Fic: 'in disguises no one knows' (Sam/Dean; NC-17) 5/5
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Master Post | Artwork | Soundtrack
Sam doesn’t get to do this.
She doesn’t get to leave Dean in a rush, like she couldn’t stand being in the same room with Dean, pressed up against her in the bar.
Back in the motel room, Sam’s pressed up against her now, too, unwraps Dean’s arm from her neck, warm and large body no longer there for support as Dean falls on her bed, back hitting the mattress.
Fuck, Dean still feels a little too drunk, and yeah that does happen, the too-drunk state when Dean’s not got any control left. She feels all loose limbed and achy, tender spots on her neck that’ll turn dark, hickies in the morning like she’s some goddamn teenager again. And that’s the thing; Sam had gone in such a hurry, and Dean… Dean’s gaze wandered, needing to feel some relief for what’s been building up in her.
Fact that it’d been a girl, like that-looking like Sam-well, she just can’t admit it outright.
It looks like Sam might try to get some answers out of her, sitting next to her on the edge of the bed, rubbing a hand over her face. Expression worn out, looking older all of a sudden, broad and immovable. Shoulders hunching forward, knee bobbing up and down, that slow shake of Sam’s head. No matter the body she’s in, she can still send signals to let Dean know that she favors this, the pain in the ass talk Dean doesn’t want to hear, over the honorable route: sulking and getting off in the shower.
Which Dean is all for, girl or boy body.
Dean’s hand and arm waves a bit, for grip, gets a tight lock of Sam’s hand around her forearm as she pulls her to sit upright, pressing against Sam’s side. Lurching motion doesn’t agree well with Dean’s head or stomach, but the room ain’t spinning and Sam’s breath is hot, shuddering.
Her hands ghost over Dean’s chest, jacket, tugging to keep her upright, reaching up past Dean’s open arms to grip at her through the many layers. Wrapped up like a friggin’ onion, all these clothes that Dean wants to peel off. Peel off Sam’s grip, too, but her fingers like a vice. Sam clutches at Dean’s shirt, and it’s when she’s leaning close that she hears the rattle of Sam’s breath and can feel the warmth and blood and heart beating too fast under Dean’s palm.
“Dean,” Sam says, pupils large and Dean balks, tries to push Sam off.
“Don’t-don’t start, Sam.” Dean’s voice is harsh and really, she could give a flying fuck if it sounds like that. “You left me, and-”
“There’s something else,” Sam murmurs, too quiet, still close, batting Dean’s hands away.
“Something worse-it’s… God. It’s something worse, Dean.”
“What?”
Sam clears her throat, teeth grazing her lip, looking down. Thin lip that goes redder at the pressure, a thing Dean finds herself staring at. It’s hard not to stare when Sam’s fingers are twisted in the material of Dean’s shirt, tugging. Like Sam’s six years old again, not trailing while carrying a doll, but trailing after Dean. Dean’d be big for an imaginary friend but Sam was too small to let go of her hand.
Too close, still too fucking close, Sam’s bangs falling in her eyes, the way she looks when that happens, it’s too much. A slow burn of tension and anger that has Dean shifting her hips, needing to angle away from Sam, to make it less obvious how her body’s reacting. How she wants it so bad it aches inside and forces her to concentrate on breathing before she starts fucking begging. For what? Man for anything.
But she can’t avoid the warmth of Sam’s hands, pulling at her, keeping her anchored, upright.
Her face is very close to Dean’s, puff of breath against Dean’s cheek, when she says, “I got a bit of vague advice from an enemy.”
This makes no sense to Dean but she rolls with it, and nearly fucking rolls off the bed when Sam continues.
“It’s a demon. Twisting up things and pulling at threads. S’why we can’t remember, why we can’t reach Bobby.”
Her words are a little rough, dry instead of drunk. Dean’s hands hover near Sam’s chest, no longer gripping at her so she won’t fall back, because Sam’s words are beginning to sober her up real good, flush on her skin more out of Sam being here than the booze.
Her hands linger near Sam’s neck and collarbone, pressing, gently.
They’ve been this close before.
But this time, oh this time, Dean wants her. God, Dean shouldn’t want this.
She pulls back and still thinks, I want him.
Wait.
That’s not right. Shouldn’t be ‘him’.
But it’s… him, Dean wants. She wants him. She, even that, self-identification feels awkward, like it’s been put on all wrong and Dean can’t give words to the thing lurking behind the swirl of memories behind the fact that Dean’s a-Dean’s always been-Dean’s fucked. That’s what Dean is. So goddamn fucked.
Her breath hitches and she shifts her weight in her seat, thighs lift and knees brush Sam’s thigh, warm under the fabric.
Sam’s head dips, and she continues, before Dean can question it, “Demon’s fucking with our heads. Not just our bodies.”
“Oh,” Dean says, voice choked a little. “We’re gonna find the fucker that did this to us. I get to kill ‘em.”
Shifts her weight, again, bulge visible under dark blue denim.
Sam murmurs, “It was the Trickster. That’s who told me. Well, more implied it. I met the Trickster in the bathroom.”
It’s low when she says it, almost an air of defeat, memories she’s gotta be drudging up that she never talks about with Dean. Sure, Dean knows about the many Tuesdays, how Sam had to see Dean die in this constant loop. This though, this is different.
“You were gonna tell me this when?” Dean snaps, struggles to get up and push away from Sam’s grip, sudden burst of movement as she bolts to her feet, glaring at Sam. Not fair how Sam can still be so wide and imposing, jacket taut around her shoulders. And sure, Dean looks fucking ridiculous swaying but it’s not like she’s going to fall over. Worse she’ll just lean against the bed if she loses her center of gravity which seems to be off-kilter right now. “The Trickster. You talked to him by yourself. Without backup. Without me. You could’ve-he could’ve killed you, Sam.”
“He killed you,” Sam points out. She lowers her head lowered, boots moving a little on the cheap motel carpeting like she’s trying to sidestep the issue only she continues, “Dozens of times. He-Look. He told me to look at the bigger picture.”
“Yeah, he’ll tell you anything. Wrapped up in plenty of bullshit ‘cause he thinks the stink is fuckin’ hysterical.”
“It’s a demon. It’s the demon that Paul and the rest of his buddies-if there are others and there probably are if it’s a demon making deals-are mixed up with. Pretty powerful one, too, enough to set off the Trickster’s radar and have him coming to me, or uh, us, to tell us take it out. See what power’s brewing.”
“You sure this ain’t a trick? Because that kinda comes part and parcel with the Trickster job-”
“Believe me, the Trickster might not have laid it out all there plain but it knew where my tattoo was-”
“And you don’t think it knows ‘cause it gave us these bodies? Why the fuck are you trusting it, Sam?”
“Because…” Sam trails off. Same look that Sam gave Dean on that Wednesday morning, wrapping Dean up in a hug that nearly squeezed the life of out her, Sam unwilling to let go. “I owe it this. And this demon hasn’t killed us, so it has something planned that we need to stop. And I can’t fucking believe you.”
“What?”
“The girl, Dean.” Sam’s voice is too sharp, disgusted at the edges. “The one you were with.”
Dean blinks, wondering why in the hell Sam’s gone bipolar or some shit. “What?”
“You’re an adult. I’m an adult. But I can’t handle this all by myself. And that girl you just hooked up with. Did you even get her name?”
“You turnin’ this back on me, now? I had fuck all to do and we were fuckin’ rudderless. I needed-” and it’s real good that Dean clamps her mouth down before the you escapes like a traitor. Instead she leans in close, nearly falling on top of Sam. “You never thought I haven’t wondered what it would be like? C’mon, Sammy. Maybe I wanted to figure out what gets my brother all riled up.”
Sam bolts up, almost crashes right into Dean, makes her lose her balance, stumbling and nearly falling into her bed. Dean catches herself at the very last second, fury on her face, stumbling to her knees.
“What the fu-”
“That’s not fucking funny, Deana. I’m not your brother and you don’t ever get to mock me for being who I am.”
“But it’s fine for you, huh? Slutty Dee, spreads her legs for anyone, I know exactly what you’ve been thinking.”
“You do, huh?”
“We’re stuck like this for the time being. All the research has been for nothing, sure, we took care of a ghost, but now you’re thinking we pissed off some demon that decided to change us and how the fuck we gonna fight against that? Your little demon girlfriend Ruby gonna save our asses? ‘Cause I don’t seem to remember her coming around to help us out this time.”
“You’re right. Ruby isn’t here. We have to figure this out on our own. And you don’t even know the half of what I’m thinking. So don’t start.”
“I think you’re the one who started when you went off the goddamn rails ‘cause I snagged Paul Scholsser’s number.”
“Which was probably a setup! Damn it, Dee.” Sam swallows, hard. “Don’t make me say it.”
“No, you’re going to fucking say it.”
“You’re happy like this.”
Dean can’t speak. She has no idea how the hell to respond to that. Because it’s true and if there’s one fucking thing Dean does not want to deal with it’s the fucking raw truth that this is it, Dean wants this. She doesn’t want to go back and get stuck being a girl again.
But Dean does know how she’d like to physically respond, her body’s aching for it, adrenaline that has her on edge, and she wants to take a swing at Sam. Most basic kind of reaction that’s coming to mind now, stepping toe to toe, face to face. Sam wipes at her mouth, fingers all delicate as she does, dry red eyes that narrow at Dean, glance down, all the way down.
Yeah, the evidence of what’s there is too obvious, even for Sammy. She can’t miss the denim clad bulge that Dean’s got. Only Sam’s reaction is all kind of jacked up, licking her lips and then backing away, nearly jumping over the fucking bed to get away from Dean.
The wait is an unbearably long stretch of time that's gonna drive Dean near crazy, unable to speak, unable to react. Heavy weight of Sam all around her even when Sam’s trying to rebuild distance, get some focus, concentration behind the glint of annoyance in Sam’s eyes.
Dean rubs her face with a palm, unsure of the texture. She hasn’t shaved, and God, it’s still weird, a couple of days into this-this thing, whatever it is. She sighs and shrugs a little. “No matter how much I-how much I change, Sam, I’ve never wanted to change over things forever. Not permanent. I-I thought it’d make things easier. That I could protect you.”
“And the girl?”
Sam’s hands hold Dean’s shoulders, now,, forcing Dean to stare directly into Sam’s face and damn if that isn’t exactly where Dean wants to be looking, forever if she could fucking manage it. Which she can’t.
“She wasn’t you,” Dean says. Looks Sam in the eyes, and adds with a shaky exhale of breath, so utterly screwed, “I wanted you. And you could hate me to hell for it, I know, I-I know that, Sammy. That this ain’t right and I’m scared of myself, because when I look at you…”
Voice trails off because all this talking has lead to circles going ‘round and ‘round, pointless conversation. It’s no time like the present to act out, to attack, mouth first. No speaking, just lips. Lips that brush first at the corner of Sam’s mouth, missing dead center before Dean rights the angle and crushes lips against with Sam’s mouth as she presses against her, pushing her weight forward, Sam’s hands slipping around, pulling Dean into an embrace, a little too tight, Dean gasping in Sam’s mouth.
Dean’s hands are roaming and there’s no real plan in mind, pulling at Sam’s clothes, rounding the front as Sam bites Dean’s bottom lip and jesusfuck that’s real damn good. Better when Sam holds on to the back of Dean’s neck like Sam’s terrified Dean’s going to pull back, going to stop. No stopping, they’re not even fully gone yet. But Dean feels like she’s been gone for so long and the only way to hold on is to keep holding on to Sam.
Little counter-productive to be crushed up against Sam while trying to strip Sam naked but somehow Dean snakes a hand between them, pulls Sam’s belt off, stroking one hand down Sam’s front. Dean has to pull away, just to trail a path across Sam’s cheek with her mouth. Pants in Sam’s ear, “I’m going to suck you off. Will you let me?”
Sam only groans in response, bucking forward as Dean continues to stroke.
“That a yes?”
“Dean, I’ve never-”
“Riding a bicycle,” Dean swears, pulling the zipper down. “Get on the bed.”
