a witch did, gardening and spell making, ready to lend a hand to those in need.

Dean learned to cook, despite strident protests, in the spacious kitchen as they listened to music and danced along. The only band that Maureen knew from Dean’s extensive tape library was the Allman Brothers. Dean always smiled at the expression on Maureen’s face when “Back To Where It All Begins” came on. She still didn’t like cooking though. She’d always been for microwave dinners, canned soup, and macaroni. Maureen insisted that was criminal.

Maureen was patient and mostly she was amused that Dean couldn’t chop vegetables or stir things correctly or remember that she hadn’t turned the burners off yet. Three days into their project and the spotless kitchen looked like ground zero.

Sam’s clean plate when he finished the lasagna was reward enough. Even for the overcooked broccoli and burnt casserole attempts she’d mournfully thrown away. Dean still couldn’t stand the sight of wasted food.

She found herself crying over the dishes in the kitchen afterwards.

Sam came up behind her, warm hand closing on her shoulder, as she threw a knife back into the sink with a disgusted sound and wiped savagely at her nose. “Thank you,” he said softly, thumb rubbing circles on the bare skin where her t-shirt ended. Dean leaned back against her brother, giving in to the sobs that racked her body for no discernible reason. Sam held her, let her cry, and didn’t say a word.

*

Sam returned tired and worn one evening, dark circles under his eyes, and shoulders sore and slumped. He was caked in dirt and sweat and was leaning heavily on the doorframe. Dean was on her feet in an instant. The skirt Maureen had given her swirling around her legs as she ran to catch Sam.

“What happened to you?” she whispered, leading him up the stairs.

Sam coughed and stumbled. “The wild hunt.”

Maureen had gone up the stairs ahead of them to draw Sam a bath. She stood at the doorway of the steamy tiled room. “You can take care of him?” she directed at Dean.

Dean smoothed a hand down Sam’s back. “I can take care of him.”

Maureen nodded. “I’ve put oatmeal in the water, should help with the muscle ache.” Sam groaned and Dean had to use all her strength to keep him upright. Maureen chuckled, moving past the siblings towards the door. “Must be something in your blood that leads you Winchesters into trouble.”

Dean smiled weakly back and turned to push Sam’s weather-beaten coat off. Sam looked ready to fall asleep on his feet. “How did you get away?”

Sam slumped back against the wall as Dean worked on the belt of Sam’s jeans. “They didn’t want me. Said chasing my kind was no sport.”

Dean nodded, like she knew what that meant when really she hadn’t the slightest. Sam was boneless and no help as she fiddled determinedly with his clothes. Dean was just getting frustrated when the clasp of the belt gave. She found herself blushing dull red as she pulled down his pants and boxers. She’d seen Sam naked, but never this close and never with estrogen floating around in her bloodstream. Dean carefully averted her eyes from Sam’s crotch and strong thighs to focus on the buttons on his shirt.

“Gave me a good scare,” Sam told her. Dean knew the stories about the wild hunt. What hunter didn’t? The idea of her brother getting tangled up in that.

"You're such an idiot," she said harshly. She finally got the rest of Sam's clothes off and shoved him towards the old claw-foot tub.

Sam went, slowly. Dean swallowed as the muscles in her brother’s back flexed and stretched—that dip in his spine made Dean just want to bite it. Dean sighed and rolled her eyes heavenwards. Girly bits really sucked.

Sam made small contented sounds as he sank into the water. Dean sat on the lid of the toilet, watching to make sure he didn’t drown himself. His eyelids fluttered--expression blissful. Dean felt hot and itchy in her skin.

“Come on, fucktard, the point of the bath is to get clean.” She crossed her legs.

Sam pillowed his head on his shoulder. “Too tired,” he mumbled, relaxing totally into the tub. Dean sighed.

Sam woke with an abrupt start when Dean shoved him forward. “Move over, ya big lug.” Dean sat on the edge of the tub, legs sliding into the water on either side of Sam’s body, skirt rucked up about her thighs.

Sam let out a breath as Dean’s smooth pale thigh slid against his side. “Dean what’re you—”

“Washcloth,” she interrupted imperiously, holding her hand out for it. Sam groaned, muscles straining and aching, and shifted to reach for the cloth sitting on the edge of the tub and threw it back at his brother. Dean caught it and dunked it down into the murky oatmeal-water of the tub. She squeezed it out over Sam’s shoulders before soaping it up with the cucumber-melon body-wash Maureen kept. It made Dean sneeze.

Dean’s slender fingers kneaded the tense muscles, digging into the knot he'd developed from using the mouse on his computer. Dean laughed at the sounds coming out of his mouth. It sounded high and pretty, but Sam could feel the undercurrent of his brother’s deep chuckle in there.

Dean pulled Sam back against her, unmindful of her skirt or the soft cotton of her shirt, to soap Sam’s front. Sam couldn’t help leaning his head back against her belly, as she made smooth circles across his chest with the terrycloth. It was comfortable, easy, he never wanted to move. Dean’s legs tightened around him and he realized she’d shaved them. He wrapped his hand around one gracefully slender ankle, thumb rubbing against the knob of the bone.

Dean shifted and had to drag her skirt up to prevent it falling into the water. The fabric skimmed over Sam’s skin and he shuddered. He waited for Dean to tell him to stop touching him, to back off, smack him with the wet washcloth and call him a girly bastard, but she didn’t.

“Feel better?” Dean asked, cupping water in her palm and spilling it over Sam’s hair. Sam nodded and pillowed his cheek on her thigh. She scraped her nails through Sam’s hair and foolishly let him fall asleep in the tub.

