Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dean shoots the witch straight through the heart, but for some reason she's smiling as she hits the wall, her eyes fixed on his as she slides down to the ground, leaving a streak of scarlet on the white paint behind her. It's kind of creepy, the way she's grinning at him, mouthing something he can't distinguish, but then the light fades from her eyes and she's gone. Dean crosses the room and reaches down to check her pulse, and when her hand closes around his wrist and her eyes snap back open he very nearly screams even though it's like every bad horror movie ever, and he empties a whole chamber into her chest at point blank range. Her blood gets all over his shirt and splashes his face, splatters his lips and stings his eyes, but that's it, she's really gone now, and after a horrible, suspicious moment his pulse starts to steady and he turns his attention to the job at hand. He unties the two guys who were pegged to the floor in the middle of the circle. They're both pretty shaken up, stuttering their thanks as they stagger to their feet and casting resentful, terrified glances at the dead woman who lies in a growing pool of her own blood. Dean doesn't feel all that great about saving them, though, seeing as how they're both abusive assholes, and on the whole he doesn't think they'd have been any great loss to the world – but that's the gig: saving people, hunting things, killing monsters. Witches with human sacrifice as their sport of choice – that comes pretty firmly under the 'monster' heading, as far as Dean's concerned. Even if she seemed kind of picky about her victims.

He's busy helping the guys to their feet and getting them out of the room, and if he feels a little dizzy, a little amped, he doesn't think anything of it at the time.

Dean winces as he comes slipping back into consciousness. He feels like he went five rounds with King Kong the night before and then got stomped on by Godzilla on the way home just for good measure. His back hurts. His arms hurt. His chest hurts. Even his hair follicles feel raw and tender. Dean cracks open sore eyes and stares at the ceiling, and tries to remember just what flavour of ugly was responsible for beating the living crap out of him this time around. He hopes that he killed it really hard, whatever it was. From the way his head's pounding, Dean kind of suspects he may have been self-medicating with Bourbon again; and in retrospect, that may not have been the smartest idea ever.

It's a little after dawn, the thin light streaming through the cracks in the blinds to lie across the mushroom-coloured carpet in pallid stripes. Sam's still snoring gently, his bed criss-crossed with light and shadow. The wallpaper is pale green, decorated with shamrocks and jolly cartoon leprechauns. Seattle, Dean concludes after a moment. Seattle, on a tip from Ellen, and they'd been after a witch with a weakness for blood sacrifice. Only – that means that Dean didn't spend the evening getting beat up by a shape shifter or a werewolf or some other musclebound son of a bitch, and he's pretty sure he didn't have more than a couple of beers before going to bed, so what's with the way his whole body feels like it's been pounded into hamburger? He scrubs one hand gingerly through his sweaty hair and starts to sit up in bed, and that's when he really registers the difference. Took him long enough. Still, there's no missing the pull and sway as parts of his body start to shift in new and unexpected ways, while other parts of his body – well, they don't seem to be doing much shifting at all. Because they kind of don't actually seem to be there.

He probably looks pretty damn amusing at that moment, with his eyes bugging out and his jaw dropping, but Dean really isn't seeing the funny side as he stares down incredulously at his chest in the t-shirt. What he's seeing, in point of fact, is, quite unmistakably, a pair of breasts. Growing out of his chest.

“Fuck!” Dean says – and there's his second shock of the morning: a whole new vocal register. It's definitely more of a husky alto than a shrill little soprano that he's got going on, but the voice? Very much not a guy's voice. Not hisvoice. “What the hell?” he exclaims, starting to shift into serious freak-the-fuck-out mode as he shoves a hand down inside his boxer briefs and confirms for absolutely certain sure that some evil, magic-wielding scumbag has somehow stolen his dick. “No way! no fucking WAY!” Dean snarls, scrambling out of bed like that's somehow going to help, and reaching reflexively to the bedside table for his gun. He feels better when he's got it in his hand, even though there's nothing around to shoot.

“Dean?” Sam sits up, blinking, and squints past the bands of sun in his eyes. “You okay?”

“No, Sammy, I am pretty far from okay right now,” says Dean, trying hard to pitch his voice as low as he can and horrified that the result is more Jessica Rabbit than it is the goddamn Batman. “Seriously – what the everliving fuck?” He's got his gun in one hand, and the other is kneading incredulously at one of his brand new breasts, as if this is going to make them vanish, and Sam just sits there and gapes for a good ten seconds or so while Dean yanks open the neck of his t-shirt and peers down inside it. “I've got boobs. I've – d'you see this? Sam? What the hell?”

“Dean?” says Sam again, his voice perfectly balanced between horror and hilarity. “Is that – are you – what – what happened here, Dean?” And there's something to be grateful for, anyway – Sam still knows he's him, chick voice and chick parts notwithstanding.

“I have no clue,” he says shakily, and just stares at his brother. “I don't – I – Sam, I got nothin'. I went to bed me, I woke up – Brandon Teena.”

“Oookay,” says Sam, nodding slowly and trying to look like he isn't completely spooked. “That's – well, there's got to be a logical explanation for this. Right? It's a spell or a curse or a – oh.”

Their eyes meet, as they both have the self same thought. “Crap,” says Dean, his heart sinking. “The witch.”

“The witch,” Sam agrees, with a little half-shrug. “Gotta be.”

“But – she's dead. I killed her already,” says Dean, feeling suddenly helpless. “How – I don't get it.” Sam is staring at his chest. He's been staring at his chest through most of the conversation, in fact, apart from the moments when his eyes dart up to Dean's face – not his eyes, mind, but his face – or down to flash a quick, panicky, skittering glance at the flat place where there really should be a bulge in Dean's underwear, or further down to ogle his legs incredulously. “Sam!”

“Death curse?” offers Sam, meeting Dean's eyes and looking thoroughly lost. “Maybe?”

“Shit.”

“Yeah – that's some pretty major hoodoo.”

Dean draws a deep breath, and then another, and can't help staring down at the way his chest inflates with each breath. “Sam, I'm standing here with no penis,” he says as calmly as he can manage. “I know that we're talking major hoodoo. This is about as major as hoodoo gets.” Dean makes a stifled want-to-punch-something gesture of frustration, and then points down convulsively at his crotch. “No! Penis!”

Sam nods helplessly, staring wide-eyed at Dean's crotch. “That's – I – that's pretty bad, dude.”

“Pretty bad? Pretty bad? Fuck, Sammy, Nair in the shampoo is pretty bad. THIS? This is fucking catastrophic! Apocalyptic! Rain of toads, sea of blood, Ann Coulter elected President of the United States, Metallica playing R&B in Vegas, end of the freaking world disastrous.” And, yes, this may be a little egocentric, but right now, as far as Dean is concerned, it's also absolutely true. Somebody has stolen his penis, for the love of God!

Sam frowns. “Well, no, I mean – Dean, we're not talking Lucifer walking the earth. You've got to keep this in perspective,” says Sam, and Dean stares at him for a furious, speechless moment and then launches himself at his brother and starts whacking him over the head.

“No penis, Sammy,” he snarls, punctuating each word with a smack. Sam twists under the covers, raising his arms to protect his head. Dean's breasts swing around really annoyingly and seem to make the whole punching process a lot weirder than it should be, and Dean is beginning to understand why women bother with bras, but smacking Sammy upside the head is, as it turns out, still quite a satisfying way of venting his frustration. Apart from the fact that Sam's just taking it, and isn't making any attempt to hit back. Dean stares in sudden comprehension.“Don't be so – oh my God, you chicken-shit little – hit back!”

“Dean,” protests Sam, grabbing for Dean's wrists, and somehow Sam seems to be even bigger than usual, which is wildly annoying, and then Dean realises that he's probably gotten smaller now. Six foot is pretty tall for a girl, after all. Just what he needs. Fanfuckingtastic.

“Oh my God, what – you're not going to fight back because I look like a girl? What is this bullshit? You hit girls, Sam.” Dean tries to knee him in the crotch, but Sam knows him too well.

“Evil girls,” Sam protests. “Demon-possessed type girls, or, you know, otherwise evil ones. Not normal girls.”

“I'm not a normal girl, jackass!” yells Dean, beside himself with rage. “I am your big brother, and I can still put you over my knee and give you the spanking of your life, you snotty little bastard.”

“Yeah – not so much, actually,” says Sam, grinning up at him. And to Dean's absolute fury, it seems that this is the case. He hasn't really taken on board until now quite how very big Sam is, but it turns out that Sam? Is very big indeed. And in outrageously good shape. And Dean, although he's seven kinds of badass, is decidedly off his game, between the lingering shock and the fact that his balance is different, and his height seems to have shifted by a good four or five inches, and he's got these freaking breasts flying around in his t-shirt like a bagful of frisky puppies, and, damn, this is just the shittiest morning ever. Dean eventually stops flailing and just glares at Sam.

“You suck,” he says, panting, and his voice hitches slightly.

“Yeah, well,” says Sam, looking apologetic. “I learned from the best.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.” There is a slightly shaky pause, and Dean's still straddling the covers, and Sam's still holding onto his wrists pretty tight and eyeing him with a mix of wariness and sympathy. “Dean – it's going to be okay. I mean – I know this is pretty damn weird, even for us, but it's going to be okay. We'll fix this. Think of it as an adventure.”

Dean blinks. “An adventure. An adventure in dicklessness?”

“Oh, come on – don't tell me you're not already planning to hit a lesbian nightclub, Dean, because we both know that you totally are.”

Dean has the grace to blush a little, because, yes, okay, he may have already had that thought. “Well,” he says, ducking his head. “C'mon, it's not like a guy gets that kind of opportunity every day.”

“Exactly. This is an opportunity. A walk on the wild side. You can totally handle this. It'll be okay. We'll deal. There's nothing to be scared of.”

“I'm not scared,” Dean snaps automatically. “Just 'cause I've suddenly got a pussy, doesn't mean I've just turned into one.”

“Of course not,” agrees Sam.

“Just so we're clear,” says Dean, sticking his chin out pugnaciously. It's going to be okay, Dean tells himself. It's not like Sam's in danger, or anything – at least this time the weird-ass magical shit has happened to him, not to Sammy. It's all going to be fine. They can handle this. Nobody's dead, nobody's fatally injured, nobody's possessed. This is just a temporary weirdness. It's all fine. He's fine.

He is fine.

This is a bit of a surprise, since Dean has been kind of supposing that he looks pretty much like a guy with tits, but according to the bathroom mirror he is, in fact, a total fox. He would totally do him. Kinda dykey looking, with the short short hair, but not in a bad way. He can totally rock the stark haircut, because he is just that fucking pretty, as it turns out, and the short hair simply emphasises it. His mouth looks the same, and his eyes are the same, and, in fact, really his face is very much still his face, it's just – finer. Narrower jaw, cheekbones more clearly defined, nose smaller, in fact everything a little smaller and more delicate, but still recognisably Dean. He looks quite a lot like his Mom, actually, if she's had her hair cropped guy-short. He's standing in front of the mirror in just the boxer briefs now, taking in the strange new curve of hips and the tapering waist, trying to get used to the narrower shoulders and the breasts – don't forget the breasts. They're not huge, by any means, but they're definitely breasts. He likes them. He doesn't much like having them on him, other than for the pleasure of easy access (which, to be fair, is pretty fucking awesome), but they are, in his opinion, pretty good breasts. He's spent quite a lot of time playing with them, actually, and he's beginning to wonder how women ever manage to get any work done when they're walking around with their very own pairs of breasts right there all day.

Eventually he peels off the boxer briefs and grimaces at the place where his penis definitely isn't. Not that he looks bad – objectively, it's a great body: firm, and toned, and curvy, and thoroughly lickable. It's just – not Dean's body. Sure, it's a body he'd love to be inside – just, not this far inside.

Too fucking weird. His whole life is just crazy weird. Lucky rabbit's feet, demon chicks inhabiting his brother, evil Santas, suicidal teddy bears, slow-dancing aliens, and now this – nobody in their right mind would ever believe the crazy shit that Dean's seen. Still, Sam's right: it's not like either of them is being tortured or pursued by hellhounds right now, so there's always that. Dean sighs, and pulls open the shower door, and goes to have a shower.

When he emerges twenty minutes later, pink-cheeked and speckled with water droplets, he is a big fan of the high pressure massage setting on the shower head. Oh yeah. Turns out that orgasms? Different, rather startlingly different, but still a great way to start the day. So that's cool. He's feeling kind of weird about the unshaven armpits and the hairy legs, which he's never found a turn-on in a chick, but he's just not ready to do anything about them at this point, because he's going to be back to normal real soon, and then he'll feel like a total jackass if he's shaved his legs and his armpits and all that crap. So – hairy hippychick look it is. And, hell, it's not like he's going to be wearing skirts any time soon, or getting up close and personal with anyone, so who gives a damn? He's busy turning over options as he towels himself dry; gotta talk to Ellen, obviously, and then if she doesn't have a quick fix they can call up Bobby, because he's pretty much Yoda when it comes to mystical shit, and then they'll see what it takes to undo the spell, and it's all going to be fine. He wraps the towel around his waist on autopilot and heads out into the bedroom, trying to figure out how to explain this one to Ellen in a way that isn't going to make him sound like a total freaking idiot.

“Dude! Nakedness!”

Dean's head snaps up at the scandalised tone in Sam's voice, and he registers the fact that Sam has spun around to face the wall, and then he looks down at his rack and gives a little snort of laughter. He has so not adjusted to his new body yet. “See anything you like, Sammikins?” he asks with a leer, as he pulls the towel up and tucks it in around his chest, girl-style.

“Dean!” says Sam, his voice shaking. “This is just – seriously, I'm not comfortable with this.” He's still staring at the wardrobe, and Dean can see his blush right round to the back of his neck, which is just hilarious.

“Pussy,” says Dean, amused by how much dirtier it sounds in his husky girl-voice, stepping up close behind Sam and enjoying the way that Sam jumps at the sound. It is really, really galling to have the little bastard suddenly another four inches taller than him, and he's going to make the most of any advantages he's got at this point. “I have an awesome rack.” He makes it into a purr, and Sam makes a small sound of distress that just cracks Dean right up.

“You have – you – Dean, have you any idea how messed up that sentence is? I don't know where to even begin!” Dean considers this, and then pinches Sam's ass and is thoroughly gratified by the way the guy shrieks and jumps, but apparently that's enough, because then Sam's turning around to face him, scowling – and, Jeez, Sammy is big. Like, Redwood-big. Godzilla-on-stilts big.“I mean it, Dean – cut it out!” He's kind of wild-eyed and pissed looking, end-of-his-tether looking, and usually that would be Dean's cue to go that extra mile to infuriate him, but right now Dean's feeling pretty freaked and skittish himself. “Seriously,” says Sam, shakily, trying to smile but not quite managing it. “I'm going to either need a counsellor or a really large bottle of whisky very, very soon.”

“Whisky,” says Dean easily, crouching down beside his bag and pulling out some clean underwear and a new shirt. “Choose whisky. Quacks are for losers.” But he stops trying to freak Sam any further out, at least for the minute.

Chapter Text

“What do you mean, you did it yourselves?”

Dean can hear Ellen yelling down the phone even though he's standing several yards away from Sam. Their eyes meet. Dean swallows, his mouth suddenly dry.

“Well, we thought – I mean, I know you asked us to take the amulet to Jo so she could handle it, but we were closer to Seattle than she was, and it seemed kind of pointless – I mean, you know, it's not like we've not dealt with witches before, Ellen.” Sam sounds real apologetic, and it is kind of awkward, because to be fair, this wasn't supposed to be their gig. But they'd both agreed that it seemed dumb to drive all that way to give the damn thing to another hunter when they were perfectly capable of doing the job themselves. It had seemed like kind of a no-brainer.

There is a long pause. It's the kind of pause that suggests that Ellen is counting slowly to ten, or possibly banging her head against a wall. After a while she speaks again, and the room is so still now that Dean can make her voice out perfectly even though she isn't shouting any more. “Which one of you got whammied? Dean – it's Dean, right? That's why you made the call. You still sound like yourself.”

Sam casts a panic-stricken look at Dean. “Yeah. Yeah, he – how did you know about this?”

“Because you're both guys, you idiot. Jesus. Can't do a simple courier job, got to go rushing in, guns blazing – well, it serves you right, you macho assholes. You could have called me, you could have asked why I was passing the job to my own daughter instead of putting you big manly men in the line of fire. But oh, no, you've just got to go play at being the mighty hunters.”

Dean snatches the cell phone out of his brother's hand.“Okay, all right, I get it!” he snaps. “We screwed up! I'm sorry, Ellen – we're both real sorry. Now can you tell us what we need to do to make this right?”

“Dean?”

“Damn straight.”

“You sound – well. Wow.”

“Whatever you're going to say, don't say it. Ellen. What do we do to fix this?” There's another silence, and Dean's heart is racing in his chest now. There's got to be a solution, got to be an antidote or a counterspell or something. He's not about to become Hunter Barbie. “Ellen?”

“Beats me. I never heard of anyone undoing the death curse. That's why you always send a woman to take on one of these gals, you dumbass – they're all about vengeance. If you're a man who's murdered women - well, you're fair game.”

“I haven't...” begins Dean, feeling indignant.

“Bullshit. Dead witch. And how many demons have you killed now? Demons wearing people suits? How many innocent women have you killed just to get the monster that's hiding out in her skin?” Dean gulps. He can't even remember when he stopped seeing the people. “You're vulnerable. You left yourself wide open. Karmic debt, or some hocus pocus thing – I don't know how it works, I just know that it does work. You screwed women over, and now you get to find out how it feels to be one. Welcome to our team, Deanna.”

“Dean!” snaps Dean.

“Yeah, well, whatever. You'd better get used to peeing sitting down, is all I'm saying.” Dean's jaw drops a little. “Jo's going to be so pissed,” Ellen adds, and there's something suspiciously like amusement in her voice.

“Jo's going to be pissed? What the hell's she got to be pissed about? She's sitting pretty!” Dean snarls.

“And now so are you,” replies Ellen. “Which is kind of my point. Ah, forget about it. Look, ask Bobby – maybe he knows something I don't. He's got enough books to start his own library – maybe one of them has some secret recipe for fixing this kind of screw-up. It's worth a shot.”

“Yeah,” says Dean, furiously. “Thanks. You've been real helpful.”

“Oh, calm down already. Jesus. If this is you on a normal day, just wait until your hormones get knocked out of whack once a month.” Dean gapes like a fish. “Good luck, kiddo. Hate to say it, but you're going to need it. Both you and Sam.” And then she hangs up.

Dean throws the cell phone at the bed. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” he snarls. Sam just stares at him, kind of bug-eyed. “FUCK!”

“So...not great news, then?” ventures Sam, after a while. And Dean doesn't hit him, but it's a close thing.

“What gave it away?” he asks, grimly, and Sam's sympathetic little puppydog face is annoying as hell. “Don't look at me like that! I'm not accepting this, I'm not staying like this, this is just, just, this is a temporary aberration, is what it is.” He's breathing quite hard now. “An adventure, like you said. A walk on the wild side. It's fine. Bobby's going to have the answer. We can undo this.”

Bobby doesn't have the answer.

“You did what?” He sounds absolutely shocked.

“Yeah, yeah, okay, bad call, believe me, I get that. I am standing here without any penis, Bobby, so believe me when I tell you that I really, really get that it was a bad call. So talk to me. How do we undo it?”

“How do we...Dean, I've got to tell you, this is not good news. This is – I've never heard of anyone undoing that kind of spell.”

Dean swallows. “So start looking?” he says, and his voice is a little shakier than he'd like. “Bobby, I can't do this. This isn't me. This isn't right. You've got to help me.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. Just – this is going to take a while, Dean. I've got to make some calls, read up on vengeance spells and...okay. Okay. I'll do what I can. You just – you hang in there, son, okay?”

“Okay.” Dean can do that.

“And – hey, maybe that angel of yours will show up and save the day. He's good at that, right? And you're supposed to be a vital part of their mysterious heavenly gameplan.”

Dean perks up a bit.

That angel of his doesn't show up to save the day. Apparently Dean's penis isn't a vital part of the mysterious heavenly gameplan.

It isn't until they get to the cashier that Dean realises he's not going to be able to use his goddamn credit card. Any of them. He realises in time and shoves it at Sam, who gapes at him for a moment before realising the problem, and then moves in all smooth-like and signs his name. Or at least somebody's name. And, damn, this means that all the ids he's got are useless too, and the disguises, and just everything. He looks pissily down at the Target shopping bags being filled up by some girlscout, and wonders with a sinking heart if he was wrong to refuse to buy bras or makeup or skirts or any of that shit. He's just bought himself some shoes – sensible shoes as close to guy shoes as he can find, but in a size that he can actually fit into properly without wearing six pairs of socks – and some smaller boxer briefs (because he's not going near the frilly stuff), and a smaller belt, and, on a whim, some better fitting jeans. It's not like he's in this for the long haul.

Unless he is.

It's amazing what a difference alcohol makes to a person's perspective. Also, as it turns out, Dean's alcohol tolerance isn't quite what it used to be, which is probably something to do with the way he's lost quite a lot of bodyweight overnight. Either way, he's gone flying past tipsy and straight into pleasantly smashed, and Sam is eyeing him nervously, but it's all good. Dean smiles like a hungry tiger as he watches a couple of rubes sidle round the pool table, and then winks at Sam. “Fancy making a little money?” he asks – because Dean's always been the bread-winner, and now that he's not in charge of the credit cards he's got to salvage his dignity somehow.

“Dean, I'm not sure about this,” begins Sam, but Dean's already strolling over like he owns the place.

“Hey there,” he says, grinning at the two guys, and for a moment he's startled and a little thrown by the way they both look him up and down so frankly, eyes darting over legs and hips and tits and face and back down to tits.

“Hey yourself,” says the bigger one, smiling appreciatively, and Dean's mind is racing. Of course. Right. He's going to need to think about this, going to need to change his strategies – but actually, maybe he can use this crappy spell to his own advantage. Maybe he needs to go back to Target tomorrow and buy the girliest, most low-cut, distracting disguise he can find, and maybe even think about shaving his legs and buying some high heels. Because he's got a feeling that if he vamps it up he can reel the suckers in even faster. They're going to underestimate the hell out of him. Meanwhile he sticks his chest out, glad of the bralessness, and watches the idiots follow its movement.

“Can I watch?” he asks, breathily, and he licks his lips and tries for a pout. He feels kind of like Jack Lemmon in 'Some Like it Hot', or possibly Tony Curtis, but it seems to be working okay so he goes with it.

“Sure thing, sweet cheeks,” says the other guy, the one with the mustache, and Dean beams at him.

“I sure do love to watch guys playing with their great big sticks,” Dean adds, and flutters his eyelashes. He's trying very hard not to laugh, and wondering how much porn dialogue he can get away with.

“Deena, are you sure this is a good idea?” asks Sam, in a pained voice from behind him. The guys both look from Dean to Sam, and Dean realises with a mixture of amusement and indignation that Sam's the one they're seeing as a threat, as a person. Sam's the one they're prepared to take seriously. Assholes.

“Don't be silly, Sammy,” he says in his best Jessica Rabbit tones, smiling at both guys. “You'll have to excuse my baby brother, he can be a little over protective sometimes. Why don't you go get me another beer, Sammy, while these guys show me how the game works? I've always wanted to learn. I bet they could teach a girl a thing or two. Now who's going to let me hold their stick first?”

Some time later, Dean has a nice fat handful of folding green stuff and is feeling very much better about the world – although he's still kind of pissed about being talked to like a five-year-old and getting his butt grabbed by the guy with the mustache. Repeatedly. Still – money. He waves at the sexy little waitress. “Can I get another beer, sweetheart?” he says, hitting her with his most outrageously charming grin, the one that gets him free pie from motherly women in diners, and free phone numbers from hot girls in bars.

She doesn't return it but she comes over to the table, glances from him to Sam and gives Sam a small, tight-lipped smile. “Anything for you, honey?” she asks Sam.

“No thanks.”

“Coming right up,” she says, glancing briefly at Dean still without smiling and then she scurries off like she can't escape fast enough. Dean's face falls. “What?” He looks blankly at Sam. “What did I say?”

“She thinks you're hitting on her,” says Sam, like he's an idiot.

“Well – I'm not not hitting on her,” says Dean, watching the way she wiggles back to the bar. “She's hot.”

Sam just stares at him. “Dude. You're a girl. I don't think she's comfortable with being hit on by a girl.”

Dean thinks about this for a while. “Oh,” he says eventually, in a smaller voice. “Right. Okay.”

Sam looks kind of miserable. “I mean – just – y'know, despite what it says in Playboy, not all girls are into that. And some people are pretty, ah, homophobic.” He doesn't add: “...like you are, Dean,” but Dean hears it anyway.

“Right,” agrees Dean, shrugging like it's no big deal. “Sure. I get it.” There is a gloomy little pause, and then Dean looks up at Sam through his eyelashes and says: “So – lesbian nightclub, yeah?”

“Oh, Jesus,” says Sam, blanching.

Sam looks about as uncomfortable and self-conscious as it's possible for a human to be, and he sticks out like a sore thumb, but Dean feels like a kid in a candy store, or a god among men. Or, well, a goddess among women, really. The natural order of things has been restored, and when he directs his most devastatingly sexy smile at the hottest chick in the room, a curvaceous brunette wearing jeans and a little vest with nothing underneath it, she returns the smile, and then some.

Awesome.

Chapter Text

It's nearly dawn when Dean gets back to the motel. He tips the taxi driver and struts across the parking lot, walking the walk of the recently orgasmic and grinning like an idiot. He makes a slight detour to walk past the Impala and runs a hand along her side like stroking a cat to apologise for sending her home with his sober little brother while he went off and cheated on her with some human girl. She's still his number one, still his baby, and she's a very forgiving soul. He looks up, still grinning, and is a bit surprised to see that the lights are still on in their room. That can't mean anything good.

He unlocks the door tentatively, wondering whether Sam just fell asleep with the lights on. But no, there he is, wide awake and looking furious for some baffling reason – and Dean starts to wonder whether the battery in his cellphone has run down somehow, and Sam's been calling him frantically for hours about some kind of emergency or something. “Sammy?” he begins, and then Sam's jumping up out of the chair and stalking towards him, and Dean's struck afresh with the startling realization that his geeky little brother has somehow turned into a great big man. “You okay?”

“What kind of time do you call this?” bursts out Sam, and Dean just stares, and then laughs.

“You have got to be kidding me?”

Sam's mouth tightens. “Dean, I was worried.”

Dean stares some more. “Oh my God – you're serious? What the hell? Sam, I'm nearly thirty. I was with a girl. C'mon, dude – this is me we're talking about! Having a little R&R with a hot chick. You know the drill!”

Sam seems to be trying very hard to keep calm, with kind of mixed success. “Dean, anything could have happened. I didn't have your back. It's a big city.'

“And I'm a big boy, for fuck's sakes!”

“No, Dean,” says Sam, staring pointedly at his chest. “You're really not.” Dean pulls a face and makes a dismissive gesture, and Sam's scowl deepens. “I'm not kidding. You need to be more careful.”

“I think I can take care of myself, Sam. I've been doing it for a while now, and, like I said - nearly thirty.” He's really torn between finding Sam's sudden burst of Neanderthal over protectiveness funny, and finding it really fucking annoying. Mostly he's going with funny. “Sam, this is ridiculous – c'mon, man. I'm your big brother.”

Sam steps right up to him, toe to toe, and Dean has to crane his neck now to look up at Sam, which is pretty irritating right there. He backs up a little so that the height thing isn't quite so obvious, and Sam follows him, and then Dean stops backing up, 'cause no way is he going to let little Sammy psych him out like that, hell no. Which means that he's got Sam crowding into his personal space uncomfortably, and now Dean's sense of humour is definitely showing some signs of wear and tear. “No, Dean, right now you're my little sister, and you don't seem to realise just how much more vulnerable that makes you.You think you're still a guy, and six foot tall,” says Sam, seriously. “And you're not. Strangers, strange guys look at you and they don't see Dean Winchester now. And you never look after yourself properly, Dean, not even when you're in your proper body. Go on, tell me you've thought about the possibility of getting raped, or getting beaten up by a bunch of homophobic assholes?”

“Sam, you are harshing my mellow. I can look after myself,” says Dean, glaring.

Sam makes a small, frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “Yeah? Prove it,” he says, and that's all the warning Dean gets, but he still reacts pretty damn fast and Sam doesn't find him easy to take down. They've been sparring for most of their lives, and Dean knows Sammy's moves like he knows his car. Only – it's true enough, actually, that he's off his game. His reach is different, and he's still not compensating properly, and his centre of gravity's changed too. It does have an impact on how he moves, one he's not really been taking into account. And – Sam's just plain biggerthan him now, a lot bigger, and that gives the smug little bastard another advantage. Dean fights dirty, fights like he means it, and they're knocking over chairs and banging into the TV set and the blows are real, meant to hurt, and Dean isn't about to give his baby brother the satisfaction of being right about this, damn it – only he still finds himself pinned to the wall within a couple of minutes, with both hands above his head and his legs trapped, and he's squirming like crazy and absolutely fucking furious by now, flailing underneath Sam's weight but Sam's got him. He can't move.

“Screw you,” Dean snarls, glaring up at his brother and struggling furiously.

Sam closes his eyes for a moment and then looks back down at him like he's the stupidest person in the world. “You still don't get it, do you?” he asks, sounding frustrated to death. “Dean, you need to be more careful.”

“You cheated,” says Dean, sounding like a five year old. “That was just a fluke.”

“Oh, for – fine. Fine. That was a fluke? Let's go again.” And then Sam's releasing his hold and backing off, and Dean dives straight at him, hard and fast, trying to think about how his body's changed and what that means for his moves – but Sam's ready for him, and within a matter of seconds he's got Dean pinned again, this time on the bed, his hands trapped next to his face on the pillow with Sam's enormous wrists around them, and Sam's belly is pressing down onto his, and he's shoved one leg between Dean's thighs, and Dean's breasts are heaving against Sam's chest, and Dean is suddenly acutely conscious of being a girl, and being vulnerable in ways he hasn't really thought about until this precise moment. And it's really stopped being funny now, and Dean's feeling angry, and small, and uncomfortably helpless. Which is bullshit, because he could still take most people, he really could, it's just that Sam knows his moves as well as he knows Sam's, and now Sam's all crazy huge.

Dean writhes underneath Sam, trying to bring his knee up, but Sam won't let him, and eventually Dean subsides and just lies there angrily under his brother's weight, glowering up into Sam's familiar face. “This doesn't prove a damn thing,” he says, stubbornly.

“It proves that you aren't as safe as you think you are, Dean,” says Sam, wearily, plastered up against him like a second skin. “It proves that you need to take more care of yourself.” He cocks his head a little, and he doesn't look angry any more, just worried. “Please,” he adds, his brows drawing together. “I just – seriously, I couldn't handle it if something bad happened to you. I just – I couldn't handle it.”

Oh, shit. Dean's never had much defence against that scared little note in Sam's voice. He grows still underneath his brother and looks up into his eyes. “It's okay, Sam,” he says, and he means it now. “I get it. I do get it.” He bites his lip. “Don't let it go to your head, but I guess you're – I guess you kind of have a point. I'll be more careful.”

Sam relaxes against him, and he closes his eyes for a moment. “Thank you,” he says softly. He starts to pull away, and that's the moment when Dean rolls them both and pins Sam down on the bed.

“Ha!” he says triumphantly, panting, back arched and legs wrapped around Sam's waist while he holds Sam's hands pinned down above his head. It's pretty difficult trying to hold the guy down, though, and Dean gets the feeling Sam isn't really trying to escape, but he isn't about to trust the little bastard for a minute even though he's blinking up at him with a kind of shell-shocked expression. They just stay like that for maybe ten seconds or so before it crosses Dean's mind that he's basically shoving his brand new boobs in Sam's face while sitting on his brother's dick, and as he squirms a little more he feels it starting to twitch awake underneath his ass, and the sheer wild inappropriateness of their position suddenly hits him, and he flushes crimson. “Dude!” he says, jumping away like Sam's suddenly burning him. He stands several feet away from the bed, his chest heaving, and they just stare at each other for a long moment. Sam looks about as horrified as Dean feels.

“Wow. Awkward,” says Dean, shakily, trying for a laugh.

Sam swallows. “Sorry. Jesus. Sorry.” He sounds mortified. “I don't – I – it's just – Dean, you've got girl parts now!”

“Well, duh!” Because he's not exactly in any danger of forgetting that.

“But people don't see you as a guy, Dean. They react differently.” He's looking pretty red in the face himself right now. “Look, I know you're you, but you're also kind of not you, right now, and it changes stuff. Lots of stuff.”

There's an extremely uncomfortable pause, while Dean doesn't meet his brother's eyes and instead fishes in his jacket pocket to check his cell phone. Sam sits up gingerly and pulls his knees up a little for reasons neither of them feels much like thinking about, and then just stays there, trying to look harmless. Dean looks up after a moment, frowning. “Dude. There's nothing wrong with my phone – you didn't call? If you were freaking out this much, why didn't you just call me to check I was okay?”

Sam ducks his head. “I thought – I didn't want to interrupt you. I felt like kind of an ass.”

Dean stares. “That, bro, is because you were being kind of an ass. That was your clue.” Sam looks up at him miserably. “But you were also kind of right,” Dean concedes after a moment, with reluctance. “I guess – I kind of haven't thought this thing through properly. I maybe do need to be a little bit more careful.”

“Thank you!” says Sam, sitting up on the bed.

“But, Sammy – I'm still a grownup. And I can still kick ass. And I still plan on going off and getting laid without an escort. You need to get over this whole overprotective white knight thing. It's – it's kind of dumb.”

“Oh, please,” says Sam, rolling his eyes. “This from the guy who sold his soul to bring me back from the dead. Pot meet kettle.”

“Really not the same thing, Sam.”

“I'm just saying – imagine it was me that got hit by this spell. Just think about that for a minute, Dean. My God, how overprotective would you be if I was suddenly your little sister, and there were sleazy guys hitting on me in bars?”

Dean thinks about that for a moment, and his head pretty much explodes. Damn. Damn. Just – damn. “Yeah, okay,” he says hoarsely, blinking. “Okay. Point.”

Chapter Text

On the fifth day, Dean cracks and goes to buy a couple of bras. Sports bras, with maximum in the way of practicality and minimum in the way of frills, because he has discovered the hard way that running without a bra is a lot less fun than he had assumed.

They are in Oregon now, and still no closer to bringing Dean's poor vanished dick back from the dead. Bobby's on the case, searching high and low for clues, calling in favours, but so far nobody's biting. Dean isn't about to admit to the possibility that this fix may be permanent, but he is starting to get the feeling that it might last a while, and that he maybe needs to start being pragmatic about things. He's applied for half a dozen new credit cards and has enjoyed thinking up amusing female names to write on the applications, and he's started putting together some new ids to replace the old ones. And he's screwed his courage to the sticking place and taken himself off to a mall to buy some slightly more girl-appropriate underwear, because he's a hunter, damn it, and he needs to be able to run and fight and get on with the damn job without the goddamn boobies getting in the way. Getting measured for a bra is an exercise in embarrassment, but he honestly hasn't got the faintest idea what size he is without professional assistance, so he sucks it up and goes with it, and gets the impression, from the looks on their faces at a couple of his more clueless remarks, that they maybe think he was raised by wolves. Or hippy lesbian separatists who didn't believe in bras or shaven armpits. One or the other. But they still sell him the damn bras, so that's okay.

