Inside Out Man, Sam/Dean (1/4)
Jun. 12th, 2015 12:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
runedgirlFic title: Inside Out Man, Part 1/4
Author name:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
runedgirl
Artist name:sarahtoga
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC17
Word count: 26,600
Warnings: genderswap cursed Dean, Sam/girl!Dean, mentions of self harm
Summary: Dean turns up at Stanford cursed by a witch, his body turned female. As Dean struggles to cope with the change, the attraction Sam has always hidden for his brother and the fantasy of having him may just come true. But at what cost?
A/N: Thanks to my wonderful collaborator,sarahtoga, whose incredible art brings this story to life, and to my awesome beta, without_me, who made the whole story better. And thanks as always to the mods for the great time that is ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spn_j2_bigbang!
Link to art: Art Master Post
“I mean it, boys. Don’t slack off on your training or I’ll know it when I come back!”
The front door slammed, a whoosh of humid summer air blown back into the small motel room. Sam flopped on the bed with a sigh.
“I thought he’d never go,” he muttered, half to himself. He couldn’t always predict his brother’s reaction to Dad’s solo hunts; sometimes Dean spent days sulking and grumbling about being “fucking old enough to hunt anything,” and other times he seemed as grateful as Sam to have some time away from the man who could be as much drill sergeant as father.
Sam glanced at the other bed, where Dean was still sitting looking at the door. Sam wanted to say, Come on, let’s take advantage, let’s check out the ridiculously tiny hole in the ground that passes for a swimming pool at this fleabag, or let’s drive into town and see what movie’s playing, or even let’s make a beer run and grab some popcorn and just hang out. Like we used to. Instead he stayed quiet. It was better to let Dean make up his own mind about how to feel; he didn’t like to be pushed, especially when it was Sam doing the pushing.
Finally Dean sighed, too, and kicked his still-unlaced boots off. He fell back on the other bed and scooted backwards until his head was on the pillow. Sam breathed out and did the same, relief making him almost giddy.
“Fuck you, too, Dad,” Dean said, and Sam couldn’t hold back the smile. It wasn’t often that he and Dean were on the same page anymore, and he was going to relish it when he got it.
“Wanna drive into town later?” he asked casually, trying for ohmygod-I’m-so-bored-what-can-we-do instead of please-want-to-do-something-with-me desperate. Dad had taken the pickup, which was one point in Sam’s favor; Dean rarely passed up a chance to drive the Impala.
Dean scratched absently at his stomach, pushing his tee shirt up and raking his fingers through the sparse hair at his navel.
“’s fucking hot in here,” he said, kicking his legs out straight and stretching like a big cat in the sun. “Just wanna lie here and not move. Fuckin’ worthless air conditioning.”
Sam grinned, content with the prospect of spending the day with his brother, even if they were trapped in a crappy, overheated motel room. Six more weeks of opportunity for days like this; the bus ticket was already in his wallet. Sam had wondered a million times if telling Dean he was leaving would make Dean want to spend every waking moment with him, or push him away immediately and get it over with. His instincts told him the latter, so he’d kept his plans to himself. Selfish, maybe, but Sam had come to terms with that years ago. He was selfish when it came to Dean’s attention; always had been. It was the brightest, most important thing he’d ever had, and Sam was going to drink every drop of it. Right up until he took the leap and went cold turkey and hoped he’d survive.
Dean sat up and stripped out of his already-damp tee shirt, tossing it across the room where it snagged on the back of the desk chair.
Sam giggled.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re easily amused?” Dean asked, but Sam could hear the smile without even looking.
“Survival skill in this family.”
Dean snorted. “Smartass,” he said, but his voice was fond. He ran a hand over his chest, through the dip where the sweat beaded, and his nipples pebbled.
Sam could feel his own tingle and stiffen; he thought sometimes he was wired to Dean in a way most people wouldn’t understand. Like that empath on the old Star Trek episode who could feel other people’s pain. Maybe other people’s pleasure, too. But it wasn’t everyone; it was just Dean.
Sam looked down to see if Dean’s dick was stirring like his own; hard to see in tight jeans, but Sam was an expert when it came to every part of Dean. He counted the seconds until Dean would notice and do something to distract himself. Ten, nine, eight, seven…
Dean sat up abruptly, swinging his legs off the side of the bed.
“I need to pick up some supplies in town anyway; maybe we can catch an early movie. At least they’ll have A/C that works.”
Sam let the smile that wanted to spread across his entire face have free rein; watched Dean fight back an answering grin. “That’d be great.”
“Like I said, kid, you’re easy.”
Yes, he was, Sam thought. At least when it came to his brother.
They drove with the Impala’s windows wide open, bouncing over the poorly paved roads and laughing when the wind whipped Sam’s hair around and Dean called him an overgrown sheepdog puppy. It was one target of Dean’s teasing that Sam didn’t mind; more than once, when Sam was sick with the flu or food poisoning or being slashed by a swamp creature, he’d fallen asleep to the movement of Dean’s fingers in his hair, sliding through the strands and pulling gently at his scalp until Sam slipped under. Sometimes, when Dean thought Sam was already asleep, he would tuck an errant strand behind Sam’s ear, murmuring under his breath about Sam being a girl with a fondness that made Sam warm all over.
They caught a double feature in a theater that was so cold Sam was shivering by the time Godzilla prevailed, his teeth nearly chattering every time he took a sip of root beer. Sam leaned his shoulder against his brother’s, and Dean didn’t move away.
Dean pulled a grocery list out of his pocket on the way back and they hit the Grab N Go Market. Sam wondered how many other older brothers were as likely to pull out a .45 as a grocery list or as were as knowledgeable about the most economical dish soap as about the best way to kill a wendigo. Dean had taken care of them as long as Sam could remember.
“Why do you get that one?”
Dean raised his eyebrows. “Since when do you care about dish soap, Sammy?”
Since I’m going to have to buy it myself soon, Sam thought, and averted his eyes. “I don’t, I’m just curious. You always get that one, that’s all.”
“Very observant. We’ll make a hunter outta you yet.”
No, Sam thought, you won’t. His stomach swooped at the secretiveness of that, the certainty. Then his throat went tight with guilt. Dean won’t like it. Dean wants you to be a hunter, wants you to be like him.
“Earth to Sam.” Dean’s fingers were right in front of his face, snapping obnoxiously. “You with me?”
“Oh, yeah, sorry. Guess I wasn’t as interested in dish soap as I thought.”
Dean paused to look at him, and Sam flushed under the intensity of his brother’s gaze. Dean knows, he thought suddenly, the hairs on his arms rising in goosebumps. He knows me too well.
“Yeah, didn’t think so,” Dean said finally. “Anyway, you don’t have to worry about that shit; I’ll take care of it. Just wash ’em when I tell you to.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Sam said, stifling a sigh of relief. “Slave driver.”
Dean cuffed him affectionately on the back of the head. “Yup, that’s me. Somebody’s gotta keep you in line, little brother.”
The part of Sam’s heart that didn’t want to go ached at that. The part that wished Dean would make him change his mind, make him stay. The part that wished Dean would say, “If you’re going, I’m coming with you,” and sit on the Greyhound beside him, the two of them leaving the life behind and starting a new one.
“Sam!”
“Coming, coming, Jesus,” he complained, and started after his brother.
