New fic.
In the grand tradition of birthday mathoms:
Supernatural: Turn It Over And (Sam/Dean, NC-17.)
With thanks to Imogen, Kassie, and Pet -- who each made this better -- and everyone who encouraged the crack along the way.
I bet a gen bodyswitching story would be AWESOME. This, however, is not that story.
Turn It Over And
The first thing that Dean noticed, when he woke up, was the twinge in his knee. Which was weird, considering that Sam was the one who always fucked up his knees (and ankles, and hips, on account of having legs that went up to his armpits). It was especially weird since the fight last night had been no different: Sam had tweaked his knee, Dean remembered, and he'd dislocated his elbow for what felt like the twentieth time. He knew he had, because Sam had been a wuss about shoving it back into place for him, but he'd also given Dean their one legitimate icepack and kept the ziploc makeshift for himself.
The second thing he noticed, when he sat up, was the curtain of hair that fell into his eyelashes. The sensation wasn't new but a very distant memory of a time of grunge music and flannel shirts, a time that Sam had obviously forgotten if he thought that Dean had always obeyed their dad's orders. Dad hadn't liked the haircut on Dean then any more than he would like it on Sam now, but he'd been the one to teach Dean about choosing his battles. And Dean had cut it off after just a few months when he realized it screwed up his aim anyway.
The third thing he noticed was the way he swung his legs around to stand up and his feet hit the ground before he expected them to -- jamming his heels into the dingy motel carpet, sending a shooting pain through his sore knee, and making him yearn for the familiar ache in his bum elbow for the first time in his life.
Then he glanced over to the other bed.
"Huh."
---
They were in each other's boxers -- or their own, depending how you looked at it -- since Sam had gone straight for his own duffel after Dean had woken him up and clued Sam in about the whole...whatever this was. Dean hadn't bothered to point out that wearing each other's underwear was a little gross, and was more preoccupied with deciding whether he could get away with going commando when they actually got dressed. Granted, it was Sam's ass and Sam's jeans, but it still felt rude. But was it more or less rude than wearing his own underwear in Sam's jeans? That was the question, and the whole thing was starting to make Dean's head hurt. They still hadn't come up with any plausible explanations for how it happened. It seemed beyond the capabilities of any demon they'd heard of, of the demon they thought they'd been hunting the night before.
He stood behind his brother in front of the tiny bathroom mirror. It was the first time he'd done that since he was twenty and Sam had gained that fateful half-inch. Dean had resigned himself to expect it ever since Sam had started outgrowing Dean's hand-me-downs younger, but he still hated being the shorter one.
"If you stand up and get me in the chin," he said, pulling Sam's toothbrush out of his mouth, "I'll kick your ass."
Sam held his jaw fixed, taut, and brushed the razor awkwardly across his skin. He'd already nicked himself twice, unfamiliar with the planes of his brother's face, the texture of his beard.
"And if you spit on my head, I'll shoot you. Fuck!" Another spot of blood blossomed on his cheek, and Dean smirked.
"Dude. I told you to shave down."
"I haven't had to do that since I was fifteen," groused Sam. "You and your goddamn baby-soft skin."
---
After they'd gotten cleaned up and dressed -- once Dean had finally decided against going commando because Sam's pants were all so fucking baggy it didn't feel right, and Sam had cleaned all the little bloody pieces of tissue off of his face -- they made their way to the diner next door for breakfast. They sat across from each other in a booth and stared at each other so intently that Dean was pretty sure that anyone who noticed them come in would think they were having a lovers' spat. Friends and brothers didn't fixate like that, and Sam's expression left no doubt that all was not right in their world: all set jaw and blurry eyes and Jesus, Dean knew that Sam had no idea what a comb was when he was in his own body but he could have made a little effort with the hair. Dean needed coffee.
Judging by the long hair and long legs that stopped at their table, the patron saint of blessing weary hunters with hot breakfast waitresses was looking out for him this morning, even if nobody else was. His brother and their predicament were all but forgotten as he leaned back against the vinyl, toyed with his menu, and gave the girl a smile with the dimples he'd just figured out how to use when Sam was in the shower.
"Boys, I'm Deena," she drawled, pulling out her order pad, and how she'd managed to fit it in the skirt she was wearing had to be a supernatural phenomenon of its own. "What can I get you today?"
"Deena; nice name," Dean chuckled to himself. "How about some coffee to start, sweetheart. And I'll have the scrambled eggs, side of bacon, and biscuits." He was slipping the menu back behind the napkin holder when Sam cleared his throat. Dean pulled his eyes away from the waitress long enough to see him staring at Dean disapprovingly. And expectantly. "What?"
"Are you sure that's what you want to order?" Sam said tightly.
"Uh, yeah?"
Sam's eyes narrowed, and Dean would have been pleased to note that he looked just as threatening as he'd always hoped when he did that. If it wasn't currently keeping him from his breakfast. "I thought you weren't eating pork. Sam."
"Well, Dean," he snapped, grabbing the other menu out of Sam's hands. Fucking ... his hair wouldn't stay out of his face, his clothes didn't fit, he'd bumped his forehead into the doorframe of the bathroom twice, and now he couldn't even eat the breakfast he wanted in peace. "What do you think I should order?"
"Uh, I can come back in a minute," the waitress offered.
"No, no," said Dean. "No. I suppose I want the eggs, maybe an egg white omelet? With a side of fruit? And how about some delicious toast. Yummy whole wheat toast."
"I'll have the yogurt," Sam added before Deena ran far, far away from the creeps in her end booth. "Thanks, Dean."
"Whatever," Dean muttered. He'd get back at him when they got their coffee and Sam learned that the reason Dean drank it black was because he was lactose intolerant.
---
After that wholly unsatisfying meal, they got in the car to head back to the scene of the fight the night before. Even that wasn't without incident: as Dean slid into the driver's seat he banged his knees into the steering wheel. It made him feel a little bad about the charley horse he'd given Sam the last time he bitched about Dean not sliding the seat back. But mostly it made him feel like screaming.
---
"What are we looking for, again?" Dean asked, even though he'd been the one to suggest the drive out to the shallow ravine, under the railroad tracks. It was just a prompt to start bouncing ideas off each other, or at least to get Sam talking -- Sam, who hadn't been this withdrawn and reticent and, well, pissy, since the first few months after Jessica had died.
Sam snorted as he knelt near the foot of the bridge, examining the scarred ground where they'd burned the demon to ash, running his hand over the grooves in the mud where Dean had been thrown. "Your guess is as good as mine. This -- I'm not even sure where to start. Do you remember anything out of the ordinary?"
"You mean, besides the big nasty demon?"
"Yeah, aside from that." Sam stood up and turned slowly in a circle. "I mean, do you remember anything unexpected happening, feeling anything different. Anything that might explain how we switched bodies. Or minds, or whatever."
Dean didn't remember shit, and he could tell that Sam didn't, either. It had been nothing but routine, and neither of them had noticed anything until they'd woken up that morning. He didn't remember touching Sam any more or less, during the fight or in the aftermath, and he certainly didn't remember wishing he had something of his brother's, or done something like his brother. Envy had never been a luxury that Dean Winchester allowed himself, with anyone.
"Even if it was some kind of telecoercion, you know, mind-jumping or mind control, it's much more likely it would only go one way," Sam continued, almost to himself. "It's not that far out to think that I could be controlling your mind, even while I was still conscious, but I would have to want to be doing it, and it doesn't explain how you'd be doing me at the same time."
"Why you gotta be the one with the superpowers all the time, man?"
"Seriously, Dean, have you ever heard of something like this?"
"Only on Buffy," Dean shrugged. "But the switch happened right away, and there were these stones involved. I didn't touch any stones last night. Did you touch any stones, Sam?"
