(no subject)
This fic has wrung me out, and therefore, I'm not writing a huge introduction.
Bodyswap, featuring inappropriate erections, Dean being a total jackass, Sam collecting seashells, Hallmark cards, a sprained ankle, and backrubs.
Kudos to dev_earl, smangosbubbles, and fahye for encouragement and beta.
This is for all the SPN!Christmas people who wanted the boys being each other.
Palatine, Sam/Dean, R, 7300 words.
Palatine
It’s not like he means for it to happen. Seriously.
One minute, he’s leaning over to look at the enormous spell book in Sam’s lap, sounding out a couple of phrases while they’re stopped at a red light, Sam messing with the radio. The next, he’s in the passenger seat while Sam’s nearly running Dean’s goddamned car into a Toyota.
Dean opens his mouth to yell, because his fucking brother should definitely know better than to run his car into anything, even in the event of sudden place switching, then realizes - suddenly and abruptly - that he’s still sitting in the driver’s seat.
His head turns, startled, without Dean doing anything.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean says, and the words come out of Sam’s mouth.
Sam manages to pull off at a gas station. He parks in the back, next to the ice coolers and unloading ramps, and Dean tries to adjust to the fact that breathing feels different. Sam’s starting to shake next to him - Dean’s response to stress - but the expression on his face when he leans in to rest his head against the steering wheel is all Sam.
“I can’t believe you!” Sam hisses, except Dean’s voice is way too low for it, and it just comes out rough and frustrated.
“Dude,” Dean says, “how was I supposed to know your fucking book was going to do that?”
“I don’t know,” Sam snaps back. “Common sense?”
“Whatever,” Dean says, trying to slouch down in the seat, but he really can’t, because Sam is fucking huge.
It figures that he’d end up switching bodies with his freak of nature brother instead of someone cool. Jessica Alba wouldn’t have a hard time fitting into the passenger seat of the Impala.
His annoyance just about doubles when Sam backs out, tight-faced, and nearly runs the car into a post because he’s not used to the height difference. They manage to get to a motel a couple blocks down without actually running into anything, and Sam goes in to get a room - he looks awkward in Dean’s body, like he’s not sure what to do with so little space, and when he goes to lean against the counter, he misses dramatically. The check in clerk probably has him figured for a drunk - it’s only two in the afternoon and Sam’s not exactly what you’d call coordinated - but he gets a key anyway.
Dean hits his head twice getting out of the car, and by the time he manages to sit down on the bed, he’s tripped over the curb and a chair and his head is killing him. He knows Sam’s body at least as well as his own - maybe better, considering how much time he spends looking at it - but it feels different to be inside it. Even Dean has to admit that reading out loud from one of Sam’s stupid books, even if he was trying to figure out how to pronounce corporeal, probably wasn’t the greatest idea. Usually, though, you at least have to burn shit, and Dean’s pretty sure that Sam accidentally setting the air freshener on fire doesn’t fucking count.
“I can’t believe you switched us,” Sam says, paging a little frantically through the spell book.
He murmurs a bunch of latin, but nothing happens, and Sam starts to shiver again. Dean’s capable of recognizing Sam freaking out even if he is in a different body, so he manages to navigate the three feet between the beds without killing himself on the end table, then settles in behind him, sprawled across the bed.
“We’ll fix it,” Dean says, reassuring, and reaches a hand down to curl against Sam’s shoulder, pulling him back.
Sam doesn’t look too sure - uncertainty’s a weird look for Dean’s face, all considered, even though it’s still readable - but he leans into it.
“I hate you a lot right now,” Sam says. His breathing evens out when Dean wraps a hand around his shoulder, though, and it’s not actually all that long before he falls asleep, because Sam’s useless in this sort of situation.
Sam’s body apparently isn’t too interested in sleeping, probably because it sucks, so Dean heads outside and slides into the car again, relearning the distances he’s known by heart since before he was sixteen, trying to adjust to a new way of driving. It’s not as bad as he thought it’d be, but two hours later, he’s starting to feel it.
Sam’s a lot tenser than he’s used to being - probably because he never gets laid - and even Dean’s got to admit he’s stressed out, which apparently counts as a fucking green light for Sam’s entire back to knot up.
It actually hurts by the time he heads back inside, and he glares at Sam - still stretched out across the bed, now with another spell book, and he’d better not be infecting Dean’s brain with any extra information - for a couple minutes before realizing it has absolutely no effect.
“Dude,” he says, pulling off his shirt, “your body is defective.”
Sam looks offended.
“Seriously,” Dean says, trying to get his boots off - he has to actually sit down, which is lame and pathetic, just like Sam. “Your back isn’t working, bitch.”
“Oh, yeah,” Sam says, putting aside his book to pull out the laptop. “I don’t really notice.”
If Sam’s used to this shit, it probably means it gets worse, which makes Dean feel guilty, largely because he hasn’t actually noticed. Stretching does absolutely nothing, even flat out on the bed, so Dean gives up and heads into the bathroom, turning the shower up to full heat.
That actually helps, and even if he can’t get under the shower head like he’s used to, the hot water is fucking amazing, pressure right where it matters, and Dean starts to unwind for the first time all afternoon.
“Oh, yeah,” Dean sighs, closing his eyes, which is about when Sam shoulders his way into the shower.
“You’d better not even be thinking about it,” Sam warns, totally naked and looking pissed off.
“What?” Dean says, distracted, because it turns out his body looks better than he thought, and yeah, okay, those sit ups he’s been doing have had some serious effect. He looks awesome.
“You were moaning,” Sam says, defensively.
“What?” Dean says, then figures it out. “Dude.”
“That’s my body!” Sam says, and if Dean weren’t pissed at having his shower interrupted, he’d think it was hilarious, because Sam’s doing that thing where his face squashes up, and it looks fucking ridiculous. He sounds anxious, though, so Dean leans back against the tile, smirking, because winding Sam up is still his favorite activity, even if the facial expressions are less stupid, since it’s his face.
“You seriously think I’m not jerking off while we’re switched,” Dean says.
“Yes,” Sam says, earnest, and Dean cracks up, because come on.
Sam folds his arms, glaring, and it’s just so beautiful that Dean can’t help himself.
“Don’t worry, Sammy,” he says, letting his voice slide low, “I won’t compromise your maidenly virtue or anything,” and then he cracks up again, because Sam’s face goes bright red.
“I hate you,” Sam says, high pitched, and Dean slides a hand down over his stomach with a really noisy sigh, meaning to just fuck with him, except that’s actually all it takes, which is what happens when you totally fail to get laid for a year and a half.
Dean figures it should be totally awkward, except then Sam squeaks, outraged, and it’s fucking hilarious, because this is the perfect opportunity.
“No,” Sam says. “Seriously, don’t even - ”
Dean slides a hand down and wraps it around his erection with a really fake moan, and okay, yeah, maybe there are some benefits to being in Sam’s body, because he can feel it all over, warm and seriously fucking amazing.
“DEAN!” Sam yells, outraged, which really isn’t helping things, so Dean takes advantage of his sudden increase in size to shoulder him out of the shower, then the bathroom, locking the door behind him.
“Really, Sammy,” Dean says, settling back under the spray, and oh, yeah, it turns out maybe that particular sweet spot is genetic, because Sam’s whole body warms up when he tries it, and the moan that time isn’t entirely faked.
“I HATE YOU!” Sam yells again, pounding on the bathroom door, and all things considered, Dean’s fucking with Sam and about to have what promises to be a totally spectacular orgasm, so he’s feeling generous.
“You can have a turn after, bitch,” he says, making sure to make his voice as breathless as possible. It’s not like he cares if Sam’s getting him off.
It turns out, though, that Sam’s body likes the idea, which makes it totally not Dean’s fault when he thinks about it a little more and ends up coming so hard he almost falls over.
“Have fun,” Dean says, brightly, when he gets out of the shower and walks past Sam, who’s sitting on the edge of the bed looking seriously pissed off.
He falls into bed and passes out immediately, no HBO required.
Sam wakes him up a couple hours later by elbowing him in the ribcage and throwing a hamburger at his head, which Dean would be offended by if he didn’t deserve it.
“I still hate you,” Sam informs him, which Dean would be significantly more concerned with if there wasn’t a hamburger, and hey, a milkshake.
He’s already eaten the entire burger and about half of the milkshake when he realizes that he doesn’t even like vanilla, except it’s Sam’s favorite, and he suddenly gets why. Sam’s picking at some fries, looking miserable, so Dean gives in and passes over a second hamburger, contributing extra pickles.
“Here,” he says, and Sam bites into it grudgingly, then gets the idea, and the rest of it is gone in about five seconds.
“I hate pickles,” Sam says, fascinated, and Dean feels pretty smug, because now he’s too distracted to keep sulking.
Dean realizes their usual food division isn’t going to happen about the time Sam’s on his third helping, but at least he seems to calm down - he doesn’t look all that nervous anymore, which might mean less yelling.