Thoughts of leaving kept Sam awake that night, even more than the oppressive heat. He usually fell asleep before Dean; it had always been that way. Dean stayed awake to be sure Sam slept, and then Sam didn’t worry so much about the nightmares.
At first he thought it was the struggling air conditioner making the gasping sounds, the last breaths of a failing piece of machinery. Then he heard the soft rustle of the bed sheets and turned his head, slowly enough that there would be no sound. His own breath caught when he realized there was enough dim light for him to barely make out his brother on the other bed, a silhouette in the darkness. The drawn curtains of the window behind Sam had a small gap, and the light from the parking lot came through in a thin slice that fell across Dean’s bare stomach.
Sam learned about jerking off from Dean. Long before he felt any urge to touch himself, he watched when he could, trying to figure out how Dean did it, what it should look like, how long it took. He’d lie completely still, squinting his eyes just enough to see through, straining his ears to hear every muffled groan Dean couldn’t quite hold back. As he got older it got hard to lie still and not touch himself, but he didn’t dare risk being discovered and having Dean stop. He’d wait, heart pounding and cock throbbing, until Dean went still and trembled through his orgasm, then sighed with satisfaction and rolled over to go to sleep. Sam would count to 200 and then jam his hand down his shorts; it was usually over in seconds.
That night, the noise of the air conditioner made Sam brave. He slid his hand down his stomach, over the bulge of his dick in his shorts. God, he was so hard already, the cotton damp where he was leaking. In the sliver of light Sam could see the muscles in Dean’s forearm working as he moved his hand up and down, working himself slowly. Dean liked it that way when he could take his time. Liked to tease himself, draw things out. Sam knew a lot about Dean that he thought he probably shouldn’t.
Sam reached down to cup his own balls, liking the weight of them. Across the room, Dean’s hand snaked lower, too, like Sam knew it would. There was a barely audible, bitten-off moan when Dean reached between his legs and rolled his balls, splaying one leg wider. The sheets were kicked off, the pale skin of Dean’s spread thighs visible in the darkness.
Sam made himself wait, too, though he didn’t want to. He didn’t have Dean’s love of being teased, but this was a game now, a contest. It wasn’t Dean touching him, but Sam moved his hands the way Dean did, so they would feel the same thing. Maybe you shouldn’t, he thought fleetingly; maybe this is too weird. But then Dean slid his fingers down farther and rubbed over his hole and Sam couldn’t think anything anymore, could only try not to lose it as he did the same. It wasn’t something Dean often did, and not part of Sam’s repertoire, either, but fuck if that didn’t make it all the hotter.
Dean’s other hand roamed his belly and over his chest, stopping to pluck at what Sam was sure was a peaked nipple. His breathing was louder now, easily heard over the clunking mechanical sounds of the air conditioner.
God, Sam wasn’t sure how long he could stand it. Dean moved easily, languidly, the muscles in his arm flexing as he poked and prodded at himself, and Sam thought about what he was doing, what it might feel like, what it might look like. He was shaking with the effort of holding himself back, his cock leaking a little pool of slick in his belly button, he was so turned on. Sam closed his eyes, concentrating on not coming, the tip of his finger pushing in and out, and God, it felt so good.
When he opened his eyes again, Dean was staring at him.
Sam froze, caught out and mortified, his finger still buried in his own ass. Dean’s mouth was open; in the dim light, Sam could see the pale white of his teeth. Dean was as still as a rabbit in the eye of a predator, but the change in his position had let the sliver of light fall across his still-very-erect cock. Sam’s eyes darted from that to his brother’s face, half terrified and half on the verge of orgasm.
Dean swallowed so hard Sam could hear it, and then, very slowly, he moved his hand up over his balls and wrapped his fingers around his dick. Sam mirrored the movement with trembling fingers, holding himself the way Dean did, lifting his cock so it was straight up just like his brother’s. Dean drew in a harsh breath at that and slid his hand slowly up the shaft, up over the head. Sam did the same, exactly the same, right down to the twist he knew Dean liked, and when Dean groaned and slammed his fist down to the base, Sam was ready, right there with him.
“Oh, fuck, Sam,” Dean bit out, and then all his teasing went out the window. He fisted himself roughly, lifting his hips to thrust into his grip, uncaring about the way the bed springs were squeaking in protest. Sam did the same, up and over and down in the same speed and the same rhythm, until the beds were rocking in time and they were both gasping. Sam counted it down, predicting how many strokes Dean was from coming, holding himself off until he heard the telltale pause, and then he let himself go, too. Droplets streaked across Dean’s belly where the light hit, glistening white caught in the fine hairs there, and Sam’s cock pulsed weakly again at the sight.
“Shit, damn,” Dean swore as he wiped his hand over his wet stomach.
Sam stayed quiet, his heart slamming in his chest. This was uncharted territory. Maybe he would need that bus ticket sooner than he’d thought.
“Well, that was fun,” Dean said, his voice gravelly, sleepy already.
“Yeah,” Sam answered, because he didn’t want there to be any doubt. “Now maybe I can sleep,” he added, because that would be a distraction in case there was any residual weirdness.
“You havin’ trouble sleeping?” Dean asked, sounding more awake. Big-brother concern kicking in.
“Nah, not really. Just, you know, the heat.”
Dean wiped at his belly with what Sam assumed were his shorts and tossed them on the floor, rolling over to burrow into the mattress. “Damn straight. Fucking useless air conditioner. Think you can sleep now that you’ve creamed your brains out?”
“Gross, Dean.” If Sam was grinning, Dean didn’t have to know. “But yeah, I think so.”
“Win-win,” Dean said, muffled against the pillow.
Six weeks, Sam thought, and sleep still didn’t come.
* * *
For some reason, that’s the first thing Sam thinks about when Dean gets cursed. That if this is permanent, Sam will never get a chance to watch Dean jerk off and come all over himself ever again.
It’s been almost two years since Sam has seen his brother when his phone rings at 3 AM and ‘Dean’ lights up on his cell display.
“Dean?” Sam’s instantly awake. Dean doesn’t call him in the middle of the night; something’s wrong. “Where are you?”
There’s a pause before Dean answers, and that tells Sam it’s even worse than he feared.
“I’m, uh.” Dean clears his throat. “I’m outside. In the car.”
“Are you hurt?”
Sam’s already pulling on a pair of sweatpants and running for the door. His dorm room is on the first floor; it’s dark and silent as he runs barefoot down the hall.
“No, but…”
That’s all Dean gets a chance to say before Sam is pulling open the passenger door and climbing in.
“Dean, what is it?”
He reaches without thinking, instinctively needing to touch, assess. Dean pushes his hands away.
“I’m not hurt, Sam!” he says, and that’s the first time Sam realizes how odd his brother sounds.
“You’re not… what is it, then? Something’s not right.”
The hair on the back of Sam’s neck is standing up with how not right it is.
“No shit,” Dean says, with a humorless laugh, and then he turns to Sam.
There’s only moonlight, but Sam’s heart trips in his chest. God, but Dean is beautiful. Sam must have forgotten.
“It’s a curse,” Dean says, softly. Too softly.
“Your voice,” Sam starts, and he’s still confused, stuck on the sprinkle of freckles across Dean’s nose, the fullness of his too-red mouth.
“Not just that,” Dean says ruefully. “It’s everything, Sam. Everything’s changed.”
“Define everything.” It can’t be what Sam is thinking.