“Only you, Dean,” Sam says, voice thick with laughter and well, something new, that must be what Sam’s sex voice really sounds like, “would compare a blowjob to riding a bicycle.”
“Yeah well riding’s easier. Less work. S’why they call it a job,” Dean says, leaning up and pulling Sam down into a kiss. Has to climb up, awkwardly, sitting on Sam’s broad thighs, no consideration about weight, Sam sucking in a shocked breath.
“Dee,” Sam starts only she completes it, dragging out the final letter, closing it with an n. Says it again, “Dean. Please.”
“Whatever happens, this is who I am.” Dean presses her hand flat and broad across Sam’s chest, dead center. There’s no interest in finding a heartbeat. Dean does it to solidify Sam, saying, “Can you feel it?”
No answer so Dean pulls off Sam’s shirt, runs a hand against the tattoo, then at the bare spot on Sam’s chest, empty place missing a tattoo. “It feel any different?”
Sam closes her eyes and bites back a moan, tossing her head back. His head back, the little voice in the back of Dean’s head says, a distinctly male neck. How amazing it looks when Sam swallows, Adam’s Apple moving in time and Dean runs a thumb down the center of Sam’s neck and then follows the path with her tongue, kissing a trail to the tattoo.
“How’s about that?”
Sam’s answer is mumbled against the side of Dean’s face when she pulls Dean’s mouth back up, rubbing against Dean all stubbly and warm, “Like nothing I’ve ever felt before.”
There’s fear in Sam’s voice and Dean wants to make it disappear, it’s what Dean should be able to do but she doesn’t.
“This is what I want. Do you really want this, Sam? Because I’m not going to stop. I can’t do it. Please, you gotta stop it now ‘cause I wanna see you come. Wanna make you come ‘cause of me. Been aching for it and fuck, the things you’ve been doing to me. Not just ‘cause you look like this but ‘cause, it’s you, Sammy. God. Fucking you.”
Sam stills, steadying back with her hands planted on the bed, keeping her upright. Her breathing’s uneven and she shakes her head. “We’re not supposed to be like this. But-”
“We are,” Dean supplies. “Tell me what it’s like.”
“I don’t,” Sam tries to say but Dean’s now got a hand instead Sam’s boxers, so it takes some time for Sam to put the words together. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You getting comfortable bein’ in this skin? Being like this? ‘Cause when I look at you, it’s like, fuck Sam, you’ve always been like this.”
“I don’t know!” Sam shouts, gripping Dean’s wrist, stilling Dean from pulling Sam’s cock out of the boxers. Dean’s free hand brushes the inside of Sam’s legs, right in between, fingers rough along the inside seam, grazing against Sam’s balls, forcing Sam to sit a little wider. Dean shifts, putting more weight on her knees, sitting more aside one of Sam’s thighs, off-center, but now Sam can feel how hard Dean is for her.
“Sammy, be honest, you been getting hard ‘cause of me? You ever thought about my mouth? About how I taste?”
“We’re around each other all the time. I can’t control my thoughts. Yeah,” Sam’s eyes are downcast when she says it but not out of self-preservation, she’s watching Dean’s hand, wrapped around Sam’s dick. “I have. I can’t control it.”
“I can show you how to control it. Let me touch you. Let me make you feel good. Last thing we do before we face off with this demon. Last thing we do before we d-”
Sam doesn’t let Dean finish that sentence. It’s a messy kiss that should be bad, a little click of teeth but in the desperation they share, it melts into something right. Something nearly fucking perfect and Dean nearly fucking humps Sam for it, too goddamn needy.
“Please. Sammy, I don’t know fuck all any more but it’s like my body needs this and that’s all I’ve got.” Dean’s fingertips on Sam’s temples are deliberate and devastatingly tender. She needs to memorize the sense-memory of it with the way her memories are fucked it’s the only thing that’s seems to stick around.
Sam’s eyes are still closed and Dean needs to see the heat in those hazel eyes, needs to know that Sam wants this just as bad.
“I can get you out of your head.”
“How?” Sam opens her eyes and there’s too much in it and Dean’s too far gone to understand any of it.
“Please. Let me, Sammy.”
Sam doesn’t have to say yes when she leans forward, mouth parting open and Dean flicks her tongue inside.
“D’you know what we’re really doing here? We’re guys doing this. You’re a guy Sammy, right now, that’s who you are. Feel it, Sam. Remember. Stop denying it so hard and just-feel it, Sam. Doesn’t this feel good? Fuck right, that don’t matter. Just this.”
Sam has let go of Dean’s wrist, allowing Dean to begin stroking, twisting upwards with a careful flourish at the head of Sam’s cock, trying to gauge Sam’s tolerance. Trying to see how far it’s possible to go before Sam’s lost it completely, when all her inhibitions have been destroyed. And damn it, it’s an amazing sight to see better than anything Dean’s sense-memory recalls, the way one good stroke leaves Sam gasping, on the verge of begging for more. Dean’s never been so fucking turned on and the extreme proof of it, erection straining against Dean’s pants is painful at this point but Dean has no need right now to relieve the pressure.
Instead Dean gets off of Sam, settling on knees, a quick lick because oh yes, Dean needs a taste before she really starts taking her time. First things first, that taste of pre-come in her mouth and it’s all Sam, all the way and just that is almost too much. Dean presses her face against Sam’s thigh, trying to get some composure before she attempts to suck Sam down without preamble, without warning, ‘cause fuck if that ain’t what she wants to do.
“Oh God. That. That’s. Oh.” Sam’s skipping like a warped record, breathing hard, rise and fall of broad chest, tattoo so stark against the skin, making Sam seem somehow more naked even though Sam still has pants on.
Dean should take care of that. Hastily unlacing and yanking off Sam’s shoes, Dean says, rushed but needing to delay things for a bit because it’ll be embarrassing as fuck to come in her pants, “Body doesn’t forget. If anything, if anything happens, that’s all we’re gonna have.”
“You-you drive me insane,” Sam says, pushing narrow hips forward, pushing pants and boxers down off those lean hips, corded muscles straining hard underneath ridiculously beautiful skin.
Dean sucks the inside of Sam’s right thigh, hard enough to leave a bruise. “Same to you, bitch.”
Sam says something in response but since it’s lacking in vowels, a noise close to ngggh, Dean doesn’t know how to answer that. Sucking another bruise, this time on Sam’s left thigh seems to be good enough.
It isn’t fair how Sam’s cock is straining, how the head’s already slicked up, pre-come making it freakin’ shine and Dean again has to resist shoving it all in Dean’s mouth, all in one go. It’ll be the end of Dean, doing that, so Dean torments herself by kissing her way up the shaft, playing with Sam’s balls, tonguing the tip before licking back down, quick pump at the base of Sam’s cock to get that deep dragging groan out of Sam, the one that sounds like it’s coming straight out of Sam’s belly, that too-deep noise.
“You know what I am?” Dean asks, hesitating because she does this, she’s not going to hold back; she’s going to do all that she can to get Sam off.
“You’re Dean,” Sam says, dazed.
“Close,” Dean says, licking her lips. “I’m yours.”
Dean has to close her eyes to do this because if she looks up and sees Sam, well the fucking noises are enough. The one that Sam makes when Dean takes that big cock in her mouth and flexes her tongue along the underside. She could categorize them if they weren’t so fucking distracting. Dean has to pull back, licking at the head for a while because fuck, Sam really is impossibly noisy and there’s no way in hell Dean’s going to make Sam shut up. So she sucks Sam back down, has her mouth full and tries taking in more, wants to take in more, almost has it and then Sam’s groping wildly, nearly pushing Dean off and then it comes, hot and thick, right down Dean’s throat. It’s all Dean can do to stop from gagging it out, forcibly sucking harder.
Screw breathing. That’ll come later. Now it’s all about getting Sam through this, Sam who’s damn near whimpering by the time Dean pulls back, leaning her back against the other bed, panting.
“Holy. Fuck,” Sam gasps.
“Good idea.” Dean stands up, this time wavering not ‘cause of the alcohol but because there’s every chance that Dean’s going to shoot off without being touched. Because she looks down at Sam sprawled on the bed, cock softening a little but Sammy’s just completely debauched, hair stuck to her face, high flush all over. All over.
It’s a miracle that Dean manages to yank off shirt and jeans without dying. Sam’s recovered enough to try to sit back up but she flops back and Dean has to smother a smile at the look of Sam so thoroughly fucked out and they haven’t even-oh. Now there’s an idea.
“Turn around,” Dean says. It sounds too much like an order, Sam snapping to attention, instantly suspicious.
“What?”
Dean touches her lips, swollen and they’ll probably stay that way for a good long while. “Trust me.”
“I don’t know about-Dean we can’t-go that far,” Sam finishes, lamely.
Dean settles on top of Sam, capturing Sam’s mouth in a brutal kiss. “Yeah, we can.”
“But-”
“There’s miles of you, you know,” Dean breathes against Sam’s ear, deftly ducking away when Sam tries to twist her head and catch Dean’s mouth in a fumbling kiss. “Fuckin’ endless; I could spend hours touching you.”
“You have.”
“Caught on, did ya?” Dean smoothes hands down Sam’s sides, pulling Sam’s legs so Dean’s in between, letting Sam feel Dean’s cock sliding against Sam’s. “Turn around. You’re going to love this.”
“Love,” Sam says and they both freeze, the word lazy and heavy, too dangerous to explain it. Too muddled and obvious so Dean pulls away, bringing Sam back up, their tongues twisting together to ignore the need to say anything else.
Fingers twist in Sam’s hair and he pulls Sam into a sweet, gentler kiss that’s more than just right. And-God. He. Oh no, now’s not the time for that train of thought, Dean shutting it down, the horrible self-identifier can go fuck itself and leave Dean freaking out another day. Sam’s getting in the game, that huge hand wrapping around Dean’s cock, stroking a little too had for it to be pure pleasure. But the edge of dark to it, it’s well it’s fucking nice, sending this kind of throbbing sensation all over Dean’s body, completely shutting off Dean’s higher brain functions, making Dean pump into Sam’s fist.
“I know,” Sam mutters, mouth all slick and wonderful and oh God, Dean loves it. I know, what the hell is that? Some response to something only Dean has no fucking clue what she said, mind too far gone.
“Okay, fuck, Sam, before you kill me,” Dean says, “Turn the fuck around.”
Saying stuff in a whiskey-deep voice, pitched even deeper than usual can-once in a blue moon when they’re both freakin’ dudes-cause Sam to actually listen, looks like. Because Sam’s turning around and Dean bites down at Sam’s neck, loving how hard she shudders at the scrape of teeth.
“I’m gonna fuck you now. And I gotta hear you. Don’t hold back. Promise me.”
Promise. Sam doesn’t need to even say it out loud. Not when Dean’s able to push Sam back down, encouraging Sam on her knees, spreading her legs wide enough. There’s lube, Dean remembers, lube that’s somewhere and yeah, Dean’s got no clue. No fucking way Dean’s crazy enough to try this with just spit and a prayer, so after yanking open the drawer of the bedside stand to find nothing, Sam says, “Um, the table.”
Dean grabs it and somehow remembers how a condom’s also a good fucking idea, ducking down to her discarded pants. It’s a good thing there’s one in her wallet and yeah, it fits. Which, Dean’s not going to wonder about that, not with the way Sam’s ass curves as Sam watches Dean settle back on the bed, pushing hair off her face to watch.
Sam sticks true to the unspoken promise. Noises well up in Sam’s throat as she moans when Dean gets a slicked finger inside, searching dutifully for that spot. When Dean finds it, there’s no way Dean’s going easy, applying pressure, massaging little bit harder, harder. She does it until Sam’s bucking back it, only stopping to let Dean slip in another finger, stretching Sam out a little before working that spot again.
When Dean kisses the curve of Sam’s ass, down to where it meets Sam’s thighs, Sam lets out a string of curses that nearly gives Dean pause because it’s so fuckin’ creative that Dean might have to steal it sometime.