While he's in there, he ends up buying a black wonderbra, a slutty red dress, and a pair of killer fuck-me pumps that should make him almost as tall as he's supposed to be. He feels extraordinary uncomfortable with these objects, but he's also aware that his current wardrobe isn't ideal for all occasions, and he's pretty sure that he can make a hell of a lot more money from pool and cards if he's psyching the opposition out with his cleavage. He's willing to give it a try, at least. To this end he also picks up some bright red lipstick and some other stuff for putting on eyes and cheeks, because he figures he might as well go the whole nine yards with his disguise, if he's going to do it at all.

An hour later Dean is surveying the results of his handwork in the mirror with a slightly nauseated, slightly exhilarated butterflies-in-the-stomach sensation, and feeling a little bit like he's gone running across a line he'd drawn in the sand, and maybe hurtled over a hidden cliff beyond it. The makeup is not as easy as he was expecting, and he's got a feeling that the overall effect is maybe a little bit more Coco the Clown than it is Paris Hilton, but he thinks he got the lipstick about right, and it's really very red indeed. And the dress is smoking hot, real turn-heads-on-the-other-side-of-the-road, cause-traffic-pile-ups hot, especially with the wonderbra making his boobs stick out like a lovely curvy shelf. Although the tattoo on his chest is maybe not the classiest of things – but it's certainly pretty damn distracting. Of course, he forgot about buying hose, and he's still not been able to bring himself to do the shaving thing yet, so the hairy legs kind of spoil the effect. Also he discovers very quickly that he can't take four paces in the damn shoes without falling over. Still, Dean thinks that he (or at least this body, which he isn't really thinking of as him, because, well, it isn't, damn it) looks pretty fucking sexy, all things considered. So long as you don't look too closely at the legs, and so long as he doesn't have to actually walk any great distance. Like, say, across a room.

He's vamping it up in front of the mirror when Sam gets back from the library, and evidently the effect is pretty stunning, because Sam actually drops his books and then promptly falls over them, long arms windmilling wildly before he hits the ground, like a Daddy Long Legs performing some kind of Buster Keaton sketch. Dean just stares at him in bemusement for a moment, and then remembers his Britney outfit, sticks one hip out and starts fluttering his newly-blackened eyelashes. (He's pretty sure that there's some kind of trick to not making your eyelashes look all clumpy, like lots of broken spiders' legs, but he suspects it of being some kind of esoteric secret passed down from mother to daughter along with the trick to walking in the damn heels.)

“....Dean?” says Sam at last, scrambling to his feet and still gaping.

“Boop boop be doo?” Dean vamps back, wide-eyed, giving it his best Marilyn Monroe, and then he is thoroughly indignant when Sam starts to laugh. And laugh. And laugh. And laugh. Because, okay, yeah, sure, it is funny, it's supposed to be funny – but not that funny, and there's a weird little flip-flop moment where Dean goes from feeling like he's making a joke to feeling like he is a joke, and a pathetic one at that. “Oh, screw you,” he snaps at last, and tries to turn his back on Sam and march off with his dignity intact. Unfortunately the shoes have other plans, and he promptly ends up flat on his ass with his legs splayed out in a thoroughly undignified manner. Sam's laughter ratchets up a level.“Go on, Sammy boy,” Dean says, trying to be a good sport. “Laugh it up.”

“Oh my God, Dean, you look like a hooker,” Sam splutters at last. “You – that – what on earth are you wearing? And what happened to your face?”

“I'm – oh, forget it,” says Dean, his face hot. He has absolutely no idea what possessed him, dressing up like a chick. He feels like a total jerk as he kicks off the evil shoes and gets awkwardly to his feet. He doesn't like the way that the skirt flaps around his legs. Hell, he doesn't like any part of this whole fucked-up scenario, and he'd just been trying to be practical, just been trying to make the best of the situation, thinking about ways he could use it to their advantage, ways of raking in the cash – 'cause hunting monsters sure as hell doesn't pay the bills. He's making a fool of himself, though, and he looks like some kind of sad freak, because that's what he is.

He bites his lip and peels off the slutty red dress with his back to Sam, and then walks into the bathroom in just the wonderbra and a pair of ill fitting boxer briefs to scrub his face clean. At least the tag's still on the dress. He can take it back tomorrow, along with the godawful heels.

The water's cool against his face, and when he looks in the mirror, wow, he's definitely progressed from Captain Jack Sparrow to out-and-out panda eyes. There's probably some special gloop to get rid of this junk, but he can make do with soap. Soap will work just fine, eventually – and if it stings like a motherfucker, and makes his eyes tear up, well, that's okay too.

Sam knocks on the door – and that's new too, this weird tentativeness and self consciousness between them. This awkwardness about their bodies. Dean really hates this spell.

“Dean?” Sam isn't laughing any more. Whatever. “Dean? Are you okay?”

“Sure.” Dean looks at his reflection critically. Most of the orangey stuff is gone, and his face is back to its normal skin colour. His eyes are still a little smudgy looking, but mostly clean. The lipstick turns out to be unbelievably difficult to remove, though, even after he's scrubbed at it with the face cloth and smeared it across his face. Very Courtney Love. He hears the door creak cautiously open, but he doesn't look up, just carries on scrubbing at his mouth while Sam peers around the door and then steps into the bathroom.

“Uh,” says Sam looking at Dean's reflection with that guilty puppy expression Dean knows so damn well. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” says Dean breezily, sticking out his chin. “It was a stupid idea. I don't know what I was thinking.”

“No,” says Sam. “It was a good idea. It is a good idea – I mean, we need to get you kitted out with some different clothes – a suit that fits, so we can do the FBI schtick or the office drone thing, stuff like that. Some girl-type disguises so you can blend in in different situations. Until Bobby finds a cure.”

“Just maybe not so much with the trying-to-be-hot, yeah?” Dean says, trying to laugh at himself, and he doesn't know why this makes something twist in his belly, because, honestly, he has no wish to be a hot chick. He'd like to be a hot guy, thank you very much. But – it would be nice to pass as normal again, and if he can't charm free pie out of waitresses in diners any more, it would have been kind of nice to charm stupid bets of dumb schmucks at pool tables. To try to feel like he's getting some kind of power or advantage out of this situation, and not just losing things that he's always taken for granted: height, strength, charm, identity. And not forgetting his penis.

Sam makes a strange, stifled laugh. “Christ, Dean – you don't have to try to be hot.” Dean's shoulders slump a little, and he stares at his reflection, trying to find himself in the curves and lines and angles, feeling like a fucking freak. “You're – Dean, you're already quite ridiculously hot.”

And, okay, didn't see that one coming. Dean's eyes dart up to meet his brother's gaze in the mirror, scowling, waiting for the punchline. “But...” he prompts.

“No but. That's it. Hot.” Sam's eyes slide down towards Dean's cleavage in the wonderbra and he reddens and looks away, shaking his head and smiling a little. “You don't have to dress up like a two bit hooker to turn heads, Dean.” And that's – huh. That's kind of nice, weirdly nice, and also a whole metric shitload of fucked up and disturbing. “I mean, I can see that the dress would distract the hell out of people, so, okay, if that's what you're going for – but, seriously, all the makeup? Dude, that was a lot of makeup.”

Dean shrugs. He's not wrong. “I don't know about makeup,” he says defensively. “It's not like I exactly spent much time thinking about it before, you know? And girls make it look easy.” He turns around, with his back to the sink, and crosses his arms in front of his chest, looking up at Sam. “I was just trying to make the best of this, you know?”

“I'm sorry I laughed.” And, damn, he really does look sorry, and that's stupid, because Dean was trying to make him laugh with the pouting and the Marilyn Monroe and everything. “If you – y'know, if you want to learn how to do that, with the makeup, so you can pull off different disguises and things – they do makeovers for free at a lot of these places.” Dean just looks at him, one eyebrow sliding up towards his hairline. Sam shrugs, an odd half-smile twisting his mouth. “Jessica used to go sometimes, when she wanted to treat herself. It's free. Students know all about free stuff.”

“Oh.” Dean really doesn't know what to say to that. He looks down, feeling oddly embarrassed at the mention of Sam's dead girlfriend. And then Sam's suddenly leaning in to him, reaching forward, and Dean's pulse ratchets up another notch because this is his personal space, and Sammy has been very carefully staying out of his personal space ever since the unfortunate wrestling incident, and Dean's not exactly wearing a whole lot of clothes right now, and this is suddenly feeling pretty fucking weird. And then he sees that Sam has snagged the washcloth off the sink because it's suddenly in front of him, and he's got some of that pansy-ass moisturiser stuff he uses out of his wash bag and is scooping a blob out with one long finger, and then Sam's hand is on Dean's chin, angling his head up, and Sam's dabbing the moisturiser onto Dean's startled mouth and then wiping firmly and gently at Dean's lips and at the corner of his mouth with the wash cloth, rubbing the last remnants of lipstick away and smiling this odd, impenetrable smile. It's – odd. Very odd. Water drips from the washcloth onto Dean's collarbone and slides down between his breasts, soaking into the lacy fabric, and his lips are stinging a little under Sam's attention. And there is absolutely no way that Dean's screwed-up new body should be feeling the little surge of excitement and curiosity and, okay, yes, fine, horniness that he suddenly feels, because this is just Sam trying to look after him, treating him like the little sister he really isn't, and his stupid body is just doing some kind of, of, what, reflexive thing, some kind of – ah, fuck. He's staring up at Sam like a rabbit in the fucking headlights, and his heart is pounding, his nipples tightening up inside the black lace bra and Dean can't untangle why this is affecting him like this – only, Sam's got this odd, tender, protective look on his face, and Dean really isn't used to being looked after. But he has a horrible suspicion that he kind of likes it, although he'd die before admitting it to anyone.

“There,” says Sam, releasing Dean's chin and surveying his handiwork with a small smile. “All better.”

“Oh,” says Dean, breathlessly, wondering what kind of trouble he's getting into now.

Chapter Text

It's been over a month now. Dean has discovered the joys of menstruation (messy and uncomfortable, yes, but after thirty years of torture by demons in Hell, it takes an awful lot, painwise, to impress Dean Winchester. Still, he could definitely do without the moodswings); he has finally bought, with Sam's assistance, some new girl-sized clothes; he has fully updated his ids and received three new credit cards; he has worked very hard indeed to adjust his reflexes and his fighting technique to accommodate his altered height and reach and balance. He has discovered that he likes chocolate even more than pie. He has also slept with three more girls, and is getting better at keeping his flirtation dialled down until he gets some indication that the object of his interest might actually like girls too. He's broken a trucker's nose for trying to get a little too fresh, and has also, to his considerable surprise, and after an awful lot of tequila, come perilously close to reaching third base with a fresh-faced boy barely old enough to drink who loved Metallica and who had gotten really excited about how awesome the Impala was.

Sam knows about the broken nose, but not the make-out session with the Metallica fan.

Over the course of the past month, Dean and Sam have lain four unquiet spirits to rest, taken on six demons, kept two of Lilith's seals from breaking and failed to preserve another. Castiel, who has shown up several times with instructions for them, has been completely and utterly useless on the issue of Dean's genderswitch. Apparently angels are neither male nor female, and Castiel genuinely cannot see what the big deal is about Dean's sudden girlhood. Ruby, on the other hand, seemed to find it pretty hilarious. Initially. But less so when she realised that Sam was going to be a hell of a lot less willing to let Dean out of his sight for more than five minutes, and was thus much less inclined to join her on secret demon-slaying jaunts. Dean kind of enjoyed watching her get pissier and pissier, and he may have even played up the whole vulnerable girl angle just a little bit. Which kind of sticks in his craw, but - whatever it takes to get Sam away from Ruby's influence.

They haven't seen much of Ruby lately. Which is all good, as far as Dean's concerned. Of course, Dean wasn't screwing her; he can understand why Sammy might feel a little more conflicted about her absence.

This evening has been like old times. They've taken out a nest of vamps, saved some innocent civilians, done some good. Dean's feeling pretty fucking chipper when they hit the bar across from their motel, and his good mood only increases when he realises that it's Happy Hour. Sweet.

“Shooters, two for the price of one,” the bartender informs Dean with a toothy grin, nodding towards a list of cocktails. “D'you want a Quick Fuck and an Orgasm, sugar?” Dean can feel Sam starting to loom behind him with intent, and raises one hand in an 'easy tiger' gesture that he's been using a lot this past month. He scans the list quickly and then beams back at the bartender. “Sounds good for starters - line 'em up. And my boyfriend here,” Dean puts careful emphasis on the words, and watches the bartender take in the towering hunk of tall dark and possessive glaring down at him, and enjoys the look of panic that sweeps over the guy's face, “...will have a pair of Cocksucking Cowboys.” He smiles sweetly. “Can we get some onion rings with that?”

“Er, sure, no problem,” says the bartender hurriedly. “Y'all take a seat and Suzy will bring them over.”

“Cool!” says Dean sunnily, and he leads Sam off towards the booth.

“I don't want a Cocksucking Cowboy, whatever the hell that is,” protests Sam, still glaring over his shoulder at the bartender. “I want a beer!”

“Don't knock it until you've tried it, Sam,” Dean purrs, still brimming with success and good spirits from their spectacular success with the vampires. “You might like getting your cock sucked by a cowboy.”

“Cut it out,” says Sam mildly, thwapping Dean over the head.

“I'm just saying! But, fine, fine, ignore the 2-for-1 offer and stick to your boring beer. More for me. We'll tell Suzy when she brings all my drinks.”

Dean is surveying the room, his expression calculating as he watches two college boys playing pool, when Sam's cell goes off. It doesn't play the lame-ass tune Sam likes, because he's set it to vibrate, but Dean can tell from the way that Sam reacts, and he just knows that it's Ruby. Dean feels his smile start to crumble a little. Damn.

“I'm just going to the john,” says Sam casually, a moment later. “Can you order that beer for me if she comes while I'm gone?”

And it kills Dean that Sam can lie to his face like this, but he looks right back and smiles a big old shit-eating grin. “Sure thing!” he says, and watches Sam slope off to the gents.

Dean does not trust Ruby, not one little bit, and they've talked about this, and it doesn't make a blind bit of difference. He can't understand why Sam's being such a fool, and he can't understand either – and this hurts much more – why Sam has to keep lying about it. Dean doesn't notice Suzy approaching until she's almost upon him, and then he jerks his head back up and smiles at her – but not too much – as she sets the basket of onion rings and four little shot glasses down in front of him.

“There you go, hon,” she says. She's a pretty girl, with a sprinkling of freckles and long red hair confined to a ponytail on the top of her head, and when he looked like himself Dean would have been in full-on flirt mode, but he's learned to be a lot cagier now.

“Thanks,” he says. “Could I get a bottle of Bud too?” He picks up one of the shooters and knocks it straight back, and it's sticky sweet, like an alcoholic icecream sundae. “And two more of – whatever this was?”

“That's a Cocksucking Cowboy,” says Suzy, smiling broadly. There's a gap between her two front teeth that Dean finds charming as hell, and her eyes are very blue. “Butterscotch Schnapps and Baileys. I love 'em.”

“Well then, since it's 2-for-1, why don't you bring me one and you drink the other one yourself? You deserve a little happy in your Happy Hour.” She giggles, and Dean wonders wistfully whether she might like girls, or might be open to being persuaded. But he's not getting that vibe, and he's learned to be wary of making a move when there's no big, obvious flashing green light. He watches her ass sway as she walks away, and wonders how she manages not to fall over in the heels. He'd like to get back to being his real height, but he really can't stand the discomfort or the sense of precariousness that comes with wearing heels – well, that, and they're totally impractical for someone who might need to run at any moment. Right now Dean's wearing cowboy boots under jeans; although he has picked up a couple more skirts for running scams, and has his eyes peeled for a nun outfit, so far he's not actually worn any of them. He's pretty much all about the jeans, although he's bought a few fitted tees and a couple of them are kind of low cut, for pool sharking purposes.

Dean's emptied all four shot glasses and eaten more than half the onion rings by the time that Sam gets back from the can. Suzy shows up a few minutes later with another shot glass of creamy liquor and Sam's bottle of Bud, and winks conspiratorially at Dean in a way that makes him wonder whether, just maybe, she might be open to a little something something. Sam doesn't notice. He's looking suspiciously preoccupied as he drinks his beer, and Dean would bet every dollar he has that the little bastard is trying to figure out some way to go and meet up with the demon. He forgets about his chances of getting horizontal (or vertical, or diagonal) with pretty little Suzy, and watches his brother narrowly instead.

After a moment, Dean knocks back his new shooter. Then he yawns hugely, and Sam's head swings up. “Sorry,” says Dean. “Guess all that wild ass-kicking earlier took it out of me. I'm not as strong as I used to be.”

This is such a crock of shit, so wildly out of character, that it makes him ache to see Sam swallow it hook, line and sinker. Like being a chick is going to mean that Dean suddenly has no freaking stamina, and needs to be tucked up in bed by ten. “D'you want to go back to the motel? Get an early night?” asks Sam, all brotherly concern, and Dean could punch him.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment, surprising himself a little. But he wants to give Sammy enough rope to hang himself, and he keeps hoping and hoping that Sam will tell him the truth. “Yeah, would you mind? I'm pretty bushed, actually.” He gives a girlish little laugh, of the kind he uses on his marks, and Sam fucking falls for it, the big dumb ox.

“No problem,” says Sam. He goes to settle the check while Dean grimly polishes off the last of the onion rings. Ruby's going to be round here somewhere, and she's going to come and pick Sam up when he thinks Dean's asleep. Take him off on some supposedly urgent job, something that's going to have him using his freaky powers and getting that bit closer to the Dark Side of the Force. And Dean's going to get in the goddamn Impala and follow them, and then rip Sammy a new one, demon powers or no. He's had enough of this bullshit.

But he smiles sweetly and follows his brother out of the bar, doing a whole lot of yawning and stretching in an exaggerated manner all the way back to their motel.

Chapter Text

Thirty minutes later, while Dean is sprawling in his bed feigning sleep, Sam sneaks out of their motel room. Dean's out of bed in an instant, tugging on his jeans and his boots and dashing to the door, and then his heart sinks when he hears the unmistakable sound of his car starting up. “Son of a bitch!” He snarls, staring out across the parking lot as the Impala peels out onto the highway. That's his car, damn it, and for some reason it just hadn't crossed Dean's mind to think that maybe Sam would help himself to her to drive off to meet his pet demon. He's vibrating with anger and frustration now, his cunning plan revealed to be considerably less cunning than he'd thought. Dean slams the door and stalks back into the room, and kicks Sam's bag very hard. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK!” he yells, uselessly, and kicks the bag again.

When that does nothing to relieve his feelings, Dean decides that his best course of action involves (1) alcohol, (2) more alcohol, and (3) either getting into a fight or getting laid, whichever comes first. In the spirit of perversity he unpacks the slutty red dress that never did get taken back to the store, and teams it up with the wonderbra and the cowboy boots. He also doesn't bother with shaving anywhere, or applying any makeup, and when he looks at himself in the mirror he's kind of startled by how good he looks anyway. He could fight like this; the boots are sturdy, and the dress doesn't restrict his movements any. He looks – reckless, and unruly, and wild. He looks like the kind of girl people's mothers warn them about – someone unpredictable, and dangerous, and fascinating. He looks like trouble with a capital T, and it makes him smile as he pulls his leather jacket on over the red dress and studies his reflection. He doesn't look the way that he thought a hot girl was supposed to look at all – but, damn. It works. It really does work.

Dean shoves the room key into his pocket, and stalks out of the motel room and across the street, looking for a fight or a fuck.

The juke box is kind of crappy, but Dean manages to find half a dozen songs he wants to listen to and cues them up, starting with 'Wayward Son,' and then he struts over to the bar, his hips swinging in time to the music. He's been aware of a whole lot of attention ever since he walked in, pushing the two doors open with a fine devil-may-care attitude, like he's a gunslinger walking into a hostile room, or like Aragorn in that Lord of the Rings movie, and he's grinning now like the cat that got the cream. The Winchester boys do know how to make an entrance. The bartender is just staring, with his mouth hanging a little open, and if he's not actually drooling, he looks like he might start any minute. Dean fixes his eyes on the guy and watches him gulp, and then look around a little wildly for any sign of Sammy, and then look back at Dean.

“I'd like a Quick Fuck and an Orgasm, for starters, buddy, but not from you,” Dean says, crisply. “Where's Suzy?”

“Where's – you – say what?”

Dean just looks at him. “I'm sorry, was I not speaking English?”

“You – uh – she's over there,” says the bartender, blinking, and he points across at where Suzy is currently handing out drinks to a table of biker-looking dudes. Dean watches her, and smiles.

“Cool,” he says. “Have her bring me my drinks, will you?”

He turns his back on the bartender and stalks over to the pool table, and he can feel a whole lot of people watching him. Correction: a whole lot of guys watching him. It still weirds him out a little to be the focus of so much attention, but at the same time it does give him a surprising sense of power. He has his eyes fixed on the boy who's trying to take a shot, and he's impressed that the kid isn't taking his eyes off the table. Admirable powers of concentration, and the shot, when it comes, is pretty good too. Dean applauds, and that's when Mr Collegeboy looks up, and blushes. He needs a haircut, and he's quite appallingly wholesome-looking, and Dean almost feels bad about planning to scam him out of every dollar he's got. But only almost. He certainly doesn't feel much like picking a fight with this one: he's all unfinished-looking, like he's not filled out to fit into the long, coltish limbs yet, kinda like Sammy after the growth spurt. It would be like kicking a puppy. “So you're pretty good with that thing,” says Dean, pitching his voice low and stepping up close, keeping his eyes fixed on his mark's eyes for a long, heated moment, before turning to look at the other guy. The other guy looks equally wet behind the ears, but shorter, rounder, and about five times as geeky. They don't stand a chance. “Winner plays with me?” He looks from one to the other and raises his eyebrows. “Unless you prefer playing with yourselves?”

“No! I mean, yes, I mean – yeah, winner plays with you, miss, ah, miss?” stammers the first boy.

“Dean,” says Dean, and lifts an eyebrow, daring either of them to comment. They very wisely don't make any stupid remarks, and that gets them a couple of brownie points.

“Cool. Hi. Um, I'm Tom, and this is Mitch,” says the gangly one, his eyes flickering to the tattoo on Dean's chest. He's got brown hair and freckles and a pair of geeky glasses sliding down his nose, and he looks like he's never been in a fight in his life. Jesus. Dean can't remember ever being this young.

“Hi Tom. Hi Mitch.” Dean leans back against the wall and crosses his arms in front of his chest, watching them lazily. “Don't let me interrupt anything, boys. You carry on.”

“I – yeah. Yeah, right,” says Tom, swallowing. He glances at his friend and then turns back to the table, and Dean can see him struggling to get his mind back into the game. It makes him grin.

“You came back!” And here's little Suzy, large as life and twice as pretty, carrying a tray with a couple of shot glasses. Dean treats her to the full force of his best charm-the-pants-off-you smile, and watches her blink a little dazedly under the impact. “I – uh – I have your drinks,” she adds, unnecessarily, and Dean's delighted to see that she's still smiling warmly back at him.

He looks at the glasses, and then grins at her through his eyelashes. “So, listen, Suzy,” he says softly. “I don't want to freak you out in your workplace, and I'm sorry if this is out of line, but I've got to tell you, I think you're absolutely the hottest thing in this room. And I'd really like to get to know you a little, ah, better.” Suzy's blue eyes are like saucers, but she isn't throwing the tray at him, and Dean figures that's probably a good sign. “I'm going to head over to the ladies' room in a minute. If you'd like to join me, that would be awesome. If not, that's okay too.” He's still looking into her eyes as he plucks one of the glasses from the tray and knocks it back. “The other drink's for you, Suzy. No strings – if I'm misjudging you here, you can think of it as an apology.”

Suzy licks her lips, and then picks up the remaining shooter. For a moment Dean wonders if she's going to throw it in his face, but instead she tips back her head and swallows it down, licking the last sweet traces of liquor from her mouth and grinning wickedly. “Fuck it,” she says, rosy cheeked and grinning like the world's naughtiest schoolgirl. “Give me two minutes.”

Suzy's glancing over her shoulder as she pushes the door open, and she gasps when Dean's fingers close around her wrist and he tugs her inside.

“I can't believe I'm doing this at work,” she exclaims, laughing as Dean pushes her up against the door, and then they're kissing like they've just invented it, like it's the most important thing in the world, and Dean's pulling her tidy ponytail apart and burying his fingers in the fragrant curtain of her hair. He can taste butterscotch on her tongue, and he's loving the way their bodies fit together, breasts pressing into breasts, thighs locked around thighs, and Suzy's hand is kneading his ass with intent, and she's trying to hitch up the floaty red fabric of his skirt, and he's sliding his hands up under her t-shirt, stroking the smooth warm skin of her belly and reaching up to slip inside her bra and cup her small, firm breasts. Her nipples are hard, poking into his palms in a way that makes him moan, and then he's rucking up the fabric to expose her breasts and ducking his head down, and when his mouth closes around one firm nipple she makes a sound that's pure sex and closes one hand over his shoulder and the other around the back of his head, and just writhes against the door. Lovely.

“Fuck, yeah,” she says breathlessly above him, and the gleeful sincerity in her voice makes him smile against her skin. “God, yeah.” Dean moves one hand down to dip beneath her skirt and wriggles his fingers deftly under the edge of her panties. She's all kinds of wet against him, and she arches her back to help him slide his fingers inside and moans when his thumb finds her clit and rubs swift circles around it. After a couple of moments she grabs his face and pulls him up into a kiss. It gets messier and more heated then, and Suzy's hand with its short fingernails has found its way up through the layers of floaty crimson skirt and inside his briefs, and she's definitely done this a time or two because, Jesus, she knows what she's doing, and Dean's giving back as good as he gets, fingers clasping her hip while he works at making her come apart against him with his fingers and his mouth, almost like it's some kind of competition - but one they both get to win. She isn't a screamer, which is probably just as well, but Dean knows when he's got her there because he can feel her muscles clenching around him, and her whole body tenses up while her eyes snap closed and her head goes back and he watches as she bites down on her lip and looks so fucking beautiful that it kind of breaks his heart, and he grinds up against her hand while she comes, moves hard and fast and urgent until, yes, that's it – he's gone.

For a moment or two they stand there, wrapped around each other, and Suzy's face is pressing into his throat, and she's laughing against his collarbone. He's still buzzing, every cell of his body feeling sunlit and joyous, and he thinks he could learn to love Suzy's laugh. Although of course he isn't going to get the opportunity to find out, because Dean's never in the same place for more than a few days, and he knows that relationships aren't on the cards for him. He might have hoped for something more once, might have had dreams about something normal with Cassie or Lisa, but he knows now that he isn't going to get to have that. So – he can have this. And even if he might kind of wish for something more, this is still pretty good. He kisses her again, grinning, and she still tastes sweet and wicked, like liquor and icecream. “Thank you,” he says. “That was great. That was really great.”

“So polite!” Suzy laughs again, sticky and breathless and dishevelled, and he can't help wondering who she is, what music she listens to, whether she's ever had her heart broken – there's a whole story here, a whole life free of monsters that he's just touching, for a moment, and it's weird to know someone so intimately, and yet not know them at all. Weird and wonderful. “Your mama really raised you right!” she says, shaking her head.

And that's a little jolt of reality for him, and it pulls the smile off his face. But she doesn't see, so it's okay, and he kisses her again. “I mean it – you're lovely, and this was – I really needed this.”

“You and me both, sweetie,” says Suzy, and then she gives a sudden snort of laughter. “Oh my God, I don't even know your name! Honestly, I don't normally – I am not really the world's biggest slut, I swear to God.” She's looking thoroughly red-faced now, and her expression is distinctly rueful, so Dean kisses her again.

“Hey, no worries, I totally get it – I'm just that hot,” he says, nodding modestly, and they both collapse into giggles, and Suzy kisses him again. “And it's Dean.”

“Memorable,” she says, still grinning. “Dean, thank you for the tip.”

Dean wiggles his eyebrows. “Any time, Suzy. Any time.” He looks at her, all freckles and dimples and adorability, like a debauched Anne of Green Gables, and pulls a face. “Man, I wish we were staying here longer. I'd love to take you out somewhere, do this properly.”

Suzy shrugs. “Well, you know where I am. Come again soon.”

Dean meets her eyes and they both crack up. “Is this where I say 'thank you for having me'?” he asks, a few moments later, and they both dissolve again.

Chapter Text

Tom and Mitch have finished their game when Dean emerges from the bathroom a minute or so after Suzy leaves, and when Dean sees Tom jump to his feet with that puppydog eager look on his fresh scrubbed face, he almost laughs out loud. Kids.

“Are you – do you still want...?” asks Tom, gesturing at the pool table hopefully.

Dean favours him with a smile sweet and lazy as honey dripping from a comb. “Sure thing, kiddo,” he says, somewhere between a purr and a growl. “If you think you've got what it takes?”

Tom pushes his glasses up his nose with his middle finger and gets this serious little look on his face, and Dean very nearly does laugh then. So earnest! God, to be a college kid with no suspicion that the world holds so many unspeakable horrors, so many hideous truths. Dean reaches up and ruffles his hair and watches his cheeks redden, and then he catches a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye and sees Suzy winking at him, and he blows her a kiss. Tom looks utterly befuddled.

“C'mon, Tommy boy – show me what you're made of.” Dean licks his lips. “How confident are you feeling? Shall we make it a little more – exciting?” His voice drops huskily on the last word, and Tom swallows. God, this is just so easy, it really is. Dean leans forward a little, letting the kid get an eyeful of wonderbra-assisted cleavage. “How much are you willing to risk?”

“I...uh...what?” says Tom, and, jeez, Dean doesn't hold out much hope for the kid's chances of graduating if that's an example of how articulate he is.

“Care to put your money where your mouth is?” Dean lifts his hand and taps Tom's bottom lip with one finger for emphasis, smiling dangerously. He's counting on Tommy being a trust fund boy – he's pretty well dressed and he's got that indefinable air of never having had the corners knocked off him by the harsh realities of life. But there's no knowing, with students. “What are you made of, Thomas?” Dean drops his eyes to Tom's crotch, and then slides his gaze over to his pocket. “Is that a wallet in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?”

The kid is crimson now, and Dean thinks that his little friend Mitch, who's listening to this whole encounter, might just be on the brink of dying of envy.

“Um – I've got – um – fifty dollars?” Dean turns on his heel and starts to walk away. “I mean, a hundred? A hundred bucks?” Dean pauses, but doesn't turn around. A hundred's not bad, but he suspects there might be more in Tommy's wallet. He waits. Tom's standing next to him, looking a little shell-shocked and sodden with nervous lust. “One fifty?” he says softly, his voice imploring. Damn, the kid really does have the hots for him – Dean is the freaking Daddy, he really is. “That's all I've got.” Dean turns slowly and gives Tom a very unimpressed look. Tom bites his lip. “But – I should warn you,” he says apologetically, “I'm pretty good at this game.”

Oh, and that gets Dean. That decides him, if anything else were needed. He's going to kick little Lord Fauntleroy's smug little ass for him. “Bring it, Tommy,” says Dean, smiling like a piranha.

But the surprising thing is that Tom actually is pretty good at the game. More than pretty good, actually – he's giving Dean a serious run for his money. In fact, he might even, to Dean's utter incredulity, end up winning. Which is absolutely infuriating, because, for fuck's sakes, Dean practically does this for a living, but the kid's some kind of freaking math genius or something, and he seems to have this uncanny way of knowing precisely how and when and where to strike the damn balls.

Dean really wasn't expecting to face any kind of serious competition, but now he's thoroughly on his mettle, and Tommy boy is proving difficult to psyche out, with his geeky concentration on the freaking table even when Dean's leaning right over and giving him an eyeful. Damn it! Dean's eyeing his own money where it's sitting on the side of the pool table, and feeling decidedly grumpy about the possibility of kissing it goodbye. This is not how this is supposed to work!

Suzy brings him a couple more shooters, one bright green and one pink and orange striped, and Dean winks at her, knocks one back (it tastes like mint choc chip icecream) and gives her the other, and then orders a large glass of water and a basket of fries. “He always wins,” Suzy whispers as she collects up the glasses, and Dean scowls. “He's some kind of genius about this stuff. D'you want me to spill the water on him when I come past?”

She's a sweet kid, she really is, but Dean's pride won't let him turn tail, even though he's starting to suspect his ass is going to get handed to him if he doesn't pull his socks up. “No thanks, darling. But you're a doll for offering,” he murmurs, and she dimples in answer to his smile.

His eyes dart back to the table, and, shit, this kid is kicking Dean's ass. He's bending over all serious, pushing his glasses up again with his middle finger, his brows knitting together in concentration, and it's annoying as hell – but at the same time Dean can't help appreciating the quiet competence of the boy. He moves with fluidity and precision, and Dean's wondering what he'd be like with a gun, or a knife, if he had a little training. He's got an amazing sense for where things are going to move to, and how to make them go where he wants.

Which is all kinds of inconvenient for Dean's purposes, but it does make him like little Tommy Boy a lot more. He steps over to the Juke Box and puts in some more money, and the music makes his heart lift. If Sam were here, he'd be teasing Dean mercilessly about getting his ass kicked by a geeky college kid; but of course, Sam isn't here. Sam's off chasing his pouty little demon and falling for her bullshit line about doing good. Sam's off getting his lying little ass into trouble and disobeying the Lord God, for fuck's sakes. Sam really doesn't need to know about any embarrassing defeats that may or may not be about to occur.

“You like AC/DC?” Tom's attention has been distracted from the table, finally, and his eyes are huge behind the lenses of his geeky glasses, like he's seeing Dean for the first time.

Dean cocks his head and looks back at the boy, and he finds his mouth curving into a genuine smile. “Hell yeah,” he says, with feeling. “You? I'd have had you down for more of a Coldplay kinda guy.”

“Hell no,” says Tom, shuddering. “Are you kidding me? Hard rock all the way, baby!” And then he looks kind of bashful, and Dean has a startling urge to pinch his cheek and feed him cookies.

“Not just a pretty face, are you?” says Dean, grinning. “Hell, next you're going to tell me you like classic cars.”

And, damn if his face doesn't light up. “Are you – you're joking, right?” Dean looks at him askance. “You saw my car, right?” Dean shakes his head.

“What car you got, Tommy?” It's probably a fucking VW Bug, Dean figures.

“She's a 1966 Plymouth Satellite,” Tom says, tentatively, like he's waiting for the punch line. Dean's jaw drops. “She was pretty beat up, but I put her back together over the summer. She was my uncle's, but he left her to me in his will – I always did love that car.” And Dean knows that tone of voice, and that little glow, because that's how he talks about his baby.

It's at this point that Suzy shows up with the water and the fries, and Dean blinks from Tom to Suzy and back again, and tries to figure out if he can somehow keep the both of them.“Suzy, sweetheart, sorry to be a pain, but could you go get a couple of tequila slammers for me and my boy Tommy here?” He gives her a dazzling smile. “And have another of those Cocksucking Cowboys for yourself, while you're at it?”

“Your wish is my command,” says Suzy, heading back to the bar. Dean and Tom both watch her walk away, because it's the kind of walk that does merit a little appreciation, but then Dean's attention is pulled back to his pet college boy.

“So, for real – a Plymouth Satellite?”

“Yeah,” says Tom, giving an embarrassed sort of shrug.

“That's a nice car, man,” says Dean, nodding. “She equipped with the 426 Hemi?”

Tom gapes at him. “Yes!” he says, after a moment, his eyes bugging out. “The Street Hemi!”

“Police grade drum breaks?”

“Yes!”

“Sweet. Not great at corners, though, right?”

“She corners just fine,” bristles Tom, and Dean grins.

“Sorry – no insult intended, pal.”

Tom blinks, and then gives a dazed sort of grin. “I never – I – my God, really, who are you? You're like – wow.”