“Oh, let’s see. I’ve got tits, I’ve got a pussy, I DON’T have a dick… is that enough of everything for you?”
“Ohmygod,” Sam blurts out, because of course, it’s obvious now. Dean’s fucking pretty—even prettier than he was before. And under the leather jacket that’s now too big on him, he’s got… holy shit, he’s got…
“Stop staring at me, Sam!” Dean yells, furious. “I gotta deal with that from every sick fuck I come across for the past week, I’m not gonna deal with it from my little brother!”
Sam finds himself inexplicably blushing. “I’m sorry, Jesus, I’m just—I wasn’t expecting…”
“Yeah, well, neither was I!” Dean turns away and slaps the steering wheel so hard the car shakes.
Sam notices then how small the hands on the wheel are, and his stomach lurches. They’re not Dean’s hands. Not the hands of his big brother, who changed his diapers and held his bottle and steadied him while he learned to ride a bike. They’re not Dean.
“Okay, okay. We’ll fix this; there must be a way.”
Dean shakes his head, fingers still wrapped tightly around the Impala’s steering wheel. “Don’t you think I’ve tried? That Bobby’s tried? There’s nothing, Sam. Nothing.”
“It’s too soon to give up,” Sam insists, and Dean softens a little, like maybe he wants to believe it. “Come on, you can stay with me for a while. Two heads are better than one.”
“I don’t wanna get in the way of…” Dean makes a sweeping gesture. “Of whatever you’re doing here.”
“I’m going to school, Dean. And you won’t be in the way. You’re—this is more important.”
To Sam’s surprise, that does the trick. Dean finally nods and opens the car door, grabbing his duffel from the back and putting it over his shoulder. Even that looks wrong—he moves differently. Awkward, like he’s not quite sure how tall he is or how much force it should take to lift things.
Sam goes first; it’s easier not to look. Every change he catalogs in his brother feels like a loss, of something he thought he’d always have to go back to. In that realization, it’s suddenly clear to Sam that’s what he intended all along.
Dean doesn’t take off his jacket once they’re inside, and Sam doesn’t ask him to. He gives Dean a beer and two slices of cold pizza he had in the mini fridge and puts a pillow and blanket on the floor for himself.
“I don’t need the bed; floor’s fine,” Dean insists, and for a second Sam wants to say no, like he has to be a gentleman now. Like Dean’s the one who’s fragile.
“Okay,” Sam agrees, because the consequences will be dire if he doesn’t, and Dean curls up on the floor with the leather jacket and his jeans still on.
Sam stares at Dean’s feet, pale and bare where he’s kicked off socks and boots. They’re too small, vulnerable. Sam wants to rub them, try to warm them up and tell Dean everything’s going to be all right.
He’s not sure that’s true.
* * *
Sam wakes up sometime after dawn, the light from the window streaming in between parted curtains. He wonders how long it’s been since Dean has slept; he’s still conked out on the floor. Sometime in the night he wriggled out of Dad’s leather jacket; he’s sprawled on top of the blankets, and Sam gets a good look at him for the first time.
His mouth goes dry. Dean is… beautiful. Of course, Dean has always been beautiful, but the change has only intensified his looks. The freckles that have always dotted his pale skin are sprinkled across a nose that’s slightly smaller, narrower. The almost-delicate curve of his brows is the same, and the thick brush of lashes. But his mouth—which has always been too lush and full for a man, and didn’t Dean hate it when people said that—now it’s positively obscene.
Even with those subtle changes, though, he still looks like Dean.
Dean stirs in his sleep, rolls to his side, and now Sam can see the curve of his hip, the way his body is no longer flat. His ass is rounder, too. Sam knows he shouldn’t have spent as much time admiring his brother’s ass in the past as he has, but yeah, it’s rounder now. Just a little. Underneath the too-large tee shirt, Sam can just barely see the swell of breasts.
Dean wakes suddenly and catches Sam’s eye. He scowls and grabs the discarded jacket, holding it to his chest as he gets up.
“Get your fill, Sammy?” he snaps, and Sam blushes, caught out.
“I’m sorry, it’s just…”
“I need to use the bathroom,” Dean says, not letting him finish. He stalks down the hallway barefoot, and Sam is suddenly glad the dorm’s bathroom is unisex. He wonders which restroom Dean has been using. Thinks for the first time about how weird it would be to use the one that doesn’t feel like your own.
When Dean comes back, Sam is just pulling on a clean pair of underwear. Dean pauses in the doorway, both of them looking at the other and then quickly looking away, and Sam doesn’t even know why it feels so awkward. Dean has seen him naked a million times; stitched up parts of his body most people wouldn’t let anyone they’re not fucking touch. But Dean wasn’t a girl then. He had the same body parts as Sam (even his dick was similar; Sam amassed enough furtive glances to compare over the years).
It hits Sam then, with so much force it makes him nauseous. Dean doesn’t have his dick. It’s gone. In a ridiculous burst of selfishness, Sam thinks with anger that his most secret fantasies will never come true now. Maybe he should have tried something while Dean was still Dean.
“You okay?”
Dean’s voice isn’t the gravel over honey Sam’s used to. He’s trying to pitch it low, but it’s not the same. Sam misses that, too.
“Sorry, yeah, I’m just still wrapping my head around this, you know?”
Dean scowls, which seems to be the predominant expression on what is now his very pretty face. “Good luck with that.”
“We’re not giving up,” Sam insists, and Dean shrugs, but he doesn’t say no.
He sits on Sam’s bed to pull on his boots. They’re not his boots, of course. They’re black Doc Martens to fit his smaller feet, but they’re about as macho as women’s shoes probably get. He’s clearly had to buy a different pair of jeans, too; these are far from form-fitting, but they don’t hang off him and drag on the ground the way his old ones would.
In the daylight, the subtle changes in his face and body are more obvious. Same pale skin and freckles, but his cheekbones are more obvious and his jawline just the slightest bit softer. And his face… it hits Sam, then, what’s so different. His face is smooth as a baby’s, and he looks even paler without the shadow of some stubble.
“Goddammit, Sam, stop starin’ at me!”
Shit.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s just—it’s not every day your brother is suddenly your sister!”
Dean whirls on him, and his face goes red with rage.
“I’m not your fucking sister!” he yells, and Sam shakes his head, desperate to take it back.
“I know, I know, god, that’s not—I didn’t mean it,” he fumbles.
"Nothing's changed," Dean snaps, chin raised defiantly.
"No, of course not," Sam answers too quickly.
It's a laughable thing to say, the truth glaring and obvious between them in pale freckled skin, and yet it's not a lie. Dean is still Dean. And he’s not Sam’s sister.
* * *
Sam takes his exams early and cashes in on his spotless attendance record to be excused from the last two weeks of the semester, while Dean sits in his dorm room and avoids everyone. He perks up the morning they leave, eager to get on the road again and be behind the wheel of the Impala. That, at least, hasn’t changed.
They spend weeks running down everything and anything that looks like it might be a lead. Again and again, they find someone—or something—that seems hopeful, only to have it not pan out. Each time, Dean deflates a little more.
One day, between Salt Lake City and Cheyenne, Dean stops the car abruptly at a gas station and makes a beeline for the restroom, saying nothing. Sam is in the convenience store buying snacks when Dean bursts through the door. His eyes are wild, darting from side to side like he’s expecting something to attack him.
“Hey, what’s wrong?”