*

Their squabbling for the entire week after the night Sam was chased by the Wild Hunt annoyed Maureen so much that she finally forced them out of the house. Sam had forgotten to eat that day, between his research and fighting with Dean. Dean suggested a Chinese place that he and Maureen had gone to once after they’d visited a nursery for new vegetables for her garden.

They sat in silence, only breaking it to order. Dean pulled out a mystery novel he’d borrowed from Maureen, and Sam examined the Oxford dictionary of Saints. Dean didn’t bother to ask what that was for. Their food came—egg rolls, eggplant in hot garlic sauce, pot stickers, sesame chicken, and Mongolian lamb. They used their chopsticks with ease, eyes still on their books and they didn’t have the slightest idea how they appeared to the waitstaff.

a group of waiters gathered to watch, smiling behind their palms. Sam picked out a chili from his lamb and handed it over across the table for Dean to eat. Dean didn’t even look away from Elizabeth George as he leaned forward and bit the chili right off the chopsticks. Later, Dean separated all the bok choy out of his portion, poured sweet and sour sauce on it and passed it to Sam. Sam had already cleared room on his plate.

When Dean spilled eggplant down his shirt, Sam turned the page of his book with one hand and handed Dean his napkin with the other. They didn’t fumble, although neither made eye-contact during the exchange. The waiter came back for their plates, and Dean was still hungry. Sam leaned his chin on his fist and ignored the server altogether. He pushed his plate forward so that the waiter could pick it up, and knocked it into a glass of water. With an absent hand, Dean righted it at the same time as telling the waiter exactly how she wanted her pork buns cooked. The waiter wrote down the long list of instructions and turned to leave, but Sam reminded the waiter in a monotone that she wanted them extra hot, because Dean forgot.

“Why’re you fighting?” the waiter asked without warning, when he came back to set the pork buns down.

Sam looked up startled. “Um…”

Dean pursed her lips.

“You love each other very very much?” the waiter plowed on, picking up Sam’s empty plate.

Dean swallowed and nodded.

“You shouldn’t fight, then,” he said with finality, looking pointedly at Dean.

“Why is it always my fault?” Dean leaned forward, whispering furiously.

Sam shrugged, trying not to laugh, and cracked open his fortune cookie. “You will find a good fortune where you least expected it” the slip of paper read. He resisted the temptation to add ‘in bed’ at the end.

Dean just growled in annoyance because she’d gotten a proverb rather than an actual fortune. For the last several years it seemed like the fortune cookies had been out to get Dean, because Sam always got the one Dean claimed was for him.

Dean’s tempestuous mood didn’t improve upon leaving the restaurant. Sam sighed, listening as she ranted about the presumption of waiters and how much Bic razors sucked. He’d suggested a walk through the woods that crept up on the edge of the town. Dean was perfectly at home in the deep spooky trees that were rumored to be dangerous. Sam had checked it out their first week there. No evil dryads lurking.

“Don’t you ever get tired of being so upset all the time?” Sam finally interrupted.

Dean stopped, mouth gaping open. “You’re one to talk!” she finally shouted indignantly.

Sam made a noise in the back of his throat. “Yeah, and it sucked!”

“Like you have any idea what I’m going through!” Dean shouted.

Sam spread his arms. “So tell me! Rather than just getting pissed at me for everything.”

She shoved him. “I hate you!”

Sam looked so quietly resigned she couldn’t take it. She shoved at him again.

“I hate it that you won’t fight me back!”

Sam shook his head. “What do you want from me?”

She growled and shoved him harder. “I hate that you aren’t there! I hate that you don’t tell me anything going on in your head! I hate that you take risks without me! I hate that you don’t need me at all!”

She was thumping on his chest by the end of her tirade and Sam was just taking it, just standing there passive, like she was a silly child to be ignored. Dean wanted to shock him into action. She was so beyond rage she didn’t think. She pulled his head down, fingers tight on his skull, for a bruising punishing kiss.

Sam made that same noise in the back of his throat and she dropped her hands, backing away. “Sam, I—I don’t…” She tried to turn away from him, to run off before he could say something horrible, something worse than the anger she was trying so desperately to provoke.

Sam caught her wrist and spun her back around, pulling her tight to his chest and resealing their lips. Dean had loved the way he'd been able dominate women, loved being able to protect them, take care of them, to wrap them up and give everything to them.

Sam wouldn’t let her. He controlled Dean through their kiss, slid their tongues together, sucked on her lower lip, traced lines over her back with his broad hands. Dean quivered against him, tried to fight him for it, escalate it. Sam wasn’t having it.

“No,” he pulled back and whispered into her hair, drawing her tighter against him, and sucking on the thin skin under her jaw. She practically choked on the air she gasped out.

“Sam…” she said dazedly, managing to get her arms up to push him back and away. He stepped back, looking shamed, but Sam had committed no crime. It was her fault, she’d instigated the entire thing. Dean couldn’t stand the expression on his face, and she leapt forward, tackling him.

They tumbled on the ground, the air whooshed out of Sam as they hit the mossy ground beneath the trees.

“Sorry,” she said softly, hands clenched in his shirt, and then ducked down to kiss him again, barely giving him enough time to draw in air. Sam went with it, leaning up on one elbow to kiss her at a better angle, cradling her between his thighs.

He rolled them over, crushing her breasts to his chest, letting her feel the strength and the weight of him. Dean had never wanted that. She’d been fully convinced that she’d be a dyke in her female body, but she hadn’t felt the slightest twinge over anything with a pair of tits since he lost his dick. It had been a little disappointing honestly, but with Sam bearing down on her, hands in her hair, thumbs stroking her cheek bones, she wouldn’t trade it for the world.