“We could go to the library tomorrow,” Dean offers, and Sam makes a face, looking upset again.
“It’s just got to wear off,” Sam says, rubbing a hand over his face. “Might be a week, might be two - it wasn’t very specific.”
“There was some weird stuff in the paper, the next town over,” Dean offers, and Sam glares.
“Yeah, right,” he says. “In case you failed to notice, you can barely walk.”
Dean stands up and takes a couple steps just to prove a point, but he ends up tripping over the edge of the comforter and falling face first into a chair, which fucking hurts. Sam starts laughing, which is really fucking uncool, considering Dean might have a concussion or something.
“I fucking hate you,” he says, but even he’s got to admit Sam’s got a point, so he gives up and lets him pick what they’re watching.
Two days later, though, he’s ready to do just about anything to get out of the damn motel room. He’s got a hell of a lot of bruises just from moving around, and Sam’s so tense Dean can actually see it in his shoulder muscles, which mostly just pisses him off. They’re both at each other’s throats, and Sam’s actually stopped eating, which is fucked up on so many levels.
After Sam manages to tear a hole in the sleeve of his favorite shirt, Dean decides he’s fucking had it, which is how they end up standing in the middle of a Hallmark store at 9:30 at night, looking up at an air vent.
“Motherfucker,” Sam says, panting, and Dean thinks that sums it up nicely, because it turns out that the sudden rash of thefts at the shopping complex wasn’t so much gnomes - fond of shiny things, but stupid - as sprites, which Dean’s now officially willing to classify as a goddamned pain in his ass.
He figures maybe they could just let the damn things go, and in a couple of days they’d be back in the potted palm trees and he’d have the element of surprise, except they’ve been chasing tiny green faeries for two hours on a Sunday night, and Dean’s covered in scratches. He managed to hit his head four times, which probably has nothing to do with the sprites but is still fucking uncool. Now he’s got a headache the size of Manhattan, Sam’s favoring his left knee and he’s got a bite on the side of his hand, and they’re both covered in dirt.
These fuckers are going down.
Sprites are smart, but not necessarily gifted with a hell of a lot of foresight, which is why there are eleven of them gathered in an air duct that doesn’t actually have another opening.
“Come on,” Dean says, under his breath, and grabs a couple cards off the nearest rack, pulling out his lighter.
The first one he burns is covered in flowers and really annoying cursive script, and torching it is satisfying on so many levels. There’s a whole lot of coughing about the time he gets through Happy (Motherfucking) Kwanzaa, but they hold tight, and Dean gets so bored with burning things that he starts considering adding “suck my cock” to all the Valentine’s Day cards while they wait. It only takes one more card before all eleven of them spill out of the air duct, though, and Sam’s waiting. He sprays them with holy water, then scoops them into a bag while they’re all sneezing and rubbing at their skin. They both collapse down against a glass case of obnoxiously precious figurines, sitting on the floor, and Dean tilts his head back against the wall.
“Maybe we should take a break,” he says, finally, and then the smoke alarm goes off and the sprinklers come on.
Dean’s only consolation is that he’s pretty sure every single first holy communion card in the place is completely destroyed.
They take a detour on the way back to drop the sprites off in a park way the hell away from any and all shopping malls, and by the time they get back into town, Sam’s squirming.
“Christ, I’m starving,” he says, and Dean really wants to say something about Sam’s hunger strike, except he’s feeling good - soaking wet and bruised up as he is - so he just pulls into McDonalds.
He doesn’t actually bother to wait for Sam to order, just goes for his usual, and Sam, miraculously, doesn’t bitch about it. He starts digging in as soon as Dean passes over the food.
“Bad camping trip,” he lies to the cashier, with Sam’s best smile, and she throws in a couple extra apple pies, which makes the whole thing worthwhile, especially when she leans over to pass out their sodas and he gets just a glimpse -
Oh, yeah. There are freckles, and just a hint of plain white lace, and Dean’s fucking thrilled until he goes to park the car and realizes that he’s got the world’s most annoying erection, which is completely obvious considering that his jeans are soaked through.
Sam snickers, already half way through a thing of French fries, and Dean rolls his eyes.
“Dude,” he says, willing it to go away so he can actually enjoy his goddamned pie, “this one’s all you.”
“Sure, Dean,” Sam says, still laughing, and Dean hits him on the back of the head - revenge for the three doorframes he’s walked into today - and steals his hamburger.
By the time they get back to the hotel, Dean’s not the only one having inappropriate reactions to the apple pie. Sam squirms so much on the other bed while he waits for Dean to finish shaving that Dean accidentally cuts himself twice. Shaving Sam’s face is distracting at the best of times, largely because he still can’t convince his head that there’s a cause and effect relationship between what he’s doing and what’s going on in the mirror, and Sam rubbing a hand up and down his thigh sure as hell isn’t helping.
“Dude,” he says, because it’s not like it doesn’t happen every fucking time anyway, Sam’s just a pussy, “it’s just the adrenaline.”
Sam goes scarlet, though, which Dean finds hilarious, all things considered.
“It’s fine,” he says, high pitched. “I’m watching HBO, Dean.”
Sam’s actually watching the History Channel, which is a good indication that he’s not actually focused on the TV, so Dean gives up on the electric razor and flops down across the other bed.
“I’m done with the bathroom,” he says, but Sam doesn’t actually move, just stays there, and okay, Dean already came twice in the shower, but the way Sam is shifting his hips is really fucking distracting, and he actually wants to watch the current special on U-Boats.
“It’s not going to go away, Sammy,” he points out. “Just go shower.”
Sam goes all flushed and awkward. Dean’s definitely going to mock him about it later, but right now, he’s more interested in not watching Sam rub off against the bed.
“I can’t,” Sam says, sounding agonized, still squirming, and Dean realizes all of a sudden that it’s been three days and Sam’s still holding out, probably because he’s under the mistaken impression that Dean’s going to freak out if he tries anything.
Dean’s pretty sure this explains the bad mood he’s been in, because the last time he went three days without getting off he was actually hospitalized, and even then, it was mostly because Sam wouldn’t stop fucking hovering.
“Seriously, I don’t care,” Dean says, and Sam still doesn’t move, so Dean decides that another tactic is definitely in order.
“You want to know how I like it, Sammy?” he says, pitching his voice nice and low, smirking, because Sam’s so fucking easy to mess with, and Sam makes a high pitched girl noise and all but throws himself into the bathroom, traumatized.
All in all, Dean’s definitely willing to classify the evening as a win.
The next day, though, Dean figures out why the hell Sam always buys his jeans two sizes too big, because it turns out the thing with the girl in the drive-through wasn’t exactly a fluke. Sure, Dean’s managed to get hard over nothing before, but not four times in one morning.
He just wants a goddamned cup of coffee.
“Be with you in a minute, sugar,” the waitress says, leaning over to pick up a plate at another table, and jesus, he ends up with a full on view of her ass, which definitely brings the count up to five. He’s about ready to dump a glass of ice water directly into his lap.
“Seriously,” Dean hisses across the table, and kicks Sam, which makes him feel better. “What are you, fourteen?”
Dean actually remembers being fourteen, and he can safely say that even that wasn’t this bad.
“What?” Sam says, stealing his bacon, and Dean briefly considers throwing the ice water in his lap, except that he’s got something of a vested interest in that particular region.
“You really need to get laid, Sammy,” Dean says, finally, and Sam goes bright red and almost chokes on a bite of hash browns, which Dean definitely considers a moral victory.
The downside is that it doesn’t get much better, and by that evening, Dean’s so irritated that even he can tell he’s being a jackass.
“Do you want to watch this?” Sam says, pausing in channel surfing on some Discovery channel special about great whites, and Dean likes sharks - sharks are awesome - but if he seriously can’t deal with being in Sam’s body for any longer without hard liquor.
“I’m going to go out,” he says, pulling on a sweatshirt and grabbing the keys.
“Do you care if - ” Sam says, awkwardly, reaching for his jacket, and Dean feels kind of bad for bitching at him all day.
Hell, it’s not like this has been easy on Sam, either.
“It’s cool,” he says, holding open the door, and crosses the parking lot to slide into the car.
The funny thing is, this is what gets Sam’s body to unwind. Dean would never have figured, but having the radio on low and him in the passenger seat is what eases all the tension out of his spine. By the time they pull up at the bar, he’s almost in a better mood, and Sam grins at him when he flips the radio off, which makes his stomach turn over, unfamiliar. Sam’s body is full of weird quirks.
“I can do a ridiculous number of shots,” Sam says, looking amused.
“And I’m a fucking pussy,” Dean says, but it’s almost affectionate. Almost.
He’s really not all that pissed off about it, though, because what he wants is to get drunk, and the fact that it might only take a couple drinks to get there sounds really goddamned good at this point.
Sam goes to shoot a couple rounds of pool once they get inside - no money on the table, so Dean figures he’s probably just blowing off steam - and heads for the bar.