It’s all Sam gets out before Dean hauls off and punches him. He pulls the punch at the last second, so it just glances off Sam’s chin, but it still hurts like a bitch.
“Dean, what the hell?”
Sam opens his eyes to see Dean waving something in his face, and ducks instinctively, expecting another punch.
It’s a package of tampons.
Oh. Oh shit.
“Shit,” he says lamely, rubbing his chin.
Dean says nothing, just whirls around and heads back out to the restroom.
The desk clerk chuckles when Sam puts the snacks on the counter, along with a few more feminine hygiene products.
“They sure get bitchy when they’re on the rag, don’t they?” he says, shaking his head. “Good thing they put out after and make it up to us, right? She’s a pretty one, your little firecracker.”
It’s a lucky thing Sam is caught so completely off guard, because he doesn’t hit the guy. Just blinks open-mouthed while the clerk hands him his change and the bag.
Dean is in the bathroom for ten minutes, while Sam stares at the door and worries. When he comes out, he’s got the leather jacket on even though it’s almost 80 degrees out. Sam says nothing.
Sam puts the supplies in the motel bathroom and makes sure he gives Dean lots of privacy. It’s become their new norm, after so many decades of always dressing and undressing heedless of the other. It hurts more than Sam would have expected.
“You okay?” Sam asks after they turn out the lights. It’s easier to talk then, when neither of them can see.
“Sorry I hit you,” Dean answers. His voice is small in the dark, sad.
“It’s okay.”
“No, it really isn’t. You had nothing to do with this; it’s not your fault. I just—I don’t think I can—”
“Dean, we’re gonna fix this. We are.”
“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, but he sounds exhausted.
The most hopeful lead they get takes them all the way to the east coast. They drive for hours, the radio on and the windows down, and Sam can almost pretend everything is like it used to be. Dean’s freckles multiply and darken, and his cheeks are pink with the wind and the sun. His eyes are too green, and Sam sees how everyone notices them. People look too long, startled by Dean’s striking good looks, even as he tries to shrink away and hide himself. It’s so different from how he was before, when he’d puff himself up and strut even more when he felt appreciative eyes on him. Now it looks like every glance is physically painful.
Sam finds himself protective, putting himself between Dean and the stares of strangers, scowling at men who look too long. He’s glad of his height, watching most of them turn away quickly. It should disgust him that they all assume Dean is his; instead, it just feels true. Dean allows it, and Sam would be lying if he didn’t admit that felt good.
The witch they’ve come to see lives in a little town in Maryland where they have a wild-pony roundup every summer. Her specialty is curses that serve you right. That’s what she says, anyway, like it’s an advertisement that could go on a billboard. Dean protests that this curse does not serve him right; Sam points out that if the witch who cursed him thought it did, that’s all that matters.
The weather is warm when they get there, summer on the eastern seaboard muggier than Sam is used to after temperate Palo Alto. Dean gave up on the leather jacket somewhere in Iowa, and Sam can see the swell of his breasts under his oversized tee shirt. He’s got a tank top under that, way too tight, to hold them down as much as possible, but they’re still obvious. His hair is a little longer, still spiked up on top but over his nape at the back, soft brown with a hint of gold from the sun.
He’s beautiful, but then again, he always has been.
“You have a good feeling about this?” Dean asks while they’re standing on Mary Alice’s porch. She has a rocking chair there, and flower pots.
“A half-dozen hunters swear she’s the real thing. I don’t think we should be fooled by all this.” Sam waves a hand at the rocker and the flowers.
Dean pats his gun in the back of his jeans and smirks. “Oh, I’m not.”
When the door swings open, they each have one hand on their guns.
“Well, well,” says Mary Alice. “Hunters, I imagine. You don’t need those, though. Unless you’ve come to kill me. But I don’t think that’s what you want, is it?”
She looks at Dean then, assessing. Then she whistles.
“My, my, isn’t that some fine spellwork,” she says, smiling like it’s the best thing in the world.
Sam can see Dean’s fingers twitch on his gun. Shooting the smiling witch probably seems like a great idea right about now.
“Can we come in and talk?” Sam asks, nodding at Dean to play along.
Mary Alice stops smiling so quickly it’s like she never was. “What’s in it for me?”
“How about we don’t shoot you?” Dean asks, emotion getting the better of him so his voice comes out more feminine than Sam has ever heard it. “Fuck,” Dean says, and then, lower, “Fuck.”
“What do you want?” Sam asks, because the look on Dean’s face is one he never wants to see again.
Mary Alice’s smile returns, but it’s more sinister now. “Same things every American wants, of course. Shall we say five thousand?”
“Dollars?!” Dean sputters.
“One thousand for you to try, five thousand if it works,” Sam says evenly, and Dean turns to stare.
“You good for it?” Mary Alice asks.
“I’m good for it.”
She narrows her eyes at Sam, then nods and pulls the door open wider. “Well, come on in, then.”
“Sam, where are we gonna get that kind of money?” Dean hisses as they follow her into the living room.
“Don’t worry about that, Dean. Just concentrate on doing what she says, okay? This might be our only chance.”
Dean looks doubtful, but he sits down when Mary Alice motions for him to.
“Do you want him here?” she asks Dean, and he nods.
“Absolutely. Sam stays.”
“Fine. Take off your clothes.”
Dean blanches. “W-what?”
“Take off your clothes. I can’t read the spell with fabric in the way. Do you want the spell broken or not?”
“Jesuschrist,” Dean swears, but he starts taking off his boots.
Sam looks down, keeping his eyes on the floor. He can hear the rustle of clothing, can see the legs of Dean’s discarded jeans on the rug, and then his tee shirt and tank top.
“Panties, too.”
Panties?
It’s shocking enough to make Sam raise his eyes. Dean is peeling off a pair of plain black cotton underwear—they’re not panties, they’re the same boxer briefs he’s always worn, but they look completely different. Sam stares, transfixed, as the pale skin of Dean’s hip is revealed, the long line of his legs distinctly feminine. His small, rounded breasts are bare, nipples pink and soft, and his belly is smooth and hairless, a gentle curve down to the sandy thatch of hair between his thighs.
When Sam looks up, Dean is looking right at him. He’s blushing bright red, even the tips of his ears on fire. His expression is one of humiliation; Sam feels sick to see it. He slams his eyes back down to the floor. A moment later he hears Dean turn away, and sneaks another peek. He needs to be sure nothing goes sideways. At least that’s what he tells himself.
The witch gets up and leans in close, her hands traveling over Dean’s slender shoulders, down his arms. She’s not touching him, her fingers hovering a half inch above his skin, but everywhere she almost touches, goosebumps rise in her wake. Dean’s nipples peak and he shivers, but he doesn’t move, lets her work though it looks like it’s killing him to sit still for it.
“Such nice work,” the witch is mumbling. “You should be grateful; she made you beautiful, so beautiful. It could be a gift, looking like this.”
Dean’s shaking his head, about to speak, when Mary Alice suddenly looks over at Sam.
“Could be a gift to him. He wants you, you know. Everyone wants you, pretty.”
Sam’s stomach bottoms out, icy panic gripping his insides. She knows.
Dean’s hand shoots up and catches the witch’s wrist. His eyes are hard, green flint sparking in the afternoon light. “Can you fix it?” His voice is steel, too, like he’s a fragile second away from ripping her throat out if the answer is no.