The lead up to it is hotter than the actual fuck ‘cause the way Sam’s been keeping Dean on edge, it doesn’t take much to drive her wild. Rocking hard inside of Sam, seeing how it looks, cock sliding in and out but it’s more than that. It’s looking back up and seeing Sam nearly getting off again, fucking back on Dean’s cock that does it. Fuck, it’s just too much, the hot greedy burst of it blacking Dean out until there’s nothing but noise, wonderful noise, of them together, doing this and this it is, exactly, yes, it’s them and Dean loves it. Loves. Love.
It’s the last conscious thought Dean has before she passes out, blissfully stretched alongside Sam.
*
The morning after comes with a heavy weight on Sam’s chest-Dean’s arm, actually, wrapped around, resting against where her breasts aren’t, broad flatness that now, when she looks down at it, doesn’t look so alien and not her. She lifts a hand up to her face, looking at the broad hand and long fingers.
Dean stirs in her sleep, smacks her lips and nuzzles Sam’s neck, body curling around her-broad warmth that Sam adjusts to. She’s slept in the same bed with Dean before, but this is different in a whole bunch of ways: slow realization of what happened the night before with her sister aside, it’s a strange feeling that this body against her feels unfamiliar and right. Slip of this is how it’s supposed to be.
She wriggles a little on the mattress, sticky wetness against her thigh, sheets wrapped up around thick legs. Hooks one leg around Dean’s as she feels Dean stir, breath hot against her chin and neck, slowly coming awake.
Dean lets out a groan as she stretches, roll of her wrists, fingers curling, and she moves to settle on top of Sam, fingertips on Sam’s chest.
“Morning,” Dean says, slow drawl, eyes half open and hair sticky, swept up into points. It feels weird to see her like that, almost wishing for Dean’s softer face and longer hair tickling Sam’s skin instead.
“Morning,” Sam responds, stares at the way Dean’s hand splays over the curve of her chest muscle, palm wide over her-no, not over her heart, just above it, right on the pentagram tattoo. Fingers a little pale against Sam’s skin, in the little light available, morning sunlight trying to filter in through the curtained windows. Dean stares at her hand and the tattoo intently. Sam begins to grow uncomfortable, feeling herself shift her weight, reconciling Dean being half on top of her.
Dean sucks in a breath and Sam braces for it, the abrupt line of how this isn’t going to work-she already knows what she could say, too, because all these feelings bottled up had her running lines on loop in her head. Including just why this attraction can’t work out.
“This is different,” Dean says.
“Huh?”
“The tattoo.” Dean looks up, wide green eyes and mussed hair, inquisitive, almost innocent. “It’s-It’s different from what I remember.”
“The placement-” Sam cuts off when Dean nearly jabs a knee in Sam’s crotch by accident, trying to move her weight for a better position.
Dean grimaces in apology before she says, “In-in my head, Sam. It’s different. Not just placement. Remember when we got it, and you were all fussy about that place, back in New Jersey-”
“It didn’t look sterile. You were the one crying,” Sam points out, getting an eye roll from Dean.
“Right near my boob, you freak, of course I was cryin’. But remember, how you sat off to the side and I’d been showing you the car, something wrong with the transmission, and you still had grease on your face. And I thought it was funny-I mean, I cracked up, I was laughing so hard. You talkin’ about sterilization and you were covered in grease. On your arms.”
She takes a shuddering breath and waits, because Sam feels a little cold at this memory drudged up.
Because it doesn’t exist-it never happened. She says that, and “You got the tattoo on your back, Dee. And we didn’t touch the car; we were close enough, we walked straight in.”
“We didn’t get these in New Jersey,” Dean says, brow furrowing. “Somewhere else. I’m-I don’t remember. Another state and town.”
Hand slaps, open-palmed and rough against Sam’s chest as Dean gets up and says, “These are right where I remember them being. Nothing on my back, nothing on your shoulder.”
She pulls on her discarded boxers, wrinkled and fitting snug, low on her hips, no amount of hassle or hesitation as standing there wearing only that and already pushing her mind back into the game, a defense mechanism Sam’s seen too many times to count. “Since all signs are pointing to demon and all things are telling us Paul’s involved we gotta find him. You up for a manhunt?”
There’s the wall coming up, clamping down any prying questions, like Dean doesn’t want to deal with the possibility that their memories are well and truly fucked over until they can try to fix things. She stands by the window and waits, shirtless, back casting a broad, dark shadow along the floor and on the bed they’ve shared.
Sam clears her throat and they do a truncated version of their usual morning routine. Shower, getting dressed, twenty minutes of silence before Sam’s back at the laptop again, both hands pushing her hair back off her face as she stretches.
Sometimes dumb luck is all that a Winchester can depend on. Sam’s gotten nothing, nothing, nothing until a recent credit card purchase comes through. “Oh, you’re kidding me.”
“What?”
“So when we broke into his office, I took a couple of his credit card bills.”
“Wow Sammy, you must’ve been really jealous to consider doing a little identity theft.”
“Yeah well, it’s always a good way of tracking down someone who like you said, stood out here. So, I just pulled up his card’s recent activity and it turns out he bought porn last night. At the Whitten Inn.”
“You telling me he’s been hiding in plain sight? And he was stupid enough to use his freakin’ credit card?”
“Dean, he went out with you. I think he’s ten flavors of stupid.”
“So… which porno was it? Probably not Casa Erotica IV since there’s not enough dick in it.” It’s a weak attempt, Dean trying to diffuse their silence, like she’s not in the mood to stew in anger for the morning.
“Yeah, what I’m thinking is how come he knows enough to hide out but he isn’t coming after us. What is he doing?”
Dean staring, thoughtful and then her lips twist ugly and she tilts her head almost in disbelief. “What happens if you want to warn someone but you know if you say anything, you’re fucked?”
“You can’t mean-”
“Like, he made the moves on me, ‘cause he’s a dick but he knew us, Sam. Knew us and we’ve been able to run around these past couple of days and there’s been nothing coming our way.”
“We’ve been distracting ourselves,” Sam says, wondering why an image comes up of smoke, a voice in the darkness, get them out of the way.
Sam shakes off an image of the Trickster’s trademark smirk coming to the forefront of her mind because without really having an explanation for it. Sam knows that it’s false, a wild goose chase that the Trickster had purposely put an end to, like it had known exactly what’s behind all of this. “This could be a trap.”
“Could be.” Dean looks at Sam, and says, voice sharp, “That ever stop us before?”
“Yeah. I know.”
Sam doesn’t know enough.
(A memory, distorted and blurred away, edges frail. There had been a man standing where the ghost-poor Becky hands outstretched, mouth moving wordlessly-had been released, a soft calm voice saying, almost grateful, now you’ve done it.)
“Sam? Sam?”
“I’m fine.”
“What the hell was that?”
“I don’t know. It wasn’t a vision. Not like before. It was-”
“Do you remember?”
Loaded question and Sam hates that she has to answer, “No. I don’t.”
“Fuck this. Let’s get some handcuffs, get as many goddamn anti-witchcraft charms in case Paul’s a big bad wolf in sheep’s clothing. Man, our tattoos better hold up in case the demon shows up and tries to bounce into one of us.”
Dean says it with such conviction that there’s a demon that it throws Sam off and all Sam says in response is, “It shouldn’t work any differently.”
“It shouldn’t have moved, Sam. But we don’t have time. Gotta pay a visit to Paul before his brain kicks in and he tries something smart for once, like skipping town.”
*
They have to break down the door. It’s not barricaded but it’s clear that Paul’s been living inside of it, stink of human fear, sweat, and a little urine too. Dean’s nostrils flail in disgust of the potent mix. There are markings, amateur, on the windowsill, thin spread of salt that one good draft of wind could break.
And there’s Paul, only the instant the door’s opened up and Sam and Dean have crossed the line, Paul’s shaking his head, terrified.
“What?”
Paul begins making croaking sounds and then starts coughing out little snakes and frogs. A plague. His eyes, bug out, terror twisting his face into a near mask. It’s all he can do in protest as his body starts jerking, no screams would match up to the silent scream Dean knows is raging in Paul’s head.
It doesn’t take long for Paul to die and then those arrogant crystalline baby-blues begin clouding over. And then, nothing.
“Fuck,” Dean says, ‘cause yeah, Paul might not have even realized, but he was the goddamn bait.
“Oh boys,” a female voice purrs, bathroom door opening and out stepping that woman from, oh shit, the realtor.
“Sally?” Sam says and she smiles wide and fuck, right against the wall they go.
“Sure. Let’s say that’s my name. Honestly, I thought you boys were better at hunting. At least you, Sam,” Sally says, addressing her directly, picking her way towards Sam, nearly skipping over Paul’s corpse. “I mean, so many demons have been whispering your name like God’s own curse. What is it that makes you so frightening?”
Sally studies Sam for a long time and Dean says, “Hey bitch, maybe it’s Sammy’s winning smile.”
The laugh Sally gives out is cold and barely human. “Hardly. No, perhaps I didn’t use enough force last time. But this time, boys? You won’t remember me or who you really are. And my, won’t that make things really interesting? While demons are hunting after you, especially that snotty little upstart, I’ll be able to build my power base and take over.”
“So what, you buy up a couple of souls to shore up your own private demon army?”
“No, I don’t work well with others. Humans, now you know Becky’s family picked her off as their sacrifice to me? Ah, actually you do, you figured that out before. I took that memory out of your heads. Among other things. But I think this time, the distortion will be permanent. Thanks to one last gift from Paul. For making contact with Dean, trying to warn him, oh,” she says, hand over her chest, “that was exactly what I needed.
“Now it’s time to put things where I tried to leave them. Broken.” Her hands rise up and the room gets unbearably hot.
It’s too much power, thick in the air, burning their skin acrid and hot. The force pinning them to the walls lets go and it’s almost like a loss of suction, both of them falling. Sam falls to her knees, trying to stay up but Dean’s already bent over, fingernails scratching into the grimy carpet. Time, it slivers and shards, painful pieces that have no meaning, the connections severed then flowing back, leaving them far worse for wear.
And just as Dean leans back up, the spell, twisting in Dean’s mind, eating at memories, fast and furious, a feverish pitch Dean can’t combat, things freeze, memories assaulting Dean, has her crying out.
Has him crying out.
Dean screamed. He screamed.
There was a demon. A demon that caught up with them when they’d caught up with Becky’s ghost. She hadn’t been following her normal course, screaming in the empty unfinished house. She’d taken them to a lone stretch of road and only said, “It’s come to get you.”
“What?” Dean had said, looking back at Sam, at his brother-oh fuck-at his brother and they’d gotten out of the car, had nothing on them but rock salt in their guns.
Sam spouted off Latin, memorized without need of a book, but there wasn’t enough time, the demon was too fast.
It said nothing. Just pushed hands, palms up towards Sam and Dean-
And they changed. The demon hissed sharply and all Dean knew was negative space. Being pushed back, away from Sam and then there was only the thick haze.
When it finally spoke, it was to some human lackey, someone who Dean could barely remember at that point, the demon saying, “This’ll get them out of the way.”
Dean had barely a moment left of consciousness but even then, his instincts screaming at how wrong this was as Dean slipped away, as the distortion worked its way through his body. The last glimpse he had was of Paul’s face staring back at him, sighing, “What a waste.”
“Yes, there’s many a stupid demon that thinks he’s so pretty. No surprise that a human would think the same.”
“Are you sure he won’t remember?”
“Neither of them will. Don’t get weak on me now.”
That was it, nothing more left to remember, Dean slipped into the darkness, into a dream that he wouldn’t wake from.
Until now.
*
The hair on the back of Sam’s neck stands on end-and it isn’t the wind or the temperature, it’s the pull of this place. It’s the magic that continues to build around them, this violent living thing full of unyielding malice.
They need to end this, come hell or high water, to make themselves right again. They might not have deserved the lives that they have, sure, but that doesn’t mean they need to continue living a lie. The spell is almost gone now; memories that aren’t real have nearly vanished as the aftershock of the demon’s magic cracks through them.
This wave of magic tried to kill them for good this time, but instead it removes a fake life, one that rolls away like a wisp of smoke.