Sam stared at him. "Okay, do you care at all about fixing this? About getting back to normal? Because I know you got the better end of the deal, here-"
"Hey!"
"- but I'm sick and fucking tired already of the way my knife doesn't fit in your hand and my gun doesn't fit down the back of your jeans and the fact that you own three fucking pairs of black boots but only one pair of sneakers and those are already soaked and it's only lunchtime."
"Beauty is pain," Dean explained, not at all willing to give into Sam's hissyfit. Visiting the site and finding no clues had confirmed one thing for him: they'd switched while they slept, so it looked like that would be how they switched back. It wasn't under their control; until they learned differently, they had to assume the world would right itself sooner rather than later. Probably sooner if they'd just relax. "At least the boots are broken in."
He dodged Sam's swing and stayed just out of his reach as he was chased all the way back to the car. Even with the sore knee.
He filled his brother in on his suspicions on the drive back to the motel. Sam didn't have much in the way of protest. He spent a lot of the trip with the passenger side visor down, and his eyes kept flicking to the vanity mirror. Not that Dean could harass him too much, since he had the Impala's rearview tilted down a little more than necessary so he could see himself too.
---
Sam spent the afternoon distractedly surfing the internet while Dean took care of laundry. There was a coin-operated washer and dryer next to their room and Dean got the load of underwear and socks started. Rather than go back to the room and deal with Sam's attitude, doubtless getting worse as his searches garnered nothing that addressed their situation, he stretched out by the tiny pool in the courtyard. He catnapped, and did some pushups, and watched their neighbor swimming in a bikini, and learned what it felt like to be tired, hungry, and horny in a new body.
When he finally made his way back inside the motel room, he'd made up his mind -- he knew he had to go to sleep that night if they were ever going to switch back, but he was scared shitless of going to sleep if there was any chance that he was going to get stuck with Sam's nightmares while he was in his body.
As far as Dean was concerned, there was a pretty easy solution to that dilemma, and that involved drinking until he passed out. "C'mon," he said, smacking Sam's socked foot as he passed by on the way to the shower. "We're going out."
---
Dean's shower that morning had been functional, quick; in-and-out because he needed coffee and some answers to what had happened to them, in that order, and didn't have time for anything else. This time, he knew answers weren't coming, and he had nothing that needed doing beyond closing down a bar.
So he folded Sam's trackpants and tee shirt and left them on the sink, banged his head on the curtain rod loud and hard enough that he could hear Sam chuckle in the other room, and turned on the water. Cooler than he usually liked it, and whether that was a function of this body's preference or a nod to his earlier exertion, Dean had no idea.
It didn't seem to bother his cock, he noted resignedly. Half-hard since their neighbor had asked him to re-tie her top, and there was nothing for it: he took it in his palm. His blush was spreading across his neck before he even got a good grip, and he hit his fucking head again, this time on the showerhead, because Christ Jesus how did his brother walk around with a dick that sensitive?
He didn't let go, though, just stroked himself slowly, and paid more attention to the way his hands looked absolutely huge when one twisted over the head, when the other was spread low over his stomach and dark trail of hair.
---
When he finally pushed the curtain back, Sam was slouching against the sink and staring at him suspiciously. "Nice shower?"
"What," he said, grabbing the towel and wrapping it around his waist more quickly than he'd ever done around his brother, avoiding his eyes. Sam snorted.
"It's my dick," he pointed out, like Dean wasn't perfectly aware of that fact. He just didn't know whether that meant that it was even dumber than normal to be modest, or if it meant hands off.
---
By the time Sam got out of the bathroom, Dean was waiting on his bed with the remote in hand. "Ready?"
"I'm ready," Sam said, staring at him. "You're not dressed."
Dean looked down at the fitted grey thermal he had on which, okay, Sam usually wore as an undershirt layered with another shirt, a hoodie, and at least two jackets, but it was perfectly acceptable on its own. "What's wrong with this?" he asked.
"It's a little...tight," Sam pointed out, grabbing one of his own sweatshirts and zipping it up.
Dean smirked. "I know." He looked good, too: he'd known what his brother's body looked like, and in fewer clothes than this, even before he'd turned into him. But it was still a revelation to look at himself in the mirror after his shower and see what it looked like in cotton that fit nicely over leaner, longer muscles. "If I had forty bucks to spare you'd be in a new pair of Levi's so quick- "
"And you didn't shave," added Sam.
"I know," Dean repeated. That was intentional too. Sometimes -- not often, but sometimes -- they'd be in the car for forty-eight hours straight, or the motel wouldn't have a drop of hot water, or Sam would have been up three-quarters of the night with nightmares, and he wouldn't shave. It bothered his brother, itched, but it didn't bother Dean, who privately thought that a little bit of stubble was a good look on him. And he wanted to look good. Because he had no doubt in his mind that he could use Sam's body better than Sam could use his, and he planned to do just that.
---
Two brothers walk into a bar, Dean thought, idly: a college bar in a college town, with college music that he vaguely recognized from the few motels that had cable and thus MTV, and the few tapes that Becky had made for Sam before they left St. Louis. A college bar full of college boys with sandals and polo shirts with popped collars and hair just like Sam's, and college girls wearing brightly-colored tops held together with thin ties that left their backs almost bare.
He was taller than practically anyone in the room, and his shoulders seemed to want to hunch in on themselves, some kind of reflex that Dean refused to indulge. He stood up even straighter, and rolled his eyes when he caught Sam scowling at him.
"You know," he said, "I've been told I got a nice smile. You should try it." Sam just frowned harder, and pushed his way up to two empty barstools. "Or, y'know, don't. Shots?"
Sam sighed and reached up to rub the back of his neck, Dean's ring reflecting the neon of the Corona sign. "How about a pitcher," he replied, a compromise for someone who'd cut himself off after two bottles of light beer ever since Dean had known him. He caught the eye of one of the bartenders who took the order with enough interest that Dean wondered if the brooding, sad-sack routine looked better on him than he thought it did.
At least until she glanced over to see who Sam was with and Dean grinned, automatic. She blinked. "Wow. Haven't seen y'all in here before."
Dean leaned closer, squeezing between his brother and his own barstool, unfolding himself along the rail and all set with a line about just calling them virgins when he stopped short. That wasn't his style. Or rather, it was his style, but it was his style, not Sam's, and he was overcome in that moment with curiosity about how it felt to flirt the way Sam did.
He knew what worked for him, he'd perfected what worked for him. What worked for him got girls leaning over and propping their breasts up with their arms, showing off the tats on their lower backs, leaving their boyfriends to meet him in the bathroom. He wondered if he could get them to coo at him instead, to take one look at the puppydog eyes and buy him a drink, to trust him to put them in a cab without trying anything more than a kiss on the cheek.
---
Half an hour later and he pretty much could get them all to do it. It just didn't turn out to be as much fun.
---
So it was back to plan A, where plan A involved more drinks -- although not too many more, Jesus; only Sam would go to college and not build up any sort of tolerance -- and, because getting off always helped Dean sleep, finding someone to take back to the motel. Or worst case scenario: finding someone to take back to his car, if Sam was going to be his typical cock-blocking self and give him shit about it.
Not that Dean had any patience for Sam at the moment, since his dick was driving this. Dean had taken to calling it Sam's dick as a coping strategy. Sam's dick was insatiable even after jerking off in the shower, which Dean figured was what happened if you lived like a monk. Sam's dick was, he had to admit, a little more than he was used to, and that coupled with the extra sensitivity meant a lot of surreptitious re-adjusting. Sam's dick had been just as interested in the guy in the corner who had been checking Dean out as it had been in the girls, which was interesting if not all that surprising.
"Oh, he's your brother, really?" his current candidate -- Mandy? Mary? -- was saying, dangling an empty longneck from her fingers and throwing her shoulders back. "I was just talking to him. Y'all are nothin' alike, are you."