She ran her hands down his body to grip his buttocks and draw him harder against her. Sam tore his mouth from hers, panting harshly.

“Shouldn’t do this,” he said even as he bent his head to suck on her nipple through the soft cotton of her blue Zeppelin tee bought for fifteen bucks at Macy’s. She cried out, arching against him. She didn’t want to think about it right now. Sam flicked the other nipple with his thumb and she ground up against him.

Jesus, Jess had taught him well.

Sam laughed, low and dark as he inched her shirt up her torso. “Who said Jess was my first?”

Christ! Sam smiled at the way her cheeks burned. She glared back and used a complicated move she’d seen Lara Croft pull off in the Tomb Raider movies to flip them over.

“Why are we doing this?” she wondered, as he tugged her shirt over her head.

Sam stopped, cupping her face. “I don’t know.”

“This is—” she broke off, shifting against Sam. “I don’t want you.”

“Uhuh,” he replied, voice dry as he captured her mouth in another kiss. They rolled again and he pinned her wrists above her head with a long-fingered hand and inserted his thigh between her legs. Her cotton skirt was shoved up around her waist. With his free hand Sam palmed her breast through her bra, finger flicking the nipple to hardness. She arched her back off the ground, pressing fully into him.

“Ah Christ!” she bit out. “I lied, I totally want you.”

“Dude, I know you do.” The ‘duh’ was implied. He traced a line along her collarbone. “And for the record, I hate you too.” He punctuated his statement with a downward thrust of his hips, his hardness grinding against her wet panties. “I really, really hate you.”

Dean chuckled, the first laugh Sam had heard coming from her in a long while. “Just so you know, this is really fucked up.”

Sam paused, grip still tight on Dean’s wrists. He stared down at her, gaze impenetrable. Her hair was fanned out around her head, bright against the dark barely moonlit grass, and the freckles across the bridge of her nose extended down her chest. “Do you want it?”

Everything about Dean that had been missing the last few weeks, his edge, his playful brashness, flashed through her eyes. She swallowed. “Yes.”

“Then I’m giving it to you.” He reached between their bodies, pushed past her panties, and stroked his fingers across her clitoris. Her hips jerked against his and she made a high-pitched noise.

“Don’t fuck around, asshole!” she told him as he swirled his fingers around the tight bundle of nerves.

Sam snorted and she struggled against his hold on her. “What do you want?”

She strained upwards, lips brushing the lobe of his ear. “I want you to fuck me.”

Sam froze against her, took a moment to breathe, regain equilibrium.

“That turn you on, tiger?” she asked, tightening her thighs around him.

Sam fumbled, releasing his hold on her, to scour his wallet for a condom. “You are such a jerk.” Dean kept distracting him with wet sucking kisses along his neck. When Sam finally managed to pull away she leaned up to pull his shirt off, getting his arms tangled up as he rifled through the billfold.

“Stop—” kiss “Sto—” kiss “Dean, stop that!” He gathered up the strength to back away.

After what seemed like an age he finally fished a square packet of foil out and looked at it closely. “Fuck, expired!” he moaned and dropped it on the grass.

“Figures,” Dean replied, rolling her eyes. She stretched her arm out, just managing to snag the bag she’d been carrying with her fingertips. She dumped the contents out on the ground, and pulled out an entire chain of packets. She blanched at the look on Sam’s face. “It wasn’t like I prepared—I wasn’t going to fuck some guy—but I—and you…”

Sam’s eyes softened. “Me.”

She turned her head away. Sam pried the condom from her fingers and then laughed as Dean turned her attention on unfastening his jeans, cursing when the denim didn’t slide smoothly over his thighs.

“No laughing,” she growled, long fingers winding around his cock. Sam stopped abruptly. Dean was staring down at her hand in wonder.

“If you say something obnoxious right now, I’m getting up and leaving you here,” Sam warned, eyebrows raised, bracing himself above her. He reached back down between her thighs, parting her labia with his index finger. Dean shuddered against him.

“No more foreplay, do it already!”

Sam gently pressed his forefinger inside. “Dean, this is not something to get over quickly, like pulling off a band-aid.”

“Fuck it!” Dean panted out, bucking against Sam’s hand. “Would you—ung—stick it in me, Gigantor!” She punctuated her command by digging her nails into his biceps.

“Whoa,” Sam answered. “Okay, okay, just—” he broke off as he slid inside. Dean made a throaty noise and threw her head back, chin raised to the sky. She drew her legs tight up around his waist, but Sam stayed still inside her, staring down at her and cupping her face with one big palm.

“I need—” Dean started in a voice that was almost a sob, “I need more.”

She leaned upwards, drawing their mouths together, trying to own Sam with her tongue. Sam smiled into her mouth, starting with a long slow roll of his hips. Dean felt like something had grabbed a hold of her heart and squeezed, pumping sensation through her body.

She moaned, trying to draw him deeper inside of her, trying to fuse their bodies together everywhere. She was aware in a dark corner of her mind how Sam’s muscles were all locked tight and his breath was coming in harsh pants as he held back, tried foolishly to go slow, when all Dean wanted was hard and fast and now.

She moaned high as he pulled almost all the way out and then back in. This was good, this was nice, but it wasn’t enough. “You said if I wanted it, you’d give it to me,” she breathed, nails scraping down his back. “Sam, you—oh motherfucker—I want it!”

Sam trembled with exertion. “Jesus, I’m gagging you next time.” His hips snapped against hers, hard, the way she wanted, the force of his entire body behind it.