Three shots of tequila later, Dean’s feeling substantially better about the whole stuck-in-his-brother’s-oversized-and-useless-body thing. When the woman he’s been chatting with at the bar takes his hand and slides it deliberately up the inside of her thigh, well - that sure as hell isn’t hurting anything.
Pressed up against the back wall behind the payphones, she’s hot and wet and pretty damn close to perfect. Dean fits his hips up against hers, letting her rub up close against his erection, thrusting forward just enough to pin her. It’s different, watching her bite her lower lip, flushed all the way down beneath the collar of her shirt, because he’s nowhere near in control. It’s good anyway - maybe even better - because every inch of him knows exactly where this is going, and it’s going to be fucking amazing. He eases her skirt up, sliding a hand down to undo his jeans, and leans in for a long, hard kiss -
Which is when Sam interrupts.
“Sorry,” he says, with just the barest brush of his fingers against Dean’s shoulder, “I just - I need the keys - ”
He looks awkward and miserable, hurt written all over his face. Dean’s whole stomach turns over at that expression, tight and uncomfortable, and he backs away from the girl without even thinking about it.
“I’m - we’re done,” he says, to her, and under better circumstances Dean would feel bad about it, but there are twenty other men in this bar, and this is about Sam.
Sam doesn’t say anything on the way to the car, just takes the keys when Dean passes them over, body focused on the steering wheel. Dean feels sick.
“You didn’t have to stop,” Sam says, careful, tired, and the worst part is that he means it.
“Yeah,” Dean says, tight, “yeah, Sammy, I did.”
Sam needs to get laid badly, but Dean knows his brother better than anyone else on the planet, and beneath the teasing, there’s a line he’d never cross. Too many one night stands start to eat away at a person, and Dean fucking knows how it feels to know you’re never going to get more. Sam wants something better. Sam deserves something better, and Dean’s never quite figured out how he’s going to pull taking care of that one, but it sure as hell isn’t by fucking some girl in a bar while he’s in Sam’s body.
“It’s - ” Sam says, struggling for it, and Dean just undoes his seatbelt and leans into him, pressing his shoulder up against Sam’s.
“I’m not going to have sex with anyone while I’m you,” Dean says, sliding a hand to cover Sam’s knee, reassuring, “and I’m sorry.”
“Thanks, Dean,” Sam says, eyes still on the road, and maybe that’s not a lot, but the way Sam’s body relaxes against Dean’s is more than enough to make up the difference.
Back in the motel room, Sam turns on the TV, then rearranges everything on the nightstand twice, which probably means he’s feeling guilty over it.
“I know my - I know being me sucks,” Sam says, flushed.
Dean feels guilty again, because yeah, it’s not what he’s used to, but like this, he’s closer to Sam than he’s ever been, getting to know things he couldn’t have before, and that makes the stupid differences between them okay.
“Nah,” Dean says, stretching out across the bed behind him, closing his eyes so he can just know where Sam’s at without having to look at himself.
Sam’s a hell of a lot more tense, but he hurts less. Dean’s got two formerly dislocated shoulders, a fucked up knee, and three bullet wounds, so it’s at least a fair trade.
“Really - ” Sam says, starting in again, and Dean decides it’s totally not worth it.
“Yeah,” he says, with a sudden grin, “being a girl fucking sucks, Sammy,” and then he tackles him down onto the bed.
Five minutes later, Sam’s winning - Dean figures he can live with it because that’s totally his body coming out on top. Sam stops to catch his breath, just grinning, and there’s a two second gap, maybe, where it’s all Sam and nothing of him, and his whole body lights up. It’s not sexual, just happy, and it’s so stupid, but the fact that Sam’s happy because of him has Dean grinning back.
“God, you suck,” he says, and - as weird as it is, looking himself in the face - reaches a hand up to ruffle Sam’s hair.
“Definitely,” Sam agrees, still smiling, and grabs the bottom of Dean’s shirt to keep him pinned, his hand pressed up just against Dean’s stomach.
Dean’s got the amulet, but Sam’s still wearing his ring, and it’s cool and unexpected against Dean’s skin. Sam shifts, looking straight down into his eyes, and right there kicks the whole thing over, because there’s something there Sam really wants. Dean’s two seconds away from leaning up and closing the distance between them when Sam rolls away, laughing.
“I get to pick the movie,” he says, triumphant.
Dean’s left breathing hard and wondering what in the hell just happened.
On the bright side, Sam’s a lot happier after he realizes that Dean isn’t going to break his vow of celibacy or whatever the fuck he’s got going on. They do a couple jobs over the next week - nothing big, because Dean still can’t seem to figure out the secret of getting through low hanging windows without whacking his head and Sam’s speed has taken a serious hit - but mostly they just hang out in town. Sam likes coffee shops, and Dean’s willing to sit around all afternoon watching him mess around on the laptop if it means he can order jelly donuts without being bitched at.
Four or five days after the thing in the bar, Dean manages to bruise up half of his face and sprain his ankle going after what he thinks is a ghost - it turns out to be some more fucking sprites, and he doesn’t want to talk about it. Sam vetoes all of Dean’s revenge schemes, probably because Dean’s range of motion is now limited to hobbling between the motel room and the car, and Dean wakes up the next morning to find everything packed and Sam loading their bags.
“If we’re going to crash somewhere, it’s not going to be Kentucky,” Sam says, and Dean falls asleep stretched out in the backseat, listening to Sam singing along to the radio.
He wakes up a couple hours later when Sam stops for lunch, passing food back for him.
“Where are we going?” Dean says, still drowsy from the afternoon sunlight and the painkillers Sam made him take before they left.
“I’ve got it,” Sam says, turning around to grin at him for a minute before he pulls out of the parking lot. Dean drifts off again after lunch, and the next time he opens his eyes, it’s evening, and he can smell the ocean.
“You want to come up here?” Sam says, turning off the cassette player, and he pulls onto the shoulder so Dean can get in the front seat, rolling down the window.
He hasn’t spent a lot of time in this part of the country, but he’s glad Sam picked it, wherever they are. The air’s heavy and warm, pressing down against the hand he’s got out the window, and it feels like rain. They’re driving through salt marsh - Sam would know a hell of a lot more than that, but Dean doesn’t want to ask just now. The silence feels good, just the rustle of grass and the road beneath the car, and night’s falling all around them, soft and almost comforting.
“I got directions awhile back,” Sam says, and he turns down a dirt road.
They go through a little town - just some stores and houses, a lot of which are boarded up - and Sam pulls into the parking lot of a building up on stilts, then parks and heads inside.
“The rooms are down further,” he says, pointing, once he’s back with a key. “It’s not too bad of a walk.”
Dean’s ankle is better anyway, and Sam makes a trip with their bags and then comes back for him, and okay, it’s totally humiliating to have to lean up against him, but at least anyone who happens to be looking at them is going to see Sam.
A substantial hurricane would wash the motel away, but he can hear the ocean from here, and the rooms are separate, more like those vacation cottages. There’s a kitchenette and the usual tacky decorations, but the shower looks fucking amazing, and Dean thinks he might actually be able to fit in it without damaging anything.
Unfortunately, there’s also exactly one bed.
“I’m taking all the blankets, bitch,” Dean says, finally, and falls down across it while Sam unpacks.
They eat at a diner in town, and Dean’s definitely willing to concede that it’s the best shrimp he’s ever eaten. His ankle’s killing him, but they have hushpuppies, and Dean’s too happy by the time they get back to the hotel to protest much of anything.
“I want to walk down to the beach,” Sam says, after dinner, and unfortunately, Dean’s too distracted by the prospect of dessert to really protest, which is how he ends up sprawled out on a blanket next to a sand dune while Sam wades around in the breakers.
“If I get eaten by a fucking shark you’re not getting your body back, Sammy!” Dean yells, but Sam just laughs.
Twenty minutes later, Sam hasn’t said anything in awhile and Dean’s starting to get kind of concerned that maybe he really has been eaten by a shark - fuck if Dean knows if there are sharks in South Carolina, or maybe fucking mutant beach alligators - when suddenly his wet, sandy brother falls down onto the blanket beside him.
“I got seashells,” Sam says, sounding breathless and happy.
Dean’s pretty sure he needs to start worrying over whether he’s going to get his body back with a vagina, because Sam is such a fucking girl.
Sam has to make two trips back to the room - one for Dean and one for the assorted collection of items only a girl would take back from the beach - and by the time they get back, Dean’s really feeling the fact that he spent the entire day sleeping in the back of a car.
“Jesus,” Dean mutters, sitting on the edge of the bed to try to take jeans off, since they’re covered in sand. It doesn’t really work, because Sam’s back is useless.
“What?” Sam says, already half way into the bathroom, pulling off his shirt, because he has functional shoulder muscles.
“You seriously need to do something about your back, man,” Dean says, giving up on the jeans in favor of fishing the remote out of the bedside table.
“Sorry,” Sam says, sheepish, and gestures. “You want to come in?”