She’s smart enough to back away and make him let go before she answers.
“I cannot. But there’s no malice in it—this is a spell she thought you might want. That both of you might want. I can’t undo it. No one can.”
Dean sits perfectly still for almost a minute, only his jaw working. His hands are clasped into fists and Sam can see his body tremble.
When he finally speaks, it’s so soft Sam can barely hear it. Like he can barely force the words out.
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, but if you don’t want a bullet right between the eyes you’d better rethink that thousand dollars,” he says, and then he’s pulling on his clothes so quickly he tears the neck of his tee shirt putting it on and doesn’t even bother with his underwear. He stalks out of the house in unzipped jeans, barefoot, slamming the front door behind him.
Sam hands over the money he’s managed to amass anyway, too stunned by the witch’s words to take a chance. He scoops up Dean’s boots and underwear and climbs into the Impala beside his brother.
Dean floors it the second Sam closes the door. He drives for eight hours, until the car needs gas.
Sam tries to think of something to say, and fails every time. There are too many questions, and he doesn’t have the guts to ask any of them. What did Dean think when the witch said it was Sam who wanted this? That it was Sam who wanted him?
When had Sam’s attraction to his brother become so conscious that a fucking witch could pick it up just like that?
Is there some way this really is my fault?
It’s a ridiculous thing to think, if only because Sam’s secret fantasies never included Dean being a girl. If this was somehow Sam’s forbidden dream come true, Dean’s dick would be hard and his ass would look just like it used to.
* * *
Dean’s awake before Sam the next morning, or maybe he never slept at all. He’s sitting at the tiny table drinking a beer at 8 AM.
“Dean?”
He doesn’t even look over.
“I can’t do this anymore, Sam.”
And Sam’s heart starts to beat too fast, adrenaline rushing through him.
“Okay, look, I know this was a big disappointment…”
“It’s not just this one, Sam! It’s been disappointment after disappointment and I can’t keep—I can’t keep getting my hopes up each time and then just have them fucking crushed. I can’t, this is too—it’s too big! I know you don’t get it, you can’t get it, but it’s just—I can’t do it, Sam. I can’t.”
Sam sits down across from his brother, and Dean finally looks at him. There are dark circles under his eyes, and so much sadness there.
Sam wonders again if he’s to blame, if what the witch said has made Dean want to get as far away from his sick little brother as possible.
“What are you gonna do, then?”
It’s probably said with more fear than Sam intended to slip out, because Dean’s expression softens. It’s the same expression Sam has seen all his life, the one that says Dean will do anything to keep Sam safe. To keep Sam from hurting.
“Nothing, nothing, I—I just can’t keep fighting it day in and day out like this. If this is the way it’s gonna be, I’ve gotta try to find a way to make peace with it.”
The relief Sam feels that Dean isn’t talking about them splitting up makes his words come out in a rush. “Oh, oh—I thought—yeah, okay, if that’s what you want. Whatever you want, okay?”
Dean looks at him for a long moment, and Sam can’t tell what he’s thinking. Finally he nods and pushes the chair back.
“Okay then. I’ll be back.”
“Where—”
“Don’t worry, okay? I’ll be back.”
Sam worries. He distracts himself with trying to find more leads, with trying to find anything. He hopes someone will tell him that Mary Alice is fallible, but everyone insists she’s the best there is at curses and undoing them.
The sun is going down when he finally hears the rumble of the Impala’s engine. Sam tries to look calm so Dean won’t know he was beside himself the whole time.
That falls apart when Dean walks in the door.
Part Two
Author name:
runedgirlArtist name:
sarahtogaPairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC17
Word count: 26,600
Warnings: genderswap cursed Dean, Sam/girl!Dean, mentions of self harm
Summary: Dean turns up at Stanford cursed by a witch, his body turned female. As Dean struggles to cope with the change, the attraction Sam has always hidden for his brother and the fantasy of having him may just come true. But at what cost?
A/N: Thanks to my wonderful collaborator,
sarahtoga, whose incredible art brings this story to life, and to my awesome beta, without_me, who made the whole story better. And thanks as always to the mods for the great time that is spn_j2_bigbang!Link to art: Art Master Post
“I mean it, boys. Don’t slack off on your training or I’ll know it when I come back!”
The front door slammed, a whoosh of humid summer air blown back into the small motel room. Sam flopped on the bed with a sigh.
“I thought he’d never go,” he muttered, half to himself. He couldn’t always predict his brother’s reaction to Dad’s solo hunts; sometimes Dean spent days sulking and grumbling about being “fucking old enough to hunt anything,” and other times he seemed as grateful as Sam to have some time away from the man who could be as much drill sergeant as father.
Sam glanced at the other bed, where Dean was still sitting looking at the door. Sam wanted to say, Come on, let’s take advantage, let’s check out the ridiculously tiny hole in the ground that passes for a swimming pool at this fleabag, or let’s drive into town and see what movie’s playing, or even let’s make a beer run and grab some popcorn and just hang out. Like we used to. Instead he stayed quiet. It was better to let Dean make up his own mind about how to feel; he didn’t like to be pushed, especially when it was Sam doing the pushing.
Finally Dean sighed, too, and kicked his still-unlaced boots off. He fell back on the other bed and scooted backwards until his head was on the pillow. Sam breathed out and did the same, relief making him almost giddy.
“Fuck you, too, Dad,” Dean said, and Sam couldn’t hold back the smile. It wasn’t often that he and Dean were on the same page anymore, and he was going to relish it when he got it.
“Wanna drive into town later?” he asked casually, trying for ohmygod-I’m-so-bored-what-can-we-do instead of please-want-to-do-something-with-me desperate. Dad had taken the pickup, which was one point in Sam’s favor; Dean rarely passed up a chance to drive the Impala.
Dean scratched absently at his stomach, pushing his tee shirt up and raking his fingers through the sparse hair at his navel.
“’s fucking hot in here,” he said, kicking his legs out straight and stretching like a big cat in the sun. “Just wanna lie here and not move. Fuckin’ worthless air conditioning.”
Sam grinned, content with the prospect of spending the day with his brother, even if they were trapped in a crappy, overheated motel room. Six more weeks of opportunity for days like this; the bus ticket was already in his wallet. Sam had wondered a million times if telling Dean he was leaving would make Dean want to spend every waking moment with him, or push him away immediately and get it over with. His instincts told him the latter, so he’d kept his plans to himself. Selfish, maybe, but Sam had come to terms with that years ago. He was selfish when it came to Dean’s attention; always had been. It was the brightest, most important thing he’d ever had, and Sam was going to drink every drop of it. Right up until he took the leap and went cold turkey and hoped he’d survive.
Dean sat up and stripped out of his already-damp tee shirt, tossing it across the room where it snagged on the back of the desk chair.
Sam giggled.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re easily amused?” Dean asked, but Sam could hear the smile without even looking.
“Survival skill in this family.”
Dean snorted. “Smartass,” he said, but his voice was fond. He ran a hand over his chest, through the dip where the sweat beaded, and his nipples pebbled.
Sam could feel his own tingle and stiffen; he thought sometimes he was wired to Dean in a way most people wouldn’t understand. Like that empath on the old Star Trek episode who could feel other people’s pain. Maybe other people’s pleasure, too. But it wasn’t everyone; it was just Dean.
