"Coming Clean," by queenklu Part 2/2

[queenklu]

~*~

Dean had always known what Sam needed before Sam even realized he was missing something. Spaghettios plopped on the table before the kid’s stomach started rumbling. Bullies dissuaded before they got up the guts to act. Bus ticket to California before Sam had to screw up enough courage to ask for a ride.

So. He had a plan:

Step one: Sober Sam up

Step two: Force Sam to eat

Step three: Teach Sam Uber Secret Antichrist Mojo

Step four: Lunch, probably KFC

Dean had not been happy when he’d realized step three was what Sam needed, because honestly? Sam’s demon powers made his skin crawl. Not that anything to do with Sam could disgust or freak him out for long (which really fucking sucked). It was just…he couldn’t protect Sam from himself. But that was kind of the point of step three. Sam was mule headed enough to break himself trying to figure out the answer to a test he’d already turned in. He’d done it before, even when he was little.

Plus, he had a good solid argument against alcohol with step three. Drunk antichrist mojo? Now that thought really made Dean shudder.

Another thing that made his stomach tie into knots? Operation: Get Sam Over Me.

“Hey,” he tried softly, forcing out the words through a jaw that wanted suddenly to lock down on his chicken and forget it'd ever learned to speak. “I don’t think I ever mentioned…I’m sorry about D-"

“Don’t,” Sam ordered in that same, cold calm tone of voice. The kamikaze hangover and weeks of not eating should’ve made him look weak and haggard, but really? The only thing different about Sam was his eyes.

Sam had risen with a military precision that shoved all worry over psychic powers into the farthest corner of Dean’s mind, replacing it with a raw, quiet panic. Sam stayed in the shower until Dean forced him out by running every hot tap in the house, made his bed so neat it was like he’d never slept in it until Dean kicked up his heels with his boots on when he flopped down across it. Even now, Sam had been eating his fried chicken with deliberate, calculated jerks of his mouth and arms, not a single muscle moving that didn’t have to.

When Dean started awkwardly in with Operation: GSOM (which…sounded kind of wrong, phonetically), Sam had set his food down and tucked his hands under the table like-

Like Dad, when he was with military men he needed to dupe or impress.

So who was the soldier in this scenario, and who was getting screwed?

“Don’t,” Sam said again when Dean opened his mouth to call him on it, “Just don’t. You never liked him, and- I won’t listen to you talk about him when he meant absolutely nothing to you.”

“…He didn’t mean nothing,” Dean tried with a lopsided smile that vanished the instant he saw Sam’s face. “Okay, okay, he wasn’t my favorite person in the whole world.” True enough. “But it doesn’t mean I like the way you’re handling living without him.”

A small, almost-laugh briefly shifted the corners of Sam’s mouth, but it was gone by the time he had the Pepsi to his lips. “This isn’t my first ride on the Winchester-go-round.” He shot Dean a brief glance like he should’ve understood that, but Dean was too blissed out that Sam was actually cracking a joke that if there was a reference? He missed it. Then Sam’s eyes were gone, fixed on the wall over Dean’s shoulder. “I’ve lived without Dean before.”

“Riiiight,” Dean drawled, “but with Stanford-"

“Nothing to do with Stanford.” Sam’s voice was light and casual, like they were talking about the weather-kind of bored, kind of wishing they were talking about anything else. He shifted just enough to bring one drumstick to his mouth and take a bite. Dean’s eyes narrowed; that was not the proper way to eat fried chicken.

“Wh…” Dean wracked his brain and came up empty. Shifting forward to rest his elbows on the table bought him time-which he promptly wasted on being distracted by how comagirl’s breasts fit into this equation. “What do you mean?”

“Can’t you just read my mind?” Sam’s turn to shift forward, only his elbow missed the table and he blushed. Something in Dean’s chest lurched so hard he almost-almost-leapt forward to catch him. He clenched his teeth and hands, glaring at the collar of Sam’s shirt so he couldn’t double and triple check that this was just an accident, that Sam was long and gangly and not sneaking booze behind his back.