“Next…time?” she stuttered out playfully, stroking down his body with firm hands, his jeans were still on and she pushed down beneath the fabric, gripping his buttocks tight and drawing him tighter against her.

Sam’s eyes were squeezed shut, although his face had smoothed out, the worry lines all gone. “My fucking god, shut up.” He reached down between them again and began a double assault on her g-spot within and clit on the outside.

She didn’t last much longer after that, her walls convulsed around him, and she made hiccupping sounds as her orgasm swept her up. Sam slowed his thrusts down, easing her through the after shocks. She clasped him tight in her arms, holding on as he spent himself, barely aware as she talked him through it.

*

Sam lay back against a tree, dozing, Dean lying content and lazy in his arms. They’d recovered her shirt, although there were extensive dirt stains on it, and she’d managed to tug herself into some semblance of order. Sam’s shirt was AWOL, lost somewhere among the tree roots and grass. He’d given up looking for it.

“Girls are so hard to get off, but man it pays!” Dean cracked up, pretending to herself that she was only going on with the cuddling because it was what Sam wanted.

Sam snorted, shifting underneath her and knocking her knees open with a flick of his wrist. She hadn’t bothered to put her underwear back on. He laughed and pressed two fingers hard against Dean’s clit.

“Sam what—” she broke off as Sam rubbed against the hood, her thigh muscles tightening. He ran a hand up her shirt, under her bra, to rub her nipple. Dean trembled and shook in his arms, as he pushed all her buttons, played her body like a finely tuned instrument.

“Hard to get off, maybe,” Sam whispered against her ear, before nibbling at the lobe. “But you can do it again and again and again.” His voice was so dirty and filled with promises that Dean could probably have come from that alone.

Dean choked, head falling back against Sam’s shoulder.

“We have all the time in the world for this.”

“Stop being…so—so fucking perfect, I’m a guy, asshole!”

Sam crooked a finger inside of her. Dean jerked against his hand. “This? Says otherwise.”

“Oh, oh, oh fuck!” Dean moaned low as he came, legs relaxing, falling haphazardly. She turned in Sam’s arms, tucking her head beneath his chin. “You’re really fucking proud of yourself, aren’t you!”

Sam shrugged. He was happy to do that for Dean, who probably never let anyone see his seams come apart, never allowed himself to lose control. The long stream of women that had gone before Dean had metamorphosed into a girl had probably never seen him demanding how hard and how high, or pliable with pleasure, or sleepy and unguarded. Sam was going to force that all out of Dean if it was the last thing he ever did.

*

Maureen knew something had changed the minute the siblings stepped back into her house. When they’d left the tension between them had been so heavy they were all being crushed by it. It had all been gone by the time they returned late that evening—it was easy, free, between them. Maureen figured they’d gone somewhere the night before, shouted all of things out that needed to be said and cleared the air.

Neither of them was going to disabuse her of this notion.

When Sam asked Dean to come on a hunt she only hesitated a second before acquiescing. Sam smiled so hard he felt his face would split open. The job was simple, a small highway motel kept watching it's customers depart screaming without even bothering to check out.

After they’d dealt with the ghosty gobliny figure that had been terrorizing the motel, they snuck off into one of the rooms, stumbling over things and tearing at clothes.

Sam blindfolded Dean, sat her on the bed, and teased her for hours with the silk scarf she’d been wearing to keep her hair back. She came twice before he peeled the blindfold back and fucked her against the headboard.

Dean wanted to do something, give Sam multiple mind-blowing orgasms the same way that he’d been showering them on her, but she was so content to be at Sam’s mercy she wasn’t quite sure where her head was at.

She got her chance at a roadside diner, when a persistent waitress refused to back off of Sam. She slipped off her shoe and stroked her foot up the inside of Sam’s leg, watching as his fingers tightened around his fork, knuckles going white. She pressed along the seam of his jeans, grinning as he swallowed down water like a man dying of thirst. With only a little light pressure from the ball of her foot running up and down over his dick she had him twisting and shifting against her, trying hard not to make a sound and give them both away.

Dean knew the waitress could see where her foot was from her station behind the counter and felt a new feeling welling up in her. Ownership. She’d never felt that way about anyone, not even Cassie. Fuck it, Sam was hers, and this would probably all end the minute Dean got his dick back, but there was no way she wasn’t going to make every last second count.

*

Bobby called after a month and half had gone by, and asked for Sam or Dean when Dean picked up the phone. Dean was had mostly gotten used to being a girl in that space of time, although she still missed his dick, and his height, and the way people backed up off of him when he shot a look at them.

“Hey, Bobby,” she said softly, “this is Dean.”

He laughed. “Your voice wasn’t what I—”

“You expected burned-out-druggy-woman-Janis-Joplin type voice?”

Bobby laughed again. “So, you terrorizing everybody at the local biker bars? Running around like the fast women you spend so much time with?”

“Sure, Bobby.” Dean looked down at herself, the loose fitting jeans and the Star Wars t-shirt she was really gonna miss when she changed back. “So what’s up?”

“I got a hunt, one that I think only you boys—ahem—have the expertise for, but if you’re not up to it, I’ll handle it myself.”

“We can handle it!” Dean replied sharply. Bobby didn’t say anything about her tone.

“ All right, we've got two fairies terrorizing a suburb of Portsmouth, not too far from you boys, we’re thinking Domovoi or Brownies. Everybody else that’s gone against them has wound up turned into trees or thinkin’ he’s a rock or some other kind of crazy. Don’t know anybody else who isn’t stupid to go deal with them.”

“Okay, we’re on it,” Dean said and hung up the phone. She turned around to find Sam staring at her.