Sam looked down to see if Dean’s dick was stirring like his own; hard to see in tight jeans, but Sam was an expert when it came to every part of Dean. He counted the seconds until Dean would notice and do something to distract himself. Ten, nine, eight, seven…
Dean sat up abruptly, swinging his legs off the side of the bed.
“I need to pick up some supplies in town anyway; maybe we can catch an early movie. At least they’ll have A/C that works.”
Sam let the smile that wanted to spread across his entire face have free rein; watched Dean fight back an answering grin. “That’d be great.”
“Like I said, kid, you’re easy.”
Yes, he was, Sam thought. At least when it came to his brother.
They drove with the Impala’s windows wide open, bouncing over the poorly paved roads and laughing when the wind whipped Sam’s hair around and Dean called him an overgrown sheepdog puppy. It was one target of Dean’s teasing that Sam didn’t mind; more than once, when Sam was sick with the flu or food poisoning or being slashed by a swamp creature, he’d fallen asleep to the movement of Dean’s fingers in his hair, sliding through the strands and pulling gently at his scalp until Sam slipped under. Sometimes, when Dean thought Sam was already asleep, he would tuck an errant strand behind Sam’s ear, murmuring under his breath about Sam being a girl with a fondness that made Sam warm all over.
They caught a double feature in a theater that was so cold Sam was shivering by the time Godzilla prevailed, his teeth nearly chattering every time he took a sip of root beer. Sam leaned his shoulder against his brother’s, and Dean didn’t move away.
Dean pulled a grocery list out of his pocket on the way back and they hit the Grab N Go Market. Sam wondered how many other older brothers were as likely to pull out a .45 as a grocery list or as were as knowledgeable about the most economical dish soap as about the best way to kill a wendigo. Dean had taken care of them as long as Sam could remember.
“Why do you get that one?”
Dean raised his eyebrows. “Since when do you care about dish soap, Sammy?”
Since I’m going to have to buy it myself soon, Sam thought, and averted his eyes. “I don’t, I’m just curious. You always get that one, that’s all.”
“Very observant. We’ll make a hunter outta you yet.”
No, Sam thought, you won’t. His stomach swooped at the secretiveness of that, the certainty. Then his throat went tight with guilt. Dean won’t like it. Dean wants you to be a hunter, wants you to be like him.
“Earth to Sam.” Dean’s fingers were right in front of his face, snapping obnoxiously. “You with me?”
“Oh, yeah, sorry. Guess I wasn’t as interested in dish soap as I thought.”
Dean paused to look at him, and Sam flushed under the intensity of his brother’s gaze. Dean knows, he thought suddenly, the hairs on his arms rising in goosebumps. He knows me too well.
“Yeah, didn’t think so,” Dean said finally. “Anyway, you don’t have to worry about that shit; I’ll take care of it. Just wash ’em when I tell you to.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Sam said, stifling a sigh of relief. “Slave driver.”
Dean cuffed him affectionately on the back of the head. “Yup, that’s me. Somebody’s gotta keep you in line, little brother.”
The part of Sam’s heart that didn’t want to go ached at that. The part that wished Dean would make him change his mind, make him stay. The part that wished Dean would say, “If you’re going, I’m coming with you,” and sit on the Greyhound beside him, the two of them leaving the life behind and starting a new one.
“Sam!”
“Coming, coming, Jesus,” he complained, and started after his brother.
Thoughts of leaving kept Sam awake that night, even more than the oppressive heat. He usually fell asleep before Dean; it had always been that way. Dean stayed awake to be sure Sam slept, and then Sam didn’t worry so much about the nightmares.
At first he thought it was the struggling air conditioner making the gasping sounds, the last breaths of a failing piece of machinery. Then he heard the soft rustle of the bed sheets and turned his head, slowly enough that there would be no sound. His own breath caught when he realized there was enough dim light for him to barely make out his brother on the other bed, a silhouette in the darkness. The drawn curtains of the window behind Sam had a small gap, and the light from the parking lot came through in a thin slice that fell across Dean’s bare stomach.
Sam learned about jerking off from Dean. Long before he felt any urge to touch himself, he watched when he could, trying to figure out how Dean did it, what it should look like, how long it took. He’d lie completely still, squinting his eyes just enough to see through, straining his ears to hear every muffled groan Dean couldn’t quite hold back. As he got older it got hard to lie still and not touch himself, but he didn’t dare risk being discovered and having Dean stop. He’d wait, heart pounding and cock throbbing, until Dean went still and trembled through his orgasm, then sighed with satisfaction and rolled over to go to sleep. Sam would count to 200 and then jam his hand down his shorts; it was usually over in seconds.
That night, the noise of the air conditioner made Sam brave. He slid his hand down his stomach, over the bulge of his dick in his shorts. God, he was so hard already, the cotton damp where he was leaking. In the sliver of light Sam could see the muscles in Dean’s forearm working as he moved his hand up and down, working himself slowly. Dean liked it that way when he could take his time. Liked to tease himself, draw things out. Sam knew a lot about Dean that he thought he probably shouldn’t.
Sam reached down to cup his own balls, liking the weight of them. Across the room, Dean’s hand snaked lower, too, like Sam knew it would. There was a barely audible, bitten-off moan when Dean reached between his legs and rolled his balls, splaying one leg wider. The sheets were kicked off, the pale skin of Dean’s spread thighs visible in the darkness.
Sam made himself wait, too, though he didn’t want to. He didn’t have Dean’s love of being teased, but this was a game now, a contest. It wasn’t Dean touching him, but Sam moved his hands the way Dean did, so they would feel the same thing. Maybe you shouldn’t, he thought fleetingly; maybe this is too weird. But then Dean slid his fingers down farther and rubbed over his hole and Sam couldn’t think anything anymore, could only try not to lose it as he did the same. It wasn’t something Dean often did, and not part of Sam’s repertoire, either, but fuck if that didn’t make it all the hotter.
Dean’s other hand roamed his belly and over his chest, stopping to pluck at what Sam was sure was a peaked nipple. His breathing was louder now, easily heard over the clunking mechanical sounds of the air conditioner.
God, Sam wasn’t sure how long he could stand it. Dean moved easily, languidly, the muscles in his arm flexing as he poked and prodded at himself, and Sam thought about what he was doing, what it might feel like, what it might look like. He was shaking with the effort of holding himself back, his cock leaking a little pool of slick in his belly button, he was so turned on. Sam closed his eyes, concentrating on not coming, the tip of his finger pushing in and out, and God, it felt so good.
When he opened his eyes again, Dean was staring at him.
Sam froze, caught out and mortified, his finger still buried in his own ass. Dean’s mouth was open; in the dim light, Sam could see the pale white of his teeth. Dean was as still as a rabbit in the eye of a predator, but the change in his position had let the sliver of light fall across his still-very-erect cock. Sam’s eyes darted from that to his brother’s face, half terrified and half on the verge of orgasm.
Dean swallowed so hard Sam could hear it, and then, very slowly, he moved his hand up over his balls and wrapped his fingers around his dick. Sam mirrored the movement with trembling fingers, holding himself the way Dean did, lifting his cock so it was straight up just like his brother’s. Dean drew in a harsh breath at that and slid his hand slowly up the shaft, up over the head. Sam did the same, exactly the same, right down to the twist he knew Dean liked, and when Dean groaned and slammed his fist down to the base, Sam was ready, right there with him.