"Well, I got the brains in the family; he got the looks," said Dean, leaning closer. If she was going to stand like that, she obviously wanted him to look.
"You sure about that?" she teased, and shifted her hips forward when he slid a finger into the belt loop on her jeans. "He seemed pretty smart to me, too. And sweet. You got something else he doesn't, little brother?"
It was all blatant invitation, bless sorority girls, and Dean was about to suggest that he could show her exactly what he had when her eyes refocused on something over his shoulder and a heavy hand came down on his elbow.
"Hey, Maggie, you mind excusing us for a second?"
Dean had time for one apologetic glance before Sam practically pulled his arm out of its socket tugging him closer to the door. "Dude, what," he hissed, trying to keep one eye on Maggie and hoping that Sam would make this quick. "You ready to leave? Go ahead."
"I think you should leave her alone," Sam said.
That got Dean's full attention, and he faced his brother. "What? Why?" And Sam didn't respond right away, but his face -- a little guilty, a little embarrassed -- told Dean all he thought he needed to know, and he smirked. "Forget it, man. She told me she talked to you, you already had your chance. Tough shit. Maybe she's got a friend."
"That's not- God," complained Sam, tugging on Dean's arm again. "I don't care about the girls. I just don't want you doing that."
"Doing what? What did you think was going to happen here tonight, Sam?" His brother knew him too well to honestly think they were just there for the booze.
"Doing that, doing her, doing anybody!" Sam cried. His eyes were huge and bright and that was weird, and his face was flushed. He had Dean backed up against the wall before Dean remembered that he was actually taller, now, and he could try that looming thing.
"What the fuck, Sam," he said. "Are you serious? You're going to make me leave here alone because, what, you don't want me doing something in your body? I've got condoms, man. I won't do anything kinky." He twisted his shoulders in on Sam, trapped him with a hand against the wall by Sam's head -- the same way he'd used his own body on shorter people hundreds of times before.
Sam swallowed and didn't look any less desperate. He didn't look any less resolved, either.
"Well. Great." Dean took a step back and slouched against the wall, rubbing his forehead and tugging at his stupid bangs. "Look, Sam; we don't know how long we're gonna be stuck like this, and your whole celibate thing? Isn't gonna work for me. So we might as well work this out right now."
"I'm not letting you take her back to the motel," Sam insisted, and then added "or the car," before Dean could interject.
"Is it the girl thing?" Dean was grasping at straws. "Something to do with Jessica? 'Cause I saw this guy, and I can work with that- "
If his getting laid wasn't at stake here, he would have laughed at Sam's look of horror. "What? No!"
Dean rolled his eyes. "Well, I don't see another option here, unless you're offering, man."
And he looked up just in time to see Sam's eyes flash before he could look down, and god. God. Dean started to laugh. Apparently there was no limit to his brother's self-involvement.
"You're kidding me. You have GOT to be kidding me. Nice ego, dude."
"What?" And Sam's face was white instead of flushed, but he still looked completely busted.
"What do you mean, 'what.' You. Being the worst cockblock since Dad, just because you're so hot for yourself that you're willing to fuck your brother. That is seriously fucked up, man."
"God, shut up," Sam moaned, but Dean was already pulling him out the door.
---
Dean didn't actually know why Sam was doing this, let alone why Dean was going along with it. He couldn't imagine that Sam was that desperate, but he certainly hadn't said no, and had even told Dean just to drive faster when he tried to give him an out. And so there they were: Sam was shrugging out of his leather jacket and Dean was turning on the bedside lamp.
"Don't," Sam murmured, and Dean pulled off his shirt and threw it at his brother's head.
"Screw you. This is what you want to see, isn't it?" He gestured at his body, at Sam's body.
And Sam was across the room in a flash, using Dean's quickness, and Dean wasn't used to that, still wasn't used to looking down at Sam, wasn't used to looking into his own face when Sam ground out "stop saying that" -- all Sam's earnestness in Dean's giving-orders voice -- and it was a combination that went straight to Dean's dick.
"Jesus, Sam, okay," Dean said, stepping back so he could get his hands up between them. "Are we doing this without speaking?" Which tempered his enthusiasm, just a bit, because a little dirty talk was pretty close to Dean's bulletproof kink.
Not, he realized, that he was going to need any more kink: he was pretty fucking turned on already, a little because he figured this had the potential to be some pretty incredible sex since nobody knew his body better than he did. And a lot because of the intense way that Sam was looking at him that hinted that he'd only scratched the surface of the reason they were here like this. If he hadn't missed it entirely.
"I just don't want you to bait me," Sam growled, and shoved Dean down onto the bed. And Dean could work with that, but instead of following him down and crawling on top of him, Sam just stood there and looked surprised that Dean had given in so easily.
Dean sighed, and hooked one of his crazy-long legs around Sam's knee, and that worked, that got Sam halfway on him and halfway on the mattress. Either way, it was close enough for Dean to flip him and push him into the pillows, and Sam's eyes gleamed.
"Are we doing this without kissing?" Sam parroted.
"Shut up," Dean said, pressing him down harder, holding him there, relishing in his longer reach. If Sam wanted a kiss he could try to do something about it. Dean was busy.
He got one hand on the crook of his body's good elbow and pushed it over Sam's head, holding it there long enough to indicate it should stay before smoothing his palm down over bicep and downy underarm and following with his tongue.
Sam practically bucked him off the bed. "What the fuck was that?"
"Don't pretend you don't like it," Dean mumbled. He knew where his spots were. He licked at him again and started working on Sam's pants.
He wasn't getting any cooperation from Sam, though; at least not the right kind. Sam scratched at his back almost hard enough to bleed and Dean yelped and sat up, twisting around to try and get a look at his shoulder. "Dude, that fucking hurt, I'm not into that." And then Sam just squirmed and twisted beneath him, and it took him knocking Dean off the bed twice before Dean finally got it, got what Sam wanted.
"So much for not being bossed around, huh, Sammy?" and oh, yeah, Dean could work with this, could work with this body's size and height and weight to give Sam what he was obviously gagging for.
"Shut UP, Dean," Sam gritted out, but his eyes rolled back in his head when Dean grabbed a handful of his hair and shoved him back onto the pillow, when he rested nearly all his weight onto the knee pinning Sam's thigh.
"Oh, yeah, you like that," Dean told him, squeezing his arms harder than he ever would have liked whenever Sam tried to get free. "Like it rough, huh? Have any luck finding someone who can do this to you?"
He teased him until Sam opened his eyes and said "seriously, Dean, shut up, I don't need to hear the color commentary," so Dean maneuvered until he was face-to-face with his cock, with his lovely, familiar cock. He liked his cock. He missed his cock. His cock looked damn excited that it was about to be blown with every bit of knowledge that Dean had learned about it since puberty.
He pinned Sam down again and took it in his mouth, all at once, one stroke; smooth because Dean was serious about holding Sam still. He wasn't the least bit interested in having his hair pulled or his ears grabbed, either, and Sam was going to be fucking sorry if he tried it. Dean was figuring out that his body, Sam's body, was reacting to things differently than his own, and Dean could work with that. But the need to be manhandled was all in Sam's head, apparently, and didn't come as a gift-with-purchase with the switch.
He pushed Sam's thighs farther apart and did it again; pushed one of his knees up, and again. Pulled off just long enough to suck his fingers into his mouth and listen to Sam say "oh, my God" before he dove back in. He pressed his fingers inside, both at once, and he knew his body could take it, but somehow Sam must have known it could too because he didn't hesitate, didn't protest, just opened around them as sounds failed him, failed him until he managed one strangled "Dean" and came in Dean's mouth.