He was so focused on not doing anything that he didn’t realize staying silent was the right thing to do until Sam added in a low murmur, “Lived for six months without Dean, I can… I got up. I ate. I-killed things, I functioned…”

Something in Sam fractured, his shoulders hitching with a soft gasp as tears broke free of whatever barrier was holding them in place. “I was gonna get him back,” he whispered hoarsely, “I knew-I was always gonna get him back. I’d kill the Trickster, and I’d get him back. And now…” A helpless little shrug, and Sam was looking at the ceiling, mouth open and trembling.

Dean didn’t know he could hurt this much, without even a wound to show for it.

“Sam,” he growled, voice painfully rough, on his feet and next to Sam before he realized he was moving, gripping Sam’s shoulder as hard as stupid comagirl’s fingers could stand without breaking. “Sam, listen to me.” He forced his eyes to lock with lost green-brown, took the full brunt of Sam’s shattering gaze and held. “Remember…” No, he’d never make it through bringing up their conversation at the Wendigo campsite. “You can’t…You have to consider-"

“No.” Sam’s head shook, and he jerked out of Dean’s grasp. “Fuck off, Ruby, no.”

He took a deep steadying breath, tucking away the unreasonable hurt of being shrugged off by Sam, and smacked his brother upside the head. “Don’t talk that way to a lady, bitch,” he ordered, plopping down in his chair and stuffing his entire mouth with chicken.

For one startled moment, Sam looked like he was going to laugh. Then he caught the word, “Jerk,” behind his teeth, and everything went spiraling back downhill.

There was a reason Dean didn’t do chick flick moments-mostly because he sucked at them.

He tucked back into his food, glaring at his brother’s cooling lunch until the Gigantor got it through his thick skull that, one way or another, the chicken was going down his throat. The rest of his brain not staring Sam down was compiling a list for the rest of the day: workout to make Sam’s brain shut up, boyking training, TV (pay per view?) dinner and then-

Dean choked on his chicken, and it had nothing to do with his chewing habits. “Ow, fuck! Oh, fuck.” He hacked up a lung, trying to cough over Sam’s inquiries. But he couldn’t keep choking forever, and when he looked up at Sam with a hand over his mouth, his baby brother had his stubborn face on.

“Seriously, Ruby, what?”

“Uh…” Dean wiped wide-eyed at a piece of chicken on his lip. “…Ligament.”

He needed to get Sam laid.

~*~

Alright so…maybe didn’t realize how much he was banking on Sam’s need for solutions until Sam stumbled into the room barely half an hour after their first attempt at Look-Ma-No-Latin demon exorcising had failed, shirt fisted loosely in one hand, Jack Daniels in the other. And then he went for their pill pocket, palming a couple pain relievers and washing them down with whiskey before Dean could snap out of his shock enough to stop him.

This was not going to work.

M…Maybe-not that he’d ever, ever admit it-but maybe when he’d first realized what Sam needed, his first thought hadn’t involved exactly the, um, most platonic brotherly love. But that was his first thought! He was allowed several dozen other thoughts after that brief moment of weakness, and every single one of them involved Sam with actual girls. Not that he was thinking about Sam with-Uh, never mind.

The point was, Sam wouldn’t be able to pick up a prostitute looking like he was now, smudged with grave dirt, eyes empty and broken, wearing what was quite possibly the thinnest grey t-shirt known to man…

Dean just-didn’t want to subject the kid to being turned down. That was all.

Okay, it wasn’t fucking all. Dean had a lifetime of dealing with drunk Winchesters, himself included, and this wasn’t…something you let other people see. Family. Sam needed family. And sex. Oh fuck.

“It’s gonna get better,” he offered after a minute, not exactly sure who he was talking to.

Sam laughed, but the sound hurt to listen to. “More practice?”

“I’m not talking about demons,” Dean told him, coming closer with his eyes coaxing Sam to meet them. Inside he was growling, Operation: GSOM, over and over, which was not helping settle his nerves. “I know losing Dean is-”

“Hey. I don’t wanna talk about it,” Sam growled, all humor gone as his lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl.

Dean was reaching out for him before he realized he was more than a foot into Sam’s bubble, but Sam knocked his hand away before he could actually touch.

“Don’t.” His voice broke on a whisper, and Dean’s eyes caught the tremble in his lips. “I can’t.”