“You’re beautiful,” her brother told her, eyes warm.

She put her hands on her hips. “Don’t want to be beautiful.”

Sam coughed. “Very handsome then.”

Dean snorted. “I’m not a chick, man, you really don’t need to stroke my ego.”

Sam muttered something and then changed the subject, “When do you want to leave?”

“When Maureen gets back?” Dean offered, walking out of the room to get packed.

Sam nodded behind her. “Sounds good.”

*

Two fairies had been a gross understatement. Although Bobby wasn’t kidding about the stupid people if they’d actually been fooled into thinking it was only two. It was a freakin’ Domovoi war. The house spirits had taken sides, one block against the next. It was the most ridiculous thing ever, and the residents of the little suburb all thought it was a string of particularly bad vandalisms.

Hah.

The first day out a pervy little domovoi from the first block had disappeared all of Dean’s clothes just as she was about to shoot it full of iron. Sam had nearly died laughing, the bastard, and had waited two full minutes before giving Dean his hoodie and hustling him back to the car.

“What the fuck?” Dean said, stomping on the pedals as she gunned it back to their hotel. The sweater rode up to the point of indecency. Sam didn’t even glance over, Dean was stunned by his iron control.

Sam looked up from a book he was reading on Slavic lore. “Domovoi like to be helpful.”

“Excuse me, but how was that helpful?” Dean glared at him, daring Sam to start laughing again.

“Well, I think he was helping me, to be honest.”

“To what? Fuck me?” Dean growled. “He thought I was just gonna say ‘okay, well, now that I’m naked how about we get it on right here in some unsuspecting person’s back yard’?”

Sam shrugged. “Hey, I didn’t get rid of your clothes, don’t get mad at me!”

Dean growled again, pulling into their parking space with a screech. She refused to go back to the neighborhood for the rest of the day.

When Sam finally managed to drag Dean back they spent the next several days getting covered in every substance one could think to find in the kitchen (not to mention several from the garden), tripping over cracks that weren’t there, running into each other, and dropping stuff. Dean grew more frustrated with every trick that was played upon them. They hadn’t managed to eliminate a single Domovoi.

Finally, while trying to brush flour out of her hair, she threw up her hands. “There has got to be another way.”

Sam was picking himself up off the floor, he was covered in fruit juice, sticky and uncomfortable, Dean tried not to stare too blatantly when Sam pulled off his t-shirt and tossed it aside. “Well, we could make peace between the two Domovoi factions, but then we’d have to figure out what set them off in the first place.”

Dean sighed, she was just about to suggest they give in, let the Domovoi duke it out, it wasn’t like they were hurting anyone irreparably. Well except for the families that now had members locked up in the mental wards. Then a Domovoi jumped into the yard and Sam’s pants disappeared. He hadn’t been wearing underwear.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Not so fun when it happens to you, eh?”

“At least the juice is gone.” Sam shook his head and sighed. “Also, stop staring at me.”

Dean blinked. “Why?”

“It makes me uncomfortable.”

Dean blinked at him. Sam was standing in the sunlight, tan skin smooth and velvety, his long limbs graceful even as he tried unsuccessfully to cover his nakedness by hunching his body in. Sam was what movie stars killed to look and he came by it almost naturally.

“Are you—are you self-conscious?” Dean asked, eyes wide. “It’s just me.”

“I just—ugh—can we get out of here? I’m standing in someone’s backyard, naked!”

Dean couldn’t believe it. She’d always assumed Sam wore eight million layers because he was perennially cold. He did have like 6% body fat. But Sam was flushed bright red and intent on hiding behind bushes.

“Oh my god, you are such a woman!” Dean shouted with laughter. She came up behind her brother and wrapped her arms around his waist, leaving flour palm prints on his skin. She’d be damned if she’d ever say it, but god, the way Sam looked pushed more buttons than she knew she had.

And then it started raining.

*

It took Sam nearly three days of interviewing people, prying their lips apart to figure out what exactly happened three weeks ago to start the Domovoi war. People kept positing ridiculous things like the Greens who’d just moved into 429 Cold Spring had mafia connections. The Bankman-Fried’s elder son had a coke habit that he was supporting with all the break-ins. Sam pointed out nothing was stolen, and they said it was a conspiracy of the security alarm companies to switch to their security system. Sam was ready to start putting people at gunpoint just to get them to stop talking about their watermelons and hedge-row length.

And just in that moment, when he’d finally thrown up his hands, the nugget of information he’d been looking for fell into his lap.

He raced back to Dean who was hanging out in the hotel room painting her toe-nails and watching movies on TBS.

“I’ve figured it out!” Sam cried, banging the door to the room open.

“Hit me with it, Geekboy,” she told him as she caught the excess of pink polish with her thumb.

Sam breathed deep. “Three weeks ago was the neighborhood association’s semi-annual block party.”

Dean looked up. “Yeah?”

Sam stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “Somebody from the 3000 block said that the lawns on the 2000 block looked scraggly and unkempt. The member from the 3000 block said that the 2000 block homes were all trimming their lawns too short. So the Domovois, quaint little house spirits that they are, got involved in the fight.”

“Oh you’ve got to be kidding,” Dean said with a horrified expression. She was wearing an old t-shirt and boxers from her collection of Dean’s guy clothes. Sam thought she looked messy and rumpled and sexy all at once. Suddenly he couldn’t care less about the twelve people who lived on Cold Spring being locked up in an asylum. All he wanted was to roll her on the bed and press inside of her.

Dean caught his look. She smiled and shrugged so that the sleeve of her shirt slipped off her shoulder. Dean Winchester was nothing if not good at playing up his assets, his assets might have changed a little now that he was a she, but she still knew what to do with them. “So what do we do?”