Dean waited with a little more patience than he usually would for Sam to come down, or at least look alive. He ran his hand over Sam's flank and slowly rubbed his erection against the long muscle of Sam's hamstring. When Sam blinked his eyes open, Dean half-expected Sam to ask him what he wanted. The other half of him wasn't at all surprised to find himself rolled over and practically smothered into the blankets.
"Dude," he said, spitting the corner of the pillowcase out of his mouth and taking a breath. "I'm not sure-"
"Yes," Sam argued from somewhere near the small of his back, and Dean could've tried to turn back over but despite what had happened earlier Dean always won when they sparred, unless he was playing to lose, and Dean wasn't at all sure that he would manage it in Sam's body unless Sam planned on letting him.
And then there was hot hot heat and wet heat and, sure, Dean really liked having fingers up his ass, but that was tongue, and he yelped, "hey, whoa, I'm really not sure-" until, damn, he was sure. Sam got him practically begging.
Or at least protesting when he tried to roll him over onto his back again, not wanting to go, not wanting Sam to stop.
"Idiot, I'm not stopping," Sam huffed, and finally grabbed Dean's leg and twisted it so he had to go or risk breaking his hip. As soon as he did, Sam's mouth was back between his legs, his spread legs, with broad freckled shoulders forcing him open so Sam could get deeper until even that wasn't enough and all it took was a finger beside his tongue and then just the finger, when Sam sat up and gripped his cock hard with his other hand.
Dean came silently -- all over Sam's neck and throat -- and Sam just raised his eyebrow. "Fucking pornstar," he complained, and Dean cracked up.
---
"Dude," Dean said, frustratingly wide awake where he'd be passed out if he were in his own body. "Dude, you had your tongue in my ass."
"Yeah, and you liked it, so shut up." Sam was curled around a pillow on the other side of the bed, unfairly reaping the benefits of his body's ability to completely shut down seconds after orgasm.
"You mean you liked it," Dean smirked, recalling vividly how his brain was all what the fuck while his body was all fuck yeah. "Nice kink you got there, Sammy."
Sam grunted. "The guy who can come from nothing more than having fingers up his ass is gonna give me shit about this? Shut up."
"What? No I can't," Dean protested.
He could, actually, but there was no way Sam would know that. Should know that. Except: he had left Sam alone for a while that afternoon, and Dean knew exactly what he'd done in the shower earlier himself. And then he couldn't not think about it, wondering what Sam had been up to now that Dean was sure he'd done something. Wondering what it had looked like. It wasn't as if Dean sat around watching himself jack off -- not usually -- but it was different, picturing it as Sam. Sam doing it on purpose, experimenting, like his brother's body was something he needed to figure out.
"Still. Dude. C'mon. Your tongue. In my ass."
"Actually, technically, it was your tongue in my ass, and if you shut the hell up and let me nap for ten minutes, I'll do it again."
---
Dean woke up in the morning because of the sunlight through the shades they'd neglected to close with his cock nestled against Sam's thigh and Sam's hand reaching back to tug him closer. They hadn't changed back, but Dean could worry about that later, and he just went with it.
---
And then they were stuck with nothing to do and nothing to hunt and nothing to plan on hunting because they had no idea how long it would take for them to change back. They were agreed on two things: first, that they couldn't risk leaving town in case it was some sort of astrological and geographical coincidence like that X-Files episode with the planetary alignment and the geological vortex creating a cosmic g-spot, if a cosmic g-spot was going to be in fucking North Carolina. And second, that they weren't in any hurry to call their dad.
In their own individual ways, neither of them were any good at sitting still, and being cooped up for all intents and purposes led to a lot of competition to pass the time. They took target practice (Dean won); played some one-on-one (Sam); wrestled (Dean again, even in Sam's body, almost every time except when Sam deliberately tweaked his knee and then laughed because Dean couldn't bring himself to give his own face a black eye).
The rest of their days were spent having sex. Sam didn't want to talk about it until, of course, he did; forcing Dean to say things like: "you'd think, since we switched bodies, I would've noticed if I'd turned into a girl." Which meant Sam felt like he had to prove all the ways that neither of them were girls, which resulted in more sex, which was all Dean wanted anyway. It was nice to know he could still pretty much goad his brother into anything.
Less nice were the ways he was reminded that street went both ways. If there was one thing Dean didn't need, it was for his baby brother to have yet another weapon on him. Especially if that weapon was Sam's own stupid insatiable cock.
"You're so easy," Sam said, lips slick and teeth sharp right against Dean's ear as Dean drove them back from the bar again. (Pool; Dean had won, best of five.) "You're so fucking obvious, Dean, I didn't need to turn into you to know what you want."
He was kneeling on the seat with one hand braced on the vinyl between Dean's legs, not close enough to provide any release from a touch, just close enough to generate heat. It was all Dean could do to keep both hands on the wheel and both eyes on the road and try to shut out Sam's voice so he could get them home with a minimal amount of bodily harm to them or his car.
"You think I don't know why you keep talking at me when you've got me in bed and won't shut up for love or money? You think I don't get that you're trying to get me to talk back, to tell you every single thing I'm gonna do to you, every way I'm going to touch you instead of just doing it? Instead of keeping you pinned to the sheets by nothing more than my thumb pushing inside you?"
Dean was suddenly very, very sorry for any time he'd used his voice like that. And very, very sorry that Sam wasn't the prude he'd thought he was.
"You want me to talk dirty to you, Dean, when what you should want is me lubing up my other fingers so you can get them up your ass, too. I've never met a guy who likes that as much as you. You shouldn't care what I'm saying so long as I'm working you open, getting you ready in case I feel like fucking you with more than my hand.
"I don't need to talk to get you on your back, to get you to put your hands on your own thighs to keep them spread so I can see what I'm doing, so I can see you just taking it. I don't need to say anything about how you've already come, probably twice, and are hard as a rock again because I've been using my teeth on your hipbones and, yeah, I think I know the right spots on my own body."
Sam using his knowledge of his own body against Dean was, Dean felt, nevertheless preferable to what Sam was doing just then: pushing every single one of Dean's buttons, making Dean literally squirm, forcing Dean to admit that he was wrong, wrong, wrong about Sam not being able to use Dean's body as well as Dean could use Sam's. If Dean's brain wasn't completely in his pants, he would've been impressed despite himself at Sam's skills at psychological warfare.
"The right words aren't going to keep me from deciding that I want you to suck me instead of me fucking you, and if you've managed to keep your own mouth shut, maybe I'll keep my fingers in your ass when I move up your body and take my dick and rub it against your lips before I let you take it in your mouth. I have nice lips, Dean, but they're not made for sucking cock like yours, and if I'm not talking dirty to you then you won't have to hear about how the second we switch back I'm gonna get you just like that all over again so I can see you choking for it.
"See? So easy," Sam finished, scoffed, flopping back on his side of the seat and ignoring completely the spreading wet spot at the front of Dean's pants.
---
In the days that followed, some things changed and some things didn't. Dean stopped hitching his jeans up all the time and learned how to adjust his hold on a pool cue to account for his added height and figured out the best way to compensate for Sam's trick knee when he was sprinting (which was different from the best way to do it when he was running for distance). Sam told Dean he needed glasses for reading and trained until he was almost as good throwing Dean's knife and started asking for sausage on his pizza. The two of them practiced canvassing a room from opposite sides since Dean's peripheral vision was better on his right and Sam could feint better from his left.
Dean wondered, when they finally changed back, if he'd miss the strange intimacy the switch had forged between them. He already missed his brother's face, his familiar expressions, the way his name sounded in Sam's voice.
He wouldn't miss the hair at all.
---
One week later and it happened just like Dean suspected it would: he woke up with normal morning wood that actually felt familiar.
Not to mention how it felt just that little bit better when he used it to fuck Sam into the mattress.
Now, go read ethrosdemon's version of events, because she totally OWNS me: [ Flip It Back Over ].