“Yeah, I am indeed like wow,” agrees Dean, cheerfully. “Good assessment. But it's your shot now, right? Sorry, man, didn't mean to distract you.” He waits until Tom's on the verge of taking the shot, and leans in close to whisper: “All this and I'm spectacular in bed.” Tom makes a little choking sound, misses the shot completely and turns to Dean, and Dean winks at him. “Seriously. Spec. Tac. Ular. I can bend like a pretzel, and I've got muscles in places you wouldn't believe.”

“Oh!” says Tom, articulately. And Suzy's back now, with the fries and the drinks, and Dean almost kisses her, but figures that could get her in trouble with her boss, or could get her a load of grief from other customers, because, yes, he has had a crash course in homophobic dickwads over the past month, and little Suzy doesn't seem to be a gun-wielding badass. So he just beams at her, and hands over a stack of bills far larger than she needs.

“Tom, you and I are doing tequila slammers,” says Dean.

Tom blinks. “I'm not sure if I like tequila,” he says, and Dean makes a dismissive noise in the back of his throat, and waves his hand. “But I won't know if I don't try,” continues Tom, bravely.

“That's the spirit. It's not like I'm suggesting body shots. Yet.” Dean's got his eyes fixed on Tom's face, and he can see the guy starting to blush again. “And I'm thinking that maybe later on, you could take me for a ride in your car? She sounds lush.”

Tom's looking kind of like somebody dropped a piano on his head at this point – it really wouldn't suprise Dean to see little cartoon birds circling around his messy brown bangs. And this impression increases tenfold when Dean pulls Tom's hands over to him, places a lemon slice in one and licks the other. “Wha..?” says Tom, and Dean tips the salt shaker over the wet skin.

“Hold still, Tommy,” he says, smiling. And then he licks the salt away, knocks back a shot of tequila and bites the lemon out of his other hand, his mouth grazing the skin of his palm.

There is, Dean thinks, some danger that Tom may come in his pants. And Dean's starting to feel the same way, because, dear God, this is an awful lot of disarming and adorable right here. Most kids today have no fucking taste in music or cars; Dean kind of thinks that this kind of unexpected display of discernment should be encouraged and rewarded. He glances at the remaining shot glass and gives Tom his most thoroughly wicked smile. “Your turn.”

Chapter Text

Arguably, good girls don't put out in the back of strange guys' cars in the parking lots of bars. But Dean isn't seeing any particularly good arguments for being a good girl, and Dean's been kind of wanting to take his rented girl parts for a more oldskool kind of test drive, while he has them, just to know what it's like. He's in an excellent mood, having won the game by the skin of his teeth, and victory snatched from the jaws of defeat is pretty damn intoxicating. As are shooters, of course, and tequila slammers. And Tommy's car is sweet. And so is little Tommy, although, to be fair, he's not all that little. Not all that skilled either, but he's got a shitload of enthusiasm going on, and Dean figures that he's teachable – and the car and the music get him an awful lot of points. So Dean's sitting astride the kid's lap, grinding down against the giveaway bulge in his pants and kissing the hell out of him, and Tom is just making these worshipful how-did-I-possibly-get-to-be-so-fucking-lucky noises underneath him, which is really very gratifying, and digging his fingers into Dean's ass, and they've got Kansas playing on the tape deck – because Tommy is far too sensible to douche up his lovely car with any of this CD crap, or iPod jacks - and he's reaching down to unfasten Tommy's fly, and, really, it's pretty much an ideal lose-your-girl-cherry scenario, as far as Dean's concerned.

Right up until the point where Sam tears the door half off its hinges and points a gun at Tommy's head.

“Get off of her,” he says, between gritted teeth, and, Jesus, Sammy is big. Really, very big. And really, very pissed. And surprisingly badass. Dean doesn't tend to think of Sam as badass but apparently when he needs to, Sam can break out the badass and then some. It's kind of impressive, actually, in a profoundly annoying way. Dean can't blame Tommy for making terrified little whimpers.

“Easy, tiger,” says Dean, moving into the line of fire. “Chill, Sammy. He's not on me. I'm on him. And how is this any of your goddamn business?”

“You're on – you – what the hell, Dean?”

Dean just stares at him. “Consenting adult, sitting right here. And, really, are we going to start playing the game of “Who has the most inappropriate sex life” now? Because, in case you didn't notice, John Boy Walton here isn't a freaking demon”

“But he's a guy!” says Sam, staring.

“And I'm a girl!” Sam stares, and Dean is obliged to concede that, okay, that's kind of bullshit. He shrugs defensively. “Well, girl-shaped, anyway, at least for now.”

They stare at each other for a long moment, and Tom makes an unhappy and baffled little sound underneath Dean. “I don't – can I – I think maybe you should go?” says Tom, looking up at Dean all white-faced and terrified. Dean looks over at Sam, and then wraps his thighs tighter around Tom's waist, buries his hands in the kid's hair and gives him the filthiest, most thoroughly pornographic kiss he can muster. Tom's hips are thrusting helplessly under him after a moment, and Dean makes the kiss last as long as he can, because he is still very fucking pissed at Sammy for taking his car, and for going off after Ruby, and for interrupting him in the middle of getting laid, and if this is freaking Sam out then that, Dean thinks, is absolutely fine by him.

He is unsurprised to hear Sam cursing under his breath, but he really isn't expecting Sam to then reach into the car and lift him physically off of Tom, and he's frankly pretty damn startled that Sammy's strong enough to do that. Or that he's small enough to have that done to him.

“What the hell?” he demands, but Sam's got him by the hand now and he's dragging Dean out of the parking lot and across the road, back towards the motel. Dean is thoroughly affronted by this, and he tries to dig his heels in and put all his weight into them, but when it looks like it almost might work, Sam just turns around, glares at him hotly, and then picks Dean up and slings him over one ridiculously huge shoulder.

“What are you DOING? Who died and made you Fred Flintstone? Put me DOWN, you fucking gorilla!” yells Dean, kicking and flailing furiously, but Sam totally ignores him. “Oh my God, you, you homophobic jackass! You jerk! You dick! Get off of me!”

Sam does put him down when they get to the motel door, holding him in place with one hand wrapped around his wrist while he unlocks the door with his key. Dean, frustrated in his attempts to get away, settles for kicking Sam, and is quite pleased to see his brother wincing. He just wishes the cowboy boots had pointier toes – and, also, he thinks maybe he's going to hurl, because being upside-down after drinking all the various things he's drunk so far this evening – really not a good plan. And then Sam's pulling him into the dark motel room, finally letting go of his wrist and closing the door behind them. Dean slaps the light switch and stands there glaring, as furious and dishevelled as a wet cat.

Dean throws the punch while Sam's still pulling the door closed, and that's what lets him land it, because Dean's reflexes are pretty fucked by the combination of alcohol and dizziness, while Sam is not just bigger, but quite disgustingly sober as well. So it shouldn't have worked. But he's also evidently not realised just how monumentally pissed Dean is with him right now, because he makes the mistake of turning his back on Dean for a moment, and so Dean manages to get a very satisfying blow to Sam's solar plexus as the guy turns around to face him.

“What the fuck, Sammy?” demands Dean, as Sam doubles over and makes pathetic wheezing noises. “I mean, seriously, what the fucking fuck?”

“You're drunk,” says Sam, after a few moments. “You're drunk enough to have sex with a guy in the freaking parking lot, Dean. Damn straight I'm intervening.”

Dean throws his hands in the air, positively vibrating with frustration. “Oh, right – and I've never gotten laid while drunk before. Or had sex in a parking lot. Never bothered you before,” he sneers.

Sam just stares at him. “Dean. You don't sleep with guys. If you're drunk enough to forget that, you're too damn drunk to look after yourself. Did he have a condom? Did you? Were you – Jesus, why am I even talking about this? Dean, you don't screw guys!”

“Shows how much you know,” snaps Dean.

The silence in the room is deafening.

“...sorry?” says Sam, eventually, and his face has gone absolutely expressionless. The floor fails to open up and swallow Dean. “D'you want to run that by me again?” And, no, Dean really doesn't want to, if that's all the same with Sam, thank you very much. He fiddles with the room keys and doesn't look at Sam. “Dean?” Wow. That's a voice Dean hasn't heard before. Jesus. He sounds like Dad. It makes Dean shiver and straighten his back unconsciously.

“You don't know everything about everything,” says Dean quietly, still not looking at Sam. He walks away, stripping off the leather jacket and tossing it onto a chair, and then starts to pull off his boots. He feels very tired, all of a sudden, like all the exertion of fighting the vamps and all the drinks and the sex and the lateness of the hour and just everything has all come together and jumped on him all at once. He sighs. “Look, when you were a kid – a few times.” He runs his hand through his hair; it's still very short, but it's grown out a little over the past month, and he hasn't figured out whether he wants to cut it or not. Can't quite stand the thought of long hair, of making this move feel permanent, but it's still shorter than Sam's hair, so he figures he's still good. “I didn't – look, we needed the money, okay? It wasn't – I mean, maybe it might have been, you know, good, in other – but I didn't have a great time, mostly. But it wasn't about me having a great time.” He shrugs. “There was that time when Dad was in hospital, and he had no insurance, and he was totally out of it – I tried picking pockets and I tried, well, a bunch of things. And I tried this. And you needed school books, and we gotta eat, you know?” He pauses, and the silence is almost tangible. He darts a sidelong glance at Sam, and his brother looks absolutely stricken, which pisses Dean off, because it's all fine. It was a long time ago, and it was his choice, and he's okay with that. “Don't you fucking judge me, Sammy. We do what we've got to do to get by, all right? It's fine. It's not a big deal. Don't make this into some big fucking tragic arthouse movie crap."

“Dean!” Christ, Sam sounds like his heart is breaking, and that's just way melodramatic. There's no need for that shocked face.

“Oh, don't be such a fucking girl, Sam. Don't start snivelling. Nothing terrible happened. It was only a few times, and it wasn't great, but it wasn't a fucking patch on getting tortured by demons for decades, I can tell you that.” It only occurs to him a heartbeat later, when Sam makes a stifled little gasp of indrawn breath, that this maybe isn't the most helpful thing he could have said, if Sam's in the middle of a mighty guilt trip about Bad Things Happening To Dean. He looks up again, and feels suddenly really bad because Sammy looks wrecked. “Shit, sorry. I just – Sam, you don't got to beat yourself up for this shit. Bad stuff happened, and good stuff happened. Stuff just – happened, okay? None of it's your fault, dude.” He doesn't know how to say this. He's never been all that great with words. “Family's the only thing that matters,” he says in the end, with a little half-shrug.

“That's not true,” says Sam, and he sounds almost angry. Dean looks up, frowning. “Dean, you matter. Damn it, Dean. You – damn it. You matter. You deserve better.”

Dean raises his hands, because Sam's looking perilously close to coming and hugging it all out, or some stupid Oprah thing. “Dude. This is not a Hallmark moment.” That does wring a shaky laugh from Sam, but he sounds like he's only an inch away from crying – and, really, Dean doesn't need this. “Look, whatever – it's okay. I get that you thought you had to be, like, some kind of white knight, or something, saving me from the big bad penis. But – been there, done that, bought the t-shirt. Kinda. Only, not with girl parts.” He pulls a face. “I thought it might be better. And he was a nice kid, sweet , harmless – some kinda mathlete, like you used to be. Good taste in music. Great wheels.” Dean's face breaks into a smile in spite of himself, because, yeah, that was a sweet car. Not that he'd ever cheat on his baby, really, but still – sweet. “I could handle him, Sammy. It might have been fun.” He looks up, suddenly remembering why he was so pissed in the first place. “And, hey, don't tell me you weren't out there getting a little demon action, Mr Moral Highground, because I know you snuck off to see Ruby. Sneaky isn't your best thing, buster.”

Sam blinks. “I – I wasn't,” he says. Dean snorts. “No, really – I wasn't seeing Ruby,” he insists, frowning. Sam's brows come together and he makes that little pursed-mouth face that means he's thinking, or frustrated with Dean, or both. “It was Bobby,” he says after a moment, and that does get Dean's attention. Sam sighs. “I met up with Bobby. He's been researching like crazy, and he found out some stuff about your, ah, condition.”

“He find a cure?” asks Dean, although he knows the answer already. If there was a cure, Sam would have told him by now.

Sam shakes his head. He just stands there for a minute, looking at Dean, and then he sits down next to him on the bed. “Not exactly. But there is a time limit. It's not permanent.”

Dean's heart lifts. “For real? Thank God!”

Sam's mouth draws into an unhappy line, and he bites his bottom lip. “Well, yeah, but – it's seven years, Dean.” Dean just stares. “Which – I know that sounds like a long time, but, you know – it's not so bad. It's – I mean, it's not an ever after thing.”

“Seven years?” repeats Dean. “Seven years?”

“It's Hera, this ancient goddess from...”

“Yes, thank you Sam, I know who Hera was.”

“Sorry. She – well, it's her. The witches who pull this stunt are priestesses of Hera, members of an ancient cult. Mostly the guys they hit with this, well, a lot of them end up killing themselves.”

“That's...reassuring.”

“No, I mean – mostly they target abusive, misogynystic dickheads, and these guys usually can't handle it. A lot of them top themselves. But there are other guys, who manage to deal with it – only, it's not the kind of thing people advertise, you know? Mostly they build themselves completely new lives, the ones that manage to deal with it. Pretty hard to trace 'em. But Bobby managed to track down one old guy who lived seven years as a woman before turning back. He ended up with psychic powers and some pretty impressive longevity – he's a hundred and sixty, or something, Bobby said.”

“Psychic powers? I – I really don't want psychic powers,” says Dean slowly. He looks down. “Or a rack.” He reflects that a long life might be kind of nice, but it doesn't seem terribly likely, considering all the things that try to kill him on a regular basis.

“No, I know. But that seems to be the deal,” says Sam, uncomfortably. “It dates back to Tiresias, in ancient Greece. He was a...”

“Blind prophet. Got turned into a chick and then back into a guy by the gods, for some fucked up joke or bet or something, because nobody had invented TV yet, so the gods had to entertain themselves by screwing with humans. Turning girls into trees, turning guys into hounds, hot girl-on-swan action, making people fall in love with their mothers or fathers or whacked-out stuff like that. Don't look at me like that, Sam. I can read, you know. This is like Mythology 101. This is my freaking job, dude.”

Sam blinks. “No, I know. Sorry. I didn't – sorry. Um.”

“So...do I get to go blind too?” asks Dean, evenly. “Just for shits and giggles, because there's not enough whacky hilarity going on in my life already?”

“No!” says Sam. “Er. At least – I don't think so.” He looks miserable. “Dean, I wish there was something I could do.”

There's another awkward silence, and Dean sighs, and then tries to grin. It's not his best grin ever. “No worries, Sam,” he says. “Seven years is – hey, it's only seven years, right? That's not so bad.” And, wow, does he ever sound completely unconvincing? He tells himself fiercely that he endured thirty years in Hell, and so this is going to be a walk in the park. “It's okay. Thanks. I guess I'd rather know what I'm dealing with. But I'm not giving up. This just means I've got a better idea of where we're at. There's got to be a loophole – there's always a loophole.”

Except when there's not. Sam looks at him, and doesn't say this, but they both know it. And pretend not to. And then Sam's fingers are lacing through his, and, God, at some point Dean's going to have to stop feeling surprised about how big Sammy is, but apparently he's not reached that stage yet, because, Jeez, his hand feels tiny inside Sam's. It's oddly reassuring. He looks up and offers Sam a watery grin and bumps shoulders with him, and Sam leans down and presses a kiss into the top of his head, like the little sister he isn't. And this is nice, really unexpectedly nice, and then Sam does give in to his inner Oprah after all and pulls Dean onto his lap and into a hug. It's a bit like being cuddled by a large, warm, determined tree, and after a moment of prickly affronted dignity, Dean just goes with it. It's a little embarrassing how much he enjoys it, actually; he's trying to remember the last time Dad held him, and he can't. He fucking loves holding on to Sam, and being held by him, and Dean finds himself thinking that it's a hell of a shame that the only time this ever happens is when something truly appalling has just occurred to one or both of them. Really, there should be more cuddles for the sake of cuddles, because life is short, and this is awesome.

Dean reviews this thought, and concludes, with a vague sense of horror, that he really has turned into a girl. But he still doesn't try to break away from Sammy's embrace, and Sam's holding onto him like he's the only piece of driftwood afloat on an endless sea.

Chapter Text

Apparently even the End of Days has its quiet patches, and this is one of them, so they've been occupying themselves with regular gigs. This one was a standard salt'n'burn, but they'd had to dig up seven graves before they finally found which one contained the extra skeleton. By the time they finally torch the grumpy son of a bitch, Dean is aching in places he didn't know he even had, and his clothes are soaked right through with sweat, because it's Alabama, and it's summer, enough said. There's a motel about an hour's drive away down the highway, but they're both exhausted, and the house is right here, all shiny and empty and newly ghost-free, so they decide to crash here instead. It's kind of dusty, and the electricity doesn't work, but it's better than a lot of places they've squatted, and they always have candles and flashlights in the trunk. It's pretty much a no-brainer.

The food left in the kitchen is too far gone for even Dean to consider touching, so dinner this evening consists of warm beer, slightly crushed Cheetos, and half a Snickers bar each. Or it would, if Sam didn't insist he wasn't hungry, and make Dean take the whole candy bar. Dean lets him be noble, because – candy.

Afterwards they make themselves at home in the bedroom, setting candles on saucers and in chipped mugs to provide them with half-way decent light. Sam changes the bedsheets with some equally musty ones from a linen closet full of moths, but Dean lets him get on with it, if it makes him feel better. There's only one bed, but it's a good size, so that's okay. It's really not a bad place to crash, all told, but, wow, what Dean wouldn't do for A/C at this point. Sweat has been pouring off him in rivulets for hours, soaking through his shirt and his underwear and his jeans for so long that he can barely remember how it felt to be clean. They both smell pretty ripe, and they're both pretty muddy too. Dean takes a flashlight into the ensuite bathroom, scowls at the spiders and other many-legged beasties that go scutling off for dark corners, and tries the faucet.

“Oh, thank God,” he says with feeling, when brownish water eventually comes sputtering out. After a couple of moments it's running clear, and Dean rinses the orange Cheeto dust and dried mud from his fingers. “I got first dibs on the shower!” he yells, and then he trudges back into the bedroom to gather up a candle, a towel, a washbag and a change of clothes.

The weather's too damn hot for the shower to be really cold, and the water pressure pretty much sucks, but the tepid stream still falls on Dean's upraised face like a benediction, and he scrubs away the dried sweat and the ingrained dirt with an sense of unalloyed bliss. Of course, he's starting to sweat again as soon as he turns off the damn shower, but that's just how this cookie crumbles, and it still feels pretty damn fantastic to have gotten rid of the encrustation of mud, and to smell of nothing worse than soap. He towels himself dry, pulls on an old pair of too-large boxer briefs, and a favourite tour t-shirt that now falls half way down his thighs, and then he pads back into the bedroom.

“Showers are awesome,” Dean informs his brother. “Seriously, whoever came up with the idea of the shower, I hope he made a big-ass bundle of money and died fat and happy, surrounded by cheerleaders and pie, because, dude – showers are awesome.” He rolls his shoulders, and winces at the way his muscles complain. “Digging, on the other hand, kind of sucks.” Dean gives a few tentative stretches, trying to work some of the ache out of his arms and his thighs, and sighs. “Okay, all I need now is a deepdish pizza with everything on it, an A/C that works, and a hot Thai masseuse. You got any pizza or masseuses tucked away in that bag, Sam? Or an A/C? 'Cause you know I'd share with you, if I did.” He stretches again, and then starts shoving his filthy clothes into the laundry basket, vaguely aware that Sam is just standing there like a shop window dummy, watching him.

“I could give you a back rub, if you like,” says Sam, and there's an odd note in his voice, something Dean can't quite interpret: something tentative, and kind of rueful.

Dean stands up and winces again. He eyes Sam dubiously. “When did you become some kind of massage expert, Sammy? And how come I've not heard about this amazing talent until now?”

Sam ducks his head. “Stanford,” he says, shortly. And he doesn't mention Jessica, but Dean figures you can probably take that as read. “And you never asked before,” he adds.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Well, hell, I'm asking now. I've got knots in the knots in my muscles. Where d'you want me?”

Sam's expression is a little odd, but whatever. He bites his lip and then nods at the big double bed, and Dean throws himself down on it, bounces twice, and then lies there wondering why the hell he did that, because, wow, that's a whole lot of discomfort shooting through his shoulders and his back right now. “Ow,” he says, evenly. “Wow – all those people paying for gym membership, and all they really need to do is go digging up half a dozen graves a night to get buns and abs and thighs of steel.” He chuckles, pillowing his cheek on the back of his hand, his elbows up on the pillow and his arms crossed. “C'mon Sammy, make with the shiatsu. Or whatever. Hey – you're not going to walk down my back, are you?” he asks, his voice suddenly spiking with worry. “'Cause I got to tell you, I think you'd snap me like a twig.”

“No, I'm not going to stand on you,” says Sam a little hoarsely. He steps closer, and he smells like grave-dirt and smoke and Sam-sweat, and it's quite ridiculous that these should be comforting smells, should be home-type smells, but they are, because that's just how fucked up the Winchesters' lives are. A moment later he's straddling Dean's thighs, pinning him firmly in place, and Dean's fighting reflexes tingle briefly, but he ignores them. And then he ignores everything, because Sam's hands are digging into his shoulders, and Dean's suddenly making startled little involuntary groans of pleasure, because, damn, Sam's hands are huge, and he's got a grip that would impress The Rock, and he's kneading Dean's muscles through the thin fabric of the t-shirt so hard it's just this side of painful. Delicious, and almost unbearable. Dean finds himself going pliant and non-verbal within seconds, while Sam works his way very slowly and thoroughly down his spine, long fingers carving tight circles into his body and making him shudder. When he reaches the base of Dean's spine he spends a fair bit of time and attention there, just above the place where Dean's hips and ass curve out. And Dean's vaguely aware of the breathy, urgent little moans and, well, basically sex-noises that he's making under Sam's ministrations, but – massage! Really fucking outstanding, thorough, take-you-apart-and-then-put-you-back-together-again type massage. Of course a person's going to be making some stupid noises when their central nervous system is being played like a violin.

When Sam's touch falters, and then withdraws, Dean makes a wordless mewl of protest and arches his back. “Sa-aaam,” he grumbles roughly, feeling half-stoned with the pleasure of it, sweetly achy and wrung-out. And then Sam's hands are back on him, tentatively sliding up inside the t-shirt – and that's so much better that Dean could weep. He's making a pretty steady stream of soft, helpless, enthusiastic noises now as Sam kneads his bare flesh, sweat-slick again with the heat of the Alabama night and of Sam's body hot and heavy on top of his. “Jesus, Sammy,” Dean groans fervently. “So good – my God - fuck – uhh - so good!”

Sam makes this broken noise above him, this sort of strangled groan, and then he leans forward and pummels Dean's shoulders even harder, and Dean's squirming now, practically floating out of his body, just one big boneless sprawl of rubbery, loose-limbed gratitude pressed into the mattress underneath his brother's weight. And it's only then that his brain registers, very belatedly, that Sam's erection is digging into his thigh, rubbing against him, and that it has been for quite a while now.

Dean just lies there, suddenly bug-eyed, and then he snorts with laughter. “Oh my God, Sammy – you horndog!” he gasps. Because it's kind of funny, Sam's dick getting fooled into thinking that there's an actual girl there. But Sam freezes, which sucks, because Dean's shoulders could take plenty more of this, and then Sam's scrambling off him with a hiss of indrawn breath, his dick sliding hard against Dean's thighs for just a second, and then he's bolting into the bathroom, and Dean is no longer the happy recipient of the worlds' greatest ever massage. Damn it.

Dean lies there for a moment, and gives a rueful little huff of laughter at the dumb optimism of the penis, getting all wide awake and hopeful just because it was near something vaguely girl-shaped. “Pervert!” he yells, his voice thick with amusement. Then he does laugh out loud, because, Jesus, is Sammy actually whacking off in there? Dean gets to his feet and crosses to the bathroom door, grinning hugely. “Sammy, you dirty boy, are you jerking off? Oh my God, you totally are. What are you, fourteen? Jesus!” He lowers his voice to his smokiest, filthiest register and presses his face up to the crack of the door. “You got anything you need me to massage for you, big boy?” he husks, pure porn star, his eyes dancing with hilarity.

He isn't really expecting the hoarse, desperate note in Sam's voice, or the way it cracks when he gasps out: “Dean!” And Dean shivers, and stops smiling, because he is suddenly quite, quite certain that was Sammy coming just then, coming with Dean's name on his lips. And that should be hilarious, should be something he can needle Sammy about for years and years, but – it kind of isn't. It's something else, something that makes Dean back away from the door dry-mouthed and wordless, with a strange, tight feeling in his belly and a sudden, shocking sense of walking on eggshells. He bites his lip, blinking at the door, and retreats to the double bed, blowing out candles on the way. And then he gets under the covers and curls up with his back to the bathroom door, trying to understand how he's feeling right now and listening to the gentle hiss of the shower being switched on.

He very carefully does not think about Sam in the shower, because that would be a whole world of disturbing and wrong. So he doesn't do it. At all.

He's asleep by the time Sam emerges from the bathroom.

In the morning, Dean wakes up with Sam spooning into his back, one arm flung around his waist, the hand splayed out over his belly. Dean lies very still, feeling a little like his head is going to explode, and frightened that any movement will wake Sam up and make him shrink away.

When Sam does wake up, quite a while later, there's a rather painful little silence, and then Dean snuggles back into his embrace, and closes his hand over Sam's, and, thank God, Sam doesn't let go after all. Dean feels Sam's breath huff against the back of his neck, and that's it. They're fine. It's cool.

Neither of them makes any reference to the massage or its effects. And Dean's good with that. Dean thinks denial is great, especially when it allows them to just carry on as normal, occasional hugs and all, and avoids any prickly social awkwardness about inconvenient erections and stupid physical reactions. But he finds himself blushing when Sam looks at him, and he finds himself watching Sam and thinking about that massage, and about how sure Sam's hands had been, and wondering whether maybe Ruby's reason for chasing Sam around had less to do with big evil gameplans, and maybe more to do with Sam being a total Viking in the sack. Which is not something he'd ever suspected about Sammy before last night, but now he's thinking that maybe his geeky, polite, prissy little brother is not geeky, or polite, or prissy in bed. Or little, for that matter.

Oh, God. He is in so much trouble.

Chapter Text

Dean blames the wimple. He can't really justify this stance, since the wimple isn't responsible for the FBI having an attack of competence, or for the fact that the demons killed all four of their hosts when Sam banished them, or nuked them, or did whatever the hell his mojo does to them. It isn't to blame for the fact that the janitor knew the real Sister Theresa (because, hell, what were the chances of that?) and snuck off to call the cops, or for the fact that Dean parked the Impala two streets over, where the parking is free. And neither can it, in all fairness, be held responsible for the way that Sam's appallingly long legs are eating up the distance, while Dean's having to do his damnedest to keep up with a good four or five inches of height stolen by evil witches. But the wimple is hot and itchy and it has been pissing Dean off royally for the past two hours, and so he's going to blame it anyway. He feels like Whoopi Goldberg in Sister Act as he hares off down the alleyway.

Fuck, Sam can move fast. Dean makes himself speed up, and mentally curses the damn witches all over again, and curses himself for not getting the damn laundry done, because this would be one of those times that a sports bra would be a much better choice than the wonderbra. As he reaches the corner he hears the FBI break through the door behind them, and that puts an extra burst of speed into his stride. Crap crap crap. But at least the car's not far, at least they can – oh, fuckadoodledoo, no they can't, because there's a cop car parked right there - which has got to be a coincidence, because they've got no reason to know that it's their car, but, damn, it's about as welcome as a shark in a swimming pool. Dean meets Sam's horrified eyes and as one they both turn and head in the opposite direction from the Impala, and Dean's mind is racing, trying to remember what's around here, trying to think of a good hiding place, somewhere that a girl in a nun outfit and a guy in a black suit and tie won't stick out like a sore thumb.

Nope. Not coming up with many options off the top of his head.

Stupid wimple.

He hears the FBI guys trampling onto the main road and yelling to the cops as he hurls himself after Sam and down a particularly seedy looking street, and he's looking over his shoulder when Sam grabs him by the scruff of the neck and yanks him through the door of a nightclub so damn fast the bouncer doesn't have the chance to open his mouth and object to the arrival of a nun and a Blues Brother.

It's dark in the club, all eardrum-bursting techno shit and sweaty, half-dressed jailbait covered in piercings and grinding into each other. Sam's fingers lace with his automatically, and as Dean yanks the wretched wimple off his head he's scanning the room, looking for a way out or something. His eyes settle on the john and he drags Sam across the room. Not to the ladies' room – Dean has discovered, to his dismay, that there is always, always, always a fucking line for the ladies'. They slam into the men's room instead, and apparently God has remembered, for once, that they're supposed to be working for Him, because there's nobody else in there.

“Gimme your shirt,” snaps Dean, tugging at buttons and zippers and wriggling his way out of the nun outfit as fast as he can. He doesn't look at Sam, and very carefully doesn't think about any of the stuff the two of them have been very carefully not talking about since the massage that never happened, but Sam still just stands there and gapes for a moment in a way that makes Dean's cheeks redden, before hurrying to obey. Dean quickly unfastens the sheathed blade from his calf, ponders for a moment, then adjusts it and refastens it around his upper arm. Not ideal, and difficult to reach in a pinch, but better than nothing. “Help me, damn it!” he says after several aborted attempts to clasp the buckle one-handed, and Sam steps forward and does it for him, carefully keeping his eyes on Dean's arm and not looking at the rest of his underwear-clad form. Half a minute later Sam's standing there in just his sober black pants and Dean's wearing the white dress shirt as a short dress, with the tie wrapped tightly around his waist a couple of times as a belt. He's got the collar popped and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and the front is unbuttoned distractingly low, revealing a generous amount of lacy black plunge bra. Dean thinks it's a pretty damn good disguise, for a few minutes' notice, but the silver crucifix is still nestling conspicuously in his cleavage, so he quickly pulls it over his head and hands it to Sam. “Put it on,” he says imperiously, and Sam does. Dean looks him up and down with a critical eye, and it's pretty good, as seat-of-the-pants disguises go, because Sam shirtless is a whole different creature from Sam-in-a-suit. (And, really, really, when did Sam get so big and ripped and grown up looking? It's not that Dean hasn't seen Sam shirtless before, because, duh, but somehow Dean hasn't really seen Sam shirtless. Until pretty recently. Somehow he's been superimposing a gangly, skinny-ass thirteen-year-old over the brother he's actually got now, and it keeps being a shock to realise that little Sammy looks like he could take Dad on in a wrestling match and maybe win.)

Dean recognises that he's staring, and his eyes dart up to Sam's face, and the staring is kind of mutual. He swallows and looks away. “Not bad,” he says, and then he wads the nun outfit up into a ball a little regretfully and consigns it to the trash can, but slings Sam's suit jacket over his arm, because suit jackets cut to fit Sam Winchester are more expensive than 'Sound of Music' costumes.

“What, no quips about bad habits?” asks Sam, with a tentative grin, trying to cut the tension in the room.

“Too obvious.” Dean looks in the mirror and scowls; it's a pity he's not got any lipstick or boots, or, well, actual changes of clothing. Hell, for that matter it's a pity he's not got a magic wand or a pony. Dean ruffles his dirty blonde hair and sighs. What the fuck ever. It'll have to do. “C'mon,” he says, grabbing Sam's hand and heading for the door. “Let's do this. Attitude. It's all about attitude.” Dean straightens his spine and puts a swing in his hips. He suspects it would be more convincing with high heels and clean shaven legs, but beggars can't be choosers, and the light is shitty enough that it's not too bad.

“We're too old for this place,” mutters Sam, wincing as the music hits them again at full volume.

Dean shrugs and glances up at him through his eyelashes with a half smile. “Dude, we are too old, too hot, and we have actual taste in music. Well. One of us does.”

Sam's hand is large and warm and dry, and he squeezes Dean's fingers in a way that makes Dean's chest contract a little for no good reason, as he leans down and breathes into Dean's ear: “And it's not you,”

Dean gives a little snort of relieved laughter. “Bullshit.” They edge out onto the dancefloor, picking their way through the gyrating kids, and, man, does Dean feel old. His makeshift dress is glowing an eye-watering violet in the stupid strobe light, and his skin looks a weird colour. This is really, really not his scene. “Okay, we're blending,” he says, once they're in the middle of the dancefloor, nodding to himself and then trying to copy the moves that one of the girls near him is making. He thinks he's doing a pretty good job, and is getting quite into it despite the shitty music until he realises that Sam is practically pissing his pants laughing at him. “What?” Dean yells over the music, defensively. “I don't see you getting down with your bad self, College Boy. Blend, damn it!” Dean illustrates his point with another snappy dance move, and despite the fact that they're on the run from the Feds, and they've just failed to save a bunch of possessed nuns from death-by-demon (although they did keep the seal sealed, so that's something), Sam is still just standing there rocking with laughter. Dean grabs him by his belt loops and jerks him closer, and then stands up on tiptoes , tries very hard to look ferocious and yells: “Dance, bitch! Dance!” He suspects that they may look a little bit like a Calvin and Hobbes cartoon strip.

Sam snorts with laughter. He looms over Dean, all bare skin, broad shoulders and imposing musculature, like some Greek god trying to disguise himself as a 21st century boy, and ruffles Dean's hair. And that's pretty fucking annoying, it really is, because Dean isn't a kid, and it kind of kills him that somehow his baby brother seems to see him as one now. But this isn't really the time or the place to knee Sammy in the balls. (And, besides, having Sammy see him as a kid is maybe better than having Sammy see him as a girl.) “I can't dance to this crap,” says Sam, leaning down to be heard over the music. His warm breath puffs against the shell of Dean's ear, stirring the soft tousle of hair that Dean still hasn't gotten cut yet. “And you definitely can't dance to it.”

“What is this, American Idol? I'm blending in, you jerk. Try it.”

Sam looks around casually, and Dean knows he's scanning the room for any sign of the Feds. He looks back down and shakes his head, then grabs Dean's hand and pulls him over towards the bar. “Can we blend in next to the drinks instead? Because somebody's going to think you're having an epilleptic fit soon, Dean.”

“Oh, screw you, Twinkle Toes,” grouses Dean, but he follows his brother over towards the bar willingly, because – alcohol.

The Feds stand out like a pair of tigers in a chicken coup when they show up five minutes later. Dean spots them first, because he's perching on one of the uncomfortable bar stools and angled more towards the door, and he nudges Sam with his toe and then sucks on his Moscow Mule like it's the only thing he's interested in. Sam hooks an arm around his waist, and presses closer behind him, pretending to whisper sweet nothings into Dean's ear. For a moment Dean has to close his eyes and force himself to focus, because apparently there are some reactions hardwired into this girl-body, and, damn, Sam does feel good crushing up against him. Or maybe it's just the memory of the massage that never happened (and that Dean definitely hasn't been having explicit dreams about). “Don't pull the knife, for God's sakes,” Sam mutters, his mouth brushing Dean's earlobe for a fraction of a second. “I think we're okay. Play it cool.” Which – what? Seriously, what the fuck? Dean has never stopped doing the damn job. Dean's not the one that decided to take a sabbatical and play at normality in Stanford. Dean does not need advice about how to do this stuff.