Sam shrugged. “Call them together, and force them into a truce?” Dean rolled her eyes at the way Sam managed to completely ignore the energy in the air. Sam had probably spent his last life as a Tibetan monk on a mountaintop somewhere.

“Can I blow you?” she said baldly. Sam dropped the book he was leafing through on the ground.

“Uh…”

Dean grinned evilly. “The answer is yes, Sam.”

Sam looked completely at a loss. “Yes—I mean if you—that is, if you want to?”

“No, I just offered because I wanted to see you act like you had shit for brains,” Dean said, shaking her head. Sam was leaning up against the bureau drawers uncomfortably; like he had no clue how to play the hand he’d been dealt.

Dean inspected her toenails one more time and then climbed off the bed, dropping to her knees in front of Sam and pulling at his belt buckle.

Sam protested feebly. “Don’t.”

“Why? We both know you want it.” Her fingers scraped down the swelling shape of his erection beneath the denim.

Sam reached down and caught her hands. “I mean it! Don’t.”

She looked up at him, lips parted in shock and hurt. “I just wanted to do this for you—”

Sam’s eyes turned liquid warm and he pulled her to her feet. “Don’t you ever go to your knees for me.”

“Oh.” Dean colored, she picked at the buttons on Sam’s shirt. “Can I still blow you?”

Sam blushed too. “I think I’d like that.”

“Good.” Dean yanked Sam by the front of his shirt with a surprising show of strength and shoved him roughly on the bed. Sam landed hard, the air rushing out of him. Dean was on him only seconds later, sitting down on his knees and tugging his jeans down over his thighs.

She eyed Sam’s cock clinically. Sam covered his mouth to keep from laughing at the expression on her face. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. But then Dean took his dick in hand, thumbing the crown, and then bent down to give the slit an experimental lick. Sam’s muffled laughter turned into a rush of air out of his lungs at the sudden sensation. Dean looked up at him from under the dark curtain of her eyelashes and swirled her tongue around the crown.

Sam moaned, breath coming in harsh pants. His legs trembled from the effort of holding still. For never having sucked a dick before, Dean was doing really well. She wrapped her lips tight around the head and sucked, jabbing at the ridge with her tongue. Sam made small choked noise, breathing desperately through his mouth.

Dean smiled, pulled off with a wet pop, and replaced her mouth with a hand. She tugged her hair out of the loose ponytail she always kept it, hair fluttering out across Sam’s abs and cock like smooth silk.

“Jesus Christ,” Sam’s hips snapped up off the bed. Dean shook her head and pressed a kiss to the tip of Sam’s dick.

“A girl from Wichita did that to me once, nearly jizzed in her hair.” She jacked Sam’s cock, grip firm and steady and watched as her brother’s eyes rolled back into his head. “This blow job thing, I think I had some serious misconceptions about how easy it was.”

She ran her hands up Sam’s thighs and bent again to take him into her mouth. Sam threw his arm over his eyes. He was helpless against the embarrassingly loud sounds that were pouring past his lips. Spit and precome dribbled out of Dean’s mouth, sliding down Sam’s dick. She sucked hard, taking him into her mouth as far as she could manage without gagging. When Sam looked down as she swept her hair out of her face, her full red lips wrapped tight around his dick, for a moment he saw his brother, bending over him, forcing an orgasm out of him.

He caught her chin with one hand and pulled her off. “Gonna come.” He came, hard spurts that spattered on the comforter and his own thighs. Dean crawled up his body, wiping her mouth with one hand, and pressed her slick lips to Sam’s.

Sam snaked a hand between their bodies, pushing into her boxers, and sliding blunt fingers across her clit. Dean mumbled into his mouth and tightened her hands on his shoulders, trying to grind down against his hand. He slid his middle and index fingers into her, watching as she threw her head back, breath rattling out of her chest. He used his thumb to tease that little nub.

“You know why girls do it—” Dean started, eyes rolling back into her head.

Sam leaned up, sucking on a nipple through the ratty old t-shirt. He sat up fully against the headboard, dragging her with him. “Why, Dean?”

She answered, “ ‘Cause guys are completely helpless when they’ve got their dick in someone’s mouth.”

Sam chuckled, Dean could feel the vibrations of it through her body and she trembled. Sam had tugged the t-shirt off and pulled her bra down to worship and tease her breasts—the soft skin where they just started to swell, the dip between them, the light pink areolas.

Dean was struck by fear then, wrapped in Sam’s arms as he pressed open mouthed kisses down her torso. What would happen when Dean changed back? Sam wouldn’t want this anymore, he was so thoroughly heterosexual, and Dean…Dean wasn’t sure she could give it up.

Sam whispered something against her ear, she missed it with her attention focused elsewhere, but it brought her back to herself, back to the warm heat between her thighs, and Sam’s mouth covering hers to swallow her groans. She climaxed, Sam’s fingers relentlessly hitting that one spot inside, and how could she ever give it up?

*

At exactly midnight Dean and Sam placed a bowl of milk and honey in the middle of Orange Street, the cross street between the 3000 block of Cold Spring Avenue and the 2000 Block. Sam stumbled over some Russian invocations and the Domovoi started to appear.

It took at least half an hour for all them to get their asses to the middle of Orange, and Dean had sat down cross-legged on the pavement to wait. Sam launched into this whole speech about compromise and lawn-care and honestly, Dean couldn’t give a shit. She heard Sam talking about the two factions of Domovoi policing the other to make sure they kept the lawns the compromised length, and the Domovoi seemed to be listening.