You can’t? part of Dean demanded a little petulantly. How do you think I feel? I’m the one who’s gonna burn in hell for this…oh yeah.

Kinda freeing thing about being damned for all eternity? Its not like things could get any worse.

But even more than that, Dean knew without a shadow of a doubt that this could never be about making himself feel better. He’d be doing this for Sam even if he wasn’t sick and twisted and getting something he’d never allowed himself to want for most of his adult life.

It was like a string was cut-he let himself fall into Sam, their mouths meeting awkward and warm, Sam was warm, and then-

Sam was gone. Mumbling, “What are you doing?” as he stood and crossed the room, hand going to his mouth as if he wasn’t sure whether to wipe it off.

“Sam, it’s okay!” It was Dean’s turn for his voice to break. He’d had everything, for a moment. Sam’s taste on his mouth… He’d let himself have, and that wasn’t what this was about.

It was so not okay it was almost funny when Sam echoed those sentiments out loud. Fucking your baby brother? Not okay. Fucking your baby brother in the body of a comatose woman? That’s so seriously beyond fucked up.

But…Sam was breaking. Dean had never seen Sam sink this far down, not after Dad, not even after Jess. It was like-okay, Dean was never one for metaphors, but looking at Sam? Like someone had torn a big fucking hole in whatever fabric was holding him together, and instead of holding still and letting someone mend it, he thrashed against the cloth until it ripped and unraveled even worse than before.

Dean’s intestines tied themselves into knots before he shoved the sickly flattered part of him down. It was his fucking fault for dying on Sam, so he was gonna do what it fucking took to get him better. Or at least keep him from tearing any further.

“Is it because of this body?” His voice wasn’t taunting, wasn’t even eager. As far from himself as he could possibly be. Sam wouldn’t want this if it was too much like Dean. Sam wouldn’t want Dean.

His knees felt small and fragile on the cold and unforgiving floorboards at Sam’s feet. “Because I told you. It’s all me inside of here.”

Me, me, it’s me! a voice shouted in his head before he shut it down. He pressed their foreheads together and breathed, because air without Sam’s scent in it wasn’t worth inhaling. “There’s no one else in here. And its nice inside this body, Sam…” And, wow, he sounded like he was at a funeral, but being this close to Sam, breathing him in, the acidic fumes of alcohol no match for a nose that knew Sam’s scent better than his own.

He had to distract himself, and Sam was intense but not focused on the prize. Dean’s fingers felt brittle and clammy grasping Sam’s wrist, pulling it towards his jeans where-

There was no cock. Hmm. How did girls let boys know they were interested without actually shoving hands down their pants?

Okay, seriously? He was Dean Winchester. You’d honestly think he’d be able to answer this question. But…right now? Sam’s knuckle was brushing against a ribbon of skin bared by comagirl’s shirt, and that one touch was doing electric things to his insides. When his nail accidentally ran just under the edge of Dean’s jeans, it was suddenly impossible not to use both hands to force Sam’s under his shirt, pressing his huge callused palm against the butterflies in Dean’s stomach.

“Or is it just ‘cause you’re scared about going this far with a demon.” He kept talking, taunting, running his mouth so he could speak against Sam’s cheek, nudging and needy, needing to give Sam this, give in. “Because its wrong…and bad…and we shouldn’t…” Come on, Sammy…

And then Sam’s head rolled and their lips caught-and every thought he’d ever had was blown out the back of his skull. Sam was holding Dean’s head like he wanted to crush it between his insanely massive paws, the way he hissed into the kiss when Dean (accidentally) touched a spot behind Sam’s jaw where a werecat attack when they were kids had left the skin pink and sensitive.

This was just proof of how much Sam needed-this. Sex. Not Dean. But he was getting it.

All of a sudden Dean was in the air, in the fucking air, because Sam’s mutant hands were lifting him like-like-Jesus Christ, nothing. Holy shit, how small was comagirl?! It was just a quick yank onto Sam’s lap but-Oh. OH.