Supernatural: Turn It Over And (Sam/Dean, NC-17.)
With thanks to Imogen, Kassie, and Pet -- who each made this better -- and everyone who encouraged the crack along the way.
I bet a gen bodyswitching story would be AWESOME. This, however, is not that story.
Turn It Over And
The first thing that Dean noticed, when he woke up, was the twinge in his knee. Which was weird, considering that Sam was the one who always fucked up his knees (and ankles, and hips, on account of having legs that went up to his armpits). It was especially weird since the fight last night had been no different: Sam had tweaked his knee, Dean remembered, and he'd dislocated his elbow for what felt like the twentieth time. He knew he had, because Sam had been a wuss about shoving it back into place for him, but he'd also given Dean their one legitimate icepack and kept the ziploc makeshift for himself.
The second thing he noticed, when he sat up, was the curtain of hair that fell into his eyelashes. The sensation wasn't new but a very distant memory of a time of grunge music and flannel shirts, a time that Sam had obviously forgotten if he thought that Dean had always obeyed their dad's orders. Dad hadn't liked the haircut on Dean then any more than he would like it on Sam now, but he'd been the one to teach Dean about choosing his battles. And Dean had cut it off after just a few months when he realized it screwed up his aim anyway.
The third thing he noticed was the way he swung his legs around to stand up and his feet hit the ground before he expected them to -- jamming his heels into the dingy motel carpet, sending a shooting pain through his sore knee, and making him yearn for the familiar ache in his bum elbow for the first time in his life.
Then he glanced over to the other bed.
"Huh."
---
They were in each other's boxers -- or their own, depending how you looked at it -- since Sam had gone straight for his own duffel after Dean had woken him up and clued Sam in about the whole...whatever this was. Dean hadn't bothered to point out that wearing each other's underwear was a little gross, and was more preoccupied with deciding whether he could get away with going commando when they actually got dressed. Granted, it was Sam's ass and Sam's jeans, but it still felt rude. But was it more or less rude than wearing his own underwear in Sam's jeans? That was the question, and the whole thing was starting to make Dean's head hurt. They still hadn't come up with any plausible explanations for how it happened. It seemed beyond the capabilities of any demon they'd heard of, of the demon they thought they'd been hunting the night before.
He stood behind his brother in front of the tiny bathroom mirror. It was the first time he'd done that since he was twenty and Sam had gained that fateful half-inch. Dean had resigned himself to expect it ever since Sam had started outgrowing Dean's hand-me-downs younger, but he still hated being the shorter one.
"If you stand up and get me in the chin," he said, pulling Sam's toothbrush out of his mouth, "I'll kick your ass."
Sam held his jaw fixed, taut, and brushed the razor awkwardly across his skin. He'd already nicked himself twice, unfamiliar with the planes of his brother's face, the texture of his beard.
"And if you spit on my head, I'll shoot you. Fuck!" Another spot of blood blossomed on his cheek, and Dean smirked.
"Dude. I told you to shave down."
"I haven't had to do that since I was fifteen," groused Sam. "You and your goddamn baby-soft skin."
---
After they'd gotten cleaned up and dressed -- once Dean had finally decided against going commando because Sam's pants were all so fucking baggy it didn't feel right, and Sam had cleaned all the little bloody pieces of tissue off of his face -- they made their way to the diner next door for breakfast. They sat across from each other in a booth and stared at each other so intently that Dean was pretty sure that anyone who noticed them come in would think they were having a lovers' spat. Friends and brothers didn't fixate like that, and Sam's expression left no doubt that all was not right in their world: all set jaw and blurry eyes and Jesus, Dean knew that Sam had no idea what a comb was when he was in his own body but he could have made a little effort with the hair. Dean needed coffee.
Judging by the long hair and long legs that stopped at their table, the patron saint of blessing weary hunters with hot breakfast waitresses was looking out for him this morning, even if nobody else was. His brother and their predicament were all but forgotten as he leaned back against the vinyl, toyed with his menu, and gave the girl a smile with the dimples he'd just figured out how to use when Sam was in the shower.
"Boys, I'm Deena," she drawled, pulling out her order pad, and how she'd managed to fit it in the skirt she was wearing had to be a supernatural phenomenon of its own. "What can I get you today?"
"Deena; nice name," Dean chuckled to himself. "How about some coffee to start, sweetheart. And I'll have the scrambled eggs, side of bacon, and biscuits." He was slipping the menu back behind the napkin holder when Sam cleared his throat. Dean pulled his eyes away from the waitress long enough to see him staring at Dean disapprovingly. And expectantly. "What?"
"Are you sure that's what you want to order?" Sam said tightly.
"Uh, yeah?"
Sam's eyes narrowed, and Dean would have been pleased to note that he looked just as threatening as he'd always hoped when he did that. If it wasn't currently keeping him from his breakfast. "I thought you weren't eating pork. Sam."
"Well, Dean," he snapped, grabbing the other menu out of Sam's hands. Fucking ... his hair wouldn't stay out of his face, his clothes didn't fit, he'd bumped his forehead into the doorframe of the bathroom twice, and now he couldn't even eat the breakfast he wanted in peace. "What do you think I should order?"
"Uh, I can come back in a minute," the waitress offered.
"No, no," said Dean. "No. I suppose I want the eggs, maybe an egg white omelet? With a side of fruit? And how about some delicious toast. Yummy whole wheat toast."
"I'll have the yogurt," Sam added before Deena ran far, far away from the creeps in her end booth. "Thanks, Dean."
"Whatever," Dean muttered. He'd get back at him when they got their coffee and Sam learned that the reason Dean drank it black was because he was lactose intolerant.
---
After that wholly unsatisfying meal, they got in the car to head back to the scene of the fight the night before. Even that wasn't without incident: as Dean slid into the driver's seat he banged his knees into the steering wheel. It made him feel a little bad about the charley horse he'd given Sam the last time he bitched about Dean not sliding the seat back. But mostly it made him feel like screaming.
---
"What are we looking for, again?" Dean asked, even though he'd been the one to suggest the drive out to the shallow ravine, under the railroad tracks. It was just a prompt to start bouncing ideas off each other, or at least to get Sam talking -- Sam, who hadn't been this withdrawn and reticent and, well, pissy, since the first few months after Jessica had died.
Sam snorted as he knelt near the foot of the bridge, examining the scarred ground where they'd burned the demon to ash, running his hand over the grooves in the mud where Dean had been thrown. "Your guess is as good as mine. This -- I'm not even sure where to start. Do you remember anything out of the ordinary?"
"You mean, besides the big nasty demon?"
"Yeah, aside from that." Sam stood up and turned slowly in a circle. "I mean, do you remember anything unexpected happening, feeling anything different. Anything that might explain how we switched bodies. Or minds, or whatever."
Dean didn't remember shit, and he could tell that Sam didn't, either. It had been nothing but routine, and neither of them had noticed anything until they'd woken up that morning. He didn't remember touching Sam any more or less, during the fight or in the aftermath, and he certainly didn't remember wishing he had something of his brother's, or done something like his brother. Envy had never been a luxury that Dean Winchester allowed himself, with anyone.
"Even if it was some kind of telecoercion, you know, mind-jumping or mind control, it's much more likely it would only go one way," Sam continued, almost to himself. "It's not that far out to think that I could be controlling your mind, even while I was still conscious, but I would have to want to be doing it, and it doesn't explain how you'd be doing me at the same time."
"Why you gotta be the one with the superpowers all the time, man?"
"Seriously, Dean, have you ever heard of something like this?"
"Only on Buffy," Dean shrugged. "But the switch happened right away, and there were these stones involved. I didn't touch any stones last night. Did you touch any stones, Sam?"