“Are we done here?” Dean spoke up, incredibly bored. This was not their usual gig by any means. There was no shooting or burning or car chases or anything.

Sam looked over at him and through grit teeth said, “Shut up, Dean!”

The Domovoi all turned their attention to Dean on the ground and then looked back at Sam. They spoke in unison, “We accept your mediation, youngling.” Sam sighed in relief. “And we offer something in return.”

“Uh, what?” Sam replied, looking nervous. The Domovoi didn’t stick around to tell him what the offering was, suddenly they were all gone. He turned to Dean to ask her what that was all about, only to see her abruptly turning into him.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean shouted as he busted out of her clothes, and was left standing naked amid a pile of torn cloth.

Sam’s eyes widened and he stared at his brother in mute shock. Dean hastily tried to gather his clothes to cover himself up, because the neighborhood watch in this area was lethal. Sam threw him a hoodie, the same one as before, still shaking his head and wondering about Domovoi powers. Dean felt his heart freeze. Sam didn’t want him like this.

Dean’s mouth took on a cruel edge. “Admit it, you didn’t think I would ever turn back.”

“I did!” Sam protested, “Before that woman phoned in the feds she said she wanted to give you the harshest temporary punishment she could!”

Dean sighed and scuffed his toe against the ground. “So much for punishment.” He colored slightly across the bridge of his nose. Sam went over to him, about to place a chaste kiss to her forehead when Dean pulled away and went to the car to get out a spare change of clothing.

“We should probably head back to Maureen’s and tell her thanks, before hitting the road.”

Sam stood, mouth gaping open, he had no idea what was going on. “Dean, don’t you think we should lay low for a little—”

Dean shut that line of thought down. “There’s work to do, Sam.”

Sam threw up his hands, and walked back to the car. Dean had hoped beyond hope that once he was back to his old self, he’d look at Sam and see stupid little-brother that he’d fucked only because he’d temporarily lost his mind as well as his body, but he didn’t.

He saw his stupid little-brother, but he also saw a tall strong young man with incredible talent in bed. It was freakin’ ridiculous. But Dean wasn’t going to force anything on Sam that he didn’t want, so it had to end.

*

They stayed at Maureen’s for one more week, mostly because Maureen seemed to be able to cow Dean even more as guy than she had managed when he was a girl. Sam spent it relaxing. He didn’t take a single trip to the library. He went out to the basketball courts two days in a row to play pick up games with the other neighborhood guys.

Dean went over the Chevy piece by piece making sure everything was in working order and still looked beautiful. Maureen accused him of trying to clean the car to death and he wouldn’t speak to her for a day. Rather than being miffed like Dean expected, the young witch just seemed to be vastly amused.

Maureen was beautiful, all dark hair and dark eyes, and those chic classic Hollywood clothes. Dean felt sure he’d be able to feel some attraction for her, that he would be able to imagine sinking into the heat between her thighs, tugging his hands through her hair, and palming her generous breasts. But nothing.

Instead his thoughts were plagued by Sam. He thought about slamming him up against the fridge when his brother came back from the basketball courts in exercise shorts and sweat. He thought about Sam’s hands on Dean’s body when Maureen roped him into chopping leeks for the sweet potato soup they were making. He couldn’t look at Sam without thinking about sex, or the lazy sweet touches they’d shared in the place between sleep and waking.

Dean knew how to live life, he kept moving forward and he had a good time on the way, but for the first time he was conscious of needing something more. Sam hadn’t tried to touch him or kiss him or anything since he’d popped out of his clothes in the middle of the street. Dean swallowed and accepted that he’d done the right thing.

Finally it was time to say goodbye to Maureen. Dean hugged her close, face buried into her hair. God, he wanted to have her babies sometimes, others he wanted to drown her in her own carp-stocked garden pond. They bid her farewell with the promise that they’d be back to visit, and that was that.

Back on the open road. Sam fought him for control of the tape deck as they flew down the interstate and for the first time Dean gave in. Sam put on “Bittersweet Symphony” and Dean complained and gagged over the violin intro for exactly 46 seconds before he decided it was actually worth listening to.

Sam cracked up and looked out the window with a warm smile. Dean felt really glad in that moment, given the givens, to be back to himself, driving along in jeans and shades and a leather jacket, girl-clothes dumped off at a thrift store.

They stopped at a pancake house for lunch. Sam coated his banana nut pancakes in powdered sugar, pouring it down like snow. He bit into the pancakes, looking up and smiling, lips white at the corners and Dean rolled his eyes and felt his heart clench.

He drenched his sausage patty in syrup and then forked it into his mouth, watching as Sam made a face. He grinned around the mouthful of food. The dynamic was the same, but the equilibrium seemed to have changed. Dean felt like he was floundering as they went through the motions. He couldn’t read Sam any better than he used to and it was driving him insane.

They hunted and joked and fought and if Dean stopped flirting with the girls in the bars, or the girls they met on the hunts, or the nurses they met when they were getting patched up, or the waitresses, or well every girl with a pulse--Sam didn’t seem to notice.

Dean was tired and frustrated and fucking in love with his brother—his straight brother. And he might have continued on in that stasis forever if he hadn’t nearly got his head sliced off by some crazy ninja-poltergeist thing. It was an accident, Dean would’ve been fine, but there was a puddle of suspicious liquid on the floor that he accidentally stuck his foot right into. He went sliding down, almost into the blades the creature was whirling around throughout the house. Only Sam’s quick reflexes saved him—a hand on his collar the moment he began to slip tugging him out of the way. After that, Dean banished it and was just about to thank Sam when his brother slammed him into the wall. Sam’s mouth coming down over Dean’s own and his hands stroking hurriedly up and down Dean’s body, checking to make sure he was all right.