Dean is pinned to the wall near him, body close and warm breath against Sam’s neck. Closeness that gives Sam support, in a way, a reminder of Dean being constantly with him, no matter the gender, no matter the sex. Even after the time loop, Dean close and wrapped up in Sam’s arms, he’d always tug on Sam’s heartstrings and owned Sam fully and completely. That’s how Sam knows that they have to survive this, there’s no question of that.
It didn’t take the Trickster sticking Sam into the time loop to put this need in Sam’s head. The need was always there, buried deep, and it took going through this demon’s aborted curse to figure it out. Naturally, it almost seems kind of fitting that it’s taken a gender mindfuck of his mind to lead to something like this, knowing completely and utterly that he wanted all of his brother, body, mind, and soul.
There’s a strobe light effect on the walls, blue white light that casts tall, gnarled shadows against the ceiling. A white flash goes off before it dissolves and settles into something cozy. And everything changes all around them. The demon’s specialty, distortion, unmaking reality as the demon sees fit.
Plush warm couches and red velvet curtains, thick carpets, the kind you’d like to roll around on and warm lights, sconces, now surround them. Even a fire roaring in a large marble hearth, the whole room shifting a little, like it’s a picture on the TV and the reception’s off, trying to hold on to something that isn’t there. If Sam focuses, he can see the walls and floors beneath this projection. How they twist back into reality, show the real surroundings, the crappy motel room.
The demon struggles to hold on like it’s wrangling an old movie reel threatening to burn out and snap in its projector.
The room seems to swell out around them, large and cavernous, dark shades of color, fabric, paint, bringing out more than shadows.
In the middle of the chaos, the only fixed point is the demon. The plain pantsuit and small, delicate frame housing the demon doesn’t make Sam think any less of its power; far from it.
As the room changes one more time, things shudder and the demon’s knees buckle, as though unable to ride out the flare of its power. The hold on Sam and Dean dissolves, things are far from righted but it’s an opening.
Dean doesn’t waste time in talking, in saying something snappy; he’s already stepping forward, Sam almost too stunned to say, wait, grabbing at his sleeve and arm.
The glare Dean sends him is damn near murderous, face red, livid. “Don’t you want to end this?”
Depends on the ending, Sam would respond, only he says, low and tired, “Wait.”
“I’ve been waiting too long,” the demon says, cold touch of its voice sending shivers down Sam’s spine, grateful he’s not standing too close. He doesn’t want to show the way he’s swallowing down the lump in his throat, tinge of fear threatening to rise up on the surface.
Keeps his eyes trained on this thing, cant of its head, sharp, scrutinizing, dead black eyes with an air of detachment.
It’s rebuilding its power source. They’re too late.
The background shifts behind them, trendy furniture melding and twisting into old wood-a Victrola, creakily twisting out an old, warbling tune. Metal glints and flows into the burnished gold of a record player out of the sixties, flower covered throw that blooming out of nowhere, whole room done in kitschy oranges and greens.
Time’s bending around them, and still, the plain white walls and wooden floors of the present, here and now, shift beneath their feet.
A muscle twitches in the demon’s cheek as it takes a shuddering breath.
Sam wonders if that might be a sign that the demon’s losing control of this terrible power, the constant output putting too much a strain on the demon’s essence if Sam can call it that. Maybe not just from throwing out magic helter skelter because the demon howls then, screaming, “Why are you holding on? This isn’t possible.”
Next time they see Bela, Sam thinks he might make an exception and let her have it. The Colt’s absence is too much and they’re weaponless.
But that doesn’t stop Dean.
Dean moves forward to shoot, sharp crack of bullets as they bounce off the demon and fall limply to the ground. The demon’s hand curls into a claw that turns in the air, wall of force that slams into Sam.
He falls back against a wall, hard, the surface of the wall shimmering into different textures, paneling. Reality twists all around them in bright bursts.
Dean moves to shoot again but his body freezes up, stuck in an awkward fighting stance, almost resembling an action figure as the demon twitches its fingers, tugs at invisible strings, visibly slumping with the effort of all this magic in play.
“I will find it,” the demon snaps. “And then, then I’ll be free of Winchesters meddling in my affairs.”
The wind, or air, or something runs fingers down Sam’s cheeks and neck, indentations shaped by air, smoothing out under his jacket with a push. It opens, giving way to the outer shirt, the t-shirt, invisible fingers scraping, clawing their way in as the demon leans down and watches.
Flesh tears, tiny furrows of blood trickle as it frees him of clothing, searing pain as he can hear Dean trying to scream out, tell her to leave Sam alone-
Then it stops; ripped shirt taut against heaving flesh that showing the tattoo there, brand of black against his heart.
“This,” the demon scowls, voice rough and raw, scrape of metal that rings hard in Sam’s ears. “This is what complicated things. Tattoos that bind and reconfigure my magic. Interfered with it. Amazing how little you children know, and yet you stumble on something that can fuck with what should be so simple.”
Then the demon’s ramrod straight, curling a finger to make Dean slide forward, floor shimmering like a disco under them all.
The demon stands right in front of Sam, nearly spitting in rage. “Tattooed protection against demons. Oh, these can protect you from more than possession. I couldn’t change you both into different beings-send you away forever. I thought I had done so instead it changed only your genders, didn’t it? Some of your memories. But this isn’t going to stop me. You knew enough but not enough to get the tattoos right. And now I think I’ll erase you from time permanently.”
Sam looks over at Dean, unsure, but his jaw clenches, nods a little. They need to end this. The magic flares up, surroundings appearing to jump and shifts around them, the demon winding up for the final blow. And it releases them again, the better to concentrate on the unmaking of them, for all of time.
The only moment they have, the demon dropping all its defenses and barriers. One moment.
Dean nods, no words exchanged, no words to say.
The room shifts again, magic ebbing as the hold on them slips for that brief moment, Sam head butting the demon.
The demon staggers back in pain as Dean moves forward to bash it with the butt of his gun, then throwing his weight on the demon as Sam starts chanting the exorcism ritual.
It’s a last ditch effort that might have them sooner dead then fixed up, but the words seem to be working their way through the demon’s flesh and bones, the way the demon starts to writhe, trying to buck Dean off.
Dean turns his head to Sam, nothing spoken, nothing more than a quick nod, a finish this, unnecessary because there’s no way Sam’s going to stop and Sam ends it, last word barely heard over the sound of the demon screaming.
Whirls of dark, black smoke uncoil out of the demon’s mouth, huge plume that bursts into light and flames against the ceiling, a body crumpling to the ground.
The air settles and the room does. Like a breath of air that escapes the demon’s body, the leftover magic shimmers in the air, spreading out from the demon and sending shockwaves that hit Sam and Dean’s bodies.
The room doesn’t go to black, it goes white, split second of heat, as Sam staggers, almost falling if it wasn’t for Dean holding onto him, palm cupping his cheek.
“Oh. Oh, God.”
Dean nods grimly. “Yeah. It was Earth all along. You remember being a guy now?”
His brother, his brother, with that concerned look on his face, the one he remembers from their real life. All of it back to normal. Back to how they were before all of this, male, always been male, never girls and never like-
They’ve always been Winchesters.
Dean proves this point when he says, slow grin, “Dude. As a chick? You’re totally a lesbian.”
Sam steps closer, awkward gait more out of grumpiness than being unused to his body. “Shut up.”
Since Dean has no plans to stop talking, Sam grabs Dean but Dean’s still talking, as though Dean has no plan but to talk, to ignore the surroundings for just one moment. The ruined motel room with two corpses that Sam doesn’t want to think about, so he pulls Dean out of the room, and as Dean continues to talk, Sam mutters, “You’re impossible.”
“I am not-”
He does shut up when Sam’s mouth crashes against his, body pressing close. It’s not like it isn’t weird anymore, feeling Dean’s crotch against his own, rubbing, hard and obvious. A new kind of weird, one Sam can deal with for as long as possible.
Sam breaks away, mouth brushing Dean’s chin. Looking at Dean’s face, touching his cheekbones, hair, knowing that none of this is out of the ordinary. That this is the way they’re supposed to be and always have been, male.
“You’re kind of gay,” Sam murmurs, lower lip jutting out. Dean stares at his lip and sucks on it a little, getting a moan in response.
“For you. It’s always been you.”
“I know that.”
“God, you’re fucking smug.” Dean runs his finger along Sam’s bottom lip, chuckling when Sam pulls it in his mouth, biting down. “You know what I wanna do?”
“Get out of Texas?”
“Fuck yeah.”
*
The spring wind blows in with a trail of deaths and black wisps of smoke. If Dean gets any headaches lately, they’ve got nothing to do with the aftermath of spells-it’s trying to figure out a way out of the deal. Thing is, Dean knows Sam’s trying hard, and that’s fine-but Dean isn’t sure that he’s prepared to finally have Sam for so short a time before Dean’s swallowed up by Hell. Time away from war and heartache seems like a distant memory, as they get back into the swing of things. They fight and argue like always, only it’s between the small moments where they press against each other’s lips and flesh. Fingers that spread out, wide, over the tattoos, that little symbol of protection.
The tattoos were fixed right before they left Texas at this little tattoo parlor where they negotiated prices with the tattoo artist who didn’t speak a lick of English. The original tattoos had saved them but they were flawed and the alteration, a swirl of flames now around their tattoos, is what keeps them safe now. Sam had gotten the corrected symbol from Bobby and that had been a hell of a call, finding out that Bobby had changed service providers and left both of them a message that must’ve gotten torched when the demon started fucking around with their bodies and memories.
There’s a whole other level to their relationship now, one that fits but isn’t without its problems.
A relationship that Dean doesn’t want to talk about, knows Sam does, trying to get out a sentence or two from Dean about it. Any talk always has ‘the deal’ hovering over the conversation as time winds down.
After their botched ‘Grand Canyon’-meeting up with the Ghostfacers team and dealing with their whole bundle of inexperienced crazy-Dean states they should check out the beach, all spur of the moment as he turns the steering wheel, slowly, Sam staying quiet.
The boardwalk is all bright colors and consumerism, people wandering around with cotton candy. Dean pulls over at a hot dog stand near the parking lot, sandy beach shimmering a few dozen yards as Dean’s stomach rumbles a complaint.
They don’t have swimming trunks or anything-day at the beach isn’t their normal kinda thing, heh, now that’s funny-but it’s calming, sitting on the Impala’s hood, eating hot dogs and drinking beers.
“You want to talk,” Dean says, takes a long pull from his beer bottle. “Get it off your chest.”
Sam swallows, eyes narrowing in the sunlight, brightness of the parking lot railings and the glittering beach and ocean not far off. “The deal-”
“Not about the deal. About us.” Dean swings the bottle back and forth a little, small little arc between his knees as he sits on the Impala’s hood. “Being girls. You get this weird look on your face when you’re thinking about it.”
“Are you okay?” Sam ventures, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I’m good. Good as I can be. Dreaming sometimes about livin’ a life that didn’t happen. Your memories gone?”
“All the girl ones,” Sam responds. “Well, kind of. It feels weird.”
“Gotta say it wasn’t that bad.”
“You had some awful taste when, I mean-If you were a girl.”
“I got you, didn’t I?”
Sam’s mouth twitches, looks like he’s trying to push down a grin. A long moment of quiet passes before Sam turns serious, asking, “Do you think it would’ve helped with breaking the deal-that you weren’t yourself?”
Dean doesn’t answer for a moment. His head dips. “No.”
And that’s the end of it. Dwelling on the past won’t work, not when they’ve got so little time left.
Dean focuses on the here and now, minutes melting into hours, the night fast approaching.
He focuses on the hitch in Sam’s breath as Sam falls on the bed next to him, turns on his side and stretches out, displacement of air that feels cold on Dean’s bare chest. Dean shifts his weight to lean back and take a pull from the bottle of beer on the nightstand, low buzz of the television on in the background, football.
Sam stares at the TV, amused, brow furrowing as Dean runs a hand, slow, on Sam’s waist, wrist brushing the dark trail of hair leading into his boxers.
Dean gives a little tug, and Sam laughs.
“Roll on your back, Dean.”
“What?”
“Dude. I think you know why.”
Dean punches him in the shoulder, not too hard, pointing as he laughs, “Shut up,” but turns anyway, forearms braced against the mattress, and this, this is okay.