Sam stared at him. "Okay, do you care at all about fixing this? About getting back to normal? Because I know you got the better end of the deal, here-"
"Hey!"
"- but I'm sick and fucking tired already of the way my knife doesn't fit in your hand and my gun doesn't fit down the back of your jeans and the fact that you own three fucking pairs of black boots but only one pair of sneakers and those are already soaked and it's only lunchtime."
"Beauty is pain," Dean explained, not at all willing to give into Sam's hissyfit. Visiting the site and finding no clues had confirmed one thing for him: they'd switched while they slept, so it looked like that would be how they switched back. It wasn't under their control; until they learned differently, they had to assume the world would right itself sooner rather than later. Probably sooner if they'd just relax. "At least the boots are broken in."
He dodged Sam's swing and stayed just out of his reach as he was chased all the way back to the car. Even with the sore knee.
He filled his brother in on his suspicions on the drive back to the motel. Sam didn't have much in the way of protest. He spent a lot of the trip with the passenger side visor down, and his eyes kept flicking to the vanity mirror. Not that Dean could harass him too much, since he had the Impala's rearview tilted down a little more than necessary so he could see himself too.
---
Sam spent the afternoon distractedly surfing the internet while Dean took care of laundry. There was a coin-operated washer and dryer next to their room and Dean got the load of underwear and socks started. Rather than go back to the room and deal with Sam's attitude, doubtless getting worse as his searches garnered nothing that addressed their situation, he stretched out by the tiny pool in the courtyard. He catnapped, and did some pushups, and watched their neighbor swimming in a bikini, and learned what it felt like to be tired, hungry, and horny in a new body.
When he finally made his way back inside the motel room, he'd made up his mind -- he knew he had to go to sleep that night if they were ever going to switch back, but he was scared shitless of going to sleep if there was any chance that he was going to get stuck with Sam's nightmares while he was in his body.
As far as Dean was concerned, there was a pretty easy solution to that dilemma, and that involved drinking until he passed out. "C'mon," he said, smacking Sam's socked foot as he passed by on the way to the shower. "We're going out."
---
Dean's shower that morning had been functional, quick; in-and-out because he needed coffee and some answers to what had happened to them, in that order, and didn't have time for anything else. This time, he knew answers weren't coming, and he had nothing that needed doing beyond closing down a bar.
So he folded Sam's trackpants and tee shirt and left them on the sink, banged his head on the curtain rod loud and hard enough that he could hear Sam chuckle in the other room, and turned on the water. Cooler than he usually liked it, and whether that was a function of this body's preference or a nod to his earlier exertion, Dean had no idea.
It didn't seem to bother his cock, he noted resignedly. Half-hard since their neighbor had asked him to re-tie her top, and there was nothing for it: he took it in his palm. His blush was spreading across his neck before he even got a good grip, and he hit his fucking head again, this time on the showerhead, because Christ Jesus how did his brother walk around with a dick that sensitive?
He didn't let go, though, just stroked himself slowly, and paid more attention to the way his hands looked absolutely huge when one twisted over the head, when the other was spread low over his stomach and dark trail of hair.
---
When he finally pushed the curtain back, Sam was slouching against the sink and staring at him suspiciously. "Nice shower?"
"What," he said, grabbing the towel and wrapping it around his waist more quickly than he'd ever done around his brother, avoiding his eyes. Sam snorted.
"It's my dick," he pointed out, like Dean wasn't perfectly aware of that fact. He just didn't know whether that meant that it was even dumber than normal to be modest, or if it meant hands off.
---
By the time Sam got out of the bathroom, Dean was waiting on his bed with the remote in hand. "Ready?"
"I'm ready," Sam said, staring at him. "You're not dressed."
Dean looked down at the fitted grey thermal he had on which, okay, Sam usually wore as an undershirt layered with another shirt, a hoodie, and at least two jackets, but it was perfectly acceptable on its own. "What's wrong with this?" he asked.
"It's a little...tight," Sam pointed out, grabbing one of his own sweatshirts and zipping it up.
Dean smirked. "I know." He looked good, too: he'd known what his brother's body looked like, and in fewer clothes than this, even before he'd turned into him. But it was still a revelation to look at himself in the mirror after his shower and see what it looked like in cotton that fit nicely over leaner, longer muscles. "If I had forty bucks to spare you'd be in a new pair of Levi's so quick- "
"And you didn't shave," added Sam.
"I know," Dean repeated. That was intentional too. Sometimes -- not often, but sometimes -- they'd be in the car for forty-eight hours straight, or the motel wouldn't have a drop of hot water, or Sam would have been up three-quarters of the night with nightmares, and he wouldn't shave. It bothered his brother, itched, but it didn't bother Dean, who privately thought that a little bit of stubble was a good look on him. And he wanted to look good. Because he had no doubt in his mind that he could use Sam's body better than Sam could use his, and he planned to do just that.
---
Two brothers walk into a bar, Dean thought, idly: a college bar in a college town, with college music that he vaguely recognized from the few motels that had cable and thus MTV, and the few tapes that Becky had made for Sam before they left St. Louis. A college bar full of college boys with sandals and polo shirts with popped collars and hair just like Sam's, and college girls wearing brightly-colored tops held together with thin ties that left their backs almost bare.
He was taller than practically anyone in the room, and his shoulders seemed to want to hunch in on themselves, some kind of reflex that Dean refused to indulge. He stood up even straighter, and rolled his eyes when he caught Sam scowling at him.
"You know," he said, "I've been told I got a nice smile. You should try it." Sam just frowned harder, and pushed his way up to two empty barstools. "Or, y'know, don't. Shots?"
Sam sighed and reached up to rub the back of his neck, Dean's ring reflecting the neon of the Corona sign. "How about a pitcher," he replied, a compromise for someone who'd cut himself off after two bottles of light beer ever since Dean had known him. He caught the eye of one of the bartenders who took the order with enough interest that Dean wondered if the brooding, sad-sack routine looked better on him than he thought it did.
At least until she glanced over to see who Sam was with and Dean grinned, automatic. She blinked. "Wow. Haven't seen y'all in here before."
Dean leaned closer, squeezing between his brother and his own barstool, unfolding himself along the rail and all set with a line about just calling them virgins when he stopped short. That wasn't his style. Or rather, it was his style, but it was his style, not Sam's, and he was overcome in that moment with curiosity about how it felt to flirt the way Sam did.
He knew what worked for him, he'd perfected what worked for him. What worked for him got girls leaning over and propping their breasts up with their arms, showing off the tats on their lower backs, leaving their boyfriends to meet him in the bathroom. He wondered if he could get them to coo at him instead, to take one look at the puppydog eyes and buy him a drink, to trust him to put them in a cab without trying anything more than a kiss on the cheek.
---
Half an hour later and he pretty much could get them all to do it. It just didn't turn out to be as much fun.
---
So it was back to plan A, where plan A involved more drinks -- although not too many more, Jesus; only Sam would go to college and not build up any sort of tolerance -- and, because getting off always helped Dean sleep, finding someone to take back to the motel. Or worst case scenario: finding someone to take back to his car, if Sam was going to be his typical cock-blocking self and give him shit about it.
Not that Dean had any patience for Sam at the moment, since his dick was driving this. Dean had taken to calling it Sam's dick as a coping strategy. Sam's dick was insatiable even after jerking off in the shower, which Dean figured was what happened if you lived like a monk. Sam's dick was, he had to admit, a little more than he was used to, and that coupled with the extra sensitivity meant a lot of surreptitious re-adjusting. Sam's dick had been just as interested in the guy in the corner who had been checking Dean out as it had been in the girls, which was interesting if not all that surprising.
"Oh, he's your brother, really?" his current candidate -- Mandy? Mary? -- was saying, dangling an empty longneck from her fingers and throwing her shoulders back. "I was just talking to him. Y'all are nothin' alike, are you."