Dean was just kissing back when Sam pulled away. “I’m sorry—I told myself I wouldn’t force you…”

“I—what?” Dean shook his head. “Fuck that!” He pulled Sam’s head down again, biting viciously at his lips and sucking on his tongue.

“I—fuck—love y—this!” Dean said, breathing hard, hands buried beneath Sam’s layers.

Sam cupped Dean’s cheeks in his palms and searched his green eyes. Whatever he saw there made Sam slow down, gentle his kisses, draw Dean tighter to him.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Dean whispered into Sam’s neck.

Sam pulled out of their embrace and grabbed up Dean’s wrist, tugging him out the door and back to the car. “I made a move and you completely dodged it, so I figured—”

“Stupid!” Dean cried and unlocked the car with jerky movements. “You mean we could’ve been fucking these last couple of weeks?”

Sam got in on the other side. “I—” he blinked, “yeah?” His expression was shadowed, hidden, but Dean saw the way his hands trembled.

“Do you want it?” he asked slowly, pulling into traffic.

Sam looked sidelong at him, lips quirked upwards. “Yes.”

“Then I’m giving it to you.” And with that he stomped on the gas pedal, practically setting fire to the asphalt as he raced back to the hotel. Sam turned his face away and reached over the gear shift to run his hand up Dean’s thigh, fingers pressing into the muscles on the inside. Dean swore and shifted. Sam pressed the heel of his palm into the crotch of Dean’s jeans.

“I didn’t really think you were going to be at all okay with dick,” Dean said, swerving into the opposing lane to pass a car that was going too slow for his taste.

Sam laughed. “Maybe you should ask me what my life was like while you weren’t there, some time.”

Dean looked over at Sam, startled. “You’ve—?”

“Yeah.”

Dean wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that. “I—”

“Don’t think about it, it’s not important.”

They got back to the hotel and this time it was Dean dragging Sam along, tugging him out of his clothing and shoving him back against the shitty hotel armoire. Sam leaned against it, drawing Dean to stand between his spread legs. They kissed for long moments pressed tight against the cheap pine, the smell of Lysol and plastic in the air. Dean pressed his thigh against Sam’s dick and reveled in the sounds he made.

Their lips parted slickly and Sam finally spoke, “Do you think you—I really need you to fuck me!”

“Dude, are you trying to break me?” Dean walked them backwards to the bed, Sam following along. They fell on the mattress and then rolled until Dean was on top.

Sam eyes were wide, pupils dark wells in his irises. “No, I was trying to speak your language.”

Dean sat back. “Bitch.”

Sam laughed, deep in his belly, and Dean leaned down to suck on his neck until Sam’s chuckles subsided into moans. Dean was a good lay, he pushed all of Sam’s buttons that he’d learned as a girl, harsh nails over Sam’s nipples, teeth scraping over the skin of his jaw, gentle fingertips over every new piece of skin bared as they stripped down. Sam reached up and gripped his ass, pushing the denim down over his hips, before drawing Dean to him so that their dicks slid together through the cotton of their boxers.

Dean went slow prepping Sam, torturing him for all those times he’d fucked Dean on his fingers, drawing out her climaxes until she thought she couldn’t breathe, forcing her body to spasm and convulse. He kept their eyes connected, more intimate than a thousand perfect kisses, more intimate than words. Finally when his own dick threatened to burst he pushed inside, slow jerky thrusts until he was seated fully inside his brother, the whites of Sam’s eyes showing.

“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” Dean muttered in litany. Sam was tight and hot and already rolling his hips like he was going to get the party started without Dean. Sam shuddered around Dean when he thrust out and back in and he had to take a moment to breathe, slow down.

“Prostate?” he asked, bitten off like a curse. Sam nodded and Dean replicated the stroke, nailing Sam to the bed with it. Sam’s lips parted on a silent yell and his thighs tightened around Dean’s waist. His hips rose up to meet each of Dean’s thrusts and with a breathy moan he leaned up finally to press a kiss to Dean’s lips.

Dean knew this was going to be over far too soon, Sam was directing him without a word, controlling behind the scenes, the little bastard. Finally he wrenched control back into his court by wrapping his fist around Sam’s dick, thumb pressing against the head.

He started to stroke Sam with each thrust, Sam didn’t make a sound, but his breathing and the look on his face was enough to tell Dean he was close.

“Come on, come on,” Dean told him, hitting punishingly hard against that spot inside Sam. Sam’s eyelids fluttered shut before opening again in surprise, pupils expanding and then rapidly contracting as his orgasm slammed through him. He came only seconds after Sam did, blue-brown eyes fused with green ones.

For one second the entire room seemed to expand outward, he seemed to be looking up at himself rather than Sam, sensation still rolling through him in his dick and deep inside. Dean choked and nearly dropped down against Sam, before catching himself. The world jolted back to rights again.

“Oops, sorry,” Sam said after long moments of silent breathing. He threaded his hands into Dean’s hair. “Didn’t mean to do that.”

“What happened?” Dean asked as he gingerly pulled out, rolling onto his back next to Sam and staring up at the ceiling, his hands behind his head. He was suffused with a warm glow. He turned his head to look at Sam.

Sam blushed. “I think I merged our minds together for a second.”

“More freaky brain shit?”

Sam dismissed it with a nod and then pressed his lips to Dean’s shoulder. “By the way, ‘I—fuck—love y—this’ too.”

*

I am done
Tags: fic, genderswap, nc-17, sam/dean, wincest
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