He spins the bar stool around, and Sam moves away to let him, looking distinctly taken aback when Dean parts his thighs and pulls Sam forward to rest between them. Dean knocks back the rest of his bottled girly drink (and, incidentally, what the hell is with a bar that does not sell beer? Kids today!), sets it down on the bar, then gives a coquettish giggle and pouts up adoringly at Sam, splaying one hand in the centre of his bare chest, toying with the crucifix and fluttering his eyelashes. Sam's looking a little dazed and distinctly nervous. Dean licks his lips very deliberately, then pulls Sam's head down with the free hand, his fingers tangling in Sam's hair, and breathes tersely into his ear: “I'm not a fucking amateur, Sammy. Don't tell me how to blend in.” And then he lets go and leans back, one hand still fingering the silver chain, eying Sam like he's just made a particularly filthy proposition.

Sam just looks at him, wide-eyed and speechless, and there's a long, awkward pause, while Dean becomes painfully conscious of the position they're in. And Dean's already regretting this little display of theatricality, because although, yes, point proved, and he's a terrific actor, and he sure doesn't look like a nun on the run right now, and he clearly doesn't need any patronising pointers from his pet College Boy – but, well. Yeah. He has just wrapped his legs around his brother's waist and yanked him in close, and as strategies go for preserving his sanity, this probably wasn't actually the best one ever. Sam looks like he's of the self same opinion, and they just stare at each other helplessly for a very long moment, Sam's belly flush with Dean's, and the evidence of his growing erection completely unmistakable, since there's nothing but Dean's underwear seperating Dean from the front of Sam's pants.

Oh, fuck.

Sam blinks down at him and swallows, and looks like he's about to say something, but then doesn't. He looks both agonised and wildly embarrassed, and Dean's right there with him, because this – he really doesn't know what to do with this either, and he cannot understand what he can possibly have been thinking. He's playing with fire, here, and he knows that this isn't a joke but here he is, still leaping in where angels fear to tread, still acting like he doesn't know about the great big elephant in the room.

“Excuse me, ma'am? Sir?” And, crap, maybe Dean isn't as professional as he thinks he is, because he totally hadn't noticed the Fed, and from the look on his face Sam hadn't either. Dean swallows, and turns to look at the guy, and he's pretty sure that he looks about as hot and bothered and distracted as it's possible for a person to look. But that's probably all to the good, because he sure doesn't look much like he's worrying about being chased by the FBI right now. So he doesn't let go of Sam, because that would be kind of obvious, and he's trying to stay in character, stay nonchalant, stay very much not-a-nun.

“Yeah?” says Dean, going for Valley Girl accent on a whim. “Hey, nice suit!”

The Fed looks a little taken aback for a moment, but then his professional mask slides back in place. He looks from Sam to Dean and then back again. “Have you seen a woman dressed as a nun? Or a young man dressed in a suit and tie? We believe that they're armed and dangerous.”

“A nun?” says Sam, and he's flexing everything, trying to Hulk it up as much as possible, trying to really underline that whole 'nope, not wearing a suit, not even slightly' thing. Dean shudders a little, because, damn, there are bits of Sam presently flexing up against bits of him that – yeah. Damn. Dean bites his lip, and has to be impressed by the way that Sam manages to keep his attention on the middle aged man brandishing the FBI badge at them. “You're kidding, right?”

“No sir. Ma'am?” The Fed looks over at Dean. “Have you seen either of these people?”

“No way – I'd totally remember a nun and a guy in a snappy suit like yours,” Dean says, and gives a drunken-sounding giggle. “Is that it? 'Cause we're kinda busy here.”

“Sorry for taking up your time,” says the guy, and then he moves on to the next person, and that's it, they're good, thank fuck...and Sam's still lodged between Dean's thighs, fully hard now, and Dean's boxer briefs are soaking, and they're just staring at each other, hearts still racing, unspeakably relieved, and freaked out, and turned on, and, damn, this is just all kinds of wrong, but, damn, Dean's finding it pretty difficult to think clearly with Sam pressed up against him so tight. Sam's got one hand resting on the curve of Dean's waist, not trying to push away, just holding him in place, and after a while he lifts the other to brush a stray hair behind Dean's ear. His hand's trembling, but he tries to smile.

“I think we're okay,” he says after a long moment, and it takes Dean a few seconds to process that he's talking about the Feds. He risks a glance in the direction of the suit, and, yeah, he's across the room now, not giving them a second glance. Sam gives a small, slightly desperate laugh, and the way that this makes his body flex and shudder makes Dean's toes curl and his back arch. “So I think you can probably let go now, Dean,” Sam says hoarsely, after a moment.

“Right,” says Dean, and it only then occurs to him that the reason Sam's pressed so close to him is because Dean's got his legs locked around the guy's waist, holding him trapped there. Which – wow, that definitely wasn't a conscious decision, and, wow, could he possibly be any more embarrassed? But – God, God, Sam feels so good up against him like this, and Dean wants – Dean could almost - he shivers, and makes himself move to let Sam free.

“Sorry,” says Sam, stepping back fast. His eyebrows lift helplessly up into his bangs, and he glances down, looking thoroughly humiliated and miserable. “I didn't mean to – sorry, this is so fucked up, it really – I know you don't, you're not - I mean, it's just...” He trails off, looking at Dean's face with this extraordinary mixture of wistfulness and guilt and straightforward lust that just undoes Dean entirely, and for a moment he's almost sure that Sam's going to kiss him, and he realises that if he does, Dean will totally let him. And more. An awful lot more. Pretty much anything he wants; in fact, Dean's mouth is going dry just thinking of it.

And that's when Dean finally unfreezes and freaks the fuck out. Which, in this case, involves Dean shoving Sam away, shivering at the touch of the bare skin against his palms, and then flinging himself awkwardly off the bar stool and running like hell out of the club, leaving Sam gaping behind him. And, really, if he could, Dean would climb into the Impala and just drive and drive and drive and not see Sam for – well, for a while. This is wrong, wrong, wronger than wrong, and Dean's appalled to know that he wants it anyway.

Running feels good, a familiar rhythm, a burst of adrenaline, a sense of purpose. He hurls himself down the alley and onto the main road and on, on, towards the Impala as if he can somehow outrun his problems, as if he can move fast enough and far enough to get away from his memories of Hell, from Sam's weird-ass powers, from Ruby, from Alastair, from being God's chosen one, from seriously fucked up impulses to do inappropriate things with his little brother. From the whole thing. And he's almost disappointed when he reaches his car, because the running is exhilarating, but he can't ever be sorry to see his baby. She's home, as much as Sammy is.

Of course, she's also a home with a cop car still parked next to her, but Dean's feeling a lot less stressed about that now that the FBI have failed to recognise them, and he's not in the nun outfit any more, and so when the officer opens the door and steps out, Dean hits him with his best flirty smile. He's gotten pretty good at doing charming and disarming at guys now, and doesn't even have to think about it. “Hi there, officer,” he says, all wide green eyes and innocence. He glances over his shoulder, both relieved and disappointed to see that Sam hasn't followed him. He thinks he'll maybe take a drive for a while anyway; Sam can make his own way back to the motel, and Dean could really use a little breathing room to get all this straight in his head. He looks back up at the cop, dimpling like a schoolgirl. “Is there some kind of problem?”

He realises too late that he is too stupid to live; he has time to see the cop's eyes start to flood with inky darkness, but he's not fast enough to move out of range or pull his knife from its inconvenient hiding place before the bastard smashes him over the head with the butt of his gun, and it's lights out.

Chapter Text

Dean comes to slowly, aware first and foremost that his head is killing him. As he gradually fumbles his way back into consciousness he realises that his wrists are also kind of uncomfortable, and eventually he registers, with a sudden spike of fear, that this is because they are bound, and pretty savagely bound at that, which strongly implies that he needs to get his head in the game right the hell now.

He cracks open his eyes and stares at the ceiling, and then blinks around at the rest of the room, trying to get his bearings. It's something like a shed or a stock room, very utilitarian-looking, with dozens of dusty boxes piled up precariously atop half a dozen heavy iron shelving units screwed into the grey walls. Dean's sprawling on the cold concrete floor, and Sam's shirt is doing precious little towards keepign him warm; his wrists are raised above his head, each tied sepeartely to the lowest level of the metal shelf behind him. He manages, with some considerable difficulty and much scraping of skin, to wriggle up into a sitting position, with his arms now down at his sides and the iron shelves digging into his spine. He feels a little less hideously vulnerable like this, but he's still pretty comprehensively screwed, as far as he can work out. And not in the fun way.

His knife, of course, is gone. So is the tie he'd been using as a belt – in fact Dean's fairly sure that it's the goddamn tie that's been used to bind his hands. Terrific. The shirt is unbuttoned all the way down now, and he's fucking freezing, and also physically afraid in a way that he hasn't been before. He really doesn't like feeling this exposed; he looks like some kind of cheap bdsm porn, and it scares him and infuriates him in equal measure. And, beyond the whole sense of vulnerability about being stuck in this stupid, curvy little body, there's also an almost overpowering sense of horror at being restrained that just takes him straight back to Hell. He knows the drill, and although he did endure torture for years – eventually he broke. He's broken. They broke him. And now they've got him again.

Dean turns over possibilities in his mind frantically, and none of them are very encouraging. There's got to be a way out of this, though, because there's always a way out. (Except when there isn't.) And probably Sam's going to come busting in through the door at any moment, or, or maybe Castiel will, because they pulled his ass out of hell for a reason, and they're not going to just let him get himself pointlessly killed in a warehouse somewhere.

Probably.

Just so long as whoever brought him here doesn't know about hex bags. Dean really hopes that he's not gone and got himself captured by competent evil bastards from Hell.

He stiffens at the sound of footsteps. His body wants to move into some kind of defensive position, but his mobility is pretty comprehensively fucked, so he just sits there, in Sam's shirt, shivering, pissed and scarily vulnerable, and he sticks his chin out and fixes his best Fuck You Very Much grin onto his face.

It falters a little when the hex bag lands in his lap.

“So you're finally awake?” Dean's face betrays his shock for an instant, and then he's thrashing against his restraints, too furious to think about his own peril at all. Ruby watches him and just grins. “Now, now, Dean. it's not amateur hour. You're staying right where I want you.”

“You fucking bitch,” snarls Dean, glaring at her helplessly. “I knew we couldn't trust you.”

“And yet you did,” she says sweetly, hunkering down next to him and reaching out to push a wisp of hair behind his ear in a gesture that reminds him, shockingly, of Sam. “You let me inside your little circle, and you let me get close to Sam, and you let me fuck him, let me fuck with him. Great job protecting your little brother, Dean. Daddy would be so proud.”

Dean flails uselessly again. “Fuck you!” he says at last. She laughs.

“In your dreams.” Ruby gets to her feet again and prowls away, running idle fingers over the edge of the shelving unit. “Boy, Dean, you really have this coming. You have been such a total fucking pain in my ass all along the way. Every single time I think I've got little Sam to myself, there you are, on the phone, or even just the little Jimminy Cricket voice in the back of his head, nagging, sinking your claws into him, messing everything up. Guilting him into going back to you. Have you any idea how annoying that is?”

Somehow Dean has let himself – not forget that she's a demon, exactly, but still somehow be fooled by her big cow eyes and her little girl pout. And he, of all people, should know perfectly well that this is bullshit, that the shape of the skin and bones tells you precisely Jack Shit about who somebody is. Dean isn't a girl, and neither is Ruby, no matter what appearances might suggest.

“I'm sorry, have I been screwing up your evil masterplan?” asks Dean, furious and cocky as hell. “My bad. I'll tell Sam to go over to join you on the Dark Side of the Force with my blessing, shall I?”

“Oh, you won't be telling Sam anything,” she says with grim certainty that sends a chill through Dean. “You've gotten in my way once too damn often. This is it, Dean. End of the line.”

“Bring it on, bitch,” Dean spits. “You think Sam will ever trust you after this?”

She smiles at him, and it's a wicked, gleeful, predatory expression. “No, Dean. I think he'll trust you. In fact, I'm pretty much counting on it.” Dean blinks, waiting for the punchline. “But somehow I don't think you're going to be in a position to take advantage of it.” He frowns, still not getting it, and Ruby rolls her eyes. “God, you're stupid. You really are amazingly stupid, Dean. You're just this blob of clingy, self-loathing, aggressive neediness holding Sam back from what he could be. What he's supposed to be. And to add insult to injury, you're as dumb as a box of rocks. It's all eating, shooting and fucking with you, isn't it? Just pure lizard brain. Pathetic.”

“Stop trying to sweet talk me,” says Dean, but he's still trying to pull apart the meaning of her threat.

Ruby shakes her head, leaning back against the iron shelves in the opposite wall, and looks down at him. “You haven't even figured out who you're dealing with yet, have you?” And, okay, that gets Dean's attention. “What's it going to take to cluestick you, Dean? Should I kidnap Jo again? Oh no, no need – I've already got myself a cute little girl tied up and at my mercy, waiting to be saved by a big strong Winchester.”

Dean's eyes widen. “Meg?”

“Give the boy a gold star. Took you long enough.”

“What the fuck?” He's reeling. “But you – but – you were a witch. You weren't – how...?”

“Dumb as a box of rocks,” she says again, unkindly. “You really think you boys are the only people to ever pull a scam? The egotism! Yeah, it's me.”

“Meg.”

“Meg was her name. The little blonde girl. I was Meg for a while. And I was Sam for a while. But I was always Ruby.” Her eyes narrow. “Granted, after you put a fucking bullet through Azazel I kind of lost it. But you get that, don't you, Dean? You know how it is, when you lose someone you love. You go a little crazy, stop giving a shit about the big picture. But it's amazing how time back in Hell can give a girl a little clarity. I realised that this was the best way to honour his life: by making sure that his plans came to fruition. By making sure that you and Sammy and all the rest of your little hunter friends were completely, utterly and totally fucked.” She smiles at him. “And I was doing a great job, once you'd got your miserable ass dragged screaming down to the pit. Got little Sammy eating out of the palm of my hand real quick.” Her mouth twitches. “Got him eating me out real quick, come to that. Easy, when I already know his body from the inside out, know all his buttons. Oh, it was all going great – and then you show up again, Lazarus, back from the grave.” She strides forward and kicks him very deliberately in the ribs, and Dean cries out in spite of himself. “And. You. Fucked. Everything. Up. AGAIN.” She punctuates each word with another kick, and Dean's pulling his legs up in front of him, trying to protect himself, but there's not a fat lot he can do, and he's gasping with the pain. She pauses, breathing hard, glaring down at him.

“If this is the part where I'm supposed to apologise for interfering with your plan to make Sam evil – yeah, no, not going to happen any time soon,” says Dean, shakily. He thinks he might have a busted rib. She's not holding anything back with those kicks, and he's not doing a great job of protecting himself – but Alastair set the bar pretty high when it came to causing pain, and Dean has plenty of bravado left yet. “Fuck you.”

She kicks him again. “But, you know, I could deal. I kept going. I played my cards right, and I was still getting Sam on track, still making him use his powers. It was okay. And then – this.” She gestures towards Dean's body with an expression of total disgust. “I mean, seriously, what the hell? How am I supposed to compete with this? Bad enough that he's got his big brother back, got all this guilt about you bleeding and suffering and squirming on the rack for his sins – but now you pull this shit? I mean, when you were a guy, he was at least cool with leaving you asleep in the motel and coming with me in secret to 'do good'. But now? Now he's sticking to his hot little sister like glue. Got to keep her safe. Got to stop her from getting in trouble. Got to stop her from going out alone. Got to watch over her while she sleeps, and get all gooey about how she sacrificed everything for him, and how sweet she is, and how fragile, and how reckless, and how adorable. How cute.” Dean feels, in amongst the general sense of horror and dread, kind of offended by this description. He is not fragile or adorable. He may be smaller than he used to be, but he's not a dainty little twig. He can still kick plenty of ass, damn it. “I mean, fuck - cute - he actually said that. Can you believe it?” Dean really can't, and he's about as disgusted as she is. “He thinks you're cute. Like puppies and kittens and toddlers. Dean Winchester. Cute.”

“I am not cute,” Dean snaps.

Ruby eyes him narrowly. “Oh, you're cute,” she concedes, irritably. She reaches down and pinches his cheek, hard. “You're cute as a button. You're like a little doll, with your pixie haircut and your huge green eyes and the dusting of freckles on your little upturned nose. And the way you were wandering around at first looking like a kid dressed in her big brother's clothes, with the jeans falling off you and the fucking shirts half way down to your knees, all lost and helpless and trying so hard to be badass – I mean, it's like God was fucking with me, rebuilding you from scratch to be just the most totally disarming thing in Sam's universe. Like his fucking kryptonite, so that suddenly he'd be all focused on looking after Dean, and screw his big destiny. It was really, really, really annoying.” She shakes her head. “I figured, well, at least there's sex, right? But suddenly he's making googoo eyes at you instead, and thinks I don't notice. I wasn't born yesterday.” Her face lights up all of a sudden, and her smile chills Dean. “Still, once I'm inside you, that's all going to be okay, isn't it? He can have his cake and eat it. I'm guessing you haven't put out yet?” Dean's bug-eyed stare is apparently answer enough. She laughs. “Yeah, thought not. So that's going to be the cherry on the cake, if you'll forgive the pun. Sam breaks in here and saves you from the big bad demons – or maybe you've already saved yourself, I've not quite decided...hmm. Anyway, this body's going to get a big old knife to the heart, and sweet little Deena is going to be all wide-eyed and wounded and so grateful to Sam for saving her...and then all it takes is a little bit of Barry White, and Sam is my boy again, and we're back on track.” She looks Dean's body over critically. “I've always preferred blondes,” she says conversationally. “You'll look perfect once we've dyed your hair.”

Dean swallows. “You're forgetting something,” he says, and glances down at his tattoo.

Ruby smiles. “Oh, I'm not forgetting anything, Dean. It only works as long as it's unbroken” She pulls the knife out of her back pocket and fingers it thoughtfully. “Even a tiny little scratch will be enough. And I'm going to give you plenty of other scratches – got to make it look good, got to shed a little blood to get Sammy all worked up about his little sister being in peril.” She licks her lips. “It's going to be fun, Dean. Well, for me. For you? Probably not so much.”

Dean swallows, and thinks fast. And comes up with nothing. He shrinks back against the shelves, scouring his mind for something, some leverage, some clue, some inspiration. Fuck. Nothing.

“Don't,” he says at last, as she steps closer with the knife. And he's not begging, not really, but he doesn't know how else to keep that knife away from his skin, and he's got to buy a little time.

Ruby smiles, and the blade flashes down and draws a deep red line across his collarbone, but doesn't touch the tattoo. Not yet. The pain is nothing on Dean's personal scale of pain, and he realises then that this is how he buys time – he's going to need to keep her busy enjoying this for as long as possible, to stave off the moment when she forces her way inside him. He's real eager to have that not happen any time soon. Or, really, ever.

“Is that the best you've got?” he sneers, and she rolls her eyes and backhands him so hard his head bounces against the shelves behind him. When Dean sits up straight again, she hits him three more times in quick succession, and he bites his tongue and feels his lip tearing. He straightens again with a little more difficulty, his head ringing, and tastes blood. “Yeah – you're pretty much still in Little League when it comes to torture, you know? Alastair wouldn't have let you clean his floors,” Dean says, after a moment. And it's true, of course – they both know it. This isn't pleasant, but it's a peck on the cheek in the context of what Dean has done, and had done to him. Maybe he can annoy her enough to make her do something reckless? Something fatal? But he doesn't want to die - and, anyway, she could just possess his newly vacated body. So maybe – ah, shit, he's got nothing. Nothing but buying a little time by keeping her busy before she slices open his tattoo and slides inside his skin. Nothing but hoping that the cavalry will find their way here in time, somehow. Wherever here is.

He licks his lips. “So Azazel was your Daddy? I shot your Daddy? Gee, that must really rile you,” he says, and she kicks him in the crotch, hard. Which - okay, not anything like as bad without the boy parts, but still a damn sight worse than he'd supposed.

“I don't understand what the big fuss is about you, Dean,” she says, and then she kicks him again, this time in the ribs. “Really. You're just a joke.”

He's starting to run out of places that don't hurt, but that's okay. This is still the dull kind of pain, the general kind of pain. This isn't the excruciating precision, the nerve-flaying agony, the salt in the wound that he knows. This isn't bones snapping, trembling organs being tugged out into the air or the terrified seconds just before an eyeball is pressed too hard and the jelly splatters out. This is nothing. He's an old hand at this. “But you're getting all the punchlines,” he points out, smiling at her. He can feel blood trickling down onto his chin from the side of his mouth. “Doesn't seem quite fair.”

“Did you read too many comic books when you were a kid? Somehow convinced that you've got to make with the banter, that it makes you stronger or something? Because, really, Dean, I've got to tell you – you're no Batman. Hell, you're not even Robin. You're like freaking Jeeves.”

“Alfred.”

“What the fuck ever.” She slides the blade down his chest, leaving a little trail of red behind her; it's a very thin slice, and Dean wonders if it will even leave a scar. She probably doesn't want to damage the goods too much, if she's planning to move on in. He does sit up a little straighter when she slides the blade under the lace of his bra, the cool metal lying flat against his skin. Dean swallows, and looks up at her, trying to read her intent. “Yeah, I probably don't want to cut off a nipple, really – not if it's going to be my body.” She nods, almost more to herself than to him. “But, hey, there are other options.” She looks up at him and smiles, then lays the knife down carefully out of his reach, and sits down in the corner of the room. Dean watches as she vomits out a trail of black smoke. He chews his tender bottom lip, knitting his brows as the smoke snakes out of the room. Fuck. That doesn't bode very well, but at least it buys him a little bit of time.

Dean scans the room, looking for something, anything, but there's nothing. Only the knife, and it's too far away, even if he reaches with his feet he can't – although – huh. Maybe if he – huh.

Dean pushes and squirms and slides until he's lying flat on his back on the concrete again, and angles his body and wriggles, trying to see properly past his jiggling cleavage and his knees, arching his back and reaching out with his toes to try to touch the blade. Sam's shirt is rucked up around his shoulders now, and the concrete is icy against his skin, but he concentrates, ignoring the twinges of pain in his ribs and his side, ignoring the bruises flowering already on his skin. If he can just move a little further, just push himself a little bit more, then he should be able to touch the handle with his toe. Just a few more inches, damn it, and his arms are aching, straining against the tie, and the concrete is scraping against his spine and his thighs, and he's almost there, almost got it, almost found his leverage and his escape in spite of Ruby's plans.

And of course this is when she walks through the door wearing the cop's body, eyes black and slick as the sea at midnight, smiling a dangerous smile at the sight of Dean lying flat on his back, wrists bound, back arched and legs splayed.

Ah, shit.

Chapter Text

The cop is fortyish, big, solid, a little thick around the waist from too many donuts. Receding hairline. When he smiles, it's Ruby's smile, Meg's smile, and Dean doesn't know how he can possibly have been so dumb, how he can have failed to join up the damn dots and realise who was messing around with his little brother all this time. He tries to back up, tries to get some leverage and wriggle back towards the shelves so he's at least in a sitting position, at least a little less freaking exposed here, but Ruby moves too quickly for him, and in a matter of seconds she's on him, shoving his legs apart and kneeling between them. Crap. Dean starts struggling in spite of himself, forgetting that he doesn't want to give her the satisfaction of seeing him scared, because he really doesn't want this. He's still angry, still pretty certain that nothing Ruby can come up with will be a match for Alistair's inventiveness, but – he doesn't want this.

She laughs, and licks a stripe down his collarbone, tasting his blood. “Oh, Dean. First I'm going to get inside you and ride you till you scream, and then,” she taps his tattoo, grinning, “Then I'm going to get inside you and ride you till you break.”

“I'd like to see you try,” snarls Dean, impotently, glowering, but they both know how hard he's trembling.

“You're about to,” she says, and her smile is colder than the concrete under his skin. Dean struggles harder, but the cop is a big guy and there's no way Dean can dislodge the body, not with his hands tied. Ruby just laughs. And then she unzips the cop's pants and reaches inside, and, damn, things really aren't looking so great at this point. Dean finds himself kind of wishing that Sam hadn't come and interrupted him in the parking lot that time when he'd been on the brink of giving it up to the geeky little college boy with the Plymouth Satellite, because that would have been kind of nice, for a first time. This – this is not going to be nice.

“I thought about doing this when I was inside Sam,” she says conversationally, grinning down at him as she strokes the cop's dick into hardness. “Wondered if that might be what it took to push your buttons, to convince you that your boy was turning evil and needed to be put down like a mad dog.”

Dean gapes. “You – I – man, you are sick in the head,” says Dean, blinking, glad of the distraction.

“But I didn't know if you'd just roll over and take it, Dean,” she says, looking into his eyes. “Thought maybe you'd just let him have your sweet little ass, if that was what you thought he needed. Because you just love him So. Damn. Much.” She pours an ocean of scorn into her voice. “I couldn't be sure you'd hate it, Dean. It's always difficult to know if there are any lines you wouldn't cross for your boy.” She snorts. “Hell, it might have made you even less likely to shoot him, not more. You might have liked it if he made you his bitch. Letting him call the shots. He's more like John than you'll ever be, isn't he? You'd love to have him take charge. He's a natural leader, but he defers to you because you're the older one. You're just holding him back, Dean.”

Dean stares at the ceiling and tries to think about this, tries to figure out how he'd have reacted if Sam had made a move on him back when he was possessed, because thinking about that is better than watching some middle aged cop stroking his middle aged dick a few inches away. And, no, he realises, there's nothing he wouldn't do for Sam. He'd get on a plane, he'd jump off a bridge, he'd kill, he'd die, he'd torture innocent people, he'd take one for the team. He'd give up his car. Whatever it takes, no limits – and it's not healthy, he knows that, but it is what it is. Sammy's the most important thing in his world, and when he went away to Stanford and left them for two whole years, Dean had felt like someone had torn out his heart. At least he'd had Dad, but all the joy and friendship had been ripped away, leaving him with obedience and bloodshed alleviated only by wild, desperate nights in bars and anonymous beds. He can't go through that again. So – no, he still wouldn't have shot Sam, not even if Meg had made him do – that. He'd have tried to understand, tried to give Sam whatever he needed, tried to work it out.

And, if he's honest, lately he's been having thoughts about Sam that are anything but selfless. Which he blames on this fucked up curse – goddamn Greek gods, encouraging people to lust after their mothers and their fathers and – yeah.

Damn.

“Hey!” Ruby sounds irritated. “Am I boring you here, Deena?” Dean flinches a little, and his eyes dart back to her.

“It's Dean,” he says, pointlessly.

She grins at him, and then deliberately slides her fingers inside his boxer briefs. “Why, Deena, you little slut – you're good to go already,” she says, her eyes dancing. And yes, fine, he's still kind of wet down there from the bar, from Sam, from that whole wildly inappropriate embrace. Stupid body. He's glaring up at her helplessly and trying not to give a damn, but, Jesus, he doesn't want this. Even though she's not a patch on Alistair, it's still too much like his time in Hell, and he hates feeling so weak, hates being made into a thing like this. Ruby's grinning down at him triumphantly, her fingers shoving into him, and he looks away and tries to pretend it isn't happening. And then he feels her freeze, and her head snaps up. Dean glances at her and sees that the smile has fallen right off her face.

“Dean?”

Oh, thank God. Thank God. “Sam?” Dean yells, startled by the sudden rush of hope, and Ruby backhands him again and this time his skull bounces painfully against the concrete. “Sam!” he yells again anyway, his voice hoarse. Ruby's eyes meet his, and he reads her frustration and wrath and knows suddenly what she's going to do, and so when she tries to roll off him and lunge for the knife Dean's got his legs wrapped tight around her waist, holding her in place. God, he wishes his hands were free. “Sam! In here! Sam!”

“Dean?”

“I'm going to take him,” Ruby snarls, scrambling to get off him, but he holds on like it's the most important thing in the world, because Dean knows she's going to slice into his tattoo and try to jam her evil smoky ass into him that way, try to own him and Sam both, and Dean is not having that.

“Oh no you fucking won't,” he spits. She punches him in the face, hard, and as his grip falters she jerks herself up and away and goes for the blade. Damn it. “Sam! I'm here! It's Ruby, she's Meg, she's going to possess me if you don't get your ass in here now damn it! She's going to – shit! Shit!” Because Ruby's got the knife and she's slashing it down towards his chest – so much for the subtle little scratch. “Don't trust me!” Dean yells, horrified that Sam's going to be too late, cringing back, trying to melt into the concrete.

And then the knife falls from Ruby's nerveless fingers, and Ruby is suddenly frozen in place, big cop body caught mid-lunge with its face furious and its penis bobbing at half-mast, and Dean looks over at the doorway and sees Sam with his arm outstretched, his expression terrible. Streams of black smoke spill from the cop's mouth and nostrils, wisps leaking from the corners of his eyes, and then Castiel strides past Sam, overcoat flapping, and he presses the heel of his hand to the cop's forehead. The cop blinks suddenly human eyes, and falls down.

“I was on it,” growls Sam.

Castiel hunkers down next to Dean and glances over his shoulder. “You should not use those powers,” he says crisply. “That was what she wanted. Each time you use your demon blood you further taint your soul.”

Sam doesn't argue, but he still looks kind of pissed at not getting to be the knight in shining armour. Or maybe he just really wanted to take Ruby down personally.Whatever. He's suddenly kneeling down, a hand on Dean's calf, his face contorted with worry. “Dean, are you okay? Did he – she – did – are you okay?”

Castiel is untying Dean's wrists efficiently. Dean's head is splitting, and he's sore pretty much everywhere, but he's basically okay. “I'm fine,” he says shakily, after a moment. “This was nothing. I'm good. I'm fine.”

Sam snorts. He's wild-eyed, like he's only holding it together by the skin of his teeth. “Stop being such a hard-ass for once, okay?”

The knots come loose and Dean tries to push himself up into a sitting position but Sam's scooping him up and pulling him into a bone-crushing hug. “I can't turn my back on you for a fucking minute, can I?” he says roughly. “God, Dean. I thought – God.”

And, okay, this is not particularly dignified, but it's kind of nice. Dean puts up with it for a bit. Sam's wearing his suit jacket again, but hasn't dug up a shirt or tie yet, so there's quite a lot of skin crushing into skin, and earlier in the evening that would have been sending Dean's overactive libido into overdrive, but right now he's just glad that Sam's here, and that they're both okay. “You have really rotten taste in chicks, dude,” says Dean, after a bit. His voice is a little muffled against Sam's collarbone, but he's pretty sure Sam gets the message because he feels Sam tense up against him. “Seriously. Werewolves. Demons. You need to find yourself a nice normal girl.”

Who isn't related to you, he nearly says, but doesn't.

“Sorry,” says Sam, after a moment. “Sorry. It was my fault you ran out of that bar, and I should have followed you. And I should never have trusted Ruby. She – seriously, Dean – I'm so sorry.”

Dean snorts, and pushes himself away from Sam. He pulls the shirt closed in front of him and starts to fasten up the buttons, and carefully doesn't look at his brother. “Oh, get over yourself already. We were both assholes for trusting Ruby. I can't believe we didn't figure out who she was any sooner – Meg, you got that, right? She was Meg?” Sam nods. He looks pretty uncomfortable. Dean glances over at Castiel. “How come you didn't know she was Meg?” Castiel looks almost shifty, and Dean stares at him with narrowed eyes. “Hang on – you knew?”

“The host of heaven do know many things,” says Castiel. He looks at Sam. “But I do not think that our word would have made you reject her. You knew already what she was, and still you trusted her.” He shrugs. “She was a creature of the pit, no matter by what name.”

Dean snorts. “You know what? If you'd tried actually saying 'Hey guys, that's Meg!' I'd bet dollars to donuts we'd have dropped her ass like she was on fire. Fuck. Always got to be cryptic and roundabout, don't you?”

Castiel looks a little guilty. “I am truly sorry that she hurt you in this way.” He looks across at Sam, and Dean can't quite figure out the expression on the angel's face. “We did not know the entire scope of Azazel's intent, and it was hoped that Ruby would reveal the plans to you. But I confess I felt it was a dreadful risk. I am much relieved that she is gone.”

There's something more going on here, Dean thinks. He remembers what Ruby said about how this stupid fucking girl-curse thing had distracted Sam, had pulled his attention off his Grand Destiny and made him concentrate on taking care of Dean, and a nasty suspicion suddenly crosses his mind. He looks back at Castiel, and the angel doesn't meet his eyes. “Huh,” says Dean, thoughtfully. He runs a hand through his hair. God, his head hurts. But there doesn't seem to be any bleeding, which is good. Dean's had enough head wounds to last a lifetime. “Ow,” he says anyway, and Sam's attention's suddenly all on him again. “So could we maybe get out of here now? Go find somewhere warmer? Where they have clothes, and maybe coffee? Even pie? I could really use a piece of pie right now,” he says, wistfully.

“Sure.” Sam looks concerned. “Maybe – maybe we should take you to a doctor first?” His gaze slides over Dean's skin, and, yeah, okay, Dean is wincing a little, but it's not like he's taken a bullet or anything serious, you know?

“Screw that,” says Dean firmly. “Let's just get out of here.” He turns to leave, and then kind of belatedly remembers the two humans Ruby left sprawling on the ground, and turns back. “Although I guess we should do something about them?” he says, looking from the cop to the brunette and back again.

“The girl is dead,” says Castiel simply. “She died a long time ago. I shall see to the man.”

Dean feels guilty for a moment, and then stops feeling guilty when he thinks about it a little more. “Yeah. Yeah, okay,” he says. And then he looks at Castiel again. “I meant to ask – how did you find me? She brought a hex bag.”

Castiel looks up, his head tilted a little to one side, and his blue gaze drops down to Dean's arm, Dean closes his hand over the mark, and feels it flare with warmth under the cotton of Sam's shirt. “I can always find you, Dean,” he says, and then turns back down to the cop.

Huh. Dean isn't exactly sure how he feels about that. Or how he feels about the possibility that this whole crazy RuPaul thing he's living through is some kind of celestial gameplan to keep Sam on the straight and narrow. He's really not loving this idea. Sometimes it can be kind of hard to remember that the angels are supposed to be the good guys. He straightens his spine and heads for the door, and Sam follows after him like a mother hen with only one chick.

“Seriously, Dean,” he ventures, as they make their way out of the building. “Hospital? You're – you don't look great, you know?”

Dean spots the Impala, and his heart lightens. “I'm fine, Sam,” he says firmly. “Just – let me dig out some jeans, and then can we maybe just drive? Anywhere? Just away from here, before the angels give us another fucking mission impossible?” He rolls his shoulders and winces a little at the twinges that go through him. Probably he should see a doctor, but it'll wait. “You can drive,” he adds, and darts a sideways glance at Sam to see how he takes it.

Sam looks at him for a long moment, and then nods. “Okay. We can do that.”

Chapter Text

Sam keeps shooting him sideways glances that are guilty and worried, and that's going to get real old real quick, Dean suspects. He wonders whether Sam thinks he looks “cute” in jeans and a Metallica t-shirt and Dad's leather jacket, with a split lip and the beginnings of a black eye. Cute? He's not a fucking Carebear, he's a hunter for God's sake! (He doesn't think about Jo, and how he's never taken her seriously as a hunter simply because she's a pretty little blonde girl. Although eventually, this will cross his mind, and he will have the grace to feel bad about it.) But when Sam rummages around in the glove compartment, digs out an Almond Joy bar and silently passes it to him, Dean can't find it in his heart to keep feeling grumpy. He tears into the candy gratefully, and decides that maybe cute comes with a few perks.