Dean feels weird about the whole sharing-a-shower thing, but the prospect of not falling and dying because Sam has pussy ankles that sprain really easily is appealing, and it’s not like he hasn’t seen himself naked before.
“Yeah, okay,” he says, and Sam pulls him to his feet and into the bathroom.
The shower’s exactly as fucking fantastic as Dean imagined. It doesn’t even matter that Sam ends up washing half of him because he can’t balance - there’s plenty of hot water, he’s no longer covered in sand, and his back is hurting less, all of which combine to make the world a really fucking good place.
It actually gets better, because after they’re both dressed again, Sam comes back from a run to the car for a soda and leans against the wall.
“Hey,” he says. “Do you want me to rub your back?”
Dean fucking loves backrubs, and since it’s Sam’s fault his back is fucked up, it’s only fair.
“Yeah, okay,” he says, rolling over onto his stomach at the foot of the bed.
Sam flips on the TV so Dean can watch, then kicks off his shoes and gets a bottle of motel lotion out of the bathroom before settling in beside him.
“Let me know if I push too hard,” he says, and spreads his hands out over Dean’s back.
It hurts a little at first, because Dean’s so tense. Sam’s hands against his shoulders make him wince, but it starts feeling good pretty damn fast, especially when Sam presses in with the heels of his hands all along his shoulder blades, then down into the small of his back. His hands are warm, and yeah, maybe not as big as they’d be if it were really Sam, but they’re broad anyway, and he’s pressing firm in all the right places.
Dean realizes a couple minutes later that he’s reacting predictably, considering that most of the backrubs he can think of happened as a prelude to sex. There’s also the fact that he’s currently experiencing a serious endorphin rush, which really isn’t helping matters.
“Just,” Dean says, letting his head fall forward, and then Sam presses his thumbs up the back of Dean’s neck with slow, steady pressure, sweeping out, and he flushes all over, that’s how good it is.
“Better?” Sam says, rubbing a hand down Dean’s spine, and Dean suddenly can’t breathe.
“Yeah,” he manages.
“Let me hit the other side of your shoulders,” Sam says, and before Dean can actually protest, he pushes him over.
“Sammy,” Dean mutters, trying to readjust the blankets, except Sam’s boxers don’t hide anything so it’s really a lost cause.
“Dean,” Sam says, a little dryly, leaning in, “it isn’t anything I haven’t seen before, honestly.”
Sam slides his hands to Dean’s shoulders again, watching him, laughing softly, and Dean’s blushing, warm all over. He realizes abruptly that it’s not just the way Sam’s touching him but who’s touching him, that Sam’s body is responding to him in a way that’s got nothing to do with Dean’s thought process, and the thing is, he’s responding back.
Dean knows what he looks like turned on, and it’s what Sam looks like now. His eyes are wide and his breathing’s uneven, and maybe it’s not as obvious as Dean’s blush, but it’s really fucking clear to Dean.
For the first time since this happened, he wants his own body back so badly it hurts.
Sam’s just staring at him, thoughtful, not laughing anymore, and Dean needs to know the difference, how much of this is Sam and how much of this is him, what he would feel like if they were two distinct people instead of one with rapidly blurring boundaries.
He’s always known that Sam hates casual sex and loves sleeping in the sun and can’t stand jazz, but now he knows the way it feels to breathe as him, to sleep as him, to love as him, and Dean’s never been any good at intimacy, anyway.
It’s terrifying, like deep water or endless blue sky, and the worst part is, when Sam looks at him, his face is wide open and wanting.
“It’s okay,” Sam says, hand still curled over his shoulder.
“I know -” Dean says, and then tries again. “You know -”
“I know you,” Sam says, simply, and kisses him.
It’s surreal and a little bit awkward, like learning to kiss all over again, with Sam’s mouth warm over his, breath getting caught between them. It’s also pretty fucking close to perfect.
Dean leans in close, letting Sam slide a hand up to cup his face, and jesus, the way Sam’s looking at him. This is the only thing that Dean’s ever had that was for good, guaranteed to last with no questions asked, and he realizes - abruptly, with Sam’s other hand fisted in his shirt, both of them just breathing - that he can keep this. This moment, in a poorly lit hotel room, stuck in his brother’s body, is maybe all he’s ever wanted.
Then Sam spreads a hand out across his back and Dean really can’t even think anymore, because Sam’s warm and close and kissing him again.
“I don’t know about you,” Sam murmurs, against his jaw, laughing, “but it’s been a really fucking long time since I got laid.”
“That’s because you suck,” Dean says, trying to keep a straight face, but he pulls Sam down, laughing too, because this feels right.
Sam’s got his head thrown back, breathing hard already, and when Dean slides a hand under his shirt to press his palm against Sam’s stomach, he starts to squirm.
“Not fucking fair,” Sam says, arching into the touch, and Dean grins, feeling turned on and maybe even affectionate.
“You think I’m going to play nice?” Dean murmurs, up against his jaw, and Sam shivers all over then grabs him, rolling them both back down onto the bed.
“I want this,” he says, looking down at Dean, “and I want to take it slow, but there’s just no fucking way.”
“Later,” Dean manages, and pulls Sam down on top of him.
Dean’s not sure he’s ready for anything slow and emotional - even if it’s Sam, there’s something permanent about that, and it scares him - but this, well - this, he wants.
Sam’s awkward at first, and Dean accidentally manages to shove his knee into Sam’s stomach, but after a couple of minutes of kissing, Sam stops to look at him. Dean can’t look away, not this close. Sam’s breathing hard, his eyes dark, and then it just tips over and he goes for it.
They don’t stop kissing the whole time, slow and intense, and Sam doesn’t even undress either of them, just shoves Dean’s boxers down and lines their hips up, getting a hand between them to wrap around Dean’s erection, rubbing his thumb over the head.
Dean went two months without sex once, but even coming down off of that doesn’t hold a candle to how it feels to have Sam touching him, murmuring encouragement against his jaw.
“Come on,” Sam says, stomach up against Dean’s, and then he takes his hand back and just thrusts down, all friction and skin and Sam.
“Come on, Dean -” he murmurs, right into his mouth, and Dean comes all over both of them.
When he can think again, he slides a hand down between them, stroking, nice and easy, and then he twists his wrist in a way that’s never failed to push him over the edge, and Sam’s head falls forward against Dean’s shoulder and he comes, breathing hard.
“Hi,” Sam says once he’s caught his breath, already sounding drowsy, lifting his head to look up at Dean, flushing a little. “I, uh - ”
“So my body’s a bad influence, bitch,” Dean says, smugly, and pulls him down for another kiss, almost tasting Sam’s laughter.
He lets Sam fall asleep on top of him after they clean up, even though he’s probably going to regret it in the morning, and with the lights down low, he doesn’t even have to pay attention to the differences: it’s just Sam, close and safe, and that’s more than enough for him.
Sam brings coffee and donuts the next morning, coming back from town, and then crawls back in bed. Dean wraps around him while he does a crossword, listening to music. He’d be more than happy not to get out of bed all day, except Sam decides somewhere around noon that he needs food again, since he’s an enormous pain in the ass.
They get lunch at the same diner, nudging each other’s feet under the table, and then Sam decides he wants to go back to the beach.
“You have an unhealthy fascination with sand, Sammy,” Dean mutters, but Sam hauls out the blanket for him again, so he doesn’t bitch too much.
Dean spends half an hour stretched out in the sun. He’s just about to yell for Sam to go get him a beer and maybe some sunscreen when he ends up standing ankle deep in water, and nearly falls over.
Dean does his usual victory dance, but it’s hollow without Sam around, so Dean goes to find him. Walking up the beach is weird, almost awkward, like this is what’s foreign, and he rubs a hand over his once familiar face, wondering if this is ever going to feel right.
Sam’s sitting on Dean’s blanket, almost sprawled out, and when Dean gets in close, he realizes that he looks amused and pissed off all at once.
“Thanks for permanently maiming me, you asshole,” Sam says, gesturing to his ankle, and Dean grins, a little awkward.
“Hey,” Dean replies, sitting down beside him, “at least I got you laid.”
Sam blushes, looking down, and Dean wonders for a minute if maybe he’s fucking this up, because he doesn’t feel like he’s breathing right and Sam’s too far away. He thought for a minute last night, falling asleep, that maybe it was a one time thing, worried that it was all of Sam and nothing of him, but he’s here and everything’s still there - it’s just his body leaning in instead of someone else’s.
“Yeah,” Sam says, still looking away.
Dean leans to settle his shoulder against Sam’s, nudging a hand against the inside of his knee. It’s uncertain, off balance, and he has to push himself, because his body doesn’t feel like his own anymore and it’s terrifying, but this is too important for hang ups over height differences and the lack of a familiar ache down his spine.
“You should try it sometime, Sammy,” Dean says, clearing his throat because his voice is too low, and Sam turns to look at him, his face sliding from hesitant to overwhelmingly happy, all at once.
“I’ll think about it,” Sam murmurs, then leans in and kisses him with a smile, wide open and warm.