He kinda hoped for comagirl’s sake (and his own) that she hadn’t been a virgin, and had in fact, had lots and lots of sex before semi-sorta kicking the bucket, (ew), because Sam was, um, big. Through his jeans, big. Hot and hard and damn near perfect against the seam of Dean’s jeans as he automatically wrapped his legs around his hips and held on for dear life. And comagirl was either much much fucking smaller than he’d ever realized (unlikely, given the day he’d spent craning his neck to look his brother in the face) or Sam was part giant and nobody had bothered to tell him.

He was starting to think it was a combination of the two until Sam’s hands tangled painfully in Dean’s hair, pulling his head back to bare his throat. Nope. It was all (mostly) Sam. Holy fuck.

A tremor rocketed down his spine, hit his tail bone and ricocheted as Sam dragged off comagirl’s t-shirt, and yeah, okay, Dean hadn’t exactly had time to go shopping for a bra, alright? Didn’t mean he’d been hoping to get-Oh, Jesus. Sam’s hands were branding his back, searing hot, pressing against the expansion of Dean’s ribcage as he dragged in air between kisses. That hunger to touch Sam crashed into him like a tidal wave, and he couldn’t get the stupid grey shirt off him fast enough.

Then…

The air vanished from his lungs as he rocked back on Sam’s lap, barely caught in time by a hand in the small of his back. His eyes felt huge as he tried to comprehend what he was seeing. A chest that couldn’t really be that chiseled, pale and flexing as Sam panted. Dark inky circle of flames over Sam’s fractured heart. And Dean’s amulet swinging down to kiss it with brass lips, swinging on a blood-stained leather chord around Sam’s neck.

He was flat on his back on the same table they’d had lunch on before he managed to tear his eyes away from the chorded flex of muscle, Sam bearing down hard on him, fierce kisses trying to burn away what he’d seen. It only fueled the need higher. The bulge in Sam’s jeans hadn’t gotten any smaller, and Dean’s breath hitched when he forced their hips together in a snug thrust, grinding down as Dean bucked up. “Yeah,” he breathed, or maybe Sam did, it was hard to tell. Dean’s brain was absolutely short-circuiting at the endless expanse of Sam against him, around him, tongue in his mouth and teeth on his tongue. Where the fuck had Sam learned to kiss dirty?!

Sam had one massive hand tangled in Dean’s hair, the other a not-quite-bruising trail under him, down the edge of his shoulder blade, over every bump of his spine and pressing against the dip of his back. Dean jerked like a livewire had been dug into his skin, mind instantly derailed as his own hand, clinging to Sam’s shoulder, forgave sneaking towards that amulet in favor of holding on for dear life. (Probably Sam’s plan.) Then Sam’s knuckle was hard against his bellybutton, opening Dean’s jeans with one jerk of his thumb, and the sound of a zipper was quite possibly the loudest thing he’d ever heard.

Oh, god. He was really going to do this.

He tried to keep the quiet panic at bay while Sam tore off his jeans, never letting his mouth leave for long. He focused on Sam kissing him, the taste, touch, smell that would have to be enough to get him through a lifetime in hell. And god, it was worth it. It’d have to be worth it. Sam pulled back and his eyes flicked up-

And stuck. Like. Um. Something sticky.

Sam’s eyes were fierce. Dark. Lethal. And locked, entirely, with Dean’s. His heart thumped frantically. It couldn’t be possible, with a look like that, Sam didn’t see right through him, didn’t know who he was, didn’t know what he was doing-

And then, that rogue hand of Sam’s? Was sliding down, one knuckle brushing Dean’s clit as softly as he’d first touched his stomach, and slid inside the instant Dean started to shudder. No way. No way Sam could-would-do that if he knew.

Now, Dean had taken his new body for a test drive within an hour of doing the Vulcan mind meld, because a) obviously, he didn’t want Sam to notice Ruby’s sudden infatuation with her (comagirl’s) breasts b) hey, he was only out of hell for so long, and c)…gotta know your body, right? Rule number what the fuck ever of hunter training-know what you can physically accomplish. But he was noticing a giant, epic difference between the feel of his own tiny not-so limber fingers (hello, atrophy) and the sensation of Sam, who had the perfect angle on top of the worlds longest and most agile fingers known to man, curling inside him.