"Well, I got the brains in the family; he got the looks," said Dean, leaning closer. If she was going to stand like that, she obviously wanted him to look.
"You sure about that?" she teased, and shifted her hips forward when he slid a finger into the belt loop on her jeans. "He seemed pretty smart to me, too. And sweet. You got something else he doesn't, little brother?"
It was all blatant invitation, bless sorority girls, and Dean was about to suggest that he could show her exactly what he had when her eyes refocused on something over his shoulder and a heavy hand came down on his elbow.
"Hey, Maggie, you mind excusing us for a second?"
Dean had time for one apologetic glance before Sam practically pulled his arm out of its socket tugging him closer to the door. "Dude, what," he hissed, trying to keep one eye on Maggie and hoping that Sam would make this quick. "You ready to leave? Go ahead."
"I think you should leave her alone," Sam said.
That got Dean's full attention, and he faced his brother. "What? Why?" And Sam didn't respond right away, but his face -- a little guilty, a little embarrassed -- told Dean all he thought he needed to know, and he smirked. "Forget it, man. She told me she talked to you, you already had your chance. Tough shit. Maybe she's got a friend."
"That's not- God," complained Sam, tugging on Dean's arm again. "I don't care about the girls. I just don't want you doing that."
"Doing what? What did you think was going to happen here tonight, Sam?" His brother knew him too well to honestly think they were just there for the booze.
"Doing that, doing her, doing anybody!" Sam cried. His eyes were huge and bright and that was weird, and his face was flushed. He had Dean backed up against the wall before Dean remembered that he was actually taller, now, and he could try that looming thing.
"What the fuck, Sam," he said. "Are you serious? You're going to make me leave here alone because, what, you don't want me doing something in your body? I've got condoms, man. I won't do anything kinky." He twisted his shoulders in on Sam, trapped him with a hand against the wall by Sam's head -- the same way he'd used his own body on shorter people hundreds of times before.
Sam swallowed and didn't look any less desperate. He didn't look any less resolved, either.
"Well. Great." Dean took a step back and slouched against the wall, rubbing his forehead and tugging at his stupid bangs. "Look, Sam; we don't know how long we're gonna be stuck like this, and your whole celibate thing? Isn't gonna work for me. So we might as well work this out right now."
"I'm not letting you take her back to the motel," Sam insisted, and then added "or the car," before Dean could interject.
"Is it the girl thing?" Dean was grasping at straws. "Something to do with Jessica? 'Cause I saw this guy, and I can work with that- "
If his getting laid wasn't at stake here, he would have laughed at Sam's look of horror. "What? No!"
Dean rolled his eyes. "Well, I don't see another option here, unless you're offering, man."
And he looked up just in time to see Sam's eyes flash before he could look down, and god. God. Dean started to laugh. Apparently there was no limit to his brother's self-involvement.
"You're kidding me. You have GOT to be kidding me. Nice ego, dude."
"What?" And Sam's face was white instead of flushed, but he still looked completely busted.
"What do you mean, 'what.' You. Being the worst cockblock since Dad, just because you're so hot for yourself that you're willing to fuck your brother. That is seriously fucked up, man."
"God, shut up," Sam moaned, but Dean was already pulling him out the door.
---
Dean didn't actually know why Sam was doing this, let alone why Dean was going along with it. He couldn't imagine that Sam was that desperate, but he certainly hadn't said no, and had even told Dean just to drive faster when he tried to give him an out. And so there they were: Sam was shrugging out of his leather jacket and Dean was turning on the bedside lamp.
"Don't," Sam murmured, and Dean pulled off his shirt and threw it at his brother's head.
"Screw you. This is what you want to see, isn't it?" He gestured at his body, at Sam's body.
And Sam was across the room in a flash, using Dean's quickness, and Dean wasn't used to that, still wasn't used to looking down at Sam, wasn't used to looking into his own face when Sam ground out "stop saying that" -- all Sam's earnestness in Dean's giving-orders voice -- and it was a combination that went straight to Dean's dick.
"Jesus, Sam, okay," Dean said, stepping back so he could get his hands up between them. "Are we doing this without speaking?" Which tempered his enthusiasm, just a bit, because a little dirty talk was pretty close to Dean's bulletproof kink.
Not, he realized, that he was going to need any more kink: he was pretty fucking turned on already, a little because he figured this had the potential to be some pretty incredible sex since nobody knew his body better than he did. And a lot because of the intense way that Sam was looking at him that hinted that he'd only scratched the surface of the reason they were here like this. If he hadn't missed it entirely.
"I just don't want you to bait me," Sam growled, and shoved Dean down onto the bed. And Dean could work with that, but instead of following him down and crawling on top of him, Sam just stood there and looked surprised that Dean had given in so easily.
Dean sighed, and hooked one of his crazy-long legs around Sam's knee, and that worked, that got Sam halfway on him and halfway on the mattress. Either way, it was close enough for Dean to flip him and push him into the pillows, and Sam's eyes gleamed.
"Are we doing this without kissing?" Sam parroted.
"Shut up," Dean said, pressing him down harder, holding him there, relishing in his longer reach. If Sam wanted a kiss he could try to do something about it. Dean was busy.
He got one hand on the crook of his body's good elbow and pushed it over Sam's head, holding it there long enough to indicate it should stay before smoothing his palm down over bicep and downy underarm and following with his tongue.
Sam practically bucked him off the bed. "What the fuck was that?"
"Don't pretend you don't like it," Dean mumbled. He knew where his spots were. He licked at him again and started working on Sam's pants.
He wasn't getting any cooperation from Sam, though; at least not the right kind. Sam scratched at his back almost hard enough to bleed and Dean yelped and sat up, twisting around to try and get a look at his shoulder. "Dude, that fucking hurt, I'm not into that." And then Sam just squirmed and twisted beneath him, and it took him knocking Dean off the bed twice before Dean finally got it, got what Sam wanted.
"So much for not being bossed around, huh, Sammy?" and oh, yeah, Dean could work with this, could work with this body's size and height and weight to give Sam what he was obviously gagging for.
"Shut UP, Dean," Sam gritted out, but his eyes rolled back in his head when Dean grabbed a handful of his hair and shoved him back onto the pillow, when he rested nearly all his weight onto the knee pinning Sam's thigh.
"Oh, yeah, you like that," Dean told him, squeezing his arms harder than he ever would have liked whenever Sam tried to get free. "Like it rough, huh? Have any luck finding someone who can do this to you?"
He teased him until Sam opened his eyes and said "seriously, Dean, shut up, I don't need to hear the color commentary," so Dean maneuvered until he was face-to-face with his cock, with his lovely, familiar cock. He liked his cock. He missed his cock. His cock looked damn excited that it was about to be blown with every bit of knowledge that Dean had learned about it since puberty.
He pinned Sam down again and took it in his mouth, all at once, one stroke; smooth because Dean was serious about holding Sam still. He wasn't the least bit interested in having his hair pulled or his ears grabbed, either, and Sam was going to be fucking sorry if he tried it. Dean was figuring out that his body, Sam's body, was reacting to things differently than his own, and Dean could work with that. But the need to be manhandled was all in Sam's head, apparently, and didn't come as a gift-with-purchase with the switch.
He pushed Sam's thighs farther apart and did it again; pushed one of his knees up, and again. Pulled off just long enough to suck his fingers into his mouth and listen to Sam say "oh, my God" before he dove back in. He pressed his fingers inside, both at once, and he knew his body could take it, but somehow Sam must have known it could too because he didn't hesitate, didn't protest, just opened around them as sounds failed him, failed him until he managed one strangled "Dean" and came in Dean's mouth.