Bodyswap, featuring inappropriate erections, Dean being a total jackass, Sam collecting seashells, Hallmark cards, a sprained ankle, and backrubs.
Kudos to dev_earl, smangosbubbles, and fahye for encouragement and beta.
This is for all the SPN!Christmas people who wanted the boys being each other.
Palatine, Sam/Dean, R, 7300 words.
Palatine
It’s not like he means for it to happen. Seriously.
One minute, he’s leaning over to look at the enormous spell book in Sam’s lap, sounding out a couple of phrases while they’re stopped at a red light, Sam messing with the radio. The next, he’s in the passenger seat while Sam’s nearly running Dean’s goddamned car into a Toyota.
Dean opens his mouth to yell, because his fucking brother should definitely know better than to run his car into anything, even in the event of sudden place switching, then realizes - suddenly and abruptly - that he’s still sitting in the driver’s seat.
His head turns, startled, without Dean doing anything.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean says, and the words come out of Sam’s mouth.
Sam manages to pull off at a gas station. He parks in the back, next to the ice coolers and unloading ramps, and Dean tries to adjust to the fact that breathing feels different. Sam’s starting to shake next to him - Dean’s response to stress - but the expression on his face when he leans in to rest his head against the steering wheel is all Sam.
“I can’t believe you!” Sam hisses, except Dean’s voice is way too low for it, and it just comes out rough and frustrated.
“Dude,” Dean says, “how was I supposed to know your fucking book was going to do that?”
“I don’t know,” Sam snaps back. “Common sense?”
“Whatever,” Dean says, trying to slouch down in the seat, but he really can’t, because Sam is fucking huge.
It figures that he’d end up switching bodies with his freak of nature brother instead of someone cool. Jessica Alba wouldn’t have a hard time fitting into the passenger seat of the Impala.
His annoyance just about doubles when Sam backs out, tight-faced, and nearly runs the car into a post because he’s not used to the height difference. They manage to get to a motel a couple blocks down without actually running into anything, and Sam goes in to get a room - he looks awkward in Dean’s body, like he’s not sure what to do with so little space, and when he goes to lean against the counter, he misses dramatically. The check in clerk probably has him figured for a drunk - it’s only two in the afternoon and Sam’s not exactly what you’d call coordinated - but he gets a key anyway.
Dean hits his head twice getting out of the car, and by the time he manages to sit down on the bed, he’s tripped over the curb and a chair and his head is killing him. He knows Sam’s body at least as well as his own - maybe better, considering how much time he spends looking at it - but it feels different to be inside it. Even Dean has to admit that reading out loud from one of Sam’s stupid books, even if he was trying to figure out how to pronounce corporeal, probably wasn’t the greatest idea. Usually, though, you at least have to burn shit, and Dean’s pretty sure that Sam accidentally setting the air freshener on fire doesn’t fucking count.
“I can’t believe you switched us,” Sam says, paging a little frantically through the spell book.
He murmurs a bunch of latin, but nothing happens, and Sam starts to shiver again. Dean’s capable of recognizing Sam freaking out even if he is in a different body, so he manages to navigate the three feet between the beds without killing himself on the end table, then settles in behind him, sprawled across the bed.
“We’ll fix it,” Dean says, reassuring, and reaches a hand down to curl against Sam’s shoulder, pulling him back.
Sam doesn’t look too sure - uncertainty’s a weird look for Dean’s face, all considered, even though it’s still readable - but he leans into it.
“I hate you a lot right now,” Sam says. His breathing evens out when Dean wraps a hand around his shoulder, though, and it’s not actually all that long before he falls asleep, because Sam’s useless in this sort of situation.
Sam’s body apparently isn’t too interested in sleeping, probably because it sucks, so Dean heads outside and slides into the car again, relearning the distances he’s known by heart since before he was sixteen, trying to adjust to a new way of driving. It’s not as bad as he thought it’d be, but two hours later, he’s starting to feel it.
Sam’s a lot tenser than he’s used to being - probably because he never gets laid - and even Dean’s got to admit he’s stressed out, which apparently counts as a fucking green light for Sam’s entire back to knot up.
It actually hurts by the time he heads back inside, and he glares at Sam - still stretched out across the bed, now with another spell book, and he’d better not be infecting Dean’s brain with any extra information - for a couple minutes before realizing it has absolutely no effect.
“Dude,” he says, pulling off his shirt, “your body is defective.”
Sam looks offended.
“Seriously,” Dean says, trying to get his boots off - he has to actually sit down, which is lame and pathetic, just like Sam. “Your back isn’t working, bitch.”
“Oh, yeah,” Sam says, putting aside his book to pull out the laptop. “I don’t really notice.”
If Sam’s used to this shit, it probably means it gets worse, which makes Dean feel guilty, largely because he hasn’t actually noticed. Stretching does absolutely nothing, even flat out on the bed, so Dean gives up and heads into the bathroom, turning the shower up to full heat.
That actually helps, and even if he can’t get under the shower head like he’s used to, the hot water is fucking amazing, pressure right where it matters, and Dean starts to unwind for the first time all afternoon.
“Oh, yeah,” Dean sighs, closing his eyes, which is about when Sam shoulders his way into the shower.
“You’d better not even be thinking about it,” Sam warns, totally naked and looking pissed off.
“What?” Dean says, distracted, because it turns out his body looks better than he thought, and yeah, okay, those sit ups he’s been doing have had some serious effect. He looks awesome.
“You were moaning,” Sam says, defensively.
“What?” Dean says, then figures it out. “Dude.”
“That’s my body!” Sam says, and if Dean weren’t pissed at having his shower interrupted, he’d think it was hilarious, because Sam’s doing that thing where his face squashes up, and it looks fucking ridiculous. He sounds anxious, though, so Dean leans back against the tile, smirking, because winding Sam up is still his favorite activity, even if the facial expressions are less stupid, since it’s his face.
“You seriously think I’m not jerking off while we’re switched,” Dean says.
“Yes,” Sam says, earnest, and Dean cracks up, because come on.
Sam folds his arms, glaring, and it’s just so beautiful that Dean can’t help himself.
“Don’t worry, Sammy,” he says, letting his voice slide low, “I won’t compromise your maidenly virtue or anything,” and then he cracks up again, because Sam’s face goes bright red.
“I hate you,” Sam says, high pitched, and Dean slides a hand down over his stomach with a really noisy sigh, meaning to just fuck with him, except that’s actually all it takes, which is what happens when you totally fail to get laid for a year and a half.
Dean figures it should be totally awkward, except then Sam squeaks, outraged, and it’s fucking hilarious, because this is the perfect opportunity.
“No,” Sam says. “Seriously, don’t even - ”
Dean slides a hand down and wraps it around his erection with a really fake moan, and okay, yeah, maybe there are some benefits to being in Sam’s body, because he can feel it all over, warm and seriously fucking amazing.
“DEAN!” Sam yells, outraged, which really isn’t helping things, so Dean takes advantage of his sudden increase in size to shoulder him out of the shower, then the bathroom, locking the door behind him.
“Really, Sammy,” Dean says, settling back under the spray, and oh, yeah, it turns out maybe that particular sweet spot is genetic, because Sam’s whole body warms up when he tries it, and the moan that time isn’t entirely faked.
“I HATE YOU!” Sam yells again, pounding on the bathroom door, and all things considered, Dean’s fucking with Sam and about to have what promises to be a totally spectacular orgasm, so he’s feeling generous.
“You can have a turn after, bitch,” he says, making sure to make his voice as breathless as possible. It’s not like he cares if Sam’s getting him off.
It turns out, though, that Sam’s body likes the idea, which makes it totally not Dean’s fault when he thinks about it a little more and ends up coming so hard he almost falls over.
“Have fun,” Dean says, brightly, when he gets out of the shower and walks past Sam, who’s sitting on the edge of the bed looking seriously pissed off.
He falls into bed and passes out immediately, no HBO required.
Sam wakes him up a couple hours later by elbowing him in the ribcage and throwing a hamburger at his head, which Dean would be offended by if he didn’t deserve it.
“I still hate you,” Sam informs him, which Dean would be significantly more concerned with if there wasn’t a hamburger, and hey, a milkshake.
He’s already eaten the entire burger and about half of the milkshake when he realizes that he doesn’t even like vanilla, except it’s Sam’s favorite, and he suddenly gets why. Sam’s picking at some fries, looking miserable, so Dean gives in and passes over a second hamburger, contributing extra pickles.
“Here,” he says, and Sam bites into it grudgingly, then gets the idea, and the rest of it is gone in about five seconds.
“I hate pickles,” Sam says, fascinated, and Dean feels pretty smug, because now he’s too distracted to keep sulking.
Dean realizes their usual food division isn’t going to happen about the time Sam’s on his third helping, but at least he seems to calm down - he doesn’t look all that nervous anymore, which might mean less yelling.
“We could go to the library tomorrow,” Dean offers, and Sam makes a face, looking upset again.