Sam slots a tape into the tape deck, and Dean perks up when the first notes fill the air: it's his favourite mix tape, his feelgood tape, and it makes his heart lift a little more that Sam's thought of it. They don't speak as Sam guides them to the outskirts of the town and then out into the world, onto the road, back where they belong. It's dark out, and as they move further and further from the orange glow of the town Dean begins to glimpse the stars overhead. He still aches, and maybe he should have agreed to go see a doctor, but Dean's going to worry about that in the morning. For now he's just glad to be safe, and away, driving through the darkness with Sam. Being driven through the darkness by Sam. It doesn't take him long to fall asleep, because he's safe, and warm, and Sam's got the wheel. And that's about as good as it gets, these days.

It's almost dawn when they find a motel. Dean's fast asleep, and the first thing he knows about it is when Sam opens the door and, very gently, shakes him awake.

“C'mon, Dean,” he says, popping the seat belt open, and Dean would feel distinctly annoyed about being treated like a frail little old lady, except – wow. He aches everywhere. He pulls his legs out of the car, and pain shoots down his back and through his side, and he gasps. Sam looks miserable, and for a moment Dean suspects that Sam might actually pick him up and carry him over the threshold like a bride, which would mean that Dean would have to kill them both, because there are some indignities he is not prepared to tolerate.

“I'm fine,” he mutters. “Stop fussing.” And he pulls himself grimly out of the car and then trudges after Sam towards their room. The motel is called the Dew Drop Inn, and that tells you pretty much everything you need to know about it. The décor is pink and frilly, with an emphasis on pot pouri and silk flowers. It's pretty hideous, but it's fairly clean, and Dean just wants to be horizontal and unconscious.

He stops short when he registers the fact that there's only one bed, and darts a quick, slightly spooked look over at Sam. He's not ready to deal with this stuff. He just wants to go to sleep, and pretend that everything's normal – or as normal as life ever is for the Winchesters.

“Sorry, Dude,” says Sam, and Dean suspects that the 'dude' thing is deliberate. He looks kind of red in the face. “It was all they had. You go ahead – I'm good with the chair.”

He sits down in the chair, which is the pink of a strawberry milkshake, and seems to have more flounces and ruffles than should be possible for any single piece of furniture. Despite all the flounces, it looks roughly as suitable for sleeping on as a bicycle. He's planning to sleep in the chair rather than share a bed with Dean. Which – wow. Awkward, and it seems like they're both getting a little bit closer to acknowledging that there's an elephant in the middle of the room. Dean's kind of torn, because this isn't fair – Sam deserves to get some sleep too. But – there is nothing Dean would like more than to be held close right now, to feel safe and warm and looked after, and that's not a very wise plan for either of them. Especially not after the night they've just had. Especially after all the things that Ruby said.

Stupid fucking curse.

Dean looks at the bed, and then at Sam, and tries to choose between being fair and being safe. But of course he's never been really good at picking safe, especially when Sam's involved. “No, it's fine,” he says, nodding at the bed and swallowing. “I'll just – man, I'm beat.”

They're both exhausted, and Dean's aching and sore in a dozen places. He figures they should be able to share a bed without anything – bad – happening. But Dean's still wearing his jeans, just in case his brain takes a vacation again, the way it seems to do around Sam quite a lot lately. That seems like a safe kind of middle ground, he thinks, shrugging off his jacket then toeing off his shoes and not looking at Sam. Fully dressed seems safe. And God knows, he's so freaking wiped that he's just going to pass out as soon as his head hits the pillow, most likely, and anyway he's much too sore to be thinking about happy sexy fun times with anyone. If Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt walked through the door right now wearing nothing but whipped cream and each carrying a platter of pie, Dean would have to tell them to come back tomorrow. And he trusts Sam. So this should be fine. He pulls back the covers, climbs in and closes his eyes.

Sam stays in the chair.

Dean opens his eyes. “Oh, for the love of – get in. Get your stupid prissy ass the hell in the bed, Sam. It's cool. We're cool. I can't sleep with you sitting there like a cardboard cutout. Get in the fucking bed.”

“I'm good with the chair. But, Dean, we've got to fix you up first,” says Sam evenly. “I didn't push you about the hospital, but, seriously – I've got to check you out.” There is a little pause, while Dean turns over the phrase 'check you out' and doesn't make a joke about it. “Dean?”

He just wants to go to sleep, he really does. But Sam has a point. “Yeah,” he says reluctantly. “Okay. I guess.”

Sam gets out of the chair, crosses the room and digs out their medical kit. It is exceptionally well-stocked. He turns around and looks at Dean expectantly, and Dean sighs and pulls his t-shirt up over his head, wincing at the pain that shoots through him. There's not much that needs dealing with, really – mostly it's bruises (unless she's cracked one of his ribs). Sam's hands are gentle and efficient, swiping antiseptic over the delicate tracery of the knife wounds on Dean's chest without copping a feel, and dabbing at the places on his face where her blows had drawn blood. Dean does feel kind of like a piece of steak that's been tenderised a little too much, but it's nothing major. Sam's touch is soothing, but Dean doesn't let himself make anything of this. They've been patching one another up their whole lives. Still, for such a big guy it's kind of funny how gentle Sam can be. Like he thinks Dean's made of porcelain, or something. And under other circumstances this would make Dean irritable, but – it's kind of nice, actually, because it's been a hell of a night, and there's just so much caring in Sam's touch. It warms Dean.

“You're going to have a pair of killer black eyes, Dean,” says Sam ruefully.

“People are going to think you beat me,” Dean quips, and then feels bad about the expression that crosses Sam's face. “Jesus, chill the fuck out, man! It's fine. I can't believe she didn't break my nose. I'm good.”

Sam's gaze darts down at the line of Dean's legs under the covers, and his crotch. “Did he – she – is there anything else you need help with?” he asks clumsily, swallowing.

“She didn't fuck me, if that's what you're not asking,” says Dean, tersely. Sam flinches. “Real good timing there, Sammy. It was – it was a pretty close thing. But, no.”

Sam stares at him with narrowed eyes. “You'd say that anyway, wouldn't you?” he asks.

Dean considers this, and realises that, yes, there is absolutely no way he would be honest about this with Sam, if it had happened. “Yeah. Probably. But I got no need to lie to you, Sam – you did good. I got cuts and bruises, but she's an amateur when it comes to torture, and she wasted too much time monologuing at me – didn't cut to the chase soon enough.” And how twisted is it that he's looking down on her, thinking about how a pro would have made a much better job of breaking someone? Of how he could have made a much better job of breaking someone?

Sam closes his eyes and Dean's a little taken aback by how relieved he looks. Wow. Evidently the kid's been worrying about this for hours.

“Okay, good. Well, I'm going to call it a night, then.” Sam returns the medical kit to its bag, picks up his washbag and heads to the bathroom. Dean considers brushing his teeth, but can't muster up the energy to get up off the bed. Fuck it. He scrambles under the covers still in his jeans, and leaves some space for Sam. And he's tired, so he should just fall back to sleep straight away, but his head's full of noisy thoughts now, and he's still wide awake when Sam emerges from the bathroom a little later and crosses to the chair.

“Sammy, get into bed, you dumbass,” says Dean. “It's fine.”

“No, I'm good here, thanks,” says Sam.

Dean snorts. “Sammy, I am so not in the mood for this shit. I want to be asleep right now. Why won't you get in the damn bed?” There. He's going to have to spit it out, and then Dean can make him see how ridiculous this is.

Sam squirms. “I don't think it's appropriate, Dean,” he says at last.

“We've been sharing beds for years, any time we had to.”

“Yes, but – Dean!” protest Sam, and Dean doesn't help him any. Dean's going to make him say it. “But things have – changed. It's not the same.”

“Because this tight little body makes you all hot and bothered?”

“Dean!” If Sam could sink into the floor, Dean's pretty sure he would be doing that right now. He looks mortified.

“You planning on molesting me in my sleep while I'm lying here all bruised and battered from going ten rounds with your girlfriend?”

“No!” Sam looks horrified. “My God, no, Dean, I would never...”

“Then we're good. Get in already, bitch, and stop making a big deal about this. We're fine. I promise not to grope you, you promise not to grope me, everything's cool. Just let's catch some zees, okay?” There is a pause. Dean drops his voice to its grumpiest, most badass register: “Do not make me get out of bed and drag your ass in here, because it will make me very pissy indeed.”

He rolls over, making room for Sam, and closes his eyes. He listens, and after a moment he hears the chair creak and Sam start pulling off his clothes and then he's padding over to the bed. He gets in carefully, leaving as much space as possible between them, and Dean suspects Sam's in danger of falling right out of the bed altogether, but that's his problem. It still beats the ugly-ass chair.

“G'night, John boy,” he murmurs, and he hears Sam make a surprised little snort of laughter.

“Night, Dean,” he says, and if his voice is a little bit softer than it used to be, Dean's not going to worry about it too much right now. He's going to take his own advice, and catch some zees.

When Dean wakes up, Sam's spooning up against his back again, one arm slung possessively around Dean's waist, and he's snoring lightly. And it's nice, is what it is. Sam's like a fucking furnace, and Dean's jeans are making him way too hot and sweaty, but it's all okay. Sam's got him, and he's safe, and nothing really bad is going to happen. Dean's mouth hurts when he smiles, but he can't stop smiling anyway.

Days go by, and become weeks.

Sam tries very hard not to use his badass Sith powers. A couple of times he does anyway, because there's simply no alternative. Castiel is very disapproving, but Dean gets the sense that overall they're doing pretty well. Mostly Sam manages to hold back, and he's not going out on any of his extracurricular demon-hunting trips. So it's all good, and hopefully Sam is not heading off down the road to damnation.

But he's still crazy overprotective. They've always had each other's backs, but now if somebody so much as looks at Dean funny, Sam's bristling and ready to punch their teeth down their throat. It's kind of embarrasing.

Partly as a result of this, Dean hasn't gotten laid in nearly a month, and it's making him decidedly tetchy. Any interesting guy who comes near him is instantly chased off by Sam, all hot-eyed and wildly territorial. There have been girls Dean's been pretty sure he could have, but one look at Sam's wistful, puppydog eyes has made Dean bite his tongue and leave the flirtatious words unsaid, the heated glances ungiven. He hasn't sought out any more lesbian bars, although he's been sorely tempted. It has turned into quite the dry spell, and Dean is growing more and more frustrated.

If this is going to be his life – if he's really going to be stuck pretending to be a girl for seven years - Dean isn't planning on being celibate.

But Dean isn't going to fuck Sam. Obviously. Because that would be even more messed up than all the rest of their messed up lives.

Still, it doesn't actually hurt to think about it. Thinking about it is harmless. And kind of impossible to avoid too, because he's become acutely conscious of Sam's body now. Sam's shoulders, his hands, the long lines of his legs, his mouth, his hair – Dean's starting to get a little bit obsessed.

They both start to get dressed in the bathroom, out of one another's sight. They don't talk about it.

When Dean jerks off (or whatever the hell you call it when you're a girl – not spanking the monkey. Petting the pussy? Dean hasn't ever really thought about the terminology before) he tries to think about safe things. He touches himself in the shower, or late at night when he can hear Sam snoring gently in his own bed, and he thinks about Cameron Diaz, or Penelope Cruz, or some hot waitress or shop girl he's seen that day, or some old flame. He thinks about breasts and hips and long hair, about curves and clean, smooth skin. At first. But always, as he gets closer, it starts to disintegrate, and he finds his treacherous memory sliding back to Sam's body pressed up against his, and the feel of Sam's erection rubbing against him, and he lets himself think about how it might feel to have Sam inside him, filling him up, owning him. And he has to bite his knuckles to keep from shouting out Sam's name when he comes, and has to remind himself of who he is, and who Sam is, and why this is utterly, unspeakably, impossibly wrong.

So really, it's not surprising that Dean ends up playing strip poker and doing body shots with half the high school football team.

Chapter Text

It's early afternoon, and Dean's supposed to be doing research. Old school, book-type research, because Sam's laptop has developed a mysterious virus that has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with bustyasianbeauties dot com, Dean is perfectly certain, or indeed the 'boy sandwich' video at Youporn dot com. Definitely. Although Sam may not be quite as convinced of this as Dean is, and his temper, as he headed off to find an IT guy to tend to his virus-riddled computer, may have been a little less than perfectly sunny. Since the library is closed, Dean is stuck in a motel room covered with elephant wallpaper, working his way grimly through Dad's journal and their small stack of moldering reference books.

And he is bored.

He's looking up creatures that petrify their victims. Petrify as in turn people to stone, not scare the living daylights out of them. So far he's looking at the cockatrice, or possibly the basilisk (he's still not quite clear on the difference between the two, but neither sounds like the kind of thing that could hide very effectively in a town as small as this) or maybe a gorgon. Although Dean personally favours the possibility that the random sculptures cropping up around town are the work of a frustrated artist, rather than a random antique monster, but what the hell. It's a job. They've not heard anything from the angels for over a week, and that's got to be pretty good news, Dean thinks. Sam's been a good boy, and he's been successfully keeping a lid on the spooky psychic stuff, and all in all things are going pretty well for Team Winchester, in Dean's opinion. Except for the computer thing. Which totally wasn't his fault.

Man, he's bored. And thirsty. When Dean reads the same paragraph for the fifth time, he decides that a well-deserved study break is in order. There's a doughnut shop across the road, and a liquor store next to it, and that strikes Dean as a very happy piece of town planning. He closes the books with relief, picks up his room key and heads out for a breath of fresh air.

Dean isn't particularly expecting to have a bunch of teenaged boys sidle up to him as he nears the liquor store, and for a moment there all his reflexes kick in and things are in danger of getting a bit messy – but they're just regular kids, not demons, and they're trying real hard not to look conspicuous or threatening.

“Ma'am?” asks one of them, real polite, and it takes Dean a split second to realise that they mean him. Christ. Ma'am. Not only do they think he's a chick, they think he's somebody's Mom. “Excuse me, Ma'am, but are you going in there?” Dean looks back at the kids, half shocked and half amused, and takes in the combination of wholesome, preppy athleticism and eagerness on their shining faces. They're all pretty big guys, and potentially dangerous because of it, but they're kind of sweet too – big, dumb, fresh-faced and ridiculously young, like Great Dane puppies. Eighteen? Seventeen, even? Dean is pretty sure he could kick their asses, at least one-to-one, even if they all tower over him.

He leans back against the window of the drug store and looks at them all, smiling a little lazily through his lashes. “What's it to you, boys?” he asks, his voice pitched low, very Kathleen Turner, and watches them react to his tone and his body language. God, this is easy. Guys are so much easier than girls, in some ways, they really are.

“Can you buy us some beers, ma'am?” asks the first guy, looking kind of distracted but trying to man up. “We've got the money.” He's tall, square-jawed, pretty, with very dark skin and his hair in neat corn rows. He's the leader, from the looks of it. Dean looks him up and down, licks his lips, and reminds himself that he's supposed to be doing penance for douching up Sammy's precious computer. But – it's been a very long month of not getting laid.

“If it's not too much trouble?” ventures one of the other boys, and Dean glances over at him. Again with the tall, but this one has floppy brown hair and looks vaguely bashful, and, damn. Apparently Dean has developed a type, God help him.

“Didn't I see you boys arriving on a school bus?” he asks, but his tone is low and teasing. “Aren't you staying in the motel across the road with your coach and the rest of the High School Football Team?”

The leader sags. “Yes ma'am. Sorry to trouble you.” He bites his lip, and glances over at the motel. “You – you won't tell the Coach, will you? Please?” his voice is imploring, and despite the fact that he looms over Dean, he looks about ten years old at this point, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Dean glances over at the other three, and his gaze lingers on the one with the brown bangs. He grins. “My friend, not only do I promise not to tell your coach, but I'll even buy you boys a bottle of tequila, if you promise to share it with me.” Dean's grin widens toothily as he takes in their pole-axed expressions. “That sound like a good deal to you?” Eat your heart out, Mrs Robinson.

“Yes ma'am,” splutters the kid with the corn rows.

Dean beams. “Awesome.” His gaze travels over all four shining faces, and lingers on the one with the bangs. “So, you guys ever played strip poker?”

Half an hour later, Dean is sitting barefoot and cross legged on the floor of another elephant-covered room, wearing jeans and a sports bra, tipping his head back to chug his third bottle of Bud, surrounded by very excited teenaged boys in their underwear. He is in the process of separating all four of them from all the hard cash they possess, and the phrase 'taking candy from a baby' comes irresistibly to mind. As do several other phrases, most of which can be found on bustyasianbeauties dot com and Youporn. Dean should really be getting back to the books, because he's done his bit towards increasing the family fortunes, and there's no knowing when Sam will get back. But they've not opened the tequila yet. And then Jack, of the brown bangs and bashful expression, loses again, and forfeits his Daffy Duck -patterned boxers. So obviously Dean can't leave now.

Half an hour after that, Dean is sprawling languidly on Wayne's bed, with Jack's tongue in his mouth and Jack's hand frantically kneading his breast, while Wayne and Eric take turns licking tequila out of his bellybutton, and Kevin slides a hopeful hand inside the front of Dean's jeans. Jack's dick is in Dean's hand, and hot and hard and hopeful, and pretty soon Dean's planning on moving it somewhere warmer.

Celibacy has never been Dean Winchester's best thing.

But of course, inevitably it's at this point that Sam, with his weird sixth sense for coitus interruptus, breaks the door down. Actually breaks the fucking door down – and, okay, the doors are pretty flimsy, but still. Jesus. Way to make an entrance. The boys are falling over themselves to jump away from Dean, undoubtedly thinking that it's their coach, but they don't look any calmer when they register that it's some total stranger. Which is partly because of the way Sammy just broke the fucking door down with his badass demonic strength, undoubtedly, but it's also because he's standing there on the threshold looking seven feet tall and about as scary as it's possible for a human-type person to get, and all four of these big strapping alpha male types are practically pissing themselves and falling over one another in their haste to get out of his way. And – shit – Dean sits up then with a sudden spike of fear, because, shit, in the half light of the room his eyes almost look black. Which – okay, really not good news.

“Sammy?” Dean says cautiously, lifting his hands, palms up, trying for soothing. “Sammy, you're not going to get all Darth Vader on these innocent schoolboys, right?”

“Dean.” That's all he says, but Dean's up off the bed and by his side in seconds, because, Jesus, you do not argue with that tone of voice. And if Dean's feeling a little weak at the knees, it's because of the tequila, and not because of the way Sam's looking at him.

“Okay,” says Dean, breathlessly, and Sam grabs his hand and pulls him out the door.

It's kind of a blur, getting from the football players' room to their own. And then Sam's got him pinned up against the wall, staring at him hot and furious and hungry and wild and just so freaking intense it makes Dean shiver, and Dean's staring back, panting, and he's kind of lost the ability to speak English. His heart's pounding in his chest, and his nipples are tight, and he's dripping, his whole body just aching for it. For Sam. “I...” he manages at last, and then Sam's head darts forward predator-fast, and, damn, he's kissing Sam.

He's kissing Sam.

And, yeah, as recently suspected, Sam takes no prisoners. Sam's like a freaking force of nature, and big, and built, and, Jesus, just totally and utterly overwhelming. He's got Dean hoisted up off the floor, Dean's legs wrapped around Sam's waist, and he's grinding up against Dean like he wants to fuck him through two sets of clothing. Like maybe he actually can. Dean's clasping one huge shoulder and one bicep and moaning helplessly against Sam's tongue, squirming and shuddering against him, more turned on than he can remember being – well, possibly ever. And it's a bad idea, he knows that, in the back of his head, but he can't remember why. Because it's Sammy, for fuck's sakes, the person he loves above all things in heaven and earth, and it feels So. Damn. Good. Better than anything. And when Sam breaks off for a moment and pulls away, Dean leans forward, following his mouth, straining for another kiss, making a little wordless sound of protest.

“Dean,” says Sam, his voice a tattered rasp. “If you don't want this, you better damn well say so now.”

Dean swallows, and tries to remember how to be sensible, and responsible, and conscientious. “We,” he manages after a moment. “I guess we shouldn't really – I guess – I mean...” he gasps as Sam's hips move against him, and has to close his eyes for a moment. “Fuck,” he says, his fingers tightening on Sam's bicep. God. He might actually come just from this. He forces his eyes open, and Sam's face is right there, and, damn, he knows how he tastes, and...damn. “It's wrong,” Dean says, and this is one of the most difficult things he's ever done. He swallows hard again. “You're – I'm – we shouldn't.”

Sam's hips grind against him again, and Sam leans in and nips his throat, and Dean makes some very embarrassing noises. “That wasn't my question,” Sam says, practically a growl, and Dean can feel the rumble of the words through his chest. “Do you want this?”

“Fuck, yes,” gasps Dean, shuddering, and Sam's mouth is on his again, hot and fierce and possessive, and Dean's almost sobbing with how much he wants this, how much he needs this.

“Going to fuck you,” says Sam, between kisses. “Going to fuck you right through the mattress, Dean. You're mine, do you hear that? Not anyone else's. Not ever. Mine. Only mine.”

“Please,” Dean gasps, and he would be embarrassed at how nakedly needy that little syllable is, but apparently he's lost the capacity to feel embarrassed about anything. “Oh, Jesus, Sam. Yes. Please.”

And it's still kind of shocking, how easily Sam can carry him, because in the back of his head Dean does still kind of think he's six feet tall, in spite of the evidence of his mirror. But Sam just walks over to the bed with Dean wrapped around him, and drops him down onto the mattress. And Dean sprawls there, blinking up at Sam, licking his lips and trying to get his breathing under control, and then Sam sits down on the bed beside him, and he's smiling, his eyes crinkling up at the corners like Dean's the most amazing thing he's ever seen. Like Dean lights up the whole room. Dean swallows. He's not at all sure that he knows how to deal with that kind of gaze. He's perfectly sure he could never deserve it, and it kind of scares him, because it makes him sure he's going to be found out, that Sam's going to realise it's just Dean, not someone special. But then Sam leans in and kisses him again, hard, and Dean kind of puts thinking on hold for a bit. He's loosely aware of Sam's fingers working at the buttons of his jeans, but mostly he's focussing on the kiss, because – damn. Wow. Under that goodie two-shoes exterior, Sam Winchester is like the world's best kept secret, and Dean isn't sure if he's ever going to be able to leave the motel room again. He kind of thinks that he and Sam should just give up this whole monster-hunting shtick and just stay in bed for the rest of their lives.

“I love you,” says Sam, kissing his collarbone, and Dean kind of chokes up a bit then. His heart stutters in his chest, and he gasps, and doesn't trust himself to answer. Sam kisses his way down towards the slope of Dean's breasts, and his breath tickles. “I love you, Dean Winchester,” he says again, and Dean can feel his smile curving warm against his skin. “You crazy, reckless, beautiful, irritating idiot.” Sam bites him, very gently. And then again, rather less gently. “You drive me completely insane.” He laces his fingers with Dean's, and, crap, again with the reminders of how big Sam is now, in comparison with him. Dean's hand is totally lost in his grasp. It makes him feel oddly breakable, and at the same time very safe. Protected. “I love you.”

“Okay,” says Dean, and, okay, wow, that's totally the wrong response, but he can't – he doesn't – fuck, he's just going to lose it entirely here, and he isn't a fucking chick, he really isn't, body notwithstanding. “Me too,” he manages, his voice rough, squeezing Sam's hand in return. But he really means it. “Jesus, Sammy. I – Jesus. Me too.”

Chapter Text

Sam pulls away, sits back and looks at Dean, and his eyes are dark, but not demon-dark, not now. He tugs on Dean's jeans, hard, and almost pulls Dean right up off the bed, and then the denim's sliding against Dean's skin, and a moment later Dean's lying there in just his underwear, his heart pounding and his face flushed, feeling exposed and exhilarated and impossibly aroused. It crosses his mind, belatedly, that he's left his cowboy boots and one of his favourite t-shirts in the football players' motel room, but it doesn't seem terribly important right now, because – he's going to fuck Sam. Be fucked by Sam. He really is. He can't think of anything he wants more, and it just astounds him, because before all this shit with the curse it would never in a million years have crossed his mind to think of Sam like this. Sam has always been his charge, his responsibility, his to protect from everything, including himself. Now – now the balance of power has shifted, and they're in uncharted territory, and it's kind of terrifying and intoxicating all at once. Freefall. But – he wants this. It scares the living shit out of him, but he really, really wants it. Wants it like he never lets himself want anything.

Sam's kneeling between his legs and licking Dean's tequila-sticky skin like he's trying to clean away every last trace of anyone else, his big hands loosely gripping Dean's thighs, thumbs rubbing idle circles onto the skin, holding him open but not touching him, not sliding inside Dean's underwear, not doing anything to relieve the pressure that's building up now. Like he's got all the time in the world, and is planning to take Dean apart inch by inch. He swirls his tongue around Dean's bellybutton and then darts inside, and there's a scrape of teeth that turns Dean on far more than it really should, and then it's all sliding wetness and suction and hungry little bites that make Dean squirm and have him sliding his hands into Sam's mop of hair and trying to shove his head forcibly further south, because, c'mon, enough with the teasing already!

“Sam!” he gasps, indignant and imploringly, and Sam laughs, and pulls away, and is suddenly up in his face again, clasping his shoulderblades and kissing Dean with a smoldering intensity that leaves him gasping.

“Pushy, aren't you?” Sam's voice is dark and husky, amused, and it makes Dean shiver all over. “Too bad.”

“You're – Sam, you're killing me here!”

“You'll survive,” says Sam, cheerfully callous, and he sits back and pulls one of Dean's feet up, and starts to give him a foot rub, like Dean isn't sprawling there with his thighs splayed and his nipples hard and his back arched, basically doing everything short of holding up a neon sign saying 'insert penis here' to indicate that penetration would be just fine and dandy any time now, thanks. And instead, Sam's giving him a foot rub. Dean's head hits the pillow hard, and he stares at the ceiling and whimpers.

“Sammy,” he croaks, sliding his own fingers down towards his underwear. “You realise I'm a sure thing, right? I mean – really, I think we're looking at a couple of months of foreplay at this point. Can't you just, you know – please?”

“What?” says Sam, looking up at him innocently, his hard fingers pressing down on spots on the sole of Dean's foot that Dean had absolutely no idea were erogenous zones until this precise moment.

“Oh my – oh my God, Sammy. Fuck me, already. Please. Just – I need you to fuck me right the hell now, okay? Please?” He's getting embarrassingly breathy and high-pitched here, starting to squirm.

Dean slides his hand inside the boxer briefs, and there's a blessed moment when his fingers brush against his clit, and he lets out a helpless hiss of relief, and then Sam's clamping down on his wrist and pulling Dean's hand back out.

“No,” he says, in a tone that absolutely means business. He looks – well, frankly he looks hotter than Hell right now, eyes burning, mouth unsmiling, completely self-assured. Like Dean's a weapon Sam's been handling all his life. One he knows inside out. One he owns. “No touching.”

Dean closes his eyes and makes a desperate sound in the back of his throat. “Seriously, dude – do you need semaphore? Interpretive dance? I'm good to go here, I really – I – oh, sweet zombie Jesus, thank you!”

Because Sam's finally hooked his fingers under the edge of the boxer briefs, and is yanking them off, quick and clumsy, fabric tugging down and caught around one ankle for a moment, then gone. To be followed a moment later by Dean's sports bra, which may have just gotten slightly ripped in the process. Dean lies there, eyes manga-huge, looking up at Sam, and it seems kind of unfair that Dean's butt naked here, nothing left to hide behind, while Sam's still totally fucking fully dressed. It makes Dean feel somehow even more naked, looking at Sam in his layers of fabric. He bites his lip, and tries not to panic, while his heart tries to fight its way out his chest. And it's kind of dumb, in a way, because who else is he going to trust so completely, who could possibly be a better person to have his back right now? But also – Jesus, no take backs here. No easy lies or false names, no casual promises to call the next time he's in town. This is as serious as a heart attack. This is for real, and if he's not good enough, if he somehow screws things up – God, this is his whole life right here.

Some of the panic must be showing on his face, because Sam's expression softens, and he leans down again and kisses Dean into calmness. Or at least kisses him into not being able to think about anything but Sam's body against him, which isn't exactly the same thing as being calm, but certainly doesn't involve the creeping sense of dread he'd been feeling just now. When he's completely non-verbal, arms and legs wrapped around Sam like he's a tree Dean's trying to climb, hips grinding desperately up against Sam's jeans and he has forgotten the meaning of selfconciousness, Sam starts pressing kisses onto the corner of Dean's mouth, onto his cheekbone, onto his eyelids. Then he works his way slowly down the pale line of Dean's throat and over his chest, spending a while on each breast, teasing the nipples even harder while Dean moans and gasps and bites at his knuckles, and then, finally sliding back down again, exploring the planes of Dean's belly, his hips, and finally dipping down to lick and suck and bite at his inner thigh. And the only thing stopping Dean from bucking right up off the mattress is the pressure of Sam's hands holding his legs down, holding him open. He can feel Sam's breath warm against him, feel the feather-soft brush of Sam's hair tickling his thighs.

“Please, Sam, God, please, please,” he's muttering, almost sobbing with the urgency of it all – and then finally, thank God, finally, hello, Sam's going down on him. Dean's making broken, incoherent sounds and clutching at the covers with one hand, the other one buried in the soft mass of Sammy's hair, and offering up wordless thanks to whichever women have contributed to giving Sam this particular skill set over the years, because, fucking hell, he's good at this. Really astonishingly good.

Jesus. Dean really really wants this, needs this, craves this like nothing else he's ever known. For Sam to be his, and only his. For Sam to love him, and need him, and stay with him. For Sam to keep on touching him the way he is right now, and never stop. He can't believe the way Sam was looking at him – like he's the most important thing in the world. God. It makes his toes curl to think of that just as much as the demanding pressure of Sam's tongue and teeth.

It takes an embarrassingly short time before Dean is coming, his thighs tightening around Sam's head, his whole body flushed and shuddering and just lost to the world, lost to everything beyond this overwhelming sensation, beyond Sam's mouth against him. He sprawls there, gasping and shaking, sweat beading his skin, every nerve-ending blissfully alight, and watches as Sam rises up over him and pull his shirt off in one swift movement. Sam's looking kind of shaken himself, and Dean's still just numbly astonished by how very much his little geek brother isn't little, or a geek, with light gilding the span of his shoulders and licking across his arms. Jesus. Sam is freaking huge, and quite shockingly beautiful. And he's also finally getting – no, Christ, gotten – naked. So Dean's getting a pretty unambiguous reminder that, yes, Sam is indeed built all in proportion, and has no need to ever be remotely embarrassed in any locker room ever. Dean swallows, his mind still sluggish as frozen honey in the stupefied afterglow, because, God, Sam's hard for him, Sam's going to stick that inside him any minute now – and, yeah, Dean's really going to do this. He wonders about whether it will hurt – it's supposed to hurt, the first time – but he can't find the energy to care, because Sam's looking at him again, seeing him, recognising and accepting and craving every part of him, and it's completely irresistible. It's Sam, and he's never been able to refuse Sam anything he really wanted. Not even when it meant letting him go. There's no way he could refuse this, especially when he's still buzzing with an orgasm brought on by Sam's familiar mouth.

“Dean,” Sam says, almost a growl, running a hand down over Dean's torso, palm sliding against one nipple and down to dip between his thighs, where Dean is positively dripping, and rubbing Dean's sensitized clit hard.

“Fuck!” Dean gasps, all articulate-like, and then Sam's lying between Dean's legs, and Dean's moving unthinkingly in response, his eyes fixed on Sam's as Sam guides his hard cock into place, pausing briefly on the brink and leaning in to catch Dean's mouth in a fiercely hungry, biting kiss. There is a voice in the back of Dean's head telling him that condoms are his friend, and that safe sex is a really good idea, now more than ever before, but apparently Dean's fresh out of good ideas right now, because he can't stand the idea of interrupting this for even a second, and he doesn't want anything coming between him and Sam, not even a thin layer of latex.

“Mine,” says Sam hoarsely, and then thrusts his whole length inside, hard.

”Fuck!” Dean says again, the word torn out of him as he's slammed down into the mattress by Sam's weight. And it's – weird, in a way, still kind of inside-out, still a headfuck to be having all these sensations without having a dick, but it's also totally overwhelming, and kind of devastating. There's something a little like pain, but Dean's not very easily impressed by minor discomfort these days, and it's not enough to make him come close to objecting as Sam slams in deep and hard and frantic, his hips snapping, all patience suddenly gone out the window, all teasing and gentleness forgotten as he plunges in and out and in again, like he's trying to break through Dean's skin and climb inside. And then it's almost like fighting, like some kind of competition, and they're straining against one another, touching and tasting and thrusting and flexing, and Dean's clinging on for dear life, like he's never going to let go - and Sam is nothing like the brother he's always known – always thought he knew – and Dean doesn't know whether it's the demon blood or whether it's just that he's never been aware that this is Sam too, fierce and hungry and uncareful, unapologetic. It's amazing to him that this person has been hiding underneath the floppy brown bangs and the soft smile and the political correctness all this while, like finding out that the pet tabby cat you thought you knew is actually a Bengal tiger, and a hungry one at that.

“Sam,” he gasps, brokenly, because that's almost the only word he can remember right now. “Sam, Jesus, Sam!”

Sam kisses him again, biting his lip so hard Dean thinks maybe he's drawn blood. “Mine, Dean,” says Sam fiercely, glaring into Dean's eyes as he grinds into him. “You understand? Nobody else's. Not now, not ever. You belong to me.”

Dean feels like his heart is going to burst. “Yes,” he says shakily, with Sam buried in him up to the hilt, Sam's eyes inches away, the taste of Sam's sweat on his lips. “Fuck, yes. Okay.”

Dean comes again very soon after that, and Sam follows a few moments later and collapses on top of him, heavy as a fallen tree pinning Dean in place, and Dean doesn't even consider complaining. He kind of likes being crushed down under the panting weight of all Sam's sweat-slick muscles and bones, feeling Sam's heartbeat through his chest.

“Love you,” says Sam, his voice thick and raspy, and there's a delicate scratch of stubble as his cheek slides against Dean's skin and he presses a rather uncoordinated kiss onto Dean's forehead. “Mine,” he adds, just in case Dean had somehow missed that point.

Dean swallows. There's a voice in the back of his head that's been gibbering in a panic-stricken way pretty much ever since Sam broke down the door of the football players' room, but he's been ignoring it, because lust and tequila made it ignorable. And he's still sodden with pleasure, still reeling and joyous with this startling sense of being wanted, being loved, of having Sam all for himself - but he's also starting to feel faintly terrified. Because surely there's no way this can end well.

Also, he's going to have to look into the morning after pill, because – hell no.

But, still... “Love you too,” says Dean, hoarsely, because it's the truest thing in the world, whether it's right or wrong, whether it's going to break his heart, sully his soul or bring about the end of the world. It's pretty much his mission statement, and his epitaph, and the meaning of his whole damn life. And it scares the crap out of him, but he's completely helpless against it. “I love you too.”

Maybe the curse isn't so bad after all, he thinks, as Sam crushes him into a wordless hug. Maybe he can get used to this, even if the body still doesn't feel like his, even if he still can't think of himself as a woman. Because he doesn't know how to do without this, now.

They're wrapped around each other, skin on skin, sweaty and sticky and sleeping the sleep of the fucked-half-raw and wholly exhausted. They haven't left the motel room, not even to grab any food. Hell, they've barely left the bed. They have tried a range of positions, and learned a lot of one another's sweet spots, and Dean has come screaming, to his own considerable embarrassment and Sam's obvious jubilation. It's started to become almost like a competition, trying to figure out who can hold out longest, trying to learn what it takes to totally wreck each other, to have one another writhing and wordless and frantic with need.

It's Dean that picks up the phone when it rings, while Sam cracks his eyes open and stares drowsily over at him with an expression of such smugly possessive lust that it makes Dean's toes curl.