“Oh, fuck, Sam,” Dean bit out, and then all his teasing went out the window. He fisted himself roughly, lifting his hips to thrust into his grip, uncaring about the way the bed springs were squeaking in protest. Sam did the same, up and over and down in the same speed and the same rhythm, until the beds were rocking in time and they were both gasping. Sam counted it down, predicting how many strokes Dean was from coming, holding himself off until he heard the telltale pause, and then he let himself go, too. Droplets streaked across Dean’s belly where the light hit, glistening white caught in the fine hairs there, and Sam’s cock pulsed weakly again at the sight.
“Shit, damn,” Dean swore as he wiped his hand over his wet stomach.
Sam stayed quiet, his heart slamming in his chest. This was uncharted territory. Maybe he would need that bus ticket sooner than he’d thought.
“Well, that was fun,” Dean said, his voice gravelly, sleepy already.
“Yeah,” Sam answered, because he didn’t want there to be any doubt. “Now maybe I can sleep,” he added, because that would be a distraction in case there was any residual weirdness.
“You havin’ trouble sleeping?” Dean asked, sounding more awake. Big-brother concern kicking in.
“Nah, not really. Just, you know, the heat.”
Dean wiped at his belly with what Sam assumed were his shorts and tossed them on the floor, rolling over to burrow into the mattress. “Damn straight. Fucking useless air conditioner. Think you can sleep now that you’ve creamed your brains out?”
“Gross, Dean.” If Sam was grinning, Dean didn’t have to know. “But yeah, I think so.”
“Win-win,” Dean said, muffled against the pillow.
Six weeks, Sam thought, and sleep still didn’t come.
* * *
For some reason, that’s the first thing Sam thinks about when Dean gets cursed. That if this is permanent, Sam will never get a chance to watch Dean jerk off and come all over himself ever again.
It’s been almost two years since Sam has seen his brother when his phone rings at 3 AM and ‘Dean’ lights up on his cell display.
“Dean?” Sam’s instantly awake. Dean doesn’t call him in the middle of the night; something’s wrong. “Where are you?”
There’s a pause before Dean answers, and that tells Sam it’s even worse than he feared.
“I’m, uh.” Dean clears his throat. “I’m outside. In the car.”
“Are you hurt?”
Sam’s already pulling on a pair of sweatpants and running for the door. His dorm room is on the first floor; it’s dark and silent as he runs barefoot down the hall.
“No, but…”
That’s all Dean gets a chance to say before Sam is pulling open the passenger door and climbing in.
“Dean, what is it?”
He reaches without thinking, instinctively needing to touch, assess. Dean pushes his hands away.
“I’m not hurt, Sam!” he says, and that’s the first time Sam realizes how odd his brother sounds.
“You’re not… what is it, then? Something’s not right.”
The hair on the back of Sam’s neck is standing up with how not right it is.
“No shit,” Dean says, with a humorless laugh, and then he turns to Sam.
There’s only moonlight, but Sam’s heart trips in his chest. God, but Dean is beautiful. Sam must have forgotten.
“It’s a curse,” Dean says, softly. Too softly.
“Your voice,” Sam starts, and he’s still confused, stuck on the sprinkle of freckles across Dean’s nose, the fullness of his too-red mouth.
“Not just that,” Dean says ruefully. “It’s everything, Sam. Everything’s changed.”
“Define everything.” It can’t be what Sam is thinking.
“Oh, let’s see. I’ve got tits, I’ve got a pussy, I DON’T have a dick… is that enough of everything for you?”
“Ohmygod,” Sam blurts out, because of course, it’s obvious now. Dean’s fucking pretty—even prettier than he was before. And under the leather jacket that’s now too big on him, he’s got… holy shit, he’s got…
“Stop staring at me, Sam!” Dean yells, furious. “I gotta deal with that from every sick fuck I come across for the past week, I’m not gonna deal with it from my little brother!”
Sam finds himself inexplicably blushing. “I’m sorry, Jesus, I’m just—I wasn’t expecting…”
“Yeah, well, neither was I!” Dean turns away and slaps the steering wheel so hard the car shakes.
Sam notices then how small the hands on the wheel are, and his stomach lurches. They’re not Dean’s hands. Not the hands of his big brother, who changed his diapers and held his bottle and steadied him while he learned to ride a bike. They’re not Dean.
“Okay, okay. We’ll fix this; there must be a way.”
Dean shakes his head, fingers still wrapped tightly around the Impala’s steering wheel. “Don’t you think I’ve tried? That Bobby’s tried? There’s nothing, Sam. Nothing.”
“It’s too soon to give up,” Sam insists, and Dean softens a little, like maybe he wants to believe it. “Come on, you can stay with me for a while. Two heads are better than one.”
“I don’t wanna get in the way of…” Dean makes a sweeping gesture. “Of whatever you’re doing here.”
“I’m going to school, Dean. And you won’t be in the way. You’re—this is more important.”
To Sam’s surprise, that does the trick. Dean finally nods and opens the car door, grabbing his duffel from the back and putting it over his shoulder. Even that looks wrong—he moves differently. Awkward, like he’s not quite sure how tall he is or how much force it should take to lift things.
Sam goes first; it’s easier not to look. Every change he catalogs in his brother feels like a loss, of something he thought he’d always have to go back to. In that realization, it’s suddenly clear to Sam that’s what he intended all along.
Dean doesn’t take off his jacket once they’re inside, and Sam doesn’t ask him to. He gives Dean a beer and two slices of cold pizza he had in the mini fridge and puts a pillow and blanket on the floor for himself.
“I don’t need the bed; floor’s fine,” Dean insists, and for a second Sam wants to say no, like he has to be a gentleman now. Like Dean’s the one who’s fragile.
“Okay,” Sam agrees, because the consequences will be dire if he doesn’t, and Dean curls up on the floor with the leather jacket and his jeans still on.
Sam stares at Dean’s feet, pale and bare where he’s kicked off socks and boots. They’re too small, vulnerable. Sam wants to rub them, try to warm them up and tell Dean everything’s going to be all right.
He’s not sure that’s true.
* * *
Sam wakes up sometime after dawn, the light from the window streaming in between parted curtains. He wonders how long it’s been since Dean has slept; he’s still conked out on the floor. Sometime in the night he wriggled out of Dad’s leather jacket; he’s sprawled on top of the blankets, and Sam gets a good look at him for the first time.
His mouth goes dry. Dean is… beautiful. Of course, Dean has always been beautiful, but the change has only intensified his looks. The freckles that have always dotted his pale skin are sprinkled across a nose that’s slightly smaller, narrower. The almost-delicate curve of his brows is the same, and the thick brush of lashes. But his mouth—which has always been too lush and full for a man, and didn’t Dean hate it when people said that—now it’s positively obscene.
Even with those subtle changes, though, he still looks like Dean.
Dean stirs in his sleep, rolls to his side, and now Sam can see the curve of his hip, the way his body is no longer flat. His ass is rounder, too. Sam knows he shouldn’t have spent as much time admiring his brother’s ass in the past as he has, but yeah, it’s rounder now. Just a little. Underneath the too-large tee shirt, Sam can just barely see the swell of breasts.
Dean wakes suddenly and catches Sam’s eye. He scowls and grabs the discarded jacket, holding it to his chest as he gets up.
“Get your fill, Sammy?” he snaps, and Sam blushes, caught out.