“It’s just got to wear off,” Sam says, rubbing a hand over his face. “Might be a week, might be two - it wasn’t very specific.”
“There was some weird stuff in the paper, the next town over,” Dean offers, and Sam glares.
“Yeah, right,” he says. “In case you failed to notice, you can barely walk.”
Dean stands up and takes a couple steps just to prove a point, but he ends up tripping over the edge of the comforter and falling face first into a chair, which fucking hurts. Sam starts laughing, which is really fucking uncool, considering Dean might have a concussion or something.
“I fucking hate you,” he says, but even he’s got to admit Sam’s got a point, so he gives up and lets him pick what they’re watching.
Two days later, though, he’s ready to do just about anything to get out of the damn motel room. He’s got a hell of a lot of bruises just from moving around, and Sam’s so tense Dean can actually see it in his shoulder muscles, which mostly just pisses him off. They’re both at each other’s throats, and Sam’s actually stopped eating, which is fucked up on so many levels.
After Sam manages to tear a hole in the sleeve of his favorite shirt, Dean decides he’s fucking had it, which is how they end up standing in the middle of a Hallmark store at 9:30 at night, looking up at an air vent.
“Motherfucker,” Sam says, panting, and Dean thinks that sums it up nicely, because it turns out that the sudden rash of thefts at the shopping complex wasn’t so much gnomes - fond of shiny things, but stupid - as sprites, which Dean’s now officially willing to classify as a goddamned pain in his ass.
He figures maybe they could just let the damn things go, and in a couple of days they’d be back in the potted palm trees and he’d have the element of surprise, except they’ve been chasing tiny green faeries for two hours on a Sunday night, and Dean’s covered in scratches. He managed to hit his head four times, which probably has nothing to do with the sprites but is still fucking uncool. Now he’s got a headache the size of Manhattan, Sam’s favoring his left knee and he’s got a bite on the side of his hand, and they’re both covered in dirt.
These fuckers are going down.
Sprites are smart, but not necessarily gifted with a hell of a lot of foresight, which is why there are eleven of them gathered in an air duct that doesn’t actually have another opening.
“Come on,” Dean says, under his breath, and grabs a couple cards off the nearest rack, pulling out his lighter.
The first one he burns is covered in flowers and really annoying cursive script, and torching it is satisfying on so many levels. There’s a whole lot of coughing about the time he gets through Happy (Motherfucking) Kwanzaa, but they hold tight, and Dean gets so bored with burning things that he starts considering adding “suck my cock” to all the Valentine’s Day cards while they wait. It only takes one more card before all eleven of them spill out of the air duct, though, and Sam’s waiting. He sprays them with holy water, then scoops them into a bag while they’re all sneezing and rubbing at their skin. They both collapse down against a glass case of obnoxiously precious figurines, sitting on the floor, and Dean tilts his head back against the wall.
“Maybe we should take a break,” he says, finally, and then the smoke alarm goes off and the sprinklers come on.
Dean’s only consolation is that he’s pretty sure every single first holy communion card in the place is completely destroyed.
They take a detour on the way back to drop the sprites off in a park way the hell away from any and all shopping malls, and by the time they get back into town, Sam’s squirming.
“Christ, I’m starving,” he says, and Dean really wants to say something about Sam’s hunger strike, except he’s feeling good - soaking wet and bruised up as he is - so he just pulls into McDonalds.
He doesn’t actually bother to wait for Sam to order, just goes for his usual, and Sam, miraculously, doesn’t bitch about it. He starts digging in as soon as Dean passes over the food.
“Bad camping trip,” he lies to the cashier, with Sam’s best smile, and she throws in a couple extra apple pies, which makes the whole thing worthwhile, especially when she leans over to pass out their sodas and he gets just a glimpse -
Oh, yeah. There are freckles, and just a hint of plain white lace, and Dean’s fucking thrilled until he goes to park the car and realizes that he’s got the world’s most annoying erection, which is completely obvious considering that his jeans are soaked through.
Sam snickers, already half way through a thing of French fries, and Dean rolls his eyes.
“Dude,” he says, willing it to go away so he can actually enjoy his goddamned pie, “this one’s all you.”
“Sure, Dean,” Sam says, still laughing, and Dean hits him on the back of the head - revenge for the three doorframes he’s walked into today - and steals his hamburger.
By the time they get back to the hotel, Dean’s not the only one having inappropriate reactions to the apple pie. Sam squirms so much on the other bed while he waits for Dean to finish shaving that Dean accidentally cuts himself twice. Shaving Sam’s face is distracting at the best of times, largely because he still can’t convince his head that there’s a cause and effect relationship between what he’s doing and what’s going on in the mirror, and Sam rubbing a hand up and down his thigh sure as hell isn’t helping.
“Dude,” he says, because it’s not like it doesn’t happen every fucking time anyway, Sam’s just a pussy, “it’s just the adrenaline.”
Sam goes scarlet, though, which Dean finds hilarious, all things considered.
“It’s fine,” he says, high pitched. “I’m watching HBO, Dean.”
Sam’s actually watching the History Channel, which is a good indication that he’s not actually focused on the TV, so Dean gives up on the electric razor and flops down across the other bed.
“I’m done with the bathroom,” he says, but Sam doesn’t actually move, just stays there, and okay, Dean already came twice in the shower, but the way Sam is shifting his hips is really fucking distracting, and he actually wants to watch the current special on U-Boats.
“It’s not going to go away, Sammy,” he points out. “Just go shower.”
Sam goes all flushed and awkward. Dean’s definitely going to mock him about it later, but right now, he’s more interested in not watching Sam rub off against the bed.
“I can’t,” Sam says, sounding agonized, still squirming, and Dean realizes all of a sudden that it’s been three days and Sam’s still holding out, probably because he’s under the mistaken impression that Dean’s going to freak out if he tries anything.
Dean’s pretty sure this explains the bad mood he’s been in, because the last time he went three days without getting off he was actually hospitalized, and even then, it was mostly because Sam wouldn’t stop fucking hovering.
“Seriously, I don’t care,” Dean says, and Sam still doesn’t move, so Dean decides that another tactic is definitely in order.
“You want to know how I like it, Sammy?” he says, pitching his voice nice and low, smirking, because Sam’s so fucking easy to mess with, and Sam makes a high pitched girl noise and all but throws himself into the bathroom, traumatized.
All in all, Dean’s definitely willing to classify the evening as a win.
The next day, though, Dean figures out why the hell Sam always buys his jeans two sizes too big, because it turns out the thing with the girl in the drive-through wasn’t exactly a fluke. Sure, Dean’s managed to get hard over nothing before, but not four times in one morning.
He just wants a goddamned cup of coffee.
“Be with you in a minute, sugar,” the waitress says, leaning over to pick up a plate at another table, and jesus, he ends up with a full on view of her ass, which definitely brings the count up to five. He’s about ready to dump a glass of ice water directly into his lap.
“Seriously,” Dean hisses across the table, and kicks Sam, which makes him feel better. “What are you, fourteen?”
Dean actually remembers being fourteen, and he can safely say that even that wasn’t this bad.
“What?” Sam says, stealing his bacon, and Dean briefly considers throwing the ice water in his lap, except that he’s got something of a vested interest in that particular region.
“You really need to get laid, Sammy,” Dean says, finally, and Sam goes bright red and almost chokes on a bite of hash browns, which Dean definitely considers a moral victory.
The downside is that it doesn’t get much better, and by that evening, Dean’s so irritated that even he can tell he’s being a jackass.
“Do you want to watch this?” Sam says, pausing in channel surfing on some Discovery channel special about great whites, and Dean likes sharks - sharks are awesome - but if he seriously can’t deal with being in Sam’s body for any longer without hard liquor.
“I’m going to go out,” he says, pulling on a sweatshirt and grabbing the keys.
“Do you care if - ” Sam says, awkwardly, reaching for his jacket, and Dean feels kind of bad for bitching at him all day.
Hell, it’s not like this has been easy on Sam, either.
“It’s cool,” he says, holding open the door, and crosses the parking lot to slide into the car.
The funny thing is, this is what gets Sam’s body to unwind. Dean would never have figured, but having the radio on low and him in the passenger seat is what eases all the tension out of his spine. By the time they pull up at the bar, he’s almost in a better mood, and Sam grins at him when he flips the radio off, which makes his stomach turn over, unfamiliar. Sam’s body is full of weird quirks.
“I can do a ridiculous number of shots,” Sam says, looking amused.
“And I’m a fucking pussy,” Dean says, but it’s almost affectionate. Almost.
He’s really not all that pissed off about it, though, because what he wants is to get drunk, and the fact that it might only take a couple drinks to get there sounds really goddamned good at this point.
Sam goes to shoot a couple rounds of pool once they get inside - no money on the table, so Dean figures he’s probably just blowing off steam - and heads for the bar.