Sam is the god of sex. Dean barely caught the words in his throat, but, “God,” did slip out on a strangled whine. Heat, liquid and burning, pooled around Sam’s fingers, hot enough to scald as Sam used his thumb to smear it towards the throbbing in his clit. He wrapped his legs tighter around Sam, shivers rippling across every piece of skin that touched his-calves along the rolling muscles of his back, thighs feeling raw and denied by Sam’s low-slung jeans.

“C’mon,” Dean gasped, nails of his free hand grasping at the exposed flesh of Sam’s belly every time he leaned in close enough. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon…”

Sam kicked free of his jeans with a growl, hair falling over a pair of eyes slitted and wild. A ragged gasp tore at Dean’s lungs as Sam left him empty, slick heat smeared against his hip by Sam’s hands, gripping hard enough to bruise as he lined up.

And then…Dean was full. He was sure somewhere in there Sam had paused for him to adjust (right?) but he couldn’t remember, didn’t even recognize the noises he heard were coming from his mouth until he ran out of air. A broken version of Sam’s name for a broken Sam. Sam’s whole frame rolled forward and his head dropped, teeth bared against Dean’s jugular for a moment, then sank in.

Dean felt like he was flying apart at the seams. No one should feel this full. There wasn’t any room left-for doubt or fear or anything that made him hurt or remember-just Sam. “Sam.”

Without any sort of conscious thought (how could there be?) his hand detached from Sam’s shoulder and wrapped around the amulet.

Sam snarled, loud and feral, jerking his throat out of range, leaning all his weight on Dean’s wrists until he swallowed a whimper and turned it into a growl, straining again for the ropes of Sam’s neck with his teeth. Sam yanked him up just to slam him back down, eyes burning with fury and something else, desperate and shattered. “Don’t,” he hissed against Dean’s throat, then bit down hard, harder when Dean squirmed. “These are not claims.” Lethal, so low the rumbles shook through Dean’s belly and turned his insides to mush. “And you don’t get to make them. I’m. Not. Yours.”

He drove every word home with a thrust so deep Dean could practically taste him-and god, that was something he wanted to look into-as a gasp caught in Dean’s throat and his ribcage tried to expand and contract at the same time.

“Sam, Sam…” Mine. If you were ever anyone’s-

There was just too much skin, too much friction, not enough leverage, and somehow that had him closer to the edge than he’d ever been in his life, completely helpless under Sam’s almost-brutal surges of his hips. He could feel Sam pulsing as he thrust, amplifying his heartbeat until his whole body was throbbing, straining, screaming and-there-Sam bit down, just under Dean’s ear, and Dean’s whole body convulsed, bucking up into Sam and clenching around him, that same liquid heat flooding his veins as a choked off moan broke in his throat.

Sam was losing it, his rhythm faltering and eyes struggling to stay open, fixed dead center on Dean’s collarbone as pants turned to bit-back whimpers in his mouth. It was too much. Hurt too much to see him like that, felt too good to be used- Dean wriggled one hand free almost effortlessly, and it flew to Sam’s back before he could stop it, sank his nails into the twisted pink skin of Sam’s scar and watched his baby brother fall to pieces, the soft, “D-D-" stammer of Don’t that turned into a loud sob of ecstasy as he pumped white-hot spurts of come so deep into Dean he could feel it warming in his toes.

Sam collapsed onto him, shaking, and Dean gathered all the strength in his trembling limbs and wrapped them around Sam, holding him in place with too-delicate ankles and too-thin arms, one feminine hand tangled in his hair and the other gently clutching the knot of the leather chord.

Overall-not that he was knocking this-but Dean kinda liked sex better as a man.

~*~

That morning, Ruby switched them out. Lilith was coming for a visit, and she’d have seen the difference in less time than it takes to decapitate someone. He’d known it wasn’t going to last, but…

…when he was choking on the last of his vocal chords…

…it was hard not to blame her.

He hadn’t set any ground rules, either, but seeing Ruby answer the door in her underwear in Sam’s hotel room…?

And Sam wondered why he hated her guts.

~*~

Which brought them to this moment right now, with Sam spilling all about the great time he’d had romping with “Ruby,” and marveling at how she’d known just what to say. Way to rub it in his face.

But the thing is, he’d had all that time in hell plus a couple months topside to convince himself he could forget That One Time They Had Sex, and listening to Sam…just made him finally realize it was never gonna happen. Operation: Get Over Sam officially failed.