“The basilisk is what you need, Dean. Find it.”

Dean doesn't know the voice. “Sorry?” he says, the world suddenly snapping into focus.

“The venom will reverse the curse.” It's a man's voice. He sounds impatient. Dean cannot imagine who this can be, and he feels oddly like someone just punched him in the stomach. Reverse the curse.

“Who is this?”

“What the fuck does it matter? We never met in Hell, Dean, but I certainly heard about your work. My name's not important. I'm just passing on the message. It's the basilisk you need.” And then the line goes dead, and then Dean's staring at the handset while his newly-rebuilt world tumbles down around his ears.

“Dean?' Sam's still half-asleep, but he seems to sense the sudden tension in Dean's limbs and squeezes Dean closer. “Who was it?”

Dean blinks at him, dry mouthed, scrabbling for words. Trying to know what to do next. “Wrong number,” he says at last, shakily, and leans forward to kiss Sam into forgetting.

Chapter Text

Sam hasn't gotten to the point of holding the door open or trying to carry Dean over any thresholds, thank fuck, but he does keep staring, with this helpless little grin playing around the corners of his mouth. It makes Dean scowl furiously, which just seems to make Sam's lips twitch even more, and within a couple of paces of stepping out of the car Sam reaches down and laces his fingers with Dean's, so they enter the diner hand-in-hand like a couple of teenagers. Dean feels distinctly self-conscious about this, and a little weird, even as it warms him, and he has to remind himself as they step inside that it's fine. Or at least – that it won't turn any heads, won't raise any eyebrows, won't get them beaten up or lynched, because a guy and a girl holding hands isn't exactly front page news, and who the hell knows that Sam's his brother? (Sam. Is his brother. Which means that this is not in the same freaking universe as fine or normal, but...the Winchesters' lives haven't had more than a nodding acquaintance with fine or normal for years now, and at least this new twist of fuckedupness isn't all about death and blood and hellfire and misery. Just pleasure. Just need. Just love. ) The jury's still out on 'fine', but Dean can't kid himself that he's not enjoying this.

Dean's stomach rumbles audibly as a waitress bustles past carrying a plate of biscuits and gravy, and Sam snorts with laughter. “You're so predictable,” he says in a voice thick with affection. “Glutton.”

Dean pulls a face and stalks off towards an empty booth, but his fingers are still locked in Sam's grip and Sam's thumb is rubbing idle circles over his knuckles. “Who the hell's to blame if I've worked up a healthy appetite?” he retorts, and Sam gives a snort of laughter and pulls back firmly as they reach the booth, jerking Dean around and into his arms for the briefest possible kiss, before Sam lets go and slides primly into his side of the booth, leaving Dean flushed and breathless and scowling fiercer than ever. “Sam,” says Dean, shaking his head and trying to look mad, kind of horrified by how much he wants to climb onto Sam's lap right now and carry on with the kissing. This is ridiculous. They have a job, for fuck's sakes. And the oncoming apocalypse. They aren't teenagers.

Sam's opening up his menu, the picture of unconcerned innocence. Dean rolls his eyes and slides on into his side of the booth, and wonders why he still hasn't told Sam about the phone call. About the cure. Because it's terrific news, even if the source is suspect – so far they've had no leads at all, so this is a hell of a lot better than nothing. This is a light at the end of the tunnel, and although, yes, okay, maybe it's an oncoming train (or the flames of hell), it might be a way out.

Dean stares blankly at a list of different pancakes and waffles, and thinks about being a woman for seven years. It's a horrifying prospect. Not that there's anything wrong with this body, or with being a woman, but – this isn't who Dean is, or who he wants to be. He can cope with it, if he has to, and he feels less awkward than he used to do – less like RuPaul, and more like Ellen. But – it's still not him. It's not right. He's a guy. So this is terrific news, and if they play their cards right he could be reunited with his long lost penis within a few days, and everything could get back on track.

Dean's just telling himself this when Sam's foot finds his under the table, and bumps against it, and Dean jumps, and then looks up at Sam, and blushes furiously at the way Sam's looking at him, and has to look away again.

Crap.

Sure, he's a guy. But - he's a guy who has somehow ended up in bed with his brother. Fuck. And – maybe not just in bed with, if he's totally honest (which he sees no good reason to be). Dean takes a deep breath, and manages not to have a complete freakout in the middle of a diner. He really cannot begin to understand how the hell he's gone from normal – well, Winchester-normal – to hardcore Jerry Springer fodder in the space of a couple of months. So this basilisk thing is great news, awesome news, because it means he can go back to being Dean. The real Dean.

The one who would never, ever dream of making out with Sammy. Let alone – yeah. Doing anything else. The Dean that Sam doesn't look at with his heart in his eyes, doesn't pin to the bed, doesn't – yeah. That Dean. The real one.

He suddenly feels sick.

“So what do you want?” Dean's head snaps up, his eyes wide and wary, and Sam looks surprised. He slides his foot against Dean's leg. “You look like you're having difficulty choosing,” he says, glancing down at the menu and then looking quizzically back up at Dean.

Dean swallows. “Yeah. I – I'm not really hungry,” he says. Sam's jaw drops, and Dean realises that this is a really stupid mistake, because even if it's true it's still so staggeringly out of character that Sam's going to be hella suspicious. “Nah – just fucking with you. I'm trying to decide between pancakes with sausage or pancakes with bacon. Maybe pancakes with sausage and a side of bacon – you think? Maybe biscuits and gravy too.”

Sam beams, and Dean feels like a heel. This is the point where he needs to bring up the phone call.

He looks at Sam's happy face, and doesn't bring up the phone call.

The demon shows up while Sam's in the john. Dean guesses he should have seen it coming, but he really didn't, and when Hi-my-name-is-Trevor finishes refilling Dean's cup of coffee and his eyes shift into sudden pitch Dean almost jumps out of his seat. He's left the demon-slaying dagger back in the motel room, which is a piece of stupidity that makes him reel. If screwing Sammy makes him act like a lovesick amateur, then he damn well better get this curse reversed right the hell now.

“You didn't tell him, did you?” says the demon. It looks thoroughly disgusted. “You are such a pussy, Dean Winchester. Are you really this chicken-shit? What would John say if he knew about you and Sammy? What would Mommy dearest say, if she knew you were playing doctors and nurses with her baby boy?”

“Who the hell are you?” snaps Dean, but the questions lodge in him like barbed arrows, because he's been asking himself the very same things ever since Sam broke the door down and Dean realised what was going to happen next. What he wanted to have happen next.

“Nobody. I'm just some poor disposable schmuck of a messenger – lucky me, getting sent to play hide and go seek with the Boy King and his sister.” Hi-my-name-is-Trevor pulls a face and shrugs. “Girlfriend. Whatever. Believe me when I tell you this was not a job they were exactly fighting over down there.” He glances around, taking in the sunlit street and the oblivious diners. “Even though it's always nice to get a little fresh air. A break from the endless howls of the damned. The chance to drink a little coffee, eat some fries, chase some tail, all that jazz.” He looks back at Dean, and his expression is far too knowing. “But hey, I'm preaching to the choir, right?”

Dean's hands clench reflexively into fists, but he sits very still and rests them on the peeling linoleum tabletop and doesn't cause a scene. “Fine. You've had your say, now hit the road.”

The demon looks at him narrowly through the waiter's eyes. “C'mon, Deanie-boy, you know that this isn't how your story goes. No chick flick moments, right? You're a joke, my friend. A punchline. You need to fix this.”

“And you need to go away,” says Dean, through gritted teeth. He's sitting in a room full of blissfully ignorant civilians chewing pancakes and waffles. This is not the time or place for a fight, and he's unarmed, and Sam, who doesn't need a weapon, is in the john; and Sam, who doesn't need a weapon, also doesn't need to hear about this basilisk thing from some random hell spawn. If he even needs to hear about it at all.

The demon shakes its borrowed head. “Wow. I knew you'd lost your balls, Dean, but I didn't realise you'd lost your balls.”

“Screw you.”

The demon looks him up and down in a thoroughly offensive manner. “A little scrawny for my taste, but I could make a little time, just to put Alastair's nose out of joint. He's very, very jealous of the one that got away – the things he has to say about your brother! Not suitable for mixed company, my friend, I do assure you.” He licks his lips, glancing back down at Dean's body with an expression that Dean does not like in the slightest. He's smiling when he adds: “Maybe you should forget about reversing the curse. Just remember to be real careful in dark alleys, Dean. You're quite the tasty little tidbit nowadays.”

Dean musters up a sneer. “Oooh, reverse psychology,” he says. “Isn't that kind of modern for you guys?” The demon just looks at him, expressionless and unblinking, and Dean feels suddenly very small and very unarmed. He swallows, and squares his shoulders, and matches the bastard stare for stare anyway. “Don't flatter yourself, pal,” he says tersely. “I've seen scary, and you ain't it.” He cocks his head. “What's your interest in all this, anyway?”

“Does it matter?”

Dean thinks about Castiel, and about Ruby, and about Sam, and he frowns. “You worried that I'm distracting Sam from his big Darth Vader destiny? That it?” The demon says nothing, but its nostrils flare. “You think the angels did this? That they figured this whole chick thing would distract Sam from Ruby?”

The demon lifts one eyebrow. “You telling me you don't see how those uptight fuckers are playing you both like fiddles? You saying Sam's such a spectacular lay that you don't mind losing your dick? For real?”

Dean shakes his head. He kind of wants to break something. “You don't get it, do you?” He gives a short, angry laugh. “Man, are you guys ever on the wrong track. Sam's not going to do what you want, ever, because he's one of the good guys, you dumbass. It's not my pert little rack that's keeping him from going all grrr argh. It's Sam. He's better than that.”

The demon opens its mouth to reply, but then it stiffens, and Dean sees Sam walking across the room. There's a moment there where Dean's about to signal for help, and then the demon catches his eye and something stops him. He lets it walk away, and he's trembling slightly when Sam slides into the booth beside him. “Was that guy hitting on you?” asks Sam, shooting an unfriendly glance at the waiter's back.

Dean shakes his head, and tries to grin. “Just topping up my coffee,” he says.

“So long as that's all he was topping up,” Sam mutters, sensing the tension but not knowing quite how to interpret it.

Dean looks at him, really looks at him, and he knows that they've gotten Sammy wrong, all these smug, ancient, stupid demons and angels. He's pretty sure now that the angels threw him in the way of this curse, and that they knew it would distract Sam from Ruby one way or another. That they maybe even suspected that things would end up getting a little too Greek for comfort, and figured it would just help keep Sam busy. Angels, he's come to discover, aren't nearly as sweet and fluffy as their advertising would have you believe. He's got a pretty clear idea of what the demons think will happen once Dean's a guy again, once all this messed up Bonnie and Clyde romantic stuff is over and done with. But Dean knows they're both wrong. Dean believes in Sam. This is demeaning the both of them, thinking that Sam needs to be distracted or bribed into staying human, staying one of the good guys. Dean knows Sam better than he knows himself. And, yeah, okay, so he hadn't seen all this sex stuff on the cards, but Dean puts that down to the curse. It's fucking with them both. Simple as that.

Dean knows what needs to be done.

“We – there's stuff we need to talk about,” he says, and Sam's brows twitch together at the note in his voice. “Only – not here, okay?”

“Okay,” says Sam, watching his face closely. “Whatever you say.”

Dean isn't planning to do it again, he really isn't, because he's made up his mind now. He knows that this is fucked up, and he knows they need to put an end to it, and although he feels kind of like someone's tearing his heart right out of his chest he's going to go ahead and do it. Because Sam's better than this, and because Dean hates being a chew toy for the forces of Heaven and Hell.

This is why he isn't planning to fuck Sam again. He's planning to sit down, real sensible, and tell it like it is. But then, there's a saying about the best-laid plans of mice and men, and the Winchesters have always had a knack for improvisation. So when they step into the motel room and Sam shoves him up against the door with a kiss fierce and hungry and wicked enough to corrupt a saint, Dean throws caution and good sense to the winds, and decides to go with it. One last time, before the world returns to its proper axis. One last time. He thinks he maybe deserves one last little indulgence, if he's going to give this up for the rest of his life. He knows that he's going to spend the rest of his life missing it.

So he lets Sam's long fingers wrap around his waist, hiking him up against the hard wooden door. He lets Sam's body pin him in place, and Sam's warm, wet tongue dart between his lips. He lets himself wrap his short, slim girl-legs around Sam's hips, and bury his fingers in Sam's too-long hair, and loses himself in the moment. Sam's hard for him again, and it makes Dean shiver to think how well he knows Sam's dick now – the weight and taste and texture of it against his tongue, against his lips; the length and breadth and heat of it plunging into him deep and fast and hard. He's already slippery wet just thinking about it, already more than ready. Sam moans a little as Dean grinds up against him, and Dean kind of wishes that he had the power to make all their clothes just vanish. He doesn't say this out loud, though, just in case Sam does have that power. It wouldn't surprise him. Dean's pretty much past surprising these days, he thinks.

“Nakedness,” he says instead, pulling his mouth free for a moment and blinking into Sam's eyes. “Nakedness now.”

Sam snorts with laughter, and squeezes him tight. “I love you,” he says, still laughing, and Dean's heart constricts a little at that. Because it's not real, this love, he's pretty certain now. Oh, Sam loves him, of course he does, as a brother. But this stuff? This sex stuff? This isn't real. This is just the goddamn spell, and that's fucked up.

Even if it feels wonderful.

“Nakedness,” Dean says again, concentrating on that, on the simple, familiar rush of lust, and he feels like a dirty old man for taking advantage of Sammy like this, but he's just not strong enough to do the right thing here. Not strong enough to turn Sammy down. He tugs purposefully at the bunched up fabric of Sam's shirt and the t-shirt under it, and manages, with a great deal of rather enjoyable wriggling and squirming, to hike it up over Sam's head, and fling it back into the room behind him. Sam's shaking against Dean now, laughter flexing the muscles of his belly and chest as he presses kisses haphazardly onto Dean's nose, his cheek, his chin and the corner of his mouth, muttering endearments, and it's all so fucking sweet, so perfect, so deliciously right that for a moment Dean feels like weeping, or maybe shooting something. How can all this tenderness and delight be wrong? Be a lie? But he knows it is, damn it. He knows it can't last.

“C'mon, Clark Kent, put me down and commence with the nudity,” he says, a little breathlessly, but Sam silences him by capturing his mouth for another mind-meltingly hot kiss, and for a while there Dean gets so caught up that he forgets all about Operation: Get Sam Naked and just loses himself in the urgent slip-slide of tongues and teeth. Sam tastes like bacon and maple syrup, and he kisses like he just invented it, his hands wrapped around Dean's wrists, pressing Dean's hands flat against the door on either side of his head while he grinds his hips forward in a manner finely calculated to have Dean squirming and whimpering within seconds. When Sam finally pulls his head back, Dean is almost dizzy with pleasure. Sam's lips are wet and bitten-looking, and his smug smile would be absolutely infuriating if he hadn't so thoroughly earned it. Dean stares across the few inches that separate them and wonders how he can have lived his whole life without ever imagining that this could be possible. How he will be able to live his whole life without it, now that he knows what it's like. “Nakedness,” he says earnestly. “Now.”

Sam cocks his head to one side, still grinning. “What's the magic word?”

“Orgasm?”

“That...actually, okay, yeah, that's quite persuasive.”

Dean kisses him again. “Oh, I can be all kinds of persuasive,” he says, and proceeds to demonstrate his point.

“Yeah,” agrees Sam hoarsely, a little later. “Okay. I'm persuaded.” He steps gently away from the wall and lets Dean slide down to the floor, and then there's a hasty, inelegant little pause while they both yank at zippers and buttons, and there's some messy hopping around and too many elbows, somehow, and then they're both naked, and giggling like teenagers. And then Dean's dragging Sam over to the bed, shoving him down onto the mattress, wriggling up between his thighs and wrapping slim fingers around Sam's erection, and a moment later he's got Sam's hard cock in his mouth, hot and silky on his tongue.

Dean's good at this. Granted he's spent most of his sex life in bed with girls, but he learned how to do this well when he had to, back when Dad left him in charge of Sammy for months at a time, and being preternaturally pretty was one of the few things Dean had going for him. He always preferred to charm or trick cash out of people, but he learned to do this too, and do it well, for times when nothing else was working.

He loves the way that Sam comes apart under his mouth. Loves looking up at Sam through his eyelashes and watching Sam's face all open and disarmed, wide eyes fixed hungrily on Dean, looking half shocked at the sheer pleasure of it. It's kind of difficult, because Sam's big, and Dean's mouth isn't all that big these days, but between his hand and his mouth he still manages to make Sam gasp and swear and squirm, and he thinks maybe this is going to be it, maybe he's going to just make Sam come in his mouth, but then Sam reaches down and pushes Dean's head clear. There's saliva sliding down Dean's chin, and he reaches up to brush it away with the back of his hand, his eyes on Sam, his expression quizzical, and Sam's leaning forward and reaching out, grabbing Dean roughly around the waist and yanking him up over Sam's body until he's sitting on Sam's cock. It's flat against Sam's belly, the underside sliding against Dean's clit, and he has to close his eyes for a moment while his whole body shivers. They're both reaching for Sam's dick at the same time, pulling it up and into place while Dean raises himself up over Sam and poises himself for one brief moment, his eyes locked on Sam's, before he lowers himself with a graceful undulation and feels Sam's hard cock sliding home. And it does hurt a little, still, because Sam's big, and Dean's not used to this yet – won't ever be used to this, because this is the last time – but it's wonderful, and Dean loves the sense of control; loves how big Sam is underneath him, all this contained strength and power that he's riding like a pony. But he loves it even more when Sam eventually rolls them, and laces his fingers with Dean's, pinning his hands down, and kisses him, and then proceeds to fuck him into the middle of next week. Dean's kind of startled to know this about himself now – that he really, really likes it when Sam takes charge, even though Sam leaves bruises, even though Sam bites hard enough to draw blood, and doesn't say sorry. (Until later, at least. Much later, when he's sweet and tender and contrite.) But, fuck, yeah. It works for him, and he comes screaming, with Sam slamming in and out, hard and fast and furious.

Afterwards, Sam spoons up behind him and wraps his arms and legs around Dean like Dean's some kind of teddy bear. And he presses kisses into the nape of Dean's neck, and onto the top of his head, and Dean wonders how he can even be thinking about walking away from this.

They still haven't used a condom, he realises. He's going to have to look into the morning after pill tomorrow, if this basilisk thing doesn't work out. But of course, the basilisk thing has to work out.

And he's going to have to tell Sammy about it. He swallows, and draws a deep breath. It's easier when he doesn't have to look at Sam.

“So I think I've found a cure for the curse,” he says roughly, staring at the wallpaper, and he feels Sam's muscles tense against him. “The way to turn me back into – into me. Into a guy. Without waiting for seven years. Maybe.”

“Oh,” says Sam after a very long moment, and it doesn't sound like his voice. All the laughter has died away. “Oh.” He clutches onto Dean more tightly. “Well that's – that's good.”

“Yeah,” agrees Dean, miserably. “I need to talk to Bobby about it, but – I think I've got a lead.”

“Oh,” says Sam again. He's shaking. Dean closes his eyes, and then he opens them and squirms around in Sam's grip, and then they're kissing with a wild, lost desperation like nothing Dean's ever known in his life. And Dean's been thinking of nothing but how to get his rightful body back for months, but it doesn't feel much like a happy ending at all, right now.

Chapter Text

It's been raining all morning, and when Dean steps out of the Impala the whole world smells – not clean, exactly, but green and fresh and hopeful. Like new beginnings. Of course, the rain also means mud, and lots of it. Dean scowls as his feet sink down into the yielding ground with a soggy, vaguely obscene squelching sound, and he eyes the sky warily. It's not raining right now, hasn't been raining for an hour or more, but the sky is still thick with curdled clouds the dull grey of dirty sidewalks, and Dean isn't making any bets about how long the dry spell will last.

“Think this is the place?” Sam's voice is even, deceptively normal, as he nods towards the tumbledown church, but Dean isn't buying. Nothing's normal right now. He flicks a quick sideways glance at Sam and then looks away.

“Yeah,” he says, and leaves it at that. Everything's gotten real awkward and polite between the two of them ever since Dean made his Big Announcement. Sam's not done a whole lot of talking today, and he's been real careful about not touching Dean, and his face has taken on this tight, pinched expression. Dean doesn't know whether to feel sad, or guilty, or pissed, and he's settled on feeling all three; although he's not at all sure whether he's mad at Sam, or at the witch, or at the angels, or the demons, or himself. Mostly himself. He knows he shouldn't have ever let things get so intense and messed up between them. He's supposed to take care of things, damn it. He's supposed to keep the family together. Only – not this close together. Not Flowers In The Attic close. Jesus.

“Are you – Dean, are you sure about this?” Sam's voice breaks a little bit, and Dean swallows hard, and doesn't look at him. Shit. He can't talk about this stuff, for fuck's sakes! He thought they were just pretending it had never happened, and heading back to normal. He was good with denial. Denial was working just fine.

“Sammy – you got to understand, this isn't me,” he says clumsily, gesturing at his chest and ducking his head. “I'm not – I'm really not a chick. I don't want to be a chick. I want to be me again.” He shrugs, and tries to make a joke out of it. “I mean, y'know, sure the multiple orgasms are great, but...” his voice trails off and he feels himself reddening because, yeah, Sam knows that already. Man. Man, this is a mess. He can't look at Sam. He really needs a drink. “I'm doing this,” he finishes, crossing his arms in front of his chest and keeping his eyes fixed on the church.

It's all going to be fine. He's going to go in there, round up some basilisks, get himself bitten, and then it'll be bye bye boobies and hello penis. Hello normality. And then they'll both be mortified as hell about letting the curse trick them into thinking they wanted – into – yeah. It'll just be one more funny anecdote.

He flashes on the feel of Sam's mouth on him, Sam's hands, Sam's arms lifting him up and – and – okay, yeah, maybe not a funny anecdote.

“I didn't mean it like that,” says Sam, sounding profoundly embarrassed, and Dean darts a startled glance at him. “Of course you want to fix this. I get that. I just meant – Dean, how sure are you about this 'cure'? Because – I gotta say, dude, you're really taking one hell of a chance.”

Like having unprotected sex with my own brother while in possession of fully working, fully baby-making girl parts? Dean doesn't retort, because, hell, it's his own fault, and it takes two to tango. And once he's gotten rid of the girl parts, it won't matter anyway.

“I trust Bobby,” he says roughly instead. “He says it's for real.” Bobby had sworn a blue streak down the phone, in fact, calling himself twelve kinds of fool for not putting two and two together. “Tiresias poked the snakes with a stick while they were, you know,” he makes a wiggly snakes-getting-it-on gesture with his hands that makes Sam's eyes widen. “And, poof, no more hooters. Sounds good to me.”

Sam bites his lip. “Yeah, but – it's still dangerous, Dean.”

“What isn't dangerous?” He rolls his eyes, and then back over his shoulder at Sam, grinning. “C'mon, Sammy – Danger is my middle name!” He waggles his eyebrows, and then slides the mirror shades on, feeling like the epitome of cool. James Dean, or somebody.

Sam's mouth twitches. “Okay,” he says, walking around from his side of the car and standing beside Dean, looking out at the ramshackle building. “Let's do this.”

Dean lifts his hands. “Easy, cowboy! You're not going in there. This is my thing. You think I want to risk these horny little fuckers biting you instead? Then we're both chicks, or else you're dead, or a statue – and none of these is going to help fix my problem.” He peers at Sam over the top of the mirror shades. “And you'd be one fugly, gigantic girl, Sam.”

“I would not be...” begins Sam indignantly, and then he stops and shakes his head. “You know what? Don't even start with me, Dean. I'm coming with you. I've got your back.”

It shouldn't make him feel so warm, hearing Sam say that, but those two years without Sam had felt like a lifetime, and Dean's never really gotten into the way of taking Sam for granted since then. Not totally. And that's why he gives a little shiver, and feels like hugging himself. No other reason. He bites his lip. “Okay. Okay, but you got to be careful, Sam. I'm not bullshitting here – we can't fuck this up.”

Sam cuffs him over the head, and it's the first time he's touched Dean all day. “Dean, I'm not exactly new at this,” he says mildly. “It's going to be fine.”

“Yeah,” says Dean, staring at the church and swallowing. He doesn't know why he feels so nervous. “It's going to be fine.” He glances around at the trees. “Okay, we need a big, sharp, pointy stick.”

The basilisks look pretty much like regular snakes. Only – bigger. Quite a lot bigger. Luckily they seem to be pretty focused on doing – yeah, whatever it is that they're doing, which seems to be mostly writhing and hissing and looking like a particularly scary episode of Animal Planet, one with maybe a 1970s bowm-chika-bowmbowm kind of soundtrack, so Dean manages to get pretty close before either of them registers his presence. Sam's staying back out of the way, as ordered, hovering in the threshold with his gun in his hands. Although Dean does kind of suspect he could probably throw the basilisks through the back wall with the power of his mind, if he had to. He risks a very quick glance over his shoulder, and Sam offers him an encouraging grin that doesn't quite succeed in hiding the white-knuckled dread that's on the very brink of sending him dashing after Dean to screw everything up. Man. Sammy never used to be overprotective. That's pretty much Dean's thing. Or it was.

He turns back to the basilisks, and feels kind of guilty for interrupting their quality time like this. They like to be dry, and on high ground, and they only go into heat once every seven years, and when they do, according to Bobby, it's kind of a Pon'Farr deal; in basilisk terms, they've pretty much got candle-light and Barry White going on right now, and Dean's about to ruin the mood, big time. “Sorry, kids,” says Dean, pulling a face, and then he pokes the squirming mass of glistening coils quite hard with the stick, and gets ready to run like hell.

The reaction is immediate, and Dean's just glad that Bobby was right about the mirror shades. Two – no, what, three, four? five? What the fuck? - heads rise up out of the pile of scaly snake spaghetti and fix Dean with unblinking glares that, thank heavens, thank mirror shades, fail to turn Dean into stone. And then there's a sudden sinuous flex of shining green, and one of the grumpy bastards is lunging at Dean, and he's jumping away reflexively, even though this is exactly what he wanted – and it turns out that maybe that was the worst possible idea, because he loses his footing, and a moment later one, two, three, four – fuck, who knows how many - sets of jaws are closing over him, biting through denim, tightening around his wrist, fangs sinking into his shirt, and obviously Dean isn't screaming like a girl, but someone's certainly making a very high-pitched wailing noise sharp enough to shatter glass. As Dean flails wildly at the reptiles, pulling one head free of his thigh only to have it bite down on the soft web of flesh between his fingers and thumb, he's starting to sympathise with Indiana Jones's feelings about snakes, he really is. He's pretty sure that it was only supposed to be one bite, not five, or six, or ten, or however many he's just taken. Damn.

Bobby didn't mention anything about basilisks being into orgies. Seems like kind of an important oversight right now.

It can't be more than a second or two between the scaly little bastards jumping at him and Sam blasting them across the room with his demon-fu, but it seems a lot longer. There's poison flooding his veins, and the world is starting to spin, Dean's vision going grey and wobbly around the edges while Sam scoops him up from the floor. And he's saying something, calling Dean names, but Dean's head is lolling back and he's already starting to slide into unconsciousness. “Sorry,” Dean manages, and then he's gone.

The ceiling is the colour of nicotine stains. Dean's lying on top of the bed clothes, and everything aches, everything, even his eyelashes, and his heartbeat sounds too loud, resonating in his chest, in his veins, in his teeth, and he's so hot – God, he's burning up, skin slick with sweat, impossibly hot, sweat trickling down his chin, pooling in the hollows of his his collarbones, sliding between his thighs, real summer-night-in-Alabama hot (Sam gave him the world's greatest back rub and got hard while he did it, and that was when Dean realised just how fucked up his life had gotten), and, fuck, Dean just wants this to be over.

“You're okay, Dean. It's going to be okay.”

Dean forces his eyes open and tries to smile, but he doesn't think he does a very good job.

The cold wet cloth full of ice cubes that Sam drags over his heated skin makes Dean moan with relief. “Oh, God, yes please,” he says, shuddering, too desperate to be embarrassed. “More. Please? More?”

He can't remember quite where he is, or quite why he's feeling so spectacularly shitty – shreds of his life keep floating by like scraps of torn patchwork, and it's hard to remember where Dad is, what job they're on, whether Sammy should be doing homework right now, or...He opens his eyes blearily and stares up at Sam, and, yeah, okay, that's Sam, not the kid in his head, Sam's all grown up now. Okay. Forget about the homework, then.

Sam looks about as lousy as Dean feels, but his voice is soothing, and so are his hands. He's laying a cool damp facecloth over Dean's forehead, and that feels good, that feels just great. Sam's a good kid.

“You need to drink something. Come on, Dean, work with me here. You need to stay hydrated.”

Dean tries to sit up, tries to co-operate, but his limbs feel limp and rubbery, and everything hurts. He must've broken a bone, or – a lot of bones, actually. Another hunt gone wrong, only he can't remember what happened, and he's having difficulty getting Sam's face to stay Sam-shaped. It keeps blurring, and his eyelids seem determined to slide downwards. He must've – shit, he hasn't felt as bad as this since – since -

He feels a sudden vertiginous sense of horror, as he suddenly remembers Hell, and loses all the contents of his stomach. And then he has to lie there, wide-eyed and gasping, while Sam patiently cleans him up and brings the cup of water back to his mouth.

“You don't know,” says Dean, staring up at him, stricken. They broke him. He did – he did the most terrible, terrible things. He doesn't deserve this gentleness. “You don't know what I did. You don't know.”

“It's okay, Dean.” He doesn't know how Sam can be so patient with him.

He doesn't cry.

“Dean? Dean? I'm not losing you, God damn it. Dean! Breathe, damn you!”

Pain in his chest. Sam's lips on his, forcing air into his lungs.

It's cold. It's very cold. It's really, really, fucking cold, and the blankets aren't helping, and the socks aren't helping, and his teeth are chattering, his fingers and toes losing sensation, cold as chips of ice, and he can't – he doesn't know how – why – man, this sucks.

“Sssh. C'mon, Dean. It's okay. I've got you.”

And that's Sam, he realises after a moment. That's Sam climbing into the bed with him, fully dressed, shoes and all, pulling him up close and wrapping arms and legs around him, chafing his fingers, breathing warm breath onto his skin. Holding on tight.

He wakes up to the sight of Sam slumped in a chair beside the bed, snoring gently, and it takes him a minute or two to pull everything together and remember where they are, and what's been happening.

“Fuck,” he says with feeling. It speaks volumes about how exhausted Sam must be that this exclamation doesn't make him so much as twitch.

Dean swallows, and then looks gingerly down at his chest. It looks promisingly flat under the covers, and when he lifts them up he's rewarded with the sight of his own, smooth, familiar, blessedly breast-free skin. He can feel the other change already, but he still slides a hand down and clasps Dean Junior, and his eyes close in involuntary relief. “Oh yeah,” he murmurs, and decides not to let go for a while, just in case his penis decides to go anywhere without him.

“You are restored.” Okay, that's enough to make him let go of his penis, as it turns out. Dean's head snaps around fast enough to give him whiplash, and he finds Castiel perching on Sam's neatly made bed. The angel is watching him closely, and his blue eyes are unreadable. “I am glad.”

“You're – you – huh,” says Dean, intelligently. He pushes himself up into a sitting position and glares at the angel. “I'm kind of pissed at you.”

Castiel looks at him, and then looks over at Sam. “Because of the curse?”

“Damn skippy, because of the curse,” snarls Dean, trying to keep his voice low so as not to wake up Sam. “You let this happen, didn't you? You and your 'I don't understand the problem, Dean' bullshit – you let me get zapped, because it suited your Grand Design, didn't it? You thought it would help you keep Sam under control. Right? I'm right, yeah?”

Castiel looks down at his hands, and then back up at Dean. “Sam's attention needed to be drawn away from Ruby. She was leading him into sin.”

“She was...buddy, you know how this panned out, right? I mean, you know,” he glances over at Sam, and feels himself flushing crimson. “You know how fucked up this got?”

Castiel cocks his head to one side. “Dean, contrary to popular opinion, the forces of Heaven are really not very interested in human procreation. Or,” he makes a vague, helpless gesture with his hands, and his brows draw closer together. “Or any other ways you might choose to entertain yourselves – biologically.”

“Ways we might...okay. Right.” Dean stares at him. “You're cool with this?”

Castiel shrugs. “We have much larger concerns.” He glances over at Sam again. “And you must concede, your, ah, metamorphosis did move him onto a different course. He is not – probably not – moving towards the destiny that Azazel chose for him. Surely that is the most important thing, Dean?”

Dean stares at him. “Wow. You're – you're really not even a little bit human, are you?”

“You know what I am.”

Dean shakes his head. He honestly doesn't know how he and Sam are going to go on now. “This is – man, have you any idea how totally screwed up this is? Me and Sam? We – I mean, it was – we – how do we get past that?” Castiel just looks at him silently, and Dean feels another spike of anger shoot through him. “And, anyway – you're wrong about Sammy! He was never going to go all Evil Overlord on your asses. He wouldn't do that. He's better than that.”

Castiel's mouth twists a little. He looks as close to sad as Dean's ever seen him. “You are mistaken, Dean. You are speaking out of your love for Samuel, which does you credit, but you are mistaken. His soul has been badly stained, and he no longer knows the meaning of restraint. He thinks he is above all the rules. This has been a very dangerous time for him – in truth, it is still a dangerous time.”

Dean looks at him, hard. “You didn't want me to find the cure, did you? The fucking demons had to rig it. And you call yourselves the good guys?”

There is a painful little pause, and then Castiel nods. “I regret that this change had to happen so soon. Sam is still – well. I could wish that the time of danger were truly past, before you were restored to your old self. But still, I am glad to see you returned to yourself, whether it is wise or not. Your other form was comely, but it was not you.”

Dean continues to glare, but he's starting to feel like a bit of an asshole. Castiel just looks so tired, and he can hear the sincerity in his voice.

“Stupid angels,” he mutters, and he could swear that for a moment Castiel's mouth twitches into a half-smile.

“Dean?” Oh, crap. He turns around, and there's Sam, sitting up in the chair, beaming at him like he's the second coming, like he's the guy who invented pie.

“Sorry – didn't mean to wake you. I was just talking to – to someone who isn't here any more. Okay.” He swallows, and looks from the empty spot Castiel had been occupying until just now back over to his brother.

“Castiel, right?” Dean nods, and Sam gives a weary grin. “Yeah – I kind of called on him to come help. You were – dude, you were a mess. I thought I was going to lose you. Again. It was – it was pretty bad.” He tries to laugh, but it comes out as more of a choked-off little hiccup. “Dean, you've got to promise not to die on me any time soon, okay? I can't take it. It's giving me grey hairs.”

Dean blinks. “You called on him?”

“Prayed. And it worked.” Sam shrugs. “He saved you. Don't know how, but – I couldn't do it. I just couldn't do it.”

“Oh,” says Dean, chewing over that. “That's – huh. He didn't say.”

“Yeah, well – angels. They're not exactly forthcoming, are they?” Sam leans forward, searching Dean's face. “How – how are you feeling, Dean? You okay?”

“I feel like somebody kicked the crap out of me, but I'm okay. “ And that's when Dean decides to lie like a dog. He licks his lips. “So what happened? Last thing I remember, we saved those guys from that witch in Seattle.” He's easing himself out of bed as he says this, so he doesn't have to look at Sam, but he hears the indrawn hiss of breath behind him. “Man, I feel like a seventy year old,” he adds, wincing, as he gets to his feet. “Guess she hit me with some kind of curse, yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Sam behind him, in a slightly strangled voice. This is a great idea, Dean thinks. This is how they get past this. He is a fucking genius. “Yeah. Some kind of curse. You – you don't remember?”