Three shots of tequila later, Dean’s feeling substantially better about the whole stuck-in-his-brother’s-oversized-and-useless-body thing. When the woman he’s been chatting with at the bar takes his hand and slides it deliberately up the inside of her thigh, well - that sure as hell isn’t hurting anything.
Pressed up against the back wall behind the payphones, she’s hot and wet and pretty damn close to perfect. Dean fits his hips up against hers, letting her rub up close against his erection, thrusting forward just enough to pin her. It’s different, watching her bite her lower lip, flushed all the way down beneath the collar of her shirt, because he’s nowhere near in control. It’s good anyway - maybe even better - because every inch of him knows exactly where this is going, and it’s going to be fucking amazing. He eases her skirt up, sliding a hand down to undo his jeans, and leans in for a long, hard kiss -
Which is when Sam interrupts.
“Sorry,” he says, with just the barest brush of his fingers against Dean’s shoulder, “I just - I need the keys - ”
He looks awkward and miserable, hurt written all over his face. Dean’s whole stomach turns over at that expression, tight and uncomfortable, and he backs away from the girl without even thinking about it.
“I’m - we’re done,” he says, to her, and under better circumstances Dean would feel bad about it, but there are twenty other men in this bar, and this is about Sam.
Sam doesn’t say anything on the way to the car, just takes the keys when Dean passes them over, body focused on the steering wheel. Dean feels sick.
“You didn’t have to stop,” Sam says, careful, tired, and the worst part is that he means it.
“Yeah,” Dean says, tight, “yeah, Sammy, I did.”
Sam needs to get laid badly, but Dean knows his brother better than anyone else on the planet, and beneath the teasing, there’s a line he’d never cross. Too many one night stands start to eat away at a person, and Dean fucking knows how it feels to know you’re never going to get more. Sam wants something better. Sam deserves something better, and Dean’s never quite figured out how he’s going to pull taking care of that one, but it sure as hell isn’t by fucking some girl in a bar while he’s in Sam’s body.
“It’s - ” Sam says, struggling for it, and Dean just undoes his seatbelt and leans into him, pressing his shoulder up against Sam’s.
“I’m not going to have sex with anyone while I’m you,” Dean says, sliding a hand to cover Sam’s knee, reassuring, “and I’m sorry.”
“Thanks, Dean,” Sam says, eyes still on the road, and maybe that’s not a lot, but the way Sam’s body relaxes against Dean’s is more than enough to make up the difference.
Back in the motel room, Sam turns on the TV, then rearranges everything on the nightstand twice, which probably means he’s feeling guilty over it.
“I know my - I know being me sucks,” Sam says, flushed.
Dean feels guilty again, because yeah, it’s not what he’s used to, but like this, he’s closer to Sam than he’s ever been, getting to know things he couldn’t have before, and that makes the stupid differences between them okay.
“Nah,” Dean says, stretching out across the bed behind him, closing his eyes so he can just know where Sam’s at without having to look at himself.
Sam’s a hell of a lot more tense, but he hurts less. Dean’s got two formerly dislocated shoulders, a fucked up knee, and three bullet wounds, so it’s at least a fair trade.
“Really - ” Sam says, starting in again, and Dean decides it’s totally not worth it.
“Yeah,” he says, with a sudden grin, “being a girl fucking sucks, Sammy,” and then he tackles him down onto the bed.
Five minutes later, Sam’s winning - Dean figures he can live with it because that’s totally his body coming out on top. Sam stops to catch his breath, just grinning, and there’s a two second gap, maybe, where it’s all Sam and nothing of him, and his whole body lights up. It’s not sexual, just happy, and it’s so stupid, but the fact that Sam’s happy because of him has Dean grinning back.
“God, you suck,” he says, and - as weird as it is, looking himself in the face - reaches a hand up to ruffle Sam’s hair.
“Definitely,” Sam agrees, still smiling, and grabs the bottom of Dean’s shirt to keep him pinned, his hand pressed up just against Dean’s stomach.
Dean’s got the amulet, but Sam’s still wearing his ring, and it’s cool and unexpected against Dean’s skin. Sam shifts, looking straight down into his eyes, and right there kicks the whole thing over, because there’s something there Sam really wants. Dean’s two seconds away from leaning up and closing the distance between them when Sam rolls away, laughing.
“I get to pick the movie,” he says, triumphant.
Dean’s left breathing hard and wondering what in the hell just happened.
On the bright side, Sam’s a lot happier after he realizes that Dean isn’t going to break his vow of celibacy or whatever the fuck he’s got going on. They do a couple jobs over the next week - nothing big, because Dean still can’t seem to figure out the secret of getting through low hanging windows without whacking his head and Sam’s speed has taken a serious hit - but mostly they just hang out in town. Sam likes coffee shops, and Dean’s willing to sit around all afternoon watching him mess around on the laptop if it means he can order jelly donuts without being bitched at.
Four or five days after the thing in the bar, Dean manages to bruise up half of his face and sprain his ankle going after what he thinks is a ghost - it turns out to be some more fucking sprites, and he doesn’t want to talk about it. Sam vetoes all of Dean’s revenge schemes, probably because Dean’s range of motion is now limited to hobbling between the motel room and the car, and Dean wakes up the next morning to find everything packed and Sam loading their bags.
“If we’re going to crash somewhere, it’s not going to be Kentucky,” Sam says, and Dean falls asleep stretched out in the backseat, listening to Sam singing along to the radio.
He wakes up a couple hours later when Sam stops for lunch, passing food back for him.
“Where are we going?” Dean says, still drowsy from the afternoon sunlight and the painkillers Sam made him take before they left.
“I’ve got it,” Sam says, turning around to grin at him for a minute before he pulls out of the parking lot. Dean drifts off again after lunch, and the next time he opens his eyes, it’s evening, and he can smell the ocean.
“You want to come up here?” Sam says, turning off the cassette player, and he pulls onto the shoulder so Dean can get in the front seat, rolling down the window.
He hasn’t spent a lot of time in this part of the country, but he’s glad Sam picked it, wherever they are. The air’s heavy and warm, pressing down against the hand he’s got out the window, and it feels like rain. They’re driving through salt marsh - Sam would know a hell of a lot more than that, but Dean doesn’t want to ask just now. The silence feels good, just the rustle of grass and the road beneath the car, and night’s falling all around them, soft and almost comforting.
“I got directions awhile back,” Sam says, and he turns down a dirt road.
They go through a little town - just some stores and houses, a lot of which are boarded up - and Sam pulls into the parking lot of a building up on stilts, then parks and heads inside.
“The rooms are down further,” he says, pointing, once he’s back with a key. “It’s not too bad of a walk.”
Dean’s ankle is better anyway, and Sam makes a trip with their bags and then comes back for him, and okay, it’s totally humiliating to have to lean up against him, but at least anyone who happens to be looking at them is going to see Sam.
A substantial hurricane would wash the motel away, but he can hear the ocean from here, and the rooms are separate, more like those vacation cottages. There’s a kitchenette and the usual tacky decorations, but the shower looks fucking amazing, and Dean thinks he might actually be able to fit in it without damaging anything.
Unfortunately, there’s also exactly one bed.
“I’m taking all the blankets, bitch,” Dean says, finally, and falls down across it while Sam unpacks.
They eat at a diner in town, and Dean’s definitely willing to concede that it’s the best shrimp he’s ever eaten. His ankle’s killing him, but they have hushpuppies, and Dean’s too happy by the time they get back to the hotel to protest much of anything.
“I want to walk down to the beach,” Sam says, after dinner, and unfortunately, Dean’s too distracted by the prospect of dessert to really protest, which is how he ends up sprawled out on a blanket next to a sand dune while Sam wades around in the breakers.
“If I get eaten by a fucking shark you’re not getting your body back, Sammy!” Dean yells, but Sam just laughs.
Twenty minutes later, Sam hasn’t said anything in awhile and Dean’s starting to get kind of concerned that maybe he really has been eaten by a shark - fuck if Dean knows if there are sharks in South Carolina, or maybe fucking mutant beach alligators - when suddenly his wet, sandy brother falls down onto the blanket beside him.
“I got seashells,” Sam says, sounding breathless and happy.
Dean’s pretty sure he needs to start worrying over whether he’s going to get his body back with a vagina, because Sam is such a fucking girl.
Sam has to make two trips back to the room - one for Dean and one for the assorted collection of items only a girl would take back from the beach - and by the time they get back, Dean’s really feeling the fact that he spent the entire day sleeping in the back of a car.
“Jesus,” Dean mutters, sitting on the edge of the bed to try to take jeans off, since they’re covered in sand. It doesn’t really work, because Sam’s back is useless.
“What?” Sam says, already half way into the bathroom, pulling off his shirt, because he has functional shoulder muscles.
“You seriously need to do something about your back, man,” Dean says, giving up on the jeans in favor of fishing the remote out of the bedside table.
“Sorry,” Sam says, sheepish, and gestures. “You want to come in?”