Ruby took that opportunity to waltz in their room in a maid’s borrowed body, announced the plan to meet, and left. You’d think that’d be enough to kill the mood.

Nope.

Sam stood to get their things together, all six-foot-four of him, broad shoulders filling out another really stupidly thin t-shirt, and Dean snapped.

He was up on his feet in an instant, boots thudding fast against the floor as he cornered Sam, wrapped a hand in his stupid shirt, and dragged him down for a kiss. Their lips seared together, hot and familiar even though (technically) they’d never met. Neither one of them moved. Then Dean took one step back, and headed for the door.

Hey, it worked for Spiderman.

Something massively huge-like a bear-careened into Dean and slammed him face-first against the door, pinning him in place with a scaldingly familiar surge of heat before it spun him around and pinned him again. And there it was, the click they’d been missing when Dean was comagirl, the way their bodies notched together like grooves in a zipper.

“Knew it,” Sam breathed, that five-year-old wonderment turned all grown up with a smug sort of triumph and a wash of longing-could’ve just told me-that Dean could not for the life of him look away from. Those impossibly large hands framed his face, tilting it up and dropping his to press their foreheads together. Their noses brushed, a small nuzzle of endearment as Dean tried not to hyperventilate breathing in everything that made Sam Sam. His head was spinning, needy little gasps stifled in his throat, and Jesus Christ he’d been within arm’s reach of Sam for months without touching more than once and-

His palm ran flat down Sam’s belly, nails sliding under the top of his jeans and down, further, wrapping around Sam’s cock-Sam’s cock-which he hadn’t even got to touch last time. The wide-eyed choking whimper that fell from Sam’s mouth made his blood sing as he flicked his thumb over the head, trailing calloused fingers along the shaft, learning him by feel.

“D-Dean,” Sam stammered, hips hitching as Dean’s other hand fell to that scar, rubbing it through the stupidly thin fabric. Then one of Sam’s hands shifted to palm the back of his skull and pull Dean’s lips to his, and Dean felt something in him shift and mend, something he hadn’t even known was broken.

“Knew it, knew it was you,” Sam gasped between kisses, “That first time, and then-gone, and Ruby-”

Dean tore his lips from Sam’s with a feral, one-minded need, nuzzled down the collar of Sam’s shirt to revel the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and bit down hard.

Sam came with a surprised and strangled yelp, a hot splash of come against Dean’s wrist and an almost needy whimper against Dean’s throat.

“Oh, you fucker,” Sam breathed when he had the air to, trailing whisper kisses against the soft rasp of Dean’s stubble.

“Mine,” Dean growled, pointing at the bruise even though Sam was too close to appreciate the gesture. Until he turned his head and lapped at Dean’s come-covered fingers. “Just-god-in case you were wondering. Sammy…”

“I wasn’t,” Sam chuckled, and licked his way into Dean’s mouth, coating his tongue with the thick salty taste of Sam. Pressed so close, Dean could feel the laugh vibrate through his entire frame, especially in his cock which he hadn’t quite managed to convince there wasn’t enough time for a handjob.

“Come on,” he sighed to them both, tugging lightly at the hairs on the nape of Sam’s neck, his skin vibrating with pure, raw happiness. “We have to go meet Ruby in three minutes.” Course, walking there was going to prove interesting…

Sam pulled back just enough to smirk at him, an evil little brother/antichrist/hellspawn/boyking of a smile. “Oh,” he purred, slithering down along Dean’s body, “we have plenty of time.”

~*~

When they met with Ruby, Dean forced out a stammered thank you and an apology, a) because he meant them, b) because she hadn’t slept with Sam, and c) because Sam refused to have sex with him until he did.

THE END

A/N Pimp, my pretties, PIMP! I'm a new author with no fanbase, so if you like the story please tell your friends!

P.s. Feeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeedback

Also: I'm working on a) a sequel and b) a soundtrack, (because this kept happening) so if y'all know any genderbending/bodyswapping/wincesty songs feel free to share!
 ETA: SEQUEL IS DONE!!! --> "So I Slept with an Angel of the Lord."

ETA2:  SOUNDTRACK IS DONE