Dean turns his most innocent smile on Sam. “Well, I remember shooting her, and shooting her again, and she said something in ye olde witchspeak, but – no.” He looks around him at the motel room, and makes a big thing of looking surprised. “But – hey, this isn't where we were staying, is it? What happened? How long was I out? We're still in Seattle, right?”

“No,” says Sam, staring at him. And, God, this is the right decision, Dean knows this is the right decision, because he's looking at Sammy sitting there with blue circles under his eyes, and his too-long hair all unwashed, and this stupid, shell-shocked expression on his familiar face, and, fuck, curse or no curse, Dean still feels exactly the same way about him. His heart is swelling in his chest, and he's got that sweet, tight, intoxicating feeling you get when you're head over heels besotted with someone. Like you're glowing. He still wants to kiss Sam. He still wants to feel Sam slam him up against a wall. He still remembers, all too vividly, how Sam's cock feels in his hand, in his mouth, inside him. Fuck. This is a whole universe of wrong right here.

“You want to fill me in, Sammy?” he says, and if his voice is a little rough he can blame it on the fever. He sure as shit isn't giving anything away with his eyes or his smile, isn't giving any hint that he realises the double entendre in his own words.

Sam swallows. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

But Dean knows he's going to leave out the good bits. And he does.

Chapter Text

Eleven am on a Tuesday, and the library's as quiet as – well. As a library. As a mostly-empty library on a Tuesday morning. Dean is working his way gradually through a stack of books of local history, and Sam is hunched over one of the terminals flicking through the microfiche collection, looking through newspaper articles that aren't available online. Another day, another job, another seal to keep from breaking. Just another normal day of hunting. The boring bits of hunting.

Except – Sam keeps staring at him. Dean's pretending not to notice, but - he's noticed. He's felt Sam's gaze linger on his mouth, on his chin and his Adam's apple, on his flat chest, on the breadth of his shoulders. He can feel Sam's gaze burning into the back of his head as he turns over pages and tries to concentrate on the words squirming on the page in front of him, tries not to think about other things. Can feel Sam's eyes tracing the line of his spine and noting the way that his waist no longer nips in, that his hips no longer flare out, taking in the fact that his ass, while undoubtedly fine, is no longer a cute, curvy little girl-type ass.

He can't exactly blame Sam for missing her, missing that girl-shaped person, because Dean would be the first to agree that he'd made one hell of a hot chick. He'd been a babe. Totally bangable. Hell yeah.

And of course that, right there, is the problem, of course. But he can't blame Sam for falling for her, for wanting to do her, when she'd been wandering around his motel room half-dressed and making out with hot chicks and cute college boys under his nose. In retrospect, it's a total no-brainer, even though at the time Dean just hadn't realised what a prick-tease he was being, hadn't really taken on board the whole girl-shape thing properly, hadn't realised how badly he was fucking with Sam's head. But, yeah, he gets it. She was a hottie. Dean would have totally nailed her himself, if he hadn't been, well – her. It was just hormones. It might have felt like something else, but it was just hormones, and it's not Sam's fault if Dean had taken it all a bit more seriously. If Dean had felt special, and wanted, and seen, and had kind of lost his head there. Sam hadn't been seeing Dean at all, he'd been seeing some hot little number in a push-up bra, and that was who he'd fallen for. Not Dean.

God. It makes his head hurt just thinking about it. But the key thing is that it's not Sam's fault. Obviously Sam's going to be looking for traces of her in Dean, and obviously he's going to maybe miss her, because he'd been – he'd kind of thought he was in love with her. Maybe. Which was an easy mistake to make, what with the tits and the ass and the fact that of course Dean loves Sam more than anything else on the face of the earth, always has, always will. Just – not like that. (Well. not until – well. Yeah. And maybe he's never been very good at setting limits or boundaries when it comes to Sam, never been very good at denying him anything he really wants or needs, and maybe now that leaves him feeling like somebody's hollowed out his chest. But - okay. Moving right along. ) And, fuck, it's not like poor Sam's had the best track record with chicks to date, after all – Jessica, Little Red Riding Wolf, Meg-who-was-Ruby, and now the amazing disappearing girl. Dean can't blame him for pining. Honestly, with luck like this the kid ought to just give up entirely and become a monk.

(Only that, of course, would be a truly criminal waste, because Sam is, as Dean is now in a position to attest, a really, really, really spectacular lay. Like, porn star spectacular. Seriously awesome. Jesus. And this train of thought needs to be abandoned, because Dean really does not need to have an erection in the middle of the library.)

So, no, he can't blame Sam for getting misled by the tits and ass, and forgetting to think with the big head. He's a red-blooded male (boy howdy, is he ever a red-blooded male), and Dean, as previously acknowledged, had been cunningly disguised as an eminently fuckable babe. There was tequila. Things got a little – out of hand. So far, so understandable.

But what's Dean's excuse? This is the bit that's killing him. What the hell excuse does he have? Because it's not like Sam suddenly turned into someone else – Sam never stopped being Sam, and Dean may have been drunk, but he still knew what he was doing when he followed Sam back to the motel room and left his shirt and his boots and his hard-earned winnings with the terrified little football players. Dean knew whose hands, whose mouth, whose arms and shoulders and dick he was playing with. And he wasn't drunk the next morning, wasn't drunk when they got back from the diner and fucked again when he'd been on the brink of making his confession about the cure. He can't blame the tequila for the fact that Sam had kept right on making him hot and bothered when he was stone cold sober. Is still making him hot and bothered, to be perfectly truthful, because apparently he's broken now. Apparently even though he's got his height and his muscle mass and his penis back, even though he's claiming to have lost his memory and they're both pretending that it never happened – he still can't go back to seeing Sam as his geeky, prissy, politically correct little brother. Now he looks at Sam and he sees a guy. A hot guy, God help him. A man. A man who's bigger than Dean and stronger than him too (at least if you count the Jedi powers. And possibly even if you don't). Someone who doesn't need Dean's protection, even if Dean's always going to be there to give it anyway. Someone who's got his back. Now he looks at Sam and he simply cannot help thinking about sex. He can't help thinking about the low note Sam's voice takes, how sure and skilled his big hands are, how surprisingly fierce and ungentle he is in bed. Can't help but think about being totally and comprehensively owned in the sack, and loving it.

Jesus. Sam. Who the hell knew?

“Any luck?”

Dean jumps, and swallows, because Sam is suddenly right there, leaning lightly against Dean as he reaches over to grab one of the books and leaf through it. “Nah,” he says, and tries to will his excitable dick into subsiding. God. But it doesn't help that Sam's still kind of leaning into him without even thinking about it. “You?” He glances up, and then has to look away again, because Sam's looking right at him and he's afraid that he'll give himself away. His mask isn't feeling very convincing just now. He's read the same damn paragraph at least six times, and he still doesn't know what it says.

“Nothing,” says Sam, and pulls a face. “Swap?”

Which will mean standing up, of course. “No!” says Dean, a little too fast. “I mean – no. No, I'm good, thanks.” He tries to look fascinated by the book in his hand, and meanwhile he thinks hard about unsexy things, like cold showers, and Ann Coulter, and finding maggots in your pie.

“Huh. 'Kay,” says Sam, and he drifts back over to the terminal.

“You have got to be kidding me.” Dean stares blankly at the army of zombies stumbling drunkenly towards them through the mulch on crumbling feet, and then looks over as Sam. “Zombies? For real?”

Sam shrugs. “Looks like.”

“Aw, man, if I'd known I would've brought a sawn-off shotgun,” grumbles Dean. He scans the graveyard, doing a quick head count. “Maybe two.” He glances down at the gun in his hand, which is suddenly seeming kind of small, and pulls a face. “Not that I'm saying size is everything, y'know, but it definitely helps.”

Sam clears his throat. “It's what you do with it that counts?” he offers.

“Keep telling yourself that, Sammy.” It's automatic, this casual needling, but it still brings him up short, and he's glad that it's too dark for Sam to notice the way he's flushing all of a sudden. Like Sam has anything to worry about in the size department. Dean isn't remembering being fucked by Sam, obviously, because that would be (a) wildly inappropriate and (b) totally unhelpful. But for some reason his mouth is dry, and his pants are feeling a little, just a little, restrictive. Because apparently his penis is real happy about being brought back to life, and wants to stand up and sing hallelujah pretty much 24/7. Or at least whenever he's near Sam. Which is pretty much 24/7.

Jesus.

They're backing gradually towards the mausoleum, shooting wary glances around the graveyard as they move. The zombie army is lumbering onwards, and every so often Dean catches a glimpse of another grey hand scrabbling out of the grass, another dead body scrabbling out into the moonlight. It's horrifyingly familiar, and he's trying not to remember waking up into darkness, drawing air into his empty lungs and having to fight his way out of his own grave. Thinking about sex with Sam is a much pleasanter, if no less disturbing, preoccupation. On the whole, though, he probably should just stick to thinking about what's right in front of him.

The zombie closest to them looks like somebody's sweet old grandpa. Although he's a little less than sweet with the lurching gait, the torn fingernails and the glowing crimson eyes. But at least he isn't growling anything about brains. Yet. Dean shoots him in the kneecap and watches him fall down, and then, unsurprisingly, begin crawling towards them. In the spirit of scientific inquiry, Dean shoots him in the head, and grimaces at the way the skull explodes like a ripe melon, splattering bits of grey matter everywhere. But the zombie keeps right on coming, and so do all the others.

“Okay, that's – that's not good. Also? Man, these things reek.”

They back up closer to the mausoleum, cautious as hell, trying to look in all directions at once.

“Where's the demon?” mutters Sam, scanning the cemetery, his mouth a tight little line. “Damn it, he's got to be here.”

“Definitely going to make things interesting if he ain't,” says Dean evenly, watching the malodorous undead swaying towards them over the uneven ground. “Y'know, our lives really, really suck. One of these days, if we don't die in the Apocalypse, and if, you know, you manage not to go all 'The Omen' on my ass, I say we take a vacation. A proper vacation. I'm thinking Jamaica, or maybe Hawaii – some place with white beaches, and hot chicks, and lots of suntan oil, and stupid froofy drinks served in coconut shells with little umbrellas and cherries and things. You know. Sunlight. Blue skies. Shorts. Bare feet. Hawaiian shirts. Fun. Not all this crap with cold, dark cemeteries and the evil dead.”

Sam's mouth twitches a little. “With our luck, the hot chicks would probably be were-sharks.”

Dean rounds on him. “Shut up! Do not fuck with my happy place!”

Impossibly, despite the zombies and the no-show demon and the seal and everything, Sam is grinning. “I'm just saying.”

“Yeah, well, don't. It will be a great vacation, and the hot chicks will not be were-anythings, and there will be cocktails. And pie. Lots of pie. And no sunburn, because sunburn sucks. It will be awesome.”

“Okay. Awesome. Check.”

Dean nods. They're almost at the mausoleum. “Good. So can you stop flapping your mouth and start doing something useful for a change? Zombies at twelve o'clock! And one o'clock! And three o'clock and ten o'clock and – look, zombies rocking all around the goddamn clock, okay? And they want to chow down on my tasty brains, so can we make with the plan?”

“What brains?”

“I heard that. Nobody likes a smart ass, Sammy.”

“You do.”

“Oh, shut up.” Dean blinks out at the zombies, and is struck, very belatedly, with a realisation. “Oh, crap,” he says, at the same time as Sam mutters a curse under his breath. They look at each other. “We're being herded.”

“You boys really aren't famous for your intellects, are you?” says the demon, stepping out of the mausoleum just as they spin around. He's wearing a plump, middle aged Asian guy with small round glasses and a tank top, but the expression on his face is anything but wholesome or reassuring, and his eyes are glowing a vivid green.

Dean shoots him, on general principles. It doesn't seem to do the bastard any damage, but it does make Dean feel a little better, so there's always that.

The demon looks down at the hole in his tank top, and raises one eyebrow. “Really? So quick on the draw, Dean? That's an innocent man you just killed. I guess you didn't learn anything from your little stint as one of the fairer sex.” It smiles. “Still, what's one more murder on your soul? And at least you made it quick. Not like in hell. You really knew how to draw things out, didn't you?”

Dean bites his lip, and struggles to keep his game face on. “Blah blah blah. Is this the part where you talk us to death?”

The demon's smile broadens. “No,” it says, simply, and then Dean feels several sets of hands and jaws close over his shoulders and arms at the same time, yanking him backwards, and wonders how the hell he can possibly have forgotten about the army of goddamn zombies creeping unstealthily up behind him. And then there's a very long handful of seconds of furious flailing and yelling and shooting and punching and splattering, and Dean's pretty thoroughly focused on struggling to protect himself from the encroaching tide of mindless, ravenous zombies, for fuck's sakes, but he's still trying to see where Sam's at, and if Sam's safe. So he still glimpses the way that light wells up and spills from Sam's outstretched fingers, and how some strange wind that Dean can't feel or hear seems to blast Sam's shirt and hair like crazy, and he still sees Sam's eyes well up dark, almost black. Dean doesn't think he's ever seen Sam's face look so hard or cruel, and it chills him, even as he's kicking and punching and flailing and feeling teeth tear into his flesh. The round little Asian guy's head snaps back like a doll's under the impact of whatever the hell Sam is doing, and black smoke whips out of him impossibly fast. And then all the zombies are hitting the ground, puppets with their strings cut, and so's the poor guy the demon was riding, and then it's just Sam and Dean alone in a cemetery. Again.

“Holy...” exclaims Dean, staring at his brother. Sam's eyes slide back to human, but Dean can't get the memory of the darkness out of his head. “You – shit, Sam. That was – that was really something.”

Sam steps over the bodies like they're rocks and dirt, his attention fixed on Dean. “Are you okay?”

Dean can't stop staring at Sam, and he's thinking about what Castiel said, and suddenly, all joking aside, he's really scared for Sam. And maybe, a little bit, scared of Sam. “Sam, dude – you've got to be careful,” he says, clumsily. “You shouldn't – Sam, I couldn't stand it, if they turned you. I couldn't stand it.”

Sam's hands are on him, patting, searching, finding the places where the fabric has been torn, where blood is seeping out. He's very close. It's almost an embrace. Dean's looking up into his face, ignoring the minor pain of bites and scratches and trying to read Sam's expression for some clue to how much shit they're in – but he just looks like Sam again, with his eyebrows hitched up uncertainly, and his puppy dog eyes brimming with concern.

“They bit you,” he says, looking at the blood on his fingertips. “We've got to get these wounds cleaned up. Human bites are crawling with germs.”

“These guys weren't human,” says Dean, pointlessly. “I'm guessing zombie germs are pretty nasty too, though.” He's still looking up at Sam, and his voice drops a little. “You kind of scared me there,” he says softly.

Sam swallows, and stands very still. “They were hurting you,” he says simply. “I lost it.”

“I noticed,” says Dean, carefully. “And, I mean – thank you. Definitely thank you. Yay for not being ripped apart by hordes of badly dressed undead, don't get me wrong. But – Sam. Buddy. You've got to be careful. Please be careful.”

Sam looks down, and he scuffs his shoes in the grass for all the world like he's still twelve years old. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I know.”

It's inevitable that Sam tends to his wounds, because most of the bites and scratches are in places where Dean can't reach them. But in practice this means that Dean's sprawling face down on the bed, still damp from the shower, wearing just a pair of boxer briefs and letting Sam touch him. Letting Sam smooth antiseptic over his skin and press on gauze and band aids very, very gently. Which is almost unbearable, and despite the quick, urgent jacking off he'd done in the shower to try to avoid this very eventuality, Dean's newly-restored dick is still trying very hard to drill its way right through the mattress and out the other side, and his breathing is ragged and uneven, and, Jesus, he's trembling like a leaf.

“Fucking zombies,” he mumbles, shakily, and Sam gives a little huff of laughter and slides his hands down his shoulders, rubbing antiseptic cream into the ragged scratches scored into Dean's skin. Note to self: never go out without your coat, Dean. Never. Stupid. He sucks in an involuntary hiss of breath and Sam's hands grow still, but stay upon him.

“Did I – sorry, did that sting?”

Dean swallows, and counts to five. “No, no, you're good,” he says roughly, and then has to close his eyes as Sam's big hands slide further down his back. Fuck. He can deal with this. He can cope. If Sam's thinking about anything, it'll be about how Dean's shoulders are too big, how his body's too broad and hard now. How he isn't that girl. But probably he's not even thinking of anything, because they've spent most of their lives patching one another up, and it's second nature by now. But – God. God. Every touch of Sam's hands is stirring up a new memory, and it's all Dean can do to keep from moaning, to keep his hips from thrusting.

One of the bites is right at the very top of his thigh. Basically, he got bit in the ass by one of the fuckers. And now Sam's rubbing this creamy stuff on it with his long, hard fingers – and, yeah, okay, owch, but also - Jesus H Christ. Ngah. Dean just lies there and bites his tongue and tries to concentrate on breathing, and on not making any incriminating noises, or indeed coming in his underwear.

“There you go,” says Sam, an interminable passage of time later, patting his ass like he's a horse or something. “All done.”

Dean swallows, and cannot move. “Okay,” he says hoarsely. “Um. Thanks.”

Sam's still perched on the bed beside him. “You seem kind of tense,” he says, after a moment. “Do you – do you want a back rub?”

“No!” That gets Dean moving, grabbing up his jeans and holding them in front of him to try to hide the evidence of his arousal as he jumps to his feet. “No! No, I'm good, thanks!” Sam's looking at him with his head tilted a little to one side. It's a very disconcerting, measuring kind of look.

“I'm good at it,” he says, watching Dean carefully.

Dean must be crimson, by this point. “Yeah, I know,” he says, swallowing and backing away. “But I'm good, really. All fine here. No tension. I'm a tension-free zone.”

Sam's eyes narrow. “Okay,” he says, and his eyes flick down to Dean's crotch. Which, happily, is still hidden behind a bundle of denim, but he might as well be holding up a signpost with “honking great big hard-on right here”, because it's not exactly a subtle disguise. Sam's mouth twists a little. “So, beer?” he says, after a moment. “It's still early. There's that bar across the road. What d'you think?”

Chapter Text

By the third beer, Dean's forgotten all about the zombies and the way that Sam's eyes had flickered so quickly into black. The beers are cold, dappled with beads of condensation; the waitresses are pretty and light up when he smiles at them (and now that he's stopped looking like a chick, he can switch the smile back up to full volume); the onion rings are crisp and hot; and the music – well, the music kind of sucks, to be honest, but you can't have everything. It's an Irish Pub, and everything in it seems to be either green or covered with shamrocks, or both, and that includes the waitresses. (Or at least, their clothes.) The music is that folksy Irish stuff, with a lot of maudlin references to girls with long red hair and the old country, all set to something that sounds like two fiddles trying to have sex. It's not exactly Dean's thing, but right now Dean's just painfully grateful to have the distraction of a room full of beer and noise and people who aren't Sam, because spending time alone in a small space with Sam is driving him quietly insane.

They're sitting at a corner table, with a good line of sight on the door and their backs to the wall, just in case. It never hurts to be cautious. Also, this vantage point gives them the opportunity to scan the room for hot chicks; to say that Dean is enthusiastic about taking his long-lost dick for a test drive would be something of an understatement. He's been a guy again for three days now, and it's past time that he got a little R&R. Jacking off in the shower is no substitute for honest-to-God sex with a real live person, and Dean's pretty sure that once he reminds his dick how much it likes the ladies, it's going to be able to calm down around Sam, and things are going to start heading back towards normal.

For some reason Sam's elected to sit next to him, rather than opposite him, so they're both watching the other drinkers milling around the bar. This has the disadvantage of pressing Sam a little too close, his thigh making a line of warmth up against the side of Dean's leg, and this is keeping Dean Junior wide awake and adamant about getting taken out to play as soon as possible, but Dean doesn't know how to get Sam to move without sounding totally weird, so he's just dealing with it as best he can. He drums his fingers on the stained wooden tabletop, and reminds himself that he's straight. Mostly straight.

“So we saved another seal,” says Sam, shifting slightly on the padded green pleather and stretching his arms out along the top of the seat back on either side, like he's trying to take over the whole damn booth. Dean tries not to feel conscious of Sam's body at his side, or the back of Sam's arm brushing against the nape of his neck, and hunkers forward a little.

“Saved a seal, kicked a little zombie ass, took down a demon – all in a day's work for Team Winchester,” he says, lifting his bottle in a hasty toast and gulping down more beer. They should really be drinking Guinness, or something else that you need a knife and fork to tackle, but Dean doesn't feel much like foreign food right now.

Sam's still watching him, the way he's been watching him ever since he got changed back. It's distracting as hell, and it sends a spike of unhappiness through Dean, which is stupid, really, because he doesn't want to be a chick, and he can't help it if Sam got a little too fond of the vanished girl parts. He wishes that Sam could just be glad to have him back.

“You know, I think that calls for a celebration,” says Sam, and Dean glances at him questioningly.

“I thought that's what this was,” he says, puzzled, glancing down at his beer and onion rings and then looking at Sam. Since Sam's right there next to him, when he turns it moves his whole body closer into Sam's, and that's really not doing anything to help with the tightness in his jeans.

“Well, yeah. Still...” Sam waves at a passing waitress and she swerves off course straight away, all blonde curls, pillowy bosoms and white teeth. She's beaming at the pair of them like they're made of chocolate. “Miss, could you bring us a couple of tequila slammers, please?” asks Sam. “Actually, no, maybe you could bring us the bottle? And some salt and limes?”

Dean's jaw drops. “Dude. What the fuck?”

Sam shrugs, and Dean has no idea how to read the little curl of his lips, or the glint in his eyes. “Well, you wanted a vacation. Pretend we're in Mexico.”

“Pretend – we – you – what?”

“C'mon, Dean. You like tequila.”

Dean blinks. “Well, yeah. But...”

“And we haven't celebrated properly yet.” Sam's gaze darts down to Dean's chest, and then slides back up, lingering a little on his mouth before returning to his eyes. “Getting you fixed, I mean. Getting you back to your old self.” He smiles, and he really seems to mean it, and Dean feels a sudden flood of unexpected warmth welling up inside him, and ducks his head.

“Aw,” he says, not knowing where to look. “That's – thanks. Yeah. Okay. Cool.” He looks down at his chest. “It's good to be me again. Properly me.”

He misses the way Sam's eyes narrow. “It's good to have you back,” says Sam, and Dean looks him in the eyes and is startled by the intensity of Sam's gaze. He's in some danger of blushing like a fucking chick, and after maybe a little too long he glances away and starts to tear up a bear mat.

“Well, don't go getting all Oprah on me,” he says, looking fiercely at the shreds of white and green he's scattering across the table top.

“Dude. That wasn't an Oprah moment,” says Sam, sounding faintly amused. ”This is an Oprah moment.” And he scoops Dean into a sudden, fleeting bear-hug that crushes the breath right out of him in a startled and thoroughly undignified squeak before letting go. And, okay, Sam doesn't seem quite as Godzilla huge any more, but he's still a big guy. And – fuck, Dean really needs to find a nice, accommodating girl, and soon, because – God. He is so screwed. He swallows, and glowers at Sam, and Sam has the temerity to ruffle his freshly-cut hair, like he's a fucking kid.

“I can cut you,” says Dean, bristling.

“Yeah. But you won't,” says Sam cheerfully, as the waitress arrives with the tequila. “C'mon, Tinkerbell, pretend we're on a sunny beach somewhere in Mexico, with nothing to worry about except getting sunburned.”

“Tinkerbell?” protests Dean, but he reaches for a glass.

“It's what I called you when you were a girl,” says Sam, smiling innocently.

“You did not!” Sam turns to look at him calmly, and Dean swallows, feeling like he's wandered unthinkingly into quicksand. “Uh. Did you?”

“Sure did. You were hobbit-sized.” Dean bites his tongue. He was a lot smaller than Sam, sure, because Sam is a fucking giant, but he'd still been pretty tall for a girl. But he's not supposed to know that, he reminds himself. He's not supposed to know. Crap. Lying is hard. Sam leans in to him confidingly, and lowers his voice. “And I've got to tell you, Dean – you made a really, truly fugly chick.” Sam looks apologetic. “Really. It was kind of embarrassing.”

Dean's eyes narrow. “Oh,” he says after a moment, trying not to glare. “That must have been – unpleasant.”

Sam nods, and fills their shot glasses. “You can't imagine,” he says. “Salt?”

Dean keeps on glaring while he licks the back of one hand and lets Sam sprinkle it with salt, then grabs one of the fat slices of lime, and very carefully doesn't say anything incriminating.

“Salud!” says Sam, watching him and grinning, and they both knock back the shots at the same moment.

Dean's sort of forgotten about his intentions of finding a random hot girl for a little quality time. The tequila is great, just great, and Sam's in an expansive mood, and they've spent the past hour or so passing old anecdotes back and forth, chiming in with punch lines, and laughing. God, he hasn't laughed so much in – he can't remember laughing so much. And Sam's on a roll, with the storytelling, his big hands waving around in the air, and they've finished off the onion rings but now there are french fries and lots of ketchup, and it may not be a vacation to a sunny desert island, but at this moment life is still pretty damn good. And, okay, he's maybe leaning in a little too close to Sam, and maybe there have been a few too many little touches on arms and hands, and maybe he's let his fingers brush Sam's denim-clad thigh a time or two, in passing, but that's just because they're kind of squashed in the booth, and it's still all fine and perfectly normal.

Right up until Sam, smiling and shaking his head, says: “C'mere,” and leans in close, with his eyes on Dean's lips, and lifts his hand up to wipe a smear of ketchup from the corner of his mouth. And that, that moment when Sam's thumb swipes against his bottom lip, that's the point where Dean's stomach kind of flips, and warning bells start finally ringing, and he realises that they are sitting too damn close, and that this is feeling like a fucking date. Which he is perfectly sure isn't how Sam's seeing things, so how fucked up does that make Dean that he wants Sam to lean a little closer and kiss him? That his lips are tingling?

He stares, and swallows, and manages not to freak out too obviously. “I'm – uh – I've got to use the can,” he says. “Be right back.” And then he's jumping up and wriggling out of the booth and not quite running to the men's room.

Fuck. Fuck. This is – he doesn't know what to do with this. The men's room is, unsurprisingly, green, and features a lot of pictures of Ye Olde pints of Guinness and toucans, for some reason. It is also, by some happy quirk of fate, empty, so Dean paces back and forth in front of the urinals, and does quite a lot of noisy swearing. And then he goes into one of the cubicles, unzips his flies and jerks off, clumsy and fast, and tries very hard to think about Angelina Jolie instead of Sam.

He nearly succeeds.

“Hey there! Look what I found – can you believe that these two beautiful ladies are here all alone?” Dean has an arm around each waist, a fresh shotglass in each hand and he's wearing his very best shit-eating grin as he meets Sam's eyes. “Keiko, Amanda, I want you to meet my little brother Sammy. Sam, this is Keiko and this is Amanda. They love tequila. Isn't that great?”

Sam's smile is wide, but it doesn't reach his eyes. “That's terrific,” he says, as Amanda, giggling, scoots around to sit next to him in the booth. Dean sets the shot glasses down in front of the tequila bottle, and pulls Keiko's chair out for her, all gentlemanly, before sliding into the chair opposite Sam.

“Hi!” Amanda says to Sam brightly, looking him up and down with an expression of unmistakable approval. Sam nods at her politely, but his eyes dart quickly back to Dean, and his expression is somewhere between rueful and amused. And maybe something else, a little darker.

“Sammy's been pining for some feminine company all night,” says Dean, wrapping his arm around Keiko's shoulders and giving her a squeeze that sends her into gales of giggles. “We both have. C'mon, Sam! Do the honours!” He waves at the tequila. Sam bites his lip, and then pours four more slugs of tequila.

“Salud!” says Dean, beaming.

Apparently, Dean's penis has decided that it has a lot of time to make up for. Or else it's been put back to its fifteen-year-old settings, or something, because tonight it's putting the Energizer Bunny to shame. It's like he has the erection that will not die. Either that or it's just determined not to be cheated out of getting actual sex with a real live person, now that it's back in the land of the living. Just as well he's managed to round up a couple of girls, really.

Reassuringly, Sam has finally gotten into the game and has been flirting with Amanda. Which surprises Dean, a little, because he hadn't been sure she was Sammy's type, but apparently he's decided to just go with it. Which is cool. Amanda's cute, and although she may not be a brainiac, she's kind of disarmingly sweet. She doesn't look much like Jessica, but she's blonde, albeit with very short hair, and curvy, and pretty tiny next to Sam. In fact she looks like Tinkerbell a hell of a lot more than Dean ever did. Obviously, Dean isn't jealous, because that would be dumb. Especially when he brought the girls over in the first place.

“It must be so exciting, being a Navy SEAL,” says Keiko, looking up at him adoringly with her huge brown eyes, and Dean beams.

“Well, yeah, it is a life of thrills and spills, action and adventure,” he admits, nodding modestly. “But unfortunately we can't tell you very much about it. National security, you know. Very hush hush. But basically, we're bona fide big damn heroes.” And that, Dean reflects with mild surprise, is almost entirely true. Just – without the uniforms, or the military hierarchy, and with more ectoplasm and grave dirt.

“Wow,” breathes Keiko.

“Hey, every man has to do his duty,” says Dean, with a self-depracating little shrug, and Sam kicks him under the table.

“C'mon, now, the girls don't want to be bored with stories about our day job,” says Sam, pointedly, although he's still smiling for the girls' benefit. And it's true enough that Dean can get a bit carried away with his fantastical stories sometimes – but, c'mon, Navy SEAL isn't so bad. It's not like he's claiming that they've run away from the circus, or that they're astronauts. This time. “What about a drinking game?”

That gets Dean's attention all right. “A drinking game?” says Dean, staring. “Who are you, and what have you done with the real Sam?”

“He's right here, Dean.” Sam's got this kind of dangerous curve to his mouth that makes Dean's stomach tighten nervously. “You like drinking games, don't you?”

“Well, hell yeah,” he says, conscious of Keiko's eyes on him.

“You ever done body shots?” asks Sam, looking right at him, and Dean's face goes very hot while the girls giggle. “But I guess this isn't quite the time or place. Maybe a little friendly game of truth or dare?”

Sam's still looking right at him.

“Sounds terrific,” says Dean, sticking his chin out and wondering what the hell kind of mess he's throwing himself into now.

Half an hour later they have established that both Amanda and Dean have participated in threesomes in the past, that Keiko is bisexual but loves to suck cock, that all of them except Amanda have had their hearts broken at some point, and that Sam has a hard-on. They have also watched Amanda and Keiko make out, and Dean dance the tango with one of the waitresses.

So Dean's got a fair idea of where the evening's headed, or at least he thinks he does. But he's still a little taken aback when Sam meets his eyes for a long, heated moment, and then turns to Amanda and says: “So, d'you want to come back to our room?” Because Sam hardly ever does this, and he's picky as hell, and Dean's been kind of expecting him to just flirt good naturedly and then leave Amanda high and dry, the way he mostly does. But okay. Looks like Dean's going to need to find another place to take the lovely Keiko. And then Sam looks over at Dean again, and his eyes dart to Keiko. “Keiko? You want to come back to our room?” And Keiko giggles, and blushes, and squeezes Dean's knee.

“What, all four of us? In the same motel room?” Dean knows he's gaping, but this is Sam, for the love of Mike. Sam doesn't do this kind of thing. Sam's a big fan of personal space.

“You getting prim all of a sudden, Dean?” asks Sam, and there's a challenging light in his eye that makes Dean sit up straighter.

“Hell no!”

“Good. Check, please?” Sam waves to the waitress, and Dean feels suddenly out of his depth. Which is ridiculous, right? Because he's unshockable. He's got a reputation here. But – this is weird, and kind of embarrassing. For several reasons. This is totally, totally not like Sam, and he does have a little instant of wondering if Sam's possessed, before remembering the tattoo. But – fuck. He's really not sure about this.

“So – body shots?” says Amanda hopefully, clasping the half-empty bottle of tequila, and Dean makes a choking noise.

As it turns out, they don't get around to the body shots.

Dean isn't quite sure how he ends up with two giggling, amorous girls in his arms, but within seconds of the door closing behind them he's got both Keiko and Amanda tugging at his clothes, and in very short order he's down to his socks and his boxer briefs, and then they're gone and he's flat on his back on the bed and all he's wearing is Keiko, while Amanda's busy shoving her tongue down his throat and twisting his nipples like she's trying to find her favourite radio station. Which is great, of course – he's not complaining, although he's a bit puzzled about how come he seems to have won both chicks. He's pretty sure it's not his birthday. There's a brief, bemusing period where Keiko is grinding down on him through her panties and Amanda is kissing him, and then Sam pulls Amanda away and Dean blinks up to see that Sam's watching him with this look on his face, like – like – God, Dean has no idea. But it's intense, and he shivers, and then Sam's handing him a condom, and Dean probably should be making with the wisecracks at this point but he's fresh out of them. And then he's got an armful of Keiko and she's kissing him, and Dean decides that maybe he's just going to close his eyes and pretend Sam isn't there. That's probably the best plan.

So he doesn't see Sam or Amanda getting undressed, and he doesn't see what Sam does to her to wring all those gasps and moans and groans and giggles out of her. But he can hear the mattress squeaking like crazy, and he can hear all these sex noises, and his memory is supplying explicit, technicolor details, and, frankly, it's a miracle that he hasn't come yet. (Although of course, he is heading for his third orgasm of the evening, so maybe that's not so miraculous after all.)

Keiko, as it turns out, gives a truly awesome blowjob. She really wasn't kidding. Dean just sprawls out gratefully and lets her do her thing, and reminds himself that this is who he is, and that having a penis is just awesome, thank you very much, and that he totally doesn't regret getting the damn curse fixed. He's biting his lip, and arching his back, and clenching his hands into fists at his side to keep from burying his hands in Keiko's hair, and all his troubles are floating away on a tide of pure, delicious sensation. Nothing to worry about. He's as straight as a ruler. He's all about the girls. Hell yeah.

“Oh, yeah, baby. Like that,” he says, encouragingly, because he has watched too many porn films. But he still doesn't reach down and touch her head, even though he kind of wants to. Her mouth is hot and wet and wickedly talented, her tongue darting slick and cat-quick over all the right places, and she's using her hand but she's also managing to take him in deep, impressively deep, and he's feeling hopeful that she might be able to take him all the way in, which – fuck, yeah. She's killing him here. This is fantastic. This is a truly great “Welcome Home” present for a person's long-lost penis, and no mistake.

But there's a tiny little corner of his brain that's wondering why he's resisting the impulse to slide his fingers into her hair, and after a while he realises, with a sensation like falling, that this is because her hair won't feel like Sam's hair. Because with his eyes closed, he can pretend – ah, shit. No.