This can work.
end
Sam doesn’t get to do this.
She doesn’t get to leave Dean in a rush, like she couldn’t stand being in the same room with Dean, pressed up against her in the bar.
Back in the motel room, Sam’s pressed up against her now, too, unwraps Dean’s arm from her neck, warm and large body no longer there for support as Dean falls on her bed, back hitting the mattress.
Fuck, Dean still feels a little too drunk, and yeah that does happen, the too-drunk state when Dean’s not got any control left. She feels all loose limbed and achy, tender spots on her neck that’ll turn dark, hickies in the morning like she’s some goddamn teenager again. And that’s the thing; Sam had gone in such a hurry, and Dean… Dean’s gaze wandered, needing to feel some relief for what’s been building up in her.
Fact that it’d been a girl, like that-looking like Sam-well, she just can’t admit it outright.
It looks like Sam might try to get some answers out of her, sitting next to her on the edge of the bed, rubbing a hand over her face. Expression worn out, looking older all of a sudden, broad and immovable. Shoulders hunching forward, knee bobbing up and down, that slow shake of Sam’s head. No matter the body she’s in, she can still send signals to let Dean know that she favors this, the pain in the ass talk Dean doesn’t want to hear, over the honorable route: sulking and getting off in the shower.
Which Dean is all for, girl or boy body.
Dean’s hand and arm waves a bit, for grip, gets a tight lock of Sam’s hand around her forearm as she pulls her to sit upright, pressing against Sam’s side. Lurching motion doesn’t agree well with Dean’s head or stomach, but the room ain’t spinning and Sam’s breath is hot, shuddering.
Her hands ghost over Dean’s chest, jacket, tugging to keep her upright, reaching up past Dean’s open arms to grip at her through the many layers. Wrapped up like a friggin’ onion, all these clothes that Dean wants to peel off. Peel off Sam’s grip, too, but her fingers like a vice. Sam clutches at Dean’s shirt, and it’s when she’s leaning close that she hears the rattle of Sam’s breath and can feel the warmth and blood and heart beating too fast under Dean’s palm.
“Dean,” Sam says, pupils large and Dean balks, tries to push Sam off.
“Don’t-don’t start, Sam.” Dean’s voice is harsh and really, she could give a flying fuck if it sounds like that. “You left me, and-”
“There’s something else,” Sam murmurs, too quiet, still close, batting Dean’s hands away.
“Something worse-it’s… God. It’s something worse, Dean.”
“What?”
Sam clears her throat, teeth grazing her lip, looking down. Thin lip that goes redder at the pressure, a thing Dean finds herself staring at. It’s hard not to stare when Sam’s fingers are twisted in the material of Dean’s shirt, tugging. Like Sam’s six years old again, not trailing while carrying a doll, but trailing after Dean. Dean’d be big for an imaginary friend but Sam was too small to let go of her hand.
Too close, still too fucking close, Sam’s bangs falling in her eyes, the way she looks when that happens, it’s too much. A slow burn of tension and anger that has Dean shifting her hips, needing to angle away from Sam, to make it less obvious how her body’s reacting. How she wants it so bad it aches inside and forces her to concentrate on breathing before she starts fucking begging. For what? Man for anything.
But she can’t avoid the warmth of Sam’s hands, pulling at her, keeping her anchored, upright.
Her face is very close to Dean’s, puff of breath against Dean’s cheek, when she says, “I got a bit of vague advice from an enemy.”
This makes no sense to Dean but she rolls with it, and nearly fucking rolls off the bed when Sam continues.
“It’s a demon. Twisting up things and pulling at threads. S’why we can’t remember, why we can’t reach Bobby.”
Her words are a little rough, dry instead of drunk. Dean’s hands hover near Sam’s chest, no longer gripping at her so she won’t fall back, because Sam’s words are beginning to sober her up real good, flush on her skin more out of Sam being here than the booze.
Her hands linger near Sam’s neck and collarbone, pressing, gently.
They’ve been this close before.
But this time, oh this time, Dean wants her. God, Dean shouldn’t want this.
She pulls back and still thinks, I want him.
Wait.
That’s not right. Shouldn’t be ‘him’.
But it’s… him, Dean wants. She wants him. She, even that, self-identification feels awkward, like it’s been put on all wrong and Dean can’t give words to the thing lurking behind the swirl of memories behind the fact that Dean’s a-Dean’s always been-Dean’s fucked. That’s what Dean is. So goddamn fucked.
Her breath hitches and she shifts her weight in her seat, thighs lift and knees brush Sam’s thigh, warm under the fabric.
Sam’s head dips, and she continues, before Dean can question it, “Demon’s fucking with our heads. Not just our bodies.”
“Oh,” Dean says, voice choked a little. “We’re gonna find the fucker that did this to us. I get to kill ‘em.”
Shifts her weight, again, bulge visible under dark blue denim.
Sam murmurs, “It was the Trickster. That’s who told me. Well, more implied it. I met the Trickster in the bathroom.”
It’s low when she says it, almost an air of defeat, memories she’s gotta be drudging up that she never talks about with Dean. Sure, Dean knows about the many Tuesdays, how Sam had to see Dean die in this constant loop. This though, this is different.
“You were gonna tell me this when?” Dean snaps, struggles to get up and push away from Sam’s grip, sudden burst of movement as she bolts to her feet, glaring at Sam. Not fair how Sam can still be so wide and imposing, jacket taut around her shoulders. And sure, Dean looks fucking ridiculous swaying but it’s not like she’s going to fall over. Worse she’ll just lean against the bed if she loses her center of gravity which seems to be off-kilter right now. “The Trickster. You talked to him by yourself. Without backup. Without me. You could’ve-he could’ve killed you, Sam.”
“He killed you,” Sam points out. She lowers her head lowered, boots moving a little on the cheap motel carpeting like she’s trying to sidestep the issue only she continues, “Dozens of times. He-Look. He told me to look at the bigger picture.”
“Yeah, he’ll tell you anything. Wrapped up in plenty of bullshit ‘cause he thinks the stink is fuckin’ hysterical.”
“It’s a demon. It’s the demon that Paul and the rest of his buddies-if there are others and there probably are if it’s a demon making deals-are mixed up with. Pretty powerful one, too, enough to set off the Trickster’s radar and have him coming to me, or uh, us, to tell us take it out. See what power’s brewing.”
“You sure this ain’t a trick? Because that kinda comes part and parcel with the Trickster job-”
“Believe me, the Trickster might not have laid it out all there plain but it knew where my tattoo was-”
“And you don’t think it knows ‘cause it gave us these bodies? Why the fuck are you trusting it, Sam?”
“Because…” Sam trails off. Same look that Sam gave Dean on that Wednesday morning, wrapping Dean up in a hug that nearly squeezed the life of out her, Sam unwilling to let go. “I owe it this. And this demon hasn’t killed us, so it has something planned that we need to stop. And I can’t fucking believe you.”
“What?”
“The girl, Dean.” Sam’s voice is too sharp, disgusted at the edges. “The one you were with.”
Dean blinks, wondering why in the hell Sam’s gone bipolar or some shit. “What?”
“You’re an adult. I’m an adult. But I can’t handle this all by myself. And that girl you just hooked up with. Did you even get her name?”
“You turnin’ this back on me, now? I had fuck all to do and we were fuckin’ rudderless. I needed-” and it’s real good that Dean clamps her mouth down before the you escapes like a traitor. Instead she leans in close, nearly falling on top of Sam. “You never thought I haven’t wondered what it would be like? C’mon, Sammy. Maybe I wanted to figure out what gets my brother all riled up.”
Sam bolts up, almost crashes right into Dean, makes her lose her balance, stumbling and nearly falling into her bed. Dean catches herself at the very last second, fury on her face, stumbling to her knees.
“What the fu-”
“That’s not fucking funny, Deana. I’m not your brother and you don’t ever get to mock me for being who I am.”
“But it’s fine for you, huh? Slutty Dee, spreads her legs for anyone, I know exactly what you’ve been thinking.”
“You do, huh?”
“We’re stuck like this for the time being. All the research has been for nothing, sure, we took care of a ghost, but now you’re thinking we pissed off some demon that decided to change us and how the fuck we gonna fight against that? Your little demon girlfriend Ruby gonna save our asses? ‘Cause I don’t seem to remember her coming around to help us out this time.”
“You’re right. Ruby isn’t here. We have to figure this out on our own. And you don’t even know the half of what I’m thinking. So don’t start.”
“I think you’re the one who started when you went off the goddamn rails ‘cause I snagged Paul Scholsser’s number.”
“Which was probably a setup! Damn it, Dee.” Sam swallows, hard. “Don’t make me say it.”
“No, you’re going to fucking say it.”
“You’re happy like this.”
Dean can’t speak. She has no idea how the hell to respond to that. Because it’s true and if there’s one fucking thing Dean does not want to deal with it’s the fucking raw truth that this is it, Dean wants this. She doesn’t want to go back and get stuck being a girl again.
But Dean does know how she’d like to physically respond, her body’s aching for it, adrenaline that has her on edge, and she wants to take a swing at Sam. Most basic kind of reaction that’s coming to mind now, stepping toe to toe, face to face. Sam wipes at her mouth, fingers all delicate as she does, dry red eyes that narrow at Dean, glance down, all the way down.
Yeah, the evidence of what’s there is too obvious, even for Sammy. She can’t miss the denim clad bulge that Dean’s got. Only Sam’s reaction is all kind of jacked up, licking her lips and then backing away, nearly jumping over the fucking bed to get away from Dean.
The wait is an unbearably long stretch of time that's gonna drive Dean near crazy, unable to speak, unable to react. Heavy weight of Sam all around her even when Sam’s trying to rebuild distance, get some focus, concentration behind the glint of annoyance in Sam’s eyes.
Dean rubs her face with a palm, unsure of the texture. She hasn’t shaved, and God, it’s still weird, a couple of days into this-this thing, whatever it is. She sighs and shrugs a little. “No matter how much I-how much I change, Sam, I’ve never wanted to change over things forever. Not permanent. I-I thought it’d make things easier. That I could protect you.”
“And the girl?”
Sam’s hands hold Dean’s shoulders, now,, forcing Dean to stare directly into Sam’s face and damn if that isn’t exactly where Dean wants to be looking, forever if she could fucking manage it. Which she can’t.
“She wasn’t you,” Dean says. Looks Sam in the eyes, and adds with a shaky exhale of breath, so utterly screwed, “I wanted you. And you could hate me to hell for it, I know, I-I know that, Sammy. That this ain’t right and I’m scared of myself, because when I look at you…”
Voice trails off because all this talking has lead to circles going ‘round and ‘round, pointless conversation. It’s no time like the present to act out, to attack, mouth first. No speaking, just lips. Lips that brush first at the corner of Sam’s mouth, missing dead center before Dean rights the angle and crushes lips against with Sam’s mouth as she presses against her, pushing her weight forward, Sam’s hands slipping around, pulling Dean into an embrace, a little too tight, Dean gasping in Sam’s mouth.
Dean’s hands are roaming and there’s no real plan in mind, pulling at Sam’s clothes, rounding the front as Sam bites Dean’s bottom lip and jesusfuck that’s real damn good. Better when Sam holds on to the back of Dean’s neck like Sam’s terrified Dean’s going to pull back, going to stop. No stopping, they’re not even fully gone yet. But Dean feels like she’s been gone for so long and the only way to hold on is to keep holding on to Sam.
Little counter-productive to be crushed up against Sam while trying to strip Sam naked but somehow Dean snakes a hand between them, pulls Sam’s belt off, stroking one hand down Sam’s front. Dean has to pull away, just to trail a path across Sam’s cheek with her mouth. Pants in Sam’s ear, “I’m going to suck you off. Will you let me?”
Sam only groans in response, bucking forward as Dean continues to stroke.
“That a yes?”
“Dean, I’ve never-”
“Riding a bicycle,” Dean swears, pulling the zipper down. “Get on the bed.”
“Only you, Dean,” Sam says, voice thick with laughter and well, something new, that must be what Sam’s sex voice really sounds like, “would compare a blowjob to riding a bicycle.”