Dean feels weird about the whole sharing-a-shower thing, but the prospect of not falling and dying because Sam has pussy ankles that sprain really easily is appealing, and it’s not like he hasn’t seen himself naked before.
“Yeah, okay,” he says, and Sam pulls him to his feet and into the bathroom.
The shower’s exactly as fucking fantastic as Dean imagined. It doesn’t even matter that Sam ends up washing half of him because he can’t balance - there’s plenty of hot water, he’s no longer covered in sand, and his back is hurting less, all of which combine to make the world a really fucking good place.
It actually gets better, because after they’re both dressed again, Sam comes back from a run to the car for a soda and leans against the wall.
“Hey,” he says. “Do you want me to rub your back?”
Dean fucking loves backrubs, and since it’s Sam’s fault his back is fucked up, it’s only fair.
“Yeah, okay,” he says, rolling over onto his stomach at the foot of the bed.
Sam flips on the TV so Dean can watch, then kicks off his shoes and gets a bottle of motel lotion out of the bathroom before settling in beside him.
“Let me know if I push too hard,” he says, and spreads his hands out over Dean’s back.
It hurts a little at first, because Dean’s so tense. Sam’s hands against his shoulders make him wince, but it starts feeling good pretty damn fast, especially when Sam presses in with the heels of his hands all along his shoulder blades, then down into the small of his back. His hands are warm, and yeah, maybe not as big as they’d be if it were really Sam, but they’re broad anyway, and he’s pressing firm in all the right places.
Dean realizes a couple minutes later that he’s reacting predictably, considering that most of the backrubs he can think of happened as a prelude to sex. There’s also the fact that he’s currently experiencing a serious endorphin rush, which really isn’t helping matters.
“Just,” Dean says, letting his head fall forward, and then Sam presses his thumbs up the back of Dean’s neck with slow, steady pressure, sweeping out, and he flushes all over, that’s how good it is.
“Better?” Sam says, rubbing a hand down Dean’s spine, and Dean suddenly can’t breathe.
“Yeah,” he manages.
“Let me hit the other side of your shoulders,” Sam says, and before Dean can actually protest, he pushes him over.
“Sammy,” Dean mutters, trying to readjust the blankets, except Sam’s boxers don’t hide anything so it’s really a lost cause.
“Dean,” Sam says, a little dryly, leaning in, “it isn’t anything I haven’t seen before, honestly.”
Sam slides his hands to Dean’s shoulders again, watching him, laughing softly, and Dean’s blushing, warm all over. He realizes abruptly that it’s not just the way Sam’s touching him but who’s touching him, that Sam’s body is responding to him in a way that’s got nothing to do with Dean’s thought process, and the thing is, he’s responding back.
Dean knows what he looks like turned on, and it’s what Sam looks like now. His eyes are wide and his breathing’s uneven, and maybe it’s not as obvious as Dean’s blush, but it’s really fucking clear to Dean.
For the first time since this happened, he wants his own body back so badly it hurts.
Sam’s just staring at him, thoughtful, not laughing anymore, and Dean needs to know the difference, how much of this is Sam and how much of this is him, what he would feel like if they were two distinct people instead of one with rapidly blurring boundaries.
He’s always known that Sam hates casual sex and loves sleeping in the sun and can’t stand jazz, but now he knows the way it feels to breathe as him, to sleep as him, to love as him, and Dean’s never been any good at intimacy, anyway.
It’s terrifying, like deep water or endless blue sky, and the worst part is, when Sam looks at him, his face is wide open and wanting.
“It’s okay,” Sam says, hand still curled over his shoulder.
“I know -” Dean says, and then tries again. “You know -”
“I know you,” Sam says, simply, and kisses him.
It’s surreal and a little bit awkward, like learning to kiss all over again, with Sam’s mouth warm over his, breath getting caught between them. It’s also pretty fucking close to perfect.
Dean leans in close, letting Sam slide a hand up to cup his face, and jesus, the way Sam’s looking at him. This is the only thing that Dean’s ever had that was for good, guaranteed to last with no questions asked, and he realizes - abruptly, with Sam’s other hand fisted in his shirt, both of them just breathing - that he can keep this. This moment, in a poorly lit hotel room, stuck in his brother’s body, is maybe all he’s ever wanted.
Then Sam spreads a hand out across his back and Dean really can’t even think anymore, because Sam’s warm and close and kissing him again.
“I don’t know about you,” Sam murmurs, against his jaw, laughing, “but it’s been a really fucking long time since I got laid.”
“That’s because you suck,” Dean says, trying to keep a straight face, but he pulls Sam down, laughing too, because this feels right.
Sam’s got his head thrown back, breathing hard already, and when Dean slides a hand under his shirt to press his palm against Sam’s stomach, he starts to squirm.
“Not fucking fair,” Sam says, arching into the touch, and Dean grins, feeling turned on and maybe even affectionate.
“You think I’m going to play nice?” Dean murmurs, up against his jaw, and Sam shivers all over then grabs him, rolling them both back down onto the bed.
“I want this,” he says, looking down at Dean, “and I want to take it slow, but there’s just no fucking way.”
“Later,” Dean manages, and pulls Sam down on top of him.
Dean’s not sure he’s ready for anything slow and emotional - even if it’s Sam, there’s something permanent about that, and it scares him - but this, well - this, he wants.
Sam’s awkward at first, and Dean accidentally manages to shove his knee into Sam’s stomach, but after a couple of minutes of kissing, Sam stops to look at him. Dean can’t look away, not this close. Sam’s breathing hard, his eyes dark, and then it just tips over and he goes for it.
They don’t stop kissing the whole time, slow and intense, and Sam doesn’t even undress either of them, just shoves Dean’s boxers down and lines their hips up, getting a hand between them to wrap around Dean’s erection, rubbing his thumb over the head.
Dean went two months without sex once, but even coming down off of that doesn’t hold a candle to how it feels to have Sam touching him, murmuring encouragement against his jaw.
“Come on,” Sam says, stomach up against Dean’s, and then he takes his hand back and just thrusts down, all friction and skin and Sam.
“Come on, Dean -” he murmurs, right into his mouth, and Dean comes all over both of them.
When he can think again, he slides a hand down between them, stroking, nice and easy, and then he twists his wrist in a way that’s never failed to push him over the edge, and Sam’s head falls forward against Dean’s shoulder and he comes, breathing hard.
“Hi,” Sam says once he’s caught his breath, already sounding drowsy, lifting his head to look up at Dean, flushing a little. “I, uh - ”
“So my body’s a bad influence, bitch,” Dean says, smugly, and pulls him down for another kiss, almost tasting Sam’s laughter.
He lets Sam fall asleep on top of him after they clean up, even though he’s probably going to regret it in the morning, and with the lights down low, he doesn’t even have to pay attention to the differences: it’s just Sam, close and safe, and that’s more than enough for him.
Sam brings coffee and donuts the next morning, coming back from town, and then crawls back in bed. Dean wraps around him while he does a crossword, listening to music. He’d be more than happy not to get out of bed all day, except Sam decides somewhere around noon that he needs food again, since he’s an enormous pain in the ass.
They get lunch at the same diner, nudging each other’s feet under the table, and then Sam decides he wants to go back to the beach.
“You have an unhealthy fascination with sand, Sammy,” Dean mutters, but Sam hauls out the blanket for him again, so he doesn’t bitch too much.
Dean spends half an hour stretched out in the sun. He’s just about to yell for Sam to go get him a beer and maybe some sunscreen when he ends up standing ankle deep in water, and nearly falls over.
Dean does his usual victory dance, but it’s hollow without Sam around, so Dean goes to find him. Walking up the beach is weird, almost awkward, like this is what’s foreign, and he rubs a hand over his once familiar face, wondering if this is ever going to feel right.
Sam’s sitting on Dean’s blanket, almost sprawled out, and when Dean gets in close, he realizes that he looks amused and pissed off all at once.
“Thanks for permanently maiming me, you asshole,” Sam says, gesturing to his ankle, and Dean grins, a little awkward.
“Hey,” Dean replies, sitting down beside him, “at least I got you laid.”
Sam blushes, looking down, and Dean wonders for a minute if maybe he’s fucking this up, because he doesn’t feel like he’s breathing right and Sam’s too far away. He thought for a minute last night, falling asleep, that maybe it was a one time thing, worried that it was all of Sam and nothing of him, but he’s here and everything’s still there - it’s just his body leaning in instead of someone else’s.
“Yeah,” Sam says, still looking away.
Dean leans to settle his shoulder against Sam’s, nudging a hand against the inside of his knee. It’s uncertain, off balance, and he has to push himself, because his body doesn’t feel like his own anymore and it’s terrifying, but this is too important for hang ups over height differences and the lack of a familiar ache down his spine.
“You should try it sometime, Sammy,” Dean says, clearing his throat because his voice is too low, and Sam turns to look at him, his face sliding from hesitant to overwhelmingly happy, all at once.
“I’ll think about it,” Sam murmurs, then leans in and kisses him with a smile, wide open and warm.