Dean waited with a little more patience than he usually would for Sam to come down, or at least look alive. He ran his hand over Sam's flank and slowly rubbed his erection against the long muscle of Sam's hamstring. When Sam blinked his eyes open, Dean half-expected Sam to ask him what he wanted. The other half of him wasn't at all surprised to find himself rolled over and practically smothered into the blankets.
"Dude," he said, spitting the corner of the pillowcase out of his mouth and taking a breath. "I'm not sure-"
"Yes," Sam argued from somewhere near the small of his back, and Dean could've tried to turn back over but despite what had happened earlier Dean always won when they sparred, unless he was playing to lose, and Dean wasn't at all sure that he would manage it in Sam's body unless Sam planned on letting him.
And then there was hot hot heat and wet heat and, sure, Dean really liked having fingers up his ass, but that was tongue, and he yelped, "hey, whoa, I'm really not sure-" until, damn, he was sure. Sam got him practically begging.
Or at least protesting when he tried to roll him over onto his back again, not wanting to go, not wanting Sam to stop.
"Idiot, I'm not stopping," Sam huffed, and finally grabbed Dean's leg and twisted it so he had to go or risk breaking his hip. As soon as he did, Sam's mouth was back between his legs, his spread legs, with broad freckled shoulders forcing him open so Sam could get deeper until even that wasn't enough and all it took was a finger beside his tongue and then just the finger, when Sam sat up and gripped his cock hard with his other hand.
Dean came silently -- all over Sam's neck and throat -- and Sam just raised his eyebrow. "Fucking pornstar," he complained, and Dean cracked up.
---
"Dude," Dean said, frustratingly wide awake where he'd be passed out if he were in his own body. "Dude, you had your tongue in my ass."
"Yeah, and you liked it, so shut up." Sam was curled around a pillow on the other side of the bed, unfairly reaping the benefits of his body's ability to completely shut down seconds after orgasm.
"You mean you liked it," Dean smirked, recalling vividly how his brain was all what the fuck while his body was all fuck yeah. "Nice kink you got there, Sammy."
Sam grunted. "The guy who can come from nothing more than having fingers up his ass is gonna give me shit about this? Shut up."
"What? No I can't," Dean protested.
He could, actually, but there was no way Sam would know that. Should know that. Except: he had left Sam alone for a while that afternoon, and Dean knew exactly what he'd done in the shower earlier himself. And then he couldn't not think about it, wondering what Sam had been up to now that Dean was sure he'd done something. Wondering what it had looked like. It wasn't as if Dean sat around watching himself jack off -- not usually -- but it was different, picturing it as Sam. Sam doing it on purpose, experimenting, like his brother's body was something he needed to figure out.
"Still. Dude. C'mon. Your tongue. In my ass."
"Actually, technically, it was your tongue in my ass, and if you shut the hell up and let me nap for ten minutes, I'll do it again."
---
Dean woke up in the morning because of the sunlight through the shades they'd neglected to close with his cock nestled against Sam's thigh and Sam's hand reaching back to tug him closer. They hadn't changed back, but Dean could worry about that later, and he just went with it.
---
And then they were stuck with nothing to do and nothing to hunt and nothing to plan on hunting because they had no idea how long it would take for them to change back. They were agreed on two things: first, that they couldn't risk leaving town in case it was some sort of astrological and geographical coincidence like that X-Files episode with the planetary alignment and the geological vortex creating a cosmic g-spot, if a cosmic g-spot was going to be in fucking North Carolina. And second, that they weren't in any hurry to call their dad.
In their own individual ways, neither of them were any good at sitting still, and being cooped up for all intents and purposes led to a lot of competition to pass the time. They took target practice (Dean won); played some one-on-one (Sam); wrestled (Dean again, even in Sam's body, almost every time except when Sam deliberately tweaked his knee and then laughed because Dean couldn't bring himself to give his own face a black eye).
The rest of their days were spent having sex. Sam didn't want to talk about it until, of course, he did; forcing Dean to say things like: "you'd think, since we switched bodies, I would've noticed if I'd turned into a girl." Which meant Sam felt like he had to prove all the ways that neither of them were girls, which resulted in more sex, which was all Dean wanted anyway. It was nice to know he could still pretty much goad his brother into anything.
Less nice were the ways he was reminded that street went both ways. If there was one thing Dean didn't need, it was for his baby brother to have yet another weapon on him. Especially if that weapon was Sam's own stupid insatiable cock.
"You're so easy," Sam said, lips slick and teeth sharp right against Dean's ear as Dean drove them back from the bar again. (Pool; Dean had won, best of five.) "You're so fucking obvious, Dean, I didn't need to turn into you to know what you want."
He was kneeling on the seat with one hand braced on the vinyl between Dean's legs, not close enough to provide any release from a touch, just close enough to generate heat. It was all Dean could do to keep both hands on the wheel and both eyes on the road and try to shut out Sam's voice so he could get them home with a minimal amount of bodily harm to them or his car.
"You think I don't know why you keep talking at me when you've got me in bed and won't shut up for love or money? You think I don't get that you're trying to get me to talk back, to tell you every single thing I'm gonna do to you, every way I'm going to touch you instead of just doing it? Instead of keeping you pinned to the sheets by nothing more than my thumb pushing inside you?"
Dean was suddenly very, very sorry for any time he'd used his voice like that. And very, very sorry that Sam wasn't the prude he'd thought he was.
"You want me to talk dirty to you, Dean, when what you should want is me lubing up my other fingers so you can get them up your ass, too. I've never met a guy who likes that as much as you. You shouldn't care what I'm saying so long as I'm working you open, getting you ready in case I feel like fucking you with more than my hand.
"I don't need to talk to get you on your back, to get you to put your hands on your own thighs to keep them spread so I can see what I'm doing, so I can see you just taking it. I don't need to say anything about how you've already come, probably twice, and are hard as a rock again because I've been using my teeth on your hipbones and, yeah, I think I know the right spots on my own body."
Sam using his knowledge of his own body against Dean was, Dean felt, nevertheless preferable to what Sam was doing just then: pushing every single one of Dean's buttons, making Dean literally squirm, forcing Dean to admit that he was wrong, wrong, wrong about Sam not being able to use Dean's body as well as Dean could use Sam's. If Dean's brain wasn't completely in his pants, he would've been impressed despite himself at Sam's skills at psychological warfare.
"The right words aren't going to keep me from deciding that I want you to suck me instead of me fucking you, and if you've managed to keep your own mouth shut, maybe I'll keep my fingers in your ass when I move up your body and take my dick and rub it against your lips before I let you take it in your mouth. I have nice lips, Dean, but they're not made for sucking cock like yours, and if I'm not talking dirty to you then you won't have to hear about how the second we switch back I'm gonna get you just like that all over again so I can see you choking for it.
"See? So easy," Sam finished, scoffed, flopping back on his side of the seat and ignoring completely the spreading wet spot at the front of Dean's pants.
---
In the days that followed, some things changed and some things didn't. Dean stopped hitching his jeans up all the time and learned how to adjust his hold on a pool cue to account for his added height and figured out the best way to compensate for Sam's trick knee when he was sprinting (which was different from the best way to do it when he was running for distance). Sam told Dean he needed glasses for reading and trained until he was almost as good throwing Dean's knife and started asking for sausage on his pizza. The two of them practiced canvassing a room from opposite sides since Dean's peripheral vision was better on his right and Sam could feint better from his left.
Dean wondered, when they finally changed back, if he'd miss the strange intimacy the switch had forged between them. He already missed his brother's face, his familiar expressions, the way his name sounded in Sam's voice.
He wouldn't miss the hair at all.
---
One week later and it happened just like Dean suspected it would: he woke up with normal morning wood that actually felt familiar.
Not to mention how it felt just that little bit better when he used it to fuck Sam into the mattress.
Now, go read ethrosdemon's version of events, because she totally OWNS me: [ Flip It Back Over ].