“Yeah well riding’s easier. Less work. S’why they call it a job,” Dean says, leaning up and pulling Sam down into a kiss. Has to climb up, awkwardly, sitting on Sam’s broad thighs, no consideration about weight, Sam sucking in a shocked breath.
“Dee,” Sam starts only she completes it, dragging out the final letter, closing it with an n. Says it again, “Dean. Please.”
“Whatever happens, this is who I am.” Dean presses her hand flat and broad across Sam’s chest, dead center. There’s no interest in finding a heartbeat. Dean does it to solidify Sam, saying, “Can you feel it?”
No answer so Dean pulls off Sam’s shirt, runs a hand against the tattoo, then at the bare spot on Sam’s chest, empty place missing a tattoo. “It feel any different?”
Sam closes her eyes and bites back a moan, tossing her head back. His head back, the little voice in the back of Dean’s head says, a distinctly male neck. How amazing it looks when Sam swallows, Adam’s Apple moving in time and Dean runs a thumb down the center of Sam’s neck and then follows the path with her tongue, kissing a trail to the tattoo.
“How’s about that?”
Sam’s answer is mumbled against the side of Dean’s face when she pulls Dean’s mouth back up, rubbing against Dean all stubbly and warm, “Like nothing I’ve ever felt before.”
There’s fear in Sam’s voice and Dean wants to make it disappear, it’s what Dean should be able to do but she doesn’t.
“This is what I want. Do you really want this, Sam? Because I’m not going to stop. I can’t do it. Please, you gotta stop it now ‘cause I wanna see you come. Wanna make you come ‘cause of me. Been aching for it and fuck, the things you’ve been doing to me. Not just ‘cause you look like this but ‘cause, it’s you, Sammy. God. Fucking you.”
Sam stills, steadying back with her hands planted on the bed, keeping her upright. Her breathing’s uneven and she shakes her head. “We’re not supposed to be like this. But-”
“We are,” Dean supplies. “Tell me what it’s like.”
“I don’t,” Sam tries to say but Dean’s now got a hand instead Sam’s boxers, so it takes some time for Sam to put the words together. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You getting comfortable bein’ in this skin? Being like this? ‘Cause when I look at you, it’s like, fuck Sam, you’ve always been like this.”
“I don’t know!” Sam shouts, gripping Dean’s wrist, stilling Dean from pulling Sam’s cock out of the boxers. Dean’s free hand brushes the inside of Sam’s legs, right in between, fingers rough along the inside seam, grazing against Sam’s balls, forcing Sam to sit a little wider. Dean shifts, putting more weight on her knees, sitting more aside one of Sam’s thighs, off-center, but now Sam can feel how hard Dean is for her.
“Sammy, be honest, you been getting hard ‘cause of me? You ever thought about my mouth? About how I taste?”
“We’re around each other all the time. I can’t control my thoughts. Yeah,” Sam’s eyes are downcast when she says it but not out of self-preservation, she’s watching Dean’s hand, wrapped around Sam’s dick. “I have. I can’t control it.”
“I can show you how to control it. Let me touch you. Let me make you feel good. Last thing we do before we face off with this demon. Last thing we do before we d-”
Sam doesn’t let Dean finish that sentence. It’s a messy kiss that should be bad, a little click of teeth but in the desperation they share, it melts into something right. Something nearly fucking perfect and Dean nearly fucking humps Sam for it, too goddamn needy.
“Please. Sammy, I don’t know fuck all any more but it’s like my body needs this and that’s all I’ve got.” Dean’s fingertips on Sam’s temples are deliberate and devastatingly tender. She needs to memorize the sense-memory of it with the way her memories are fucked it’s the only thing that’s seems to stick around.
Sam’s eyes are still closed and Dean needs to see the heat in those hazel eyes, needs to know that Sam wants this just as bad.
“I can get you out of your head.”
“How?” Sam opens her eyes and there’s too much in it and Dean’s too far gone to understand any of it.
“Please. Let me, Sammy.”
Sam doesn’t have to say yes when she leans forward, mouth parting open and Dean flicks her tongue inside.
“D’you know what we’re really doing here? We’re guys doing this. You’re a guy Sammy, right now, that’s who you are. Feel it, Sam. Remember. Stop denying it so hard and just-feel it, Sam. Doesn’t this feel good? Fuck right, that don’t matter. Just this.”
Sam has let go of Dean’s wrist, allowing Dean to begin stroking, twisting upwards with a careful flourish at the head of Sam’s cock, trying to gauge Sam’s tolerance. Trying to see how far it’s possible to go before Sam’s lost it completely, when all her inhibitions have been destroyed. And damn it, it’s an amazing sight to see better than anything Dean’s sense-memory recalls, the way one good stroke leaves Sam gasping, on the verge of begging for more. Dean’s never been so fucking turned on and the extreme proof of it, erection straining against Dean’s pants is painful at this point but Dean has no need right now to relieve the pressure.
Instead Dean gets off of Sam, settling on knees, a quick lick because oh yes, Dean needs a taste before she really starts taking her time. First things first, that taste of pre-come in her mouth and it’s all Sam, all the way and just that is almost too much. Dean presses her face against Sam’s thigh, trying to get some composure before she attempts to suck Sam down without preamble, without warning, ‘cause fuck if that ain’t what she wants to do.
“Oh God. That. That’s. Oh.” Sam’s skipping like a warped record, breathing hard, rise and fall of broad chest, tattoo so stark against the skin, making Sam seem somehow more naked even though Sam still has pants on.
Dean should take care of that. Hastily unlacing and yanking off Sam’s shoes, Dean says, rushed but needing to delay things for a bit because it’ll be embarrassing as fuck to come in her pants, “Body doesn’t forget. If anything, if anything happens, that’s all we’re gonna have.”
“You-you drive me insane,” Sam says, pushing narrow hips forward, pushing pants and boxers down off those lean hips, corded muscles straining hard underneath ridiculously beautiful skin.
Dean sucks the inside of Sam’s right thigh, hard enough to leave a bruise. “Same to you, bitch.”
Sam says something in response but since it’s lacking in vowels, a noise close to ngggh, Dean doesn’t know how to answer that. Sucking another bruise, this time on Sam’s left thigh seems to be good enough.
It isn’t fair how Sam’s cock is straining, how the head’s already slicked up, pre-come making it freakin’ shine and Dean again has to resist shoving it all in Dean’s mouth, all in one go. It’ll be the end of Dean, doing that, so Dean torments herself by kissing her way up the shaft, playing with Sam’s balls, tonguing the tip before licking back down, quick pump at the base of Sam’s cock to get that deep dragging groan out of Sam, the one that sounds like it’s coming straight out of Sam’s belly, that too-deep noise.
“You know what I am?” Dean asks, hesitating because she does this, she’s not going to hold back; she’s going to do all that she can to get Sam off.
“You’re Dean,” Sam says, dazed.
“Close,” Dean says, licking her lips. “I’m yours.”
Dean has to close her eyes to do this because if she looks up and sees Sam, well the fucking noises are enough. The one that Sam makes when Dean takes that big cock in her mouth and flexes her tongue along the underside. She could categorize them if they weren’t so fucking distracting. Dean has to pull back, licking at the head for a while because fuck, Sam really is impossibly noisy and there’s no way in hell Dean’s going to make Sam shut up. So she sucks Sam back down, has her mouth full and tries taking in more, wants to take in more, almost has it and then Sam’s groping wildly, nearly pushing Dean off and then it comes, hot and thick, right down Dean’s throat. It’s all Dean can do to stop from gagging it out, forcibly sucking harder.
Screw breathing. That’ll come later. Now it’s all about getting Sam through this, Sam who’s damn near whimpering by the time Dean pulls back, leaning her back against the other bed, panting.
“Holy. Fuck,” Sam gasps.
“Good idea.” Dean stands up, this time wavering not ‘cause of the alcohol but because there’s every chance that Dean’s going to shoot off without being touched. Because she looks down at Sam sprawled on the bed, cock softening a little but Sammy’s just completely debauched, hair stuck to her face, high flush all over. All over.
It’s a miracle that Dean manages to yank off shirt and jeans without dying. Sam’s recovered enough to try to sit back up but she flops back and Dean has to smother a smile at the look of Sam so thoroughly fucked out and they haven’t even-oh. Now there’s an idea.
“Turn around,” Dean says. It sounds too much like an order, Sam snapping to attention, instantly suspicious.
“What?”
Dean touches her lips, swollen and they’ll probably stay that way for a good long while. “Trust me.”
“I don’t know about-Dean we can’t-go that far,” Sam finishes, lamely.
Dean settles on top of Sam, capturing Sam’s mouth in a brutal kiss. “Yeah, we can.”
“But-”
“There’s miles of you, you know,” Dean breathes against Sam’s ear, deftly ducking away when Sam tries to twist her head and catch Dean’s mouth in a fumbling kiss. “Fuckin’ endless; I could spend hours touching you.”
“You have.”
“Caught on, did ya?” Dean smoothes hands down Sam’s sides, pulling Sam’s legs so Dean’s in between, letting Sam feel Dean’s cock sliding against Sam’s. “Turn around. You’re going to love this.”
“Love,” Sam says and they both freeze, the word lazy and heavy, too dangerous to explain it. Too muddled and obvious so Dean pulls away, bringing Sam back up, their tongues twisting together to ignore the need to say anything else.
Fingers twist in Sam’s hair and he pulls Sam into a sweet, gentler kiss that’s more than just right. And-God. He. Oh no, now’s not the time for that train of thought, Dean shutting it down, the horrible self-identifier can go fuck itself and leave Dean freaking out another day. Sam’s getting in the game, that huge hand wrapping around Dean’s cock, stroking a little too had for it to be pure pleasure. But the edge of dark to it, it’s well it’s fucking nice, sending this kind of throbbing sensation all over Dean’s body, completely shutting off Dean’s higher brain functions, making Dean pump into Sam’s fist.
“I know,” Sam mutters, mouth all slick and wonderful and oh God, Dean loves it. I know, what the hell is that? Some response to something only Dean has no fucking clue what she said, mind too far gone.
“Okay, fuck, Sam, before you kill me,” Dean says, “Turn the fuck around.”
Saying stuff in a whiskey-deep voice, pitched even deeper than usual can-once in a blue moon when they’re both freakin’ dudes-cause Sam to actually listen, looks like. Because Sam’s turning around and Dean bites down at Sam’s neck, loving how hard she shudders at the scrape of teeth.
“I’m gonna fuck you now. And I gotta hear you. Don’t hold back. Promise me.”
Promise. Sam doesn’t need to even say it out loud. Not when Dean’s able to push Sam back down, encouraging Sam on her knees, spreading her legs wide enough. There’s lube, Dean remembers, lube that’s somewhere and yeah, Dean’s got no clue. No fucking way Dean’s crazy enough to try this with just spit and a prayer, so after yanking open the drawer of the bedside stand to find nothing, Sam says, “Um, the table.”
Dean grabs it and somehow remembers how a condom’s also a good fucking idea, ducking down to her discarded pants. It’s a good thing there’s one in her wallet and yeah, it fits. Which, Dean’s not going to wonder about that, not with the way Sam’s ass curves as Sam watches Dean settle back on the bed, pushing hair off her face to watch.
Sam sticks true to the unspoken promise. Noises well up in Sam’s throat as she moans when Dean gets a slicked finger inside, searching dutifully for that spot. When Dean finds it, there’s no way Dean’s going easy, applying pressure, massaging little bit harder, harder. She does it until Sam’s bucking back it, only stopping to let Dean slip in another finger, stretching Sam out a little before working that spot again.
When Dean kisses the curve of Sam’s ass, down to where it meets Sam’s thighs, Sam lets out a string of curses that nearly gives Dean pause because it’s so fuckin’ creative that Dean might have to steal it sometime.