He opens his eyes, because he shouldn't be thinking like that, and of course what he sees in front of him is Amanda with her knees up under her, her face pressed into the pillow and her pert little ass in the air, while Sam grips onto her hips and takes her from behind, hard. And Dean's caught, fascinated, can't look away from the way the lamplight plays over Sam's thighs and his chest, from the way the muscles move under his skin and the sheen of sweat that's gilding him. Because, Jesus, Sam's beautiful. Sam's ridiculously beautiful. And then he glances up guiltily at Sam's face and realises that Sam is looking right at him while he fucks Amanda. Dean's mouth falls open and he makes a helpless sort of gasp, and Sam doesn't look away. Keiko's doing her thing, her mouth on Dean's cock is hot and wet and amazing, and he should definitely be thinking about the girl who's wrapped around him at this moment, but instead his eyes are locked with Sam's, and he's shocked by the intimacy of it. It's like Sam's touching him. Sam isn't smiling, not exactly, and his hips are snapping away, and Amanda's still making these helpless little “uh-uh-uh” noises into the pillow while he moves, but all his attention is focussed on Dean. And then, very deliberately, Sam lets his gaze slide down over Dean's body, over his flat chest and his belly, and he watches Keiko's mouth moving over Dean's wet cock. Dean groans, and closes his eyes. When he opens them again Sam's looking right into Dean's eyes, and he licks his lips very deliberately before speeding up his thrusts, his face flushed and dark and almost agonised as his mouth silently shapes Dean's name.

And that, of course, is when Dean comes.

Chapter Text

In the IHoP next to the motel, over breakfast the next morning, Dean tries to be good to Keiko. He's feeling as skittish as a stray cat in an alley full of dogs, and he's acutely conscious of Sam – his hands, his legs, his hair, his mouth, the dimple that quivers when he smiles, the breadth of his shoulders, and just about every other facet of his Sammydom – but he's trying to concentrate on Keiko. Because she's sweet, and pretty, and she put out on the first – well, only – date. So a little polite flirtation over waffles the next morning is surely what Miss Manners would recommend, if Miss Manners ever tried to write a book of Winchester-appropriate dating advice. But it's difficult, because while Sam's barely glanced over at Dean the whole time they've been sitting in the IHoP, Dean's been unable to forget about last night for so much as a second, and he's tense as a coiled spring.

So while Sam's being all attentive to Amanda, murmuring in her ear and touching her arm and making her laugh, Dean's been sneaking slightly spooked sideways glances at Sam, and wishing that he could see inside the guy's head. And trying not to feel jealous of little Amanda, with mixed success. It makes him feel like a jerk, and as a result he's going out of his way to make it up to Keiko, to make her feel appreciated, and he doesn't think she notices any difference. He hopes to God she doesn't, anyway. She's a sweet kid, and a looker, with the shiny fall of shampoo-commercial perfect black hair and the full breasts and long legs, and, really, what the hell is up with him that he needs to remind himself to pay attention to her? What has happened to him? He keeps on smiling and nodding while she tells him about her brother's trip to Minnesota, and the time she fell off a horse, and he feels like a total dick because he's wondering how soon they can wave Keiko and Amanda off forever, even while he's kind of terrified of being alone with Sam, and having to maybe talk about things. Or – or not talk. God. He shivers, and then smiles at Keiko some more, and laughs in the right places as he spears pieces of bacon.

And then it's all he can do to keep from jumping out of his seat, because suddenly Sam's foot is sliding against Dean's ankle, rubbing against his calf, and the little bastard isn't even looking at him, damn it – he's grinning at some lame-ass jokes Amanda's trying to crack, and pretending that he's not playing footsie with Dean under the table.

Dean grabs his coffee cup and swallows another burning hot mouthful, and tries to keep his attention fixed on Keiko. And tries to ignore his stupid, predictably optimistic erection.

Dean lags behind with Keiko a little, as they walk the girls over to the pub parking lot where their car is still parked. Keiko's looking at him from under her eyelashes, and her makeup's all gone this morning, but she's just as pretty as she was last night. Maybe prettier, in fact, because without the makeup she looks more real, or something. Dean's kind of sorry he didn't meet her under other circumstances, and tries not to glance ahead and check out Sam's ass. Because, honestly, it's not like he hasn't seen Sam's ass before a million, million times, so it's ridiculous to go acting like it's suddenly new and exciting.

The car is a little red Japanese number, with stickers on the windows and a vanity plate with pink flying unicorns. It's Amanda's. Dean doesn't take to it one little bit, but that's okay because in a few moments it's going to be taking Amanda and Keiko off out of their lives forever, so it's all good. In a scary way. They pause next to the passenger door and Dean kisses Keiko on the cheek. She looks slightly surprised, and her eyes dart over towards Sam and Amanda, whose embrace is a lot less platonic. Dean clears his throat and then leans in to give her a proper kiss. She's soft and warm and firm and curvy in all the right places, and she plasters herself around him like a second skin. And it's nice, obviously, because, hey, hot girl! But it's not actually hitting the spot. It's not what he wants. It's not who he wants. Damn it.

“That's better,” she says afterwards, smiling. “Sheesh, I was starting to think maybe you didn't like me.”

And, wow, does Dean ever feel like a bastard. He gives her his most charming smile, the one he learned from Dad. “A beautiful girl like you? What am I, crazy? Honey, you know how I feel about you.”

She smirks down at his crotch. “Kind of difficult to miss,” she agrees, her eyes twinkling. “We could maybe stay a little longer? I hate to leave unfinished business...”

Dean manages to laugh. “I wish! But we've got to get going. A Navy SEAL's work is never done.” She pulls a face, and then tugs him down for another kiss. It's a great kiss, actually, and she is a great girl, and he feels like a heel when she hands him her number and he promises to call her and knows perfectly well he'll be tossing it in the trash as soon as he gets back to the room.

Amanda's already in the car. Dean opens the door for Keiko and shuts it behind her, watching her pull her seat belt into place and trying not to look at Sam. “Bye!” he says, grinning hugely and waving at the girls. “You take care, now!” And then they're gone, hitting the highway and driving out of the Winchesters' lives, and it's just Sam and Dean in a parking lot, with a mountain of sharp-edged and unspoken things towering between them. Dean meets Sam's eyes fleetingly, and gulps, and then starts purposefully back towards the motel. “They were nice,” he says, not looking at Sam.

Sam paces after him, and doesn't say anything, and that's disconcerting as hell. Dean swallows, and keeps on walking. His heart is beating too fast, adrenaline flooding his veins, and he knows his face is flushing incriminatingly hot and red, but he keeps on walking, fast, like he can somehow walk away from all the tension and confusion and the prickly sense of shame that this is something he wants so badly. He shouldn't want this. What would Dad say? Jesus. Or Bobby. And at the same time he's terrified of losing it – of admitting that, yes, he does want Sam still, like that, even without the curse or the unfamiliar hormones to blame it all on, and then when he's stuck his neck out and risked it all, seeing Sam look disgusted. Seeing Sam walk away again, and never come back.

Of course, if Sam were disgusted, he probably wouldn't be playing footsie under the table, or watching Dean get his cock sucked with every evidence of being completely turned on by the sight. But Dean still kind of wants to run away and hide.

Sam still hasn't said a damn thing, and he's looming at Dean's shoulder like Lurch while Dean scrabbles for the key card, and it's making Dean sweat. Key card. Key card. Where the hell...right, okay. He swipes it through the lock and pushes the brown paintwork forward. The room feels too small, and he blinks around at the magnolia walls and the rumpled blue sheets, and swallows hard. Jesus. He doesn't know how to do this. And Sam's just standing there watching him, with this odd look on his face – hungry, and possessive, but with a faint edge of something that it takes Dean a moment to recognise. Something a little bit like fear. Dean licks his lips, and realises that he's shaking. Fuck.

“I'm – I – I'm going to take a shower,” he says, and all but runs into the bathroom.

It's not exactly the best hiding place. It's not like there's a secret exit, and he's hardly going to scramble out of the window and jump into the Impala and drive off into the blue. He can't walk away from this. He needs to fix it, somehow. He leans against the blue and white tiles and rests his forehead against them for a while, cool and smooth and soothing, and tries to think straight. Ha. Think straight. That's kind of the problem. Oh, God. But a shower is a good idea – he's still not had a shower yet this morning, and he's been feeling kind of gross about having done nothing more than brush his teeth and splash water on his face. And of course, he could deal with the way his born-again dick is trying to fight its way out of his pants just now. Again.

So he's soapy, and naked, and has his dick in his hand when Sam opens the bathroom door, and Dean freezes in place and asks himself why he didn't lock it. The answer is kind of inescapable, unfortunately.

“Um, Sam?” he ventures, shakily and his dick jumps a little. “Can this wait?” His mouth is the only part of him that feels dry. Crap. He can see Sam through the frosted glass, a big dark shape just a couple of feet away. Within touching distance, if it wasn't for the glass. God. God.

“No,” says Sam, and his voice is low and husky and makes Dean shiver. “We need to talk.”

“Jesus, do you have to be such a fucking girl?” snaps Dean, desperately, glancing around the little shower cubicle as if a magical door is going to suddenly appear and help him escape from this conversation. “Can't we just not talk?” Because he doesn't need a naked heart-to-heart right now.

There's a little pause, and then Sam opens the shower door and looks right at him. “Okay,” he says, and Dean just about craps himself.

“I didn't mean – what the fucking – personal space, dude!” he stammers, clutching a facecloth hurriedly in front of his crotch in a rather ridiculous attempt to protect his modesty, and glaring ferociously at Sam. The intimidating effect of his glower is probably spoiled a little by the fact that he's covered in soap and holding a pink facecloth in front of his erection. Sam's mouth twitches slightly, but then his eyes are boring into Dean's and he isn't smiling at all.

“See, Dean, the thing is, we both know that you remember it all,” says Sam, evenly, and Dean swallows hard, and takes a little step back. The spray is soaking the front of Sam's shirt and his jeans, and dappling his skin with droplets like tiny diamonds, but he doesn't seem to give a damn. He's just looking at Dean like Dean's got the answer to the meaning of life inscribed onto his skin. “Don't you?”

“I...” says Dean, staring. “I don't know what you mean?”

“Oh, please. Just – don't. You pulled this shit before, Dean. You don't get to fool me twice.”

“Oh.” Dean wishes that his dick would at least take a hint and calm down a little, because the erection really isn't helping this conversation any. God, the way Sam's looking at him just takes his breath away. “Um,” he says, intelligently. He steps a little further back, and bumps into the tiles, and looks around desperately. Sam raises both hands, palm outwards, like he's trying to be reassuring, and his expression is both rueful and affectionate. More than affectionate. Tender.

“Dean, for someone who tells lies most every day, you kind of suck at it,” he says gently.

Dean gulps. “Oh,” he says again. And he feels a little bit indignant about that, kind of wants to point out that it's totally not the same thing. He can pull scams on other people, because other people don't really matter. They're not real the way Sam's real. And, yes, he's had secrets from Sam before, but mostly Sam hasn't been trying to catch him out, hasn't been laying traps for him, and he's been able to just wall it off – like Hell, oh, Jesus, like Hell – and pretend it never happened. But this is different, because this is all about Sam, and how he feels about Sam, with Sam right there the whole damn time. He doesn't know how to explain that. They're standing too close, and Dean feels hideously exposed – because, well, he is hideously exposed right now, but it's not just because he's not got any clothes on. And he's trying to think of some smart remark that will cut through the tension, because he honestly doesn't know how much of this he can take. It's all too raw, too much what he wants, what he never even realised that he wanted. What he's absolutely terrified of losing.

“I thought this would make it all simpler,” he says, meeting Sam's eyes for a moment and then looking away, and then looking back again despite himself. “I mean, I didn't think you'd – I – I figured it was my problem.” He gives a short, unhappy laugh. “Sam, I'm not a chick, and you're not a fag.”

Sam's face darkens. “Don't use that word,” he says shortly, and that does make Dean snort with laughter, because he's getting lectured on political correctness while standing naked in the shower with a raging erection.

“Fag fag fag fag fag,” says Dean, watching Sam's face. “Homo. Queer. Cocksucker.”

“You talk too much,” says Sam, his voice perilously close to a growl, and then he's stepping into the shower, shoes and jeans and all, water drenching him, cotton clinging to his skin, and he's gotten this intense, purposeful look on his face again, and, Jesus, he's right there, and big, and getting closer. Dean drops his stupid little facecloth and backs into the corner, lifting one hand as if that's going to keep Sam away, and he's panicking a bit, but also kind of thrilled, in an OhMyGodOhMyGodOhMyGod kind of way, his heart beating double time, his eyes huge, his dick hard and hot and eager up against his belly. And then Sam's hands are on him and he's crushing Dean back against the wall, water raining down on the pair of them while Sam's mouth closes over his, and then they're kissing like it's the most important thing in the world. And it's wonderful. Better than wonderful. Terrifying, and hotter than hell, and just – perfect. Jesus. Perfect. Even though it really really shouldn't be.

He can feel Sam's dick through the wet denim, and Sam's got one hand on his waist, his thumb brushing the tip of Dean's erection, and the other hand is holding Dean's head in place, framing his face while Sam's tongue explores his mouth all over again. Dean's trying to remind himself why this is a bad idea, but he's having some difficulty remembering how to speak English right now, and God, it all feels so impossibly good that he just has to give up and go with it, moaning as Sam's thumb sweeps around in an idle circle and brushes the skin of his quivering cock, trapped between them.

“Oh, God,” Dean gasps, when Sam finally breaks off from the kissing for a moment. He's shaking. “Oh, God. I don't – I can't – oh, God.”

Sam cocks his head and he's smiling, rivulets of water running down his face and his plaid shirt soaked almost black. “It's okay,” he says, licking his lips. “Dean, it's okay. We don't have to do this, if you really don't want to. But – I think you want to. And it's okay, I promise.” Dean stares up at Sam, feeling like he's on the brink of a precipice, feeling like the ground beneath him is made of the thinnest possible glass on the very brink of shattering. “I'm never going to leave you, Dean,” he says, softly, and Dean's heart clenches so tight it makes him gasp.

“Oh,” he says again, helplessly, and it's a hoarse little rasp of a syllable, but it makes Sam smile.

“And I have to tell you,: he adds, his eyes narrowing, “That in spite of last night, I don't share real well with the other kids.” His fingers close over Dean's erection and Dean's breath hisses out between his teeth – and this is the point where Dean really needs to move, really needs to speak up if he isn't on board with adopting a Jerry Springer lifestyle full time. But he's mesmerised, and his pulse is pounding in his ears, and he's got an erection the size of the Empire State Building and Sam's touching it. And he can't imagine anything better than this. And then Sam's kissing him again, very carefully, his tongue sliding soft and slick against Dean's lips, and Dean opens his mouth and closes his hand on Sam's waist and pulls him in closer.

“Oh, Jesus,” he gasps. “Yes. Please. Yes.” He can feel Sam's smile moving against him as they kiss, but his attention is mostly on what Sam's hand is doing to his dick right now. “Fuck, yes,” he says.

“Slut,” mutters Sam, kissing the corner of his mouth, and then Sam sinks to his knees in front of him, with the goddamn shower still pouring down on the pair of them, and takes Dean's erect cock into his mouth. Apparently Sam's really not under any illusions about Dean still being a girl.

”Fuck!" Dean exclaims, eyes bulging, and he stuffs his knuckles into his mouth as Sam's warm, wet tongue slides over his skin, darting over the underside of his cock and then circling the crown. Dean makes muffled, helpless noises into his clenched fist as Sam sucks him – and it's a little clumsy, a little rough and experimental, with a disconcerting scrape of teeth and maybe not enough saliva, but, fucking Hell, it is also without doubt the very best blow job Dean has ever had in his life. Because it's Sam. Because he's looking down, incredulous and breathless and unspeakably turned on, at his own cock sliding in and out of Sam's stretched mouth, at Sam's eyes looking up into his through clumpy eyelashes and dark, wet bangs, and he's clutching helplessly at the tiles and having some difficulty standing upright, because, oh my fucking God, Sam is sucking his cock, and one soap-slippery finger is sliding up the crack of Dean's ass and then – fuck! - insinuating its way inside.

“Oh, Jesus, Sam,” he groans, almost sobbing, feeling himself come apart at the seams, feeling all his careful walls coming tumbling down. Sam's mouth is hot and wet and sinful, and his finger is busy exploring parts of Dean that haven't been explored for quite some time, and when he finds that sweet spot and hits it just right Dean thinks he's going to die then and there. The way he jumps, and the guttural noise he makes evidently clue Sam in, because soon he's setting up a rhythm between the wet suction of his mouth and the darting movement of his hand, and Dean's head bangs back against the tiles and he drops both hands to Sam's head, burying his fingers in Sam's hair and holding on for dear life. “I love you. I love you so much. Fuck!”

And then he tries to pull away, tries to give Sam some warning, but Sam's big hand is gripping his waist and Sam's mouth is staying right the hell there while his finger keeps on working inside Dean, slamming against Dean's prostate, and the last shreds of Dean's shame and his self-control and his doubts and everything are fluttering away like leaves, like feathers, and he's losing himself, coming, coming, lost in the surge of pure, mind-wrecking pleasure, and Sam's holding on tight and swallowing it all down, every drop, and watching Dean darkly through his eyelashes all the while.

Chapter Text

Afterwards, Dean's knees are trembling and his brain has been reduced to one long string of dazed exclamation marks, and when Sam stands up – and up - and kisses him, hard, with a mouth that tastes bitterly of sex and soap, Dean kisses him back for all he's worth, trying to say with the kiss what he can't express in words. Love, and gratitude, and guilt, and fear, and startled sensual delight. The kiss goes on for a while, Sam's mouth hot and urgent against his, and Sam's hands are skating over his skin, touching him everywhere with fast, darting movements, gripping his arms and then his pectorals, clasping his waist and then sliding around to clutch at his buttocks.

“Can I?” Sam asks, his voice rough in Dean's ear as the fingertips of one hand curve under Dean's ass.

“Yes,” says Dean, without even pausing to ask what Sam's talking about. It doesn't matter. The answer's still going to be yes, whatever it is.

A few seconds later, when Sam's middle finger slides a little lower and then pushes just a little way inside him, Dean lets out a little hiss and puts two and two together. Oh. But the answer's still yes.

They finally switch off the water, and after some uncomfortable and slippery wriggling and unbuttoning and tugging and squelching, they divest Sam of his soggy clothes and leave them in a spreading puddle on the bathroom floor. The thin, mushroom-coloured carpet is prickly against the soles of Dean's feet and he's shivering a little now that he's stepped out from under the stream of hot water. Steam billows gently out of the bathroom door behind them, and although they paused long enough to make a half-assed attempt at toweling themselves dry, glinting rivulets of water are still sliding down Sam's neck and shoulders from the sleek, dark mess of his slick, wet hair. Dean stumbles a little, looking Sam up and down and up again; he's really very naked, and really very big, and Dean feels kind of self-conscious about his own musculature. Sure, he's fit as a fiddle, but Sam's so annoyingly buff and well-defined that it makes Dean stand up straighter and suck in his flat belly and stick out his chest. Not that it's a competition, of course. Not really. Still...

He bumps into one of the beds and sits down very hard, and Sam stalks towards him all lithe and naked and ridiculously perfect, like some statue in a museum brought to life (like that girl in the Greek myth that that sculptor made, what was his name? Pig something? The one he fell in love with?), with his dick hard and rosy and daunting, and this purposeful light in his eyes that makes Dean swallow hard and clutch convulsively at the covers.

“Um,” he says, looking again at Sam's erection and trying not to freak out. He's done this before, after all. He knows the drill. Knows he probably won't like it much, but that doesn't matter. It's not going to be a patch on Hell, after all, even if it hurts, and it's going to make Sam feel good, and that's all that matters. He can do this. It's fine.

And then Sam's on top of him, pushing him back onto the bed and making the air whuff out of his lungs, straddling his waist and hunkering down to kiss him wild and fierce and urgent, biting his bottom lip and sucking on his tongue like it's his cock all over again, and Dean gives a helpless little moan and gets with the program. It's still weirdly shocking to be in his own flesh, to be a girl-parts-free-zone, and still wedged up skin-to-skin with Sam. To have Sam's mouth on his. To have Sam's erect cock sliding hot and damp against his belly. Dean isn't under any illusions about all this being okay – he knows it's fucked up, wildly fucked up, and not even any curse to blame it on now, and he knows that it can't be exactly healthy to be enjoying it so much. But – it does feel good. And not just physically. And they both want this. And the thing is – Dean isn't going to get to have anything normal. He might have kind of hoped for it for a while, but he's given up on that particular illusion. He isn't going to have a future of waking up next to the same girl every morning – waking up with Cassie or Lisa or red-headed Suzy dreaming on his chest, in a tidy little house with a white picket fence guarding a patch of immaculate green. A kid's bike out front, or a swing set. Flowers. Maybe a dog. Home cooking, and an honest job, and neighbours who know his name. Dean knows he can't ever have that, so he hasn't let himself want it for a long while. The best he thought he could hope for was a long line of blisteringly hot one-night stands, snuggling up to interchangeable honeys who didn't know his real name, or what was on his favourite mix tape, or how he got his scars, or what nightmares made him wake up wide-eyed and trembling in the dark. He figured he could just enjoy what there was to enjoy, and move on in the morning with a glib smile and some lies about calling. It's not so bad, really. Plenty of guys would imagine he was living the dream.

But this – damn. This is making him see what he's been missing. This is forcing him to face the reality that a person can subsist on a diet of twinkies and potato chips, but it's not really living. It's just surviving. And there's a world of difference between a one-night stand with some disposable hottie, and fucking someone you love, and who loves you right back. Who gets you, really and truly gets you, warts and all, weaknesses and all, and loves you anyway. That – Jesus, that's just blowing Dean's mind. And scaring the crap out of him.

Sam's fingers are lacing with his, and his thighs are wrapping tight around one of Dean's legs, and he's grinding up against Dean while they kiss, making these urgent little growly noises into Dean's mouth, and, God, Dean might never stop looking astonished. He's never imagined this – not until very recently, at least. Because – duh. Sam is just – Sam. It's never crossed his mind to think he could be anything else. It still astounds him to realise how well they fit together, how unaccountably right this feels – because everything has always been all about Sammy, for Dean. But it would never in a million years have crossed his mind to think about wanting this until it happened, until he started to feel Sam's eyes burning into him, back when he was still under the damn curse; until he started to realise that Sam wanted it. And he's never been able to say no to Sam. But what scares him is how quickly he's come to want this for himself. He just can't help the incredulous and terrifying sense of joy that's bubbling up inside him at being wanted so much by the most important person in his world. By the one person he's scared of losing. It's exhilarating. It's like Christmas and Easter and all his birthdays rolled together – but it scares the hell out of him, because if it gets taken away from him now, if he screws this up, somehow – that's it. That's all she wrote. It's his whole life at stake here.

So he lets Sam roll him over onto his belly and presses his face into the pillow just like pretty little Amanda did, and he tries to relax when he feels Sam's hands sliding down over him, but he's tensing up in spite of his best efforts. He loves Sam, and he 's loving the way Sam touches him, but he knows this bit isn't going to be fun. Sam swings one long leg over Dean and sits on his waist, pressing kisses into the nape of his neck and kneading his shoulders, and Dean feels his own muscles clenching and his belly going tight. He's trying not to remember the other times, with other guys a lifetime ago, and telling himself that it's Sam, and that he has to make it good for Sam, and that if he fucks this up, if he's not good enough, if he makes Sam regret choosing him – oh, God. He couldn't stand that. So he needs to make it good for Sam, and this is what Sam wants. End of story. Breathe. He just needs to breathe.

“Jesus, Dean – relax.” Sam's voice is still pitched low and smoky, rough-edged with desire, but there's something else there too. A note of uncertainty. Concern. And that cuts Dean to the quick. God. He loves Sam so much. He can totally do this.

“It's fine,” says Dean hurriedly, and tries to relax. “Sorry. It's fine. Go ahead. I'm good.”

“Oh, fuck that,” says Sam, and leans up and around to kiss Dean's mouth awkwardly over his shoulder. “Don't you trust me?” he asks a little later, sounding hurt. And there are several answers Dean could make to that, because Sam's the one who chose to go hang out with Ruby-who-was-Meg, Sam's the one who kept lying about his late night adventures in demon slaying. But he doesn't say any of that, because it's pointless. Because of course he trusts Sam, with everything. With this. With his life. With the fate of the world.

“Of course I do,” he says gruffly, and Sam smiles.

“Good. So trust me, jackass. And lie still.”

Sam hops off the bed, strides across the room and scrabbles in the side pocket of his bag. Dean watches him, kind of bemused at how graceful Sam manages to make even this look – honestly, Sam naked is like some entirely different animal. Sam plucks a small bottle of something-or-other out of the pocket and then pauses, taking in the sight of Dean sprawling belly-down on the bed like some kind of offering and peering wide-eyed over his shoulder, and licks his lips. Sam's smile, when he meets Dean's eyes, is positively wolfish. He crosses the room again in two quick strides, unscrewing the lid of the little bottle, and then he's straddling Dean's waist again, his erection sliding against Dean's skin.

Oil, Dean realises a moment later, feeling stupid. Massage oil. It smells like vanilla and oranges, like a creamsicle. And how long has Sam been carrying massage oil around?

“Where did you get that?” he asks, as Sam pours the stuff liberally over his skin and starts to smooth it down his spine.

Sam kisses the back of his ear. “Not telling,” he says, with a smile in his voice.

“When did you get that?”

“Again – not telling. But I thought maybe I might have to get sneaky to make you 'fess up.” He starts rubbing circles into Dean's skin with his thumbs, and, Jesus, it's every bit as good as Dean remembers. Holy crap. Ngah. “I was pretty sure you were lying,” Sam adds, pressing down hard. “But I thought I could, ah, motivate you to tell me the truth.”

“Guh,” says Dean into the pillow, as the knots in his shoulders begin to loosen. It crosses his mind that the band aids on his various zombie bites and scratches are going to need changing again – if any of them have survived sex with Keiko, and then this morning's shower, they sure as hell aren't going to be in great shape after all of this – and then he dismisses the thought as spectacularly irrelevant. Although of course he can still feel Sam's erection sliding against him, rubbing up against the crack of his ass, growing slippery as Sam pours more oil over Dean's skin, and that should be making him tense up all over again, but - Jesus, Sam's good at this. And Dean's gasping in spite of himself, and making helpless, guttural noises into the pillow just like little Amanda did the night before, but he doesn't care any more, because this feels great. Just great. “Don't stop,” he says, with heartfelt sincerity. “God, Sam – this - uh! - feels – awesome. Fuck! Yeah!”

This time, though, Sam doesn't stop at his waist. This time Sam keeps on sliding down over his thighs, and his hard fingers keep on kneading at Dean's ass, and at his inner thighs, and Dean can feel his own dick starting to twitch sluggishly underneath him. Fuck. Sam keeps pressing greasy kisses onto his spine and his hips, his tongue darting out and swiping new patterns onto Dean's skin, and Dean's shivering, and then Sam's finger starts, almost casually, to circle his ass hole, and he drizzles more oil down onto Dean's skin and smears it over Dean's buttocks and his inner thighs. It trickles slow and warm down onto Dean's balls. Only a little later, Sam's long index finger slides inside smooth and slick and effortless, and Dean draws a deep breath, and then bites his lip when Sam pushes in deeper and taps his prostate. “Fuck!” he exclaims, and feels Sam shake against him with stifled laughter. Right. This part, he likes. Okay.

Sam's free hand is sliding over him, squeezing and kneading and gentling him while he slides a second finger inside. And that's – yeah, okay, that hurts, a bit, but only a bit. On a scale of 1-10, where 1 represents perfect comfort and 10 represents alone time with Alastair, this is barely a 1.5. It occurs to Dean, a little belatedly, that although he remembers this as something that hurts a lot, his perspective on pain has changed considerably since he was a teenager. (And of course, it helps that Sam's bothering with lube, and taking time to try to relax him. In retrospect, the few times he did this in his teens probably weren't the best examples of gay sex. Successful ways of keeping a roof over their heads and paying Dad's hospital bills, yes. But good sex – maybe not so much.)

Dean concentrates on his breathing while Sam stretches him gently with slippery fingers. This isn't so bad. It's a bit awkward, and vaguely embarrassing, but it's not so bad. Even with the third finger, which – umf – okay, takes a little getting used to, it's still not really painful. Not the way he's come to think of pain – as something bright and sharp and terrible: torn viscera looping tight around a throat; screams bubbling bloody past the severed stub of a tongue; weight supported on shattered limbs, with white spears of bone poking out through skin. That's pain. Dean knows about pain. This is nothing. This is pleasant, and here he'd been dreading it and making it into something it wasn't. It's just sex. With someone he – with the person he - with Sam. With his Sam.

And so when Sam finally withdraws his fingers, and pours a little more oil over Dean's skin, and then slides his erection up against Dean's ass, Dean's stopped freaking out. He's good to go.

“Dean?” It sort of slays Dean to hear that tentative note in Sam's voice, when he knows how turned on Sam is right now, and can only imagine how frustrated he must be.

“C'mon, Sam,” he says, with a smile in his voice. “Jesus, how long are you going to keep a guy waiting? I didn't have you down as a tease.”

There is a startled pause, and then Sam thwaps him over the head. “Smart-ass.” He slides back, and starts tucking Dean's knees up under him, and Dean co-operates, and tries not to think about how very dumb he must look with his ass sticking up in the air all shiny with massage oil.

“Oh, my ass is smart and fine,” he says instead, cocky as hell and twice as annoying. “And nine out of ten zombies assure me that it's also a yummy treat.” Sam makes a choking noise, and thwaps him over the head again, and whilst Dean's still sniggering to himself Sam kneels up behind him, slides his cock against the curve of Dean's ass and then pushes inside maybe harder than he'd been intending. “Fuck!” gasps Dean, but this time Sam doesn't ask if he's okay. This time Sam keeps right on pushing, his hands gripping Dean's slippery hips as he grinds up into him hard and fast and unapologetic.

“You - still - talk – too – much,” says Sam, punctuating each word with a thrust, and Dean doesn't have any smart-ass comments left, because each thrust is sending jolts of startled pleasure through him as Sam hits his prostate just right, God, and Dean's wondering how he's gone through so many years without trying this. He's half-way to being hard again himself already as Sam thrusts in and out and in again, rhythm building and hips punching forward and back viciously quick, leaving Dean in absolutely no doubt who's calling the shots. And Dean's good with that. Surprisingly, maybe, after years and years of bossing Sam around. But – yeah. God. He's really – really – good with that. Moaning-inchoate-syllables-into-the-pillow good. Reaching-down-and-clumsily-jerking-off good. Clenching-fingers-in-the-sheets-tight-enough-to-tear-them good.

“Oh, God, Sam!” he exclaims eventually, the words torn out of him, shattered with pleasure, his fingers clutching slippery at his cock.

“You're mine, Dean,” says Sam, leaning down over him, belly flush with his spine, almost growling into his ear. “Nobody else's. No matter what. Mine. Always.”

“Yes,” agrees Dean, from the bottom of his heart, turning and looking over his shoulder and catching a glimpse of Sam's face. “Fuck, yes. Love you.”

Sam comes not long after that, and stays there for a long moment, wrapped around Dean, his face pressed into the nape of Dean's neck. He eases gradually and rather gingerly back out and off, pressing small, biting kisses into the skin on Dean's back in the process, and Dean wriggles around to lie on his back, looking up at Sam's flushed face and smiling the brightest, sunniest smile he has, his heart in his eyes. And then Sam swoops down on him, and Sam's kissing him again, and reaching down to take hold of Dean's erection and bringing him off quickly and efficiently, kissing him all the while. And it's great. It's better than great. It's Sam.

Some hours later, with the mid-morning sun pouring in through the thin net curtains, Dean wakes up out of a pleasant dream of being held close by someone he loves, to find that he is, in fact, being held close by someone he loves. Although he also aches quite a lot in a number of interesting places, and seems to have a slippery, orange-scented band aid squashed into his cheek. But still. He's had plenty of less pleasant ways of waking up. He snuggles back a little, and Sam's arms tighten around his waist, and Sam makes a sleepy noise against his skin, and Dean can't stop grinning.

“He loves you,” says Castiel, conversationally, and Dean just about jumps right out of his skin.

“Dude!” he hisses hoarsely, when his darting eyes spot Castiel leaning against the wall. “Personal space! Personal fucking space!”

Castiel, who has been looking at a rather ugly painting of what appears to be a pirate ship in the middle of a storm, turns around and meets Dean's gaze. He glances at Sam and then looks back at Dean. “You need to keep him on the right path,” Castiel says gravely, as though he isn't looking at two naked men wrapped around each other in bed. Two naked siblings, at that.

Dean blinks, and swallows. “Go away?” he tries, after a moment. “Please go away?”

Rather than going away, Castiel sits down on the other bed, and surveys Dean thoughtfully. “This isn't really what I was expecting, I have to admit. It's a little – unorthodox.” He glances up at the ceiling, although Dean rather suspects that he's actually thinking of something rather higher. “Mysterious ways.” He shrugs. “The most important thing is that you can be a good influence, Dean. He will do anything to keep you safe. We just have to make sure that this includes keeping him human. And averting the apocalypse.”

“Okay, good, fine, human, check – now could you maybe, you know, shoo?”

Castiel frowns. “Are you ashamed?” he asks, after a moment, looking honestly puzzled.

“No!” snaps Dean, wondering how the hell Sam is sleeping through this fascinating discussion, and suspecting Castiel might be playing a part in that. Is he ashamed? Well, yeah, actually, to be honest. Because he's pretty sure this isn't what Dad had in mind when he said: 'Take care of Sammy.' And that makes him wince. “Maybe. Kind of.”

“God is love,” says Castiel, earnestly.

Dean considers this. “Um. Okay, since apparently we're having this phenomenally awkward conversation – you realise that we're definitely talking about lust too, right? This isn't just love. It's, y'know - love.”

“Physical desire.” Castiel nods, looking a little abstracted. “Yes. Thus the nakedness.”

Dean closes his eyes and draws a deep breath, and counts to ten. When he opens his eyes, Castiel is still sitting there, looking at him quizzically. “Thus the nakedness,” agrees Dean helplessly. “Really, if you're not going to smite us, and if you didn't come to tell us about a seal or something – could you maybe go sit on a cloud, or something? Please? I'm really not enjoying this little chat.”

Castiel leans forward. “We don't actually sit on clouds,” he says helpfully. “But this was my purpose in coming – to tell you that this is how you can help stave off the end of days. You must keep him righteous. You must help him restrain his impulses.”

Dean swallows, and feels a sudden spike of fear. End of the freaking world, people. Time to get your head in the game, Dean. “Not – not really doing a great job of helping him restrain his impulses, actually. Um.”

“Oh, not this,” says Castiel, waving a hand vaguely at the bed. “No, this is good. This is distracting him. It's giving him a way to channel his, ah, impulses. You may have noticed that he is becoming more prideful, more domineering – Ruby was trying to shape him into a fitting vessel for Lucifer, and my brother's besetting sin was ever pride. But this is good. He loves you, and you can keep him honest. Do more of this. Keep him busy.”

Dean just stares. “God – you're saying God is on board with this? I've got official orders from God to get naked with my brother? Seriously? What the fuck?”

Castiel just looks at him. “Dean, have you heard of Lot? And his daughters?”

Dean vaguely recalls something about angels, and a pillar of salt, but bible study isn't his best thing. “Um,” he says.

“Look it up,” says Castiel, glancing at the bible on the bedside table. “I do not think you need to fear the wrath of God for this.”

“Okay,” says Dean. “Well. That's good.”

Castiel nods, and stands up. “Be careful,” he says. “We're counting on you.”

Then he's gone, as if he were never there. “Oookay,” murmurs Dean, his pulse racing. “Okay. Right. Cool. No pressure.”

“Dean?” And that's Sam, his breath puffing softly against Dean's neck. “Who you talking to?”

“Nobody.” Dean wriggles around in Sam's arms and can't help smiling at the sight of Sam with heavy-lidded eyes and rumpled bedhead. He still thinks the angels are wrong about Sammy, but he's going to be right here making damn sure of it. No way Sam Winchester is going to become a vessel for Lucifer on Dean's watch. Hell no. “Kiss me,” he says.

And Sam does.