The lead up to it is hotter than the actual fuck ‘cause the way Sam’s been keeping Dean on edge, it doesn’t take much to drive her wild. Rocking hard inside of Sam, seeing how it looks, cock sliding in and out but it’s more than that. It’s looking back up and seeing Sam nearly getting off again, fucking back on Dean’s cock that does it. Fuck, it’s just too much, the hot greedy burst of it blacking Dean out until there’s nothing but noise, wonderful noise, of them together, doing this and this it is, exactly, yes, it’s them and Dean loves it. Loves. Love.
It’s the last conscious thought Dean has before she passes out, blissfully stretched alongside Sam.
*
The morning after comes with a heavy weight on Sam’s chest-Dean’s arm, actually, wrapped around, resting against where her breasts aren’t, broad flatness that now, when she looks down at it, doesn’t look so alien and not her. She lifts a hand up to her face, looking at the broad hand and long fingers.
Dean stirs in her sleep, smacks her lips and nuzzles Sam’s neck, body curling around her-broad warmth that Sam adjusts to. She’s slept in the same bed with Dean before, but this is different in a whole bunch of ways: slow realization of what happened the night before with her sister aside, it’s a strange feeling that this body against her feels unfamiliar and right. Slip of this is how it’s supposed to be.
She wriggles a little on the mattress, sticky wetness against her thigh, sheets wrapped up around thick legs. Hooks one leg around Dean’s as she feels Dean stir, breath hot against her chin and neck, slowly coming awake.
Dean lets out a groan as she stretches, roll of her wrists, fingers curling, and she moves to settle on top of Sam, fingertips on Sam’s chest.
“Morning,” Dean says, slow drawl, eyes half open and hair sticky, swept up into points. It feels weird to see her like that, almost wishing for Dean’s softer face and longer hair tickling Sam’s skin instead.
“Morning,” Sam responds, stares at the way Dean’s hand splays over the curve of her chest muscle, palm wide over her-no, not over her heart, just above it, right on the pentagram tattoo. Fingers a little pale against Sam’s skin, in the little light available, morning sunlight trying to filter in through the curtained windows. Dean stares at her hand and the tattoo intently. Sam begins to grow uncomfortable, feeling herself shift her weight, reconciling Dean being half on top of her.
Dean sucks in a breath and Sam braces for it, the abrupt line of how this isn’t going to work-she already knows what she could say, too, because all these feelings bottled up had her running lines on loop in her head. Including just why this attraction can’t work out.
“This is different,” Dean says.
“Huh?”
“The tattoo.” Dean looks up, wide green eyes and mussed hair, inquisitive, almost innocent. “It’s-It’s different from what I remember.”
“The placement-” Sam cuts off when Dean nearly jabs a knee in Sam’s crotch by accident, trying to move her weight for a better position.
Dean grimaces in apology before she says, “In-in my head, Sam. It’s different. Not just placement. Remember when we got it, and you were all fussy about that place, back in New Jersey-”
“It didn’t look sterile. You were the one crying,” Sam points out, getting an eye roll from Dean.
“Right near my boob, you freak, of course I was cryin’. But remember, how you sat off to the side and I’d been showing you the car, something wrong with the transmission, and you still had grease on your face. And I thought it was funny-I mean, I cracked up, I was laughing so hard. You talkin’ about sterilization and you were covered in grease. On your arms.”
She takes a shuddering breath and waits, because Sam feels a little cold at this memory drudged up.
Because it doesn’t exist-it never happened. She says that, and “You got the tattoo on your back, Dee. And we didn’t touch the car; we were close enough, we walked straight in.”
“We didn’t get these in New Jersey,” Dean says, brow furrowing. “Somewhere else. I’m-I don’t remember. Another state and town.”
Hand slaps, open-palmed and rough against Sam’s chest as Dean gets up and says, “These are right where I remember them being. Nothing on my back, nothing on your shoulder.”
She pulls on her discarded boxers, wrinkled and fitting snug, low on her hips, no amount of hassle or hesitation as standing there wearing only that and already pushing her mind back into the game, a defense mechanism Sam’s seen too many times to count. “Since all signs are pointing to demon and all things are telling us Paul’s involved we gotta find him. You up for a manhunt?”
There’s the wall coming up, clamping down any prying questions, like Dean doesn’t want to deal with the possibility that their memories are well and truly fucked over until they can try to fix things. She stands by the window and waits, shirtless, back casting a broad, dark shadow along the floor and on the bed they’ve shared.
Sam clears her throat and they do a truncated version of their usual morning routine. Shower, getting dressed, twenty minutes of silence before Sam’s back at the laptop again, both hands pushing her hair back off her face as she stretches.
Sometimes dumb luck is all that a Winchester can depend on. Sam’s gotten nothing, nothing, nothing until a recent credit card purchase comes through. “Oh, you’re kidding me.”
“What?”
“So when we broke into his office, I took a couple of his credit card bills.”
“Wow Sammy, you must’ve been really jealous to consider doing a little identity theft.”
“Yeah well, it’s always a good way of tracking down someone who like you said, stood out here. So, I just pulled up his card’s recent activity and it turns out he bought porn last night. At the Whitten Inn.”
“You telling me he’s been hiding in plain sight? And he was stupid enough to use his freakin’ credit card?”
“Dean, he went out with you. I think he’s ten flavors of stupid.”
“So… which porno was it? Probably not Casa Erotica IV since there’s not enough dick in it.” It’s a weak attempt, Dean trying to diffuse their silence, like she’s not in the mood to stew in anger for the morning.
“Yeah, what I’m thinking is how come he knows enough to hide out but he isn’t coming after us. What is he doing?”
Dean staring, thoughtful and then her lips twist ugly and she tilts her head almost in disbelief. “What happens if you want to warn someone but you know if you say anything, you’re fucked?”
“You can’t mean-”
“Like, he made the moves on me, ‘cause he’s a dick but he knew us, Sam. Knew us and we’ve been able to run around these past couple of days and there’s been nothing coming our way.”
“We’ve been distracting ourselves,” Sam says, wondering why an image comes up of smoke, a voice in the darkness, get them out of the way.
Sam shakes off an image of the Trickster’s trademark smirk coming to the forefront of her mind because without really having an explanation for it. Sam knows that it’s false, a wild goose chase that the Trickster had purposely put an end to, like it had known exactly what’s behind all of this. “This could be a trap.”
“Could be.” Dean looks at Sam, and says, voice sharp, “That ever stop us before?”
“Yeah. I know.”
Sam doesn’t know enough.
(A memory, distorted and blurred away, edges frail. There had been a man standing where the ghost-poor Becky hands outstretched, mouth moving wordlessly-had been released, a soft calm voice saying, almost grateful, now you’ve done it.)
“Sam? Sam?”
“I’m fine.”
“What the hell was that?”
“I don’t know. It wasn’t a vision. Not like before. It was-”
“Do you remember?”
Loaded question and Sam hates that she has to answer, “No. I don’t.”
“Fuck this. Let’s get some handcuffs, get as many goddamn anti-witchcraft charms in case Paul’s a big bad wolf in sheep’s clothing. Man, our tattoos better hold up in case the demon shows up and tries to bounce into one of us.”
Dean says it with such conviction that there’s a demon that it throws Sam off and all Sam says in response is, “It shouldn’t work any differently.”
“It shouldn’t have moved, Sam. But we don’t have time. Gotta pay a visit to Paul before his brain kicks in and he tries something smart for once, like skipping town.”
*
They have to break down the door. It’s not barricaded but it’s clear that Paul’s been living inside of it, stink of human fear, sweat, and a little urine too. Dean’s nostrils flail in disgust of the potent mix. There are markings, amateur, on the windowsill, thin spread of salt that one good draft of wind could break.
And there’s Paul, only the instant the door’s opened up and Sam and Dean have crossed the line, Paul’s shaking his head, terrified.
“What?”
Paul begins making croaking sounds and then starts coughing out little snakes and frogs. A plague. His eyes, bug out, terror twisting his face into a near mask. It’s all he can do in protest as his body starts jerking, no screams would match up to the silent scream Dean knows is raging in Paul’s head.
It doesn’t take long for Paul to die and then those arrogant crystalline baby-blues begin clouding over. And then, nothing.
“Fuck,” Dean says, ‘cause yeah, Paul might not have even realized, but he was the goddamn bait.
“Oh boys,” a female voice purrs, bathroom door opening and out stepping that woman from, oh shit, the realtor.
“Sally?” Sam says and she smiles wide and fuck, right against the wall they go.
“Sure. Let’s say that’s my name. Honestly, I thought you boys were better at hunting. At least you, Sam,” Sally says, addressing her directly, picking her way towards Sam, nearly skipping over Paul’s corpse. “I mean, so many demons have been whispering your name like God’s own curse. What is it that makes you so frightening?”
Sally studies Sam for a long time and Dean says, “Hey bitch, maybe it’s Sammy’s winning smile.”
The laugh Sally gives out is cold and barely human. “Hardly. No, perhaps I didn’t use enough force last time. But this time, boys? You won’t remember me or who you really are. And my, won’t that make things really interesting? While demons are hunting after you, especially that snotty little upstart, I’ll be able to build my power base and take over.”
“So what, you buy up a couple of souls to shore up your own private demon army?”
“No, I don’t work well with others. Humans, now you know Becky’s family picked her off as their sacrifice to me? Ah, actually you do, you figured that out before. I took that memory out of your heads. Among other things. But I think this time, the distortion will be permanent. Thanks to one last gift from Paul. For making contact with Dean, trying to warn him, oh,” she says, hand over her chest, “that was exactly what I needed.
“Now it’s time to put things where I tried to leave them. Broken.” Her hands rise up and the room gets unbearably hot.
It’s too much power, thick in the air, burning their skin acrid and hot. The force pinning them to the walls lets go and it’s almost like a loss of suction, both of them falling. Sam falls to her knees, trying to stay up but Dean’s already bent over, fingernails scratching into the grimy carpet. Time, it slivers and shards, painful pieces that have no meaning, the connections severed then flowing back, leaving them far worse for wear.
And just as Dean leans back up, the spell, twisting in Dean’s mind, eating at memories, fast and furious, a feverish pitch Dean can’t combat, things freeze, memories assaulting Dean, has her crying out.
Has him crying out.
Dean screamed. He screamed.
There was a demon. A demon that caught up with them when they’d caught up with Becky’s ghost. She hadn’t been following her normal course, screaming in the empty unfinished house. She’d taken them to a lone stretch of road and only said, “It’s come to get you.”
“What?” Dean had said, looking back at Sam, at his brother-oh fuck-at his brother and they’d gotten out of the car, had nothing on them but rock salt in their guns.
Sam spouted off Latin, memorized without need of a book, but there wasn’t enough time, the demon was too fast.
It said nothing. Just pushed hands, palms up towards Sam and Dean-
And they changed. The demon hissed sharply and all Dean knew was negative space. Being pushed back, away from Sam and then there was only the thick haze.
When it finally spoke, it was to some human lackey, someone who Dean could barely remember at that point, the demon saying, “This’ll get them out of the way.”
Dean had barely a moment left of consciousness but even then, his instincts screaming at how wrong this was as Dean slipped away, as the distortion worked its way through his body. The last glimpse he had was of Paul’s face staring back at him, sighing, “What a waste.”
“Yes, there’s many a stupid demon that thinks he’s so pretty. No surprise that a human would think the same.”
“Are you sure he won’t remember?”
“Neither of them will. Don’t get weak on me now.”
That was it, nothing more left to remember, Dean slipped into the darkness, into a dream that he wouldn’t wake from.
Until now.
*
The hair on the back of Sam’s neck stands on end-and it isn’t the wind or the temperature, it’s the pull of this place. It’s the magic that continues to build around them, this violent living thing full of unyielding malice.
They need to end this, come hell or high water, to make themselves right again. They might not have deserved the lives that they have, sure, but that doesn’t mean they need to continue living a lie. The spell is almost gone now; memories that aren’t real have nearly vanished as the aftershock of the demon’s magic cracks through them.
This wave of magic tried to kill them for good this time, but instead it removes a fake life, one that rolls away like a wisp of smoke.
Dean is pinned to the wall near him, body close and warm breath against Sam’s neck. Closeness that gives Sam support, in a way, a reminder of Dean being constantly with him, no matter the gender, no matter the sex. Even after the time loop, Dean close and wrapped up in Sam’s arms, he’d always tug on Sam’s heartstrings and owned Sam fully and completely. That’s how Sam knows that they have to survive this, there’s no question of that.
It didn’t take the Trickster sticking Sam into the time loop to put this need in Sam’s head. The need was always there, buried deep, and it took going through this demon’s aborted curse to figure it out. Naturally, it almost seems kind of fitting that it’s taken a gender mindfuck of his mind to lead to something like this, knowing completely and utterly that he wanted all of his brother, body, mind, and soul.
There’s a strobe light effect on the walls, blue white light that casts tall, gnarled shadows against the ceiling. A white flash goes off before it dissolves and settles into something cozy. And everything changes all around them. The demon’s specialty, distortion, unmaking reality as the demon sees fit.
Plush warm couches and red velvet curtains, thick carpets, the kind you’d like to roll around on and warm lights, sconces, now surround them. Even a fire roaring in a large marble hearth, the whole room shifting a little, like it’s a picture on the TV and the reception’s off, trying to hold on to something that isn’t there. If Sam focuses, he can see the walls and floors beneath this projection. How they twist back into reality, show the real surroundings, the crappy motel room.
The demon struggles to hold on like it’s wrangling an old movie reel threatening to burn out and snap in its projector.
The room seems to swell out around them, large and cavernous, dark shades of color, fabric, paint, bringing out more than shadows.
In the middle of the chaos, the only fixed point is the demon. The plain pantsuit and small, delicate frame housing the demon doesn’t make Sam think any less of its power; far from it.
As the room changes one more time, things shudder and the demon’s knees buckle, as though unable to ride out the flare of its power. The hold on Sam and Dean dissolves, things are far from righted but it’s an opening.
Dean doesn’t waste time in talking, in saying something snappy; he’s already stepping forward, Sam almost too stunned to say, wait, grabbing at his sleeve and arm.
The glare Dean sends him is damn near murderous, face red, livid. “Don’t you want to end this?”
Depends on the ending, Sam would respond, only he says, low and tired, “Wait.”
“I’ve been waiting too long,” the demon says, cold touch of its voice sending shivers down Sam’s spine, grateful he’s not standing too close. He doesn’t want to show the way he’s swallowing down the lump in his throat, tinge of fear threatening to rise up on the surface.
Keeps his eyes trained on this thing, cant of its head, sharp, scrutinizing, dead black eyes with an air of detachment.
It’s rebuilding its power source. They’re too late.
The background shifts behind them, trendy furniture melding and twisting into old wood-a Victrola, creakily twisting out an old, warbling tune. Metal glints and flows into the burnished gold of a record player out of the sixties, flower covered throw that blooming out of nowhere, whole room done in kitschy oranges and greens.
Time’s bending around them, and still, the plain white walls and wooden floors of the present, here and now, shift beneath their feet.
A muscle twitches in the demon’s cheek as it takes a shuddering breath.
Sam wonders if that might be a sign that the demon’s losing control of this terrible power, the constant output putting too much a strain on the demon’s essence if Sam can call it that. Maybe not just from throwing out magic helter skelter because the demon howls then, screaming, “Why are you holding on? This isn’t possible.”
Next time they see Bela, Sam thinks he might make an exception and let her have it. The Colt’s absence is too much and they’re weaponless.
But that doesn’t stop Dean.
Dean moves forward to shoot, sharp crack of bullets as they bounce off the demon and fall limply to the ground. The demon’s hand curls into a claw that turns in the air, wall of force that slams into Sam.
He falls back against a wall, hard, the surface of the wall shimmering into different textures, paneling. Reality twists all around them in bright bursts.
Dean moves to shoot again but his body freezes up, stuck in an awkward fighting stance, almost resembling an action figure as the demon twitches its fingers, tugs at invisible strings, visibly slumping with the effort of all this magic in play.
“I will find it,” the demon snaps. “And then, then I’ll be free of Winchesters meddling in my affairs.”
The wind, or air, or something runs fingers down Sam’s cheeks and neck, indentations shaped by air, smoothing out under his jacket with a push. It opens, giving way to the outer shirt, the t-shirt, invisible fingers scraping, clawing their way in as the demon leans down and watches.
Flesh tears, tiny furrows of blood trickle as it frees him of clothing, searing pain as he can hear Dean trying to scream out, tell her to leave Sam alone-
Then it stops; ripped shirt taut against heaving flesh that showing the tattoo there, brand of black against his heart.
“This,” the demon scowls, voice rough and raw, scrape of metal that rings hard in Sam’s ears. “This is what complicated things. Tattoos that bind and reconfigure my magic. Interfered with it. Amazing how little you children know, and yet you stumble on something that can fuck with what should be so simple.”
Then the demon’s ramrod straight, curling a finger to make Dean slide forward, floor shimmering like a disco under them all.
The demon stands right in front of Sam, nearly spitting in rage. “Tattooed protection against demons. Oh, these can protect you from more than possession. I couldn’t change you both into different beings-send you away forever. I thought I had done so instead it changed only your genders, didn’t it? Some of your memories. But this isn’t going to stop me. You knew enough but not enough to get the tattoos right. And now I think I’ll erase you from time permanently.”
Sam looks over at Dean, unsure, but his jaw clenches, nods a little. They need to end this. The magic flares up, surroundings appearing to jump and shifts around them, the demon winding up for the final blow. And it releases them again, the better to concentrate on the unmaking of them, for all of time.
The only moment they have, the demon dropping all its defenses and barriers. One moment.
Dean nods, no words exchanged, no words to say.
The room shifts again, magic ebbing as the hold on them slips for that brief moment, Sam head butting the demon.
The demon staggers back in pain as Dean moves forward to bash it with the butt of his gun, then throwing his weight on the demon as Sam starts chanting the exorcism ritual.
It’s a last ditch effort that might have them sooner dead then fixed up, but the words seem to be working their way through the demon’s flesh and bones, the way the demon starts to writhe, trying to buck Dean off.
Dean turns his head to Sam, nothing spoken, nothing more than a quick nod, a finish this, unnecessary because there’s no way Sam’s going to stop and Sam ends it, last word barely heard over the sound of the demon screaming.
Whirls of dark, black smoke uncoil out of the demon’s mouth, huge plume that bursts into light and flames against the ceiling, a body crumpling to the ground.
The air settles and the room does. Like a breath of air that escapes the demon’s body, the leftover magic shimmers in the air, spreading out from the demon and sending shockwaves that hit Sam and Dean’s bodies.
The room doesn’t go to black, it goes white, split second of heat, as Sam staggers, almost falling if it wasn’t for Dean holding onto him, palm cupping his cheek.
“Oh. Oh, God.”
Dean nods grimly. “Yeah. It was Earth all along. You remember being a guy now?”
His brother, his brother, with that concerned look on his face, the one he remembers from their real life. All of it back to normal. Back to how they were before all of this, male, always been male, never girls and never like-
They’ve always been Winchesters.
Dean proves this point when he says, slow grin, “Dude. As a chick? You’re totally a lesbian.”
Sam steps closer, awkward gait more out of grumpiness than being unused to his body. “Shut up.”
Since Dean has no plans to stop talking, Sam grabs Dean but Dean’s still talking, as though Dean has no plan but to talk, to ignore the surroundings for just one moment. The ruined motel room with two corpses that Sam doesn’t want to think about, so he pulls Dean out of the room, and as Dean continues to talk, Sam mutters, “You’re impossible.”
“I am not-”
He does shut up when Sam’s mouth crashes against his, body pressing close. It’s not like it isn’t weird anymore, feeling Dean’s crotch against his own, rubbing, hard and obvious. A new kind of weird, one Sam can deal with for as long as possible.
Sam breaks away, mouth brushing Dean’s chin. Looking at Dean’s face, touching his cheekbones, hair, knowing that none of this is out of the ordinary. That this is the way they’re supposed to be and always have been, male.
“You’re kind of gay,” Sam murmurs, lower lip jutting out. Dean stares at his lip and sucks on it a little, getting a moan in response.
“For you. It’s always been you.”
“I know that.”
“God, you’re fucking smug.” Dean runs his finger along Sam’s bottom lip, chuckling when Sam pulls it in his mouth, biting down. “You know what I wanna do?”
“Get out of Texas?”
“Fuck yeah.”
*
The spring wind blows in with a trail of deaths and black wisps of smoke. If Dean gets any headaches lately, they’ve got nothing to do with the aftermath of spells-it’s trying to figure out a way out of the deal. Thing is, Dean knows Sam’s trying hard, and that’s fine-but Dean isn’t sure that he’s prepared to finally have Sam for so short a time before Dean’s swallowed up by Hell. Time away from war and heartache seems like a distant memory, as they get back into the swing of things. They fight and argue like always, only it’s between the small moments where they press against each other’s lips and flesh. Fingers that spread out, wide, over the tattoos, that little symbol of protection.
The tattoos were fixed right before they left Texas at this little tattoo parlor where they negotiated prices with the tattoo artist who didn’t speak a lick of English. The original tattoos had saved them but they were flawed and the alteration, a swirl of flames now around their tattoos, is what keeps them safe now. Sam had gotten the corrected symbol from Bobby and that had been a hell of a call, finding out that Bobby had changed service providers and left both of them a message that must’ve gotten torched when the demon started fucking around with their bodies and memories.
There’s a whole other level to their relationship now, one that fits but isn’t without its problems.
A relationship that Dean doesn’t want to talk about, knows Sam does, trying to get out a sentence or two from Dean about it. Any talk always has ‘the deal’ hovering over the conversation as time winds down.
After their botched ‘Grand Canyon’-meeting up with the Ghostfacers team and dealing with their whole bundle of inexperienced crazy-Dean states they should check out the beach, all spur of the moment as he turns the steering wheel, slowly, Sam staying quiet.
The boardwalk is all bright colors and consumerism, people wandering around with cotton candy. Dean pulls over at a hot dog stand near the parking lot, sandy beach shimmering a few dozen yards as Dean’s stomach rumbles a complaint.
They don’t have swimming trunks or anything-day at the beach isn’t their normal kinda thing, heh, now that’s funny-but it’s calming, sitting on the Impala’s hood, eating hot dogs and drinking beers.
“You want to talk,” Dean says, takes a long pull from his beer bottle. “Get it off your chest.”
Sam swallows, eyes narrowing in the sunlight, brightness of the parking lot railings and the glittering beach and ocean not far off. “The deal-”
“Not about the deal. About us.” Dean swings the bottle back and forth a little, small little arc between his knees as he sits on the Impala’s hood. “Being girls. You get this weird look on your face when you’re thinking about it.”
“Are you okay?” Sam ventures, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I’m good. Good as I can be. Dreaming sometimes about livin’ a life that didn’t happen. Your memories gone?”
“All the girl ones,” Sam responds. “Well, kind of. It feels weird.”
“Gotta say it wasn’t that bad.”
“You had some awful taste when, I mean-If you were a girl.”
“I got you, didn’t I?”
Sam’s mouth twitches, looks like he’s trying to push down a grin. A long moment of quiet passes before Sam turns serious, asking, “Do you think it would’ve helped with breaking the deal-that you weren’t yourself?”
Dean doesn’t answer for a moment. His head dips. “No.”
And that’s the end of it. Dwelling on the past won’t work, not when they’ve got so little time left.
Dean focuses on the here and now, minutes melting into hours, the night fast approaching.
He focuses on the hitch in Sam’s breath as Sam falls on the bed next to him, turns on his side and stretches out, displacement of air that feels cold on Dean’s bare chest. Dean shifts his weight to lean back and take a pull from the bottle of beer on the nightstand, low buzz of the television on in the background, football.
Sam stares at the TV, amused, brow furrowing as Dean runs a hand, slow, on Sam’s waist, wrist brushing the dark trail of hair leading into his boxers.
Dean gives a little tug, and Sam laughs.
“Roll on your back, Dean.”
“What?”
“Dude. I think you know why.”
Dean punches him in the shoulder, not too hard, pointing as he laughs, “Shut up,” but turns anyway, forearms braced against the mattress, and this, this is okay.
This can work.
end