“I’m sorry, it’s just…”
“I need to use the bathroom,” Dean says, not letting him finish. He stalks down the hallway barefoot, and Sam is suddenly glad the dorm’s bathroom is unisex. He wonders which restroom Dean has been using. Thinks for the first time about how weird it would be to use the one that doesn’t feel like your own.
When Dean comes back, Sam is just pulling on a clean pair of underwear. Dean pauses in the doorway, both of them looking at the other and then quickly looking away, and Sam doesn’t even know why it feels so awkward. Dean has seen him naked a million times; stitched up parts of his body most people wouldn’t let anyone they’re not fucking touch. But Dean wasn’t a girl then. He had the same body parts as Sam (even his dick was similar; Sam amassed enough furtive glances to compare over the years).
It hits Sam then, with so much force it makes him nauseous. Dean doesn’t have his dick. It’s gone. In a ridiculous burst of selfishness, Sam thinks with anger that his most secret fantasies will never come true now. Maybe he should have tried something while Dean was still Dean.
“You okay?”
Dean’s voice isn’t the gravel over honey Sam’s used to. He’s trying to pitch it low, but it’s not the same. Sam misses that, too.
“Sorry, yeah, I’m just still wrapping my head around this, you know?”
Dean scowls, which seems to be the predominant expression on what is now his very pretty face. “Good luck with that.”
“We’re not giving up,” Sam insists, and Dean shrugs, but he doesn’t say no.
He sits on Sam’s bed to pull on his boots. They’re not his boots, of course. They’re black Doc Martens to fit his smaller feet, but they’re about as macho as women’s shoes probably get. He’s clearly had to buy a different pair of jeans, too; these are far from form-fitting, but they don’t hang off him and drag on the ground the way his old ones would.
In the daylight, the subtle changes in his face and body are more obvious. Same pale skin and freckles, but his cheekbones are more obvious and his jawline just the slightest bit softer. And his face… it hits Sam, then, what’s so different. His face is smooth as a baby’s, and he looks even paler without the shadow of some stubble.
“Goddammit, Sam, stop starin’ at me!”
Shit.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s just—it’s not every day your brother is suddenly your sister!”
Dean whirls on him, and his face goes red with rage.
“I’m not your fucking sister!” he yells, and Sam shakes his head, desperate to take it back.
“I know, I know, god, that’s not—I didn’t mean it,” he fumbles.
"Nothing's changed," Dean snaps, chin raised defiantly.
"No, of course not," Sam answers too quickly.
It's a laughable thing to say, the truth glaring and obvious between them in pale freckled skin, and yet it's not a lie. Dean is still Dean. And he’s not Sam’s sister.
* * *
Sam takes his exams early and cashes in on his spotless attendance record to be excused from the last two weeks of the semester, while Dean sits in his dorm room and avoids everyone. He perks up the morning they leave, eager to get on the road again and be behind the wheel of the Impala. That, at least, hasn’t changed.
They spend weeks running down everything and anything that looks like it might be a lead. Again and again, they find someone—or something—that seems hopeful, only to have it not pan out. Each time, Dean deflates a little more.
One day, between Salt Lake City and Cheyenne, Dean stops the car abruptly at a gas station and makes a beeline for the restroom, saying nothing. Sam is in the convenience store buying snacks when Dean bursts through the door. His eyes are wild, darting from side to side like he’s expecting something to attack him.
“Hey, what’s wrong?”
It’s all Sam gets out before Dean hauls off and punches him. He pulls the punch at the last second, so it just glances off Sam’s chin, but it still hurts like a bitch.
“Dean, what the hell?”
Sam opens his eyes to see Dean waving something in his face, and ducks instinctively, expecting another punch.
It’s a package of tampons.
Oh. Oh shit.
“Shit,” he says lamely, rubbing his chin.
Dean says nothing, just whirls around and heads back out to the restroom.
The desk clerk chuckles when Sam puts the snacks on the counter, along with a few more feminine hygiene products.
“They sure get bitchy when they’re on the rag, don’t they?” he says, shaking his head. “Good thing they put out after and make it up to us, right? She’s a pretty one, your little firecracker.”
It’s a lucky thing Sam is caught so completely off guard, because he doesn’t hit the guy. Just blinks open-mouthed while the clerk hands him his change and the bag.
Dean is in the bathroom for ten minutes, while Sam stares at the door and worries. When he comes out, he’s got the leather jacket on even though it’s almost 80 degrees out. Sam says nothing.
Sam puts the supplies in the motel bathroom and makes sure he gives Dean lots of privacy. It’s become their new norm, after so many decades of always dressing and undressing heedless of the other. It hurts more than Sam would have expected.
“You okay?” Sam asks after they turn out the lights. It’s easier to talk then, when neither of them can see.
“Sorry I hit you,” Dean answers. His voice is small in the dark, sad.
“It’s okay.”
“No, it really isn’t. You had nothing to do with this; it’s not your fault. I just—I don’t think I can—”
“Dean, we’re gonna fix this. We are.”
“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, but he sounds exhausted.
The most hopeful lead they get takes them all the way to the east coast. They drive for hours, the radio on and the windows down, and Sam can almost pretend everything is like it used to be. Dean’s freckles multiply and darken, and his cheeks are pink with the wind and the sun. His eyes are too green, and Sam sees how everyone notices them. People look too long, startled by Dean’s striking good looks, even as he tries to shrink away and hide himself. It’s so different from how he was before, when he’d puff himself up and strut even more when he felt appreciative eyes on him. Now it looks like every glance is physically painful.
Sam finds himself protective, putting himself between Dean and the stares of strangers, scowling at men who look too long. He’s glad of his height, watching most of them turn away quickly. It should disgust him that they all assume Dean is his; instead, it just feels true. Dean allows it, and Sam would be lying if he didn’t admit that felt good.
The witch they’ve come to see lives in a little town in Maryland where they have a wild-pony roundup every summer. Her specialty is curses that serve you right. That’s what she says, anyway, like it’s an advertisement that could go on a billboard. Dean protests that this curse does not serve him right; Sam points out that if the witch who cursed him thought it did, that’s all that matters.
The weather is warm when they get there, summer on the eastern seaboard muggier than Sam is used to after temperate Palo Alto. Dean gave up on the leather jacket somewhere in Iowa, and Sam can see the swell of his breasts under his oversized tee shirt. He’s got a tank top under that, way too tight, to hold them down as much as possible, but they’re still obvious. His hair is a little longer, still spiked up on top but over his nape at the back, soft brown with a hint of gold from the sun.
He’s beautiful, but then again, he always has been.
“You have a good feeling about this?” Dean asks while they’re standing on Mary Alice’s porch. She has a rocking chair there, and flower pots.
“A half-dozen hunters swear she’s the real thing. I don’t think we should be fooled by all this.” Sam waves a hand at the rocker and the flowers.
Dean pats his gun in the back of his jeans and smirks. “Oh, I’m not.”
When the door swings open, they each have one hand on their guns.
“Well, well,” says Mary Alice. “Hunters, I imagine. You don’t need those, though. Unless you’ve come to kill me. But I don’t think that’s what you want, is it?”
She looks at Dean then, assessing. Then she whistles.
“My, my, isn’t that some fine spellwork,” she says, smiling like it’s the best thing in the world.
Sam can see Dean’s fingers twitch on his gun. Shooting the smiling witch probably seems like a great idea right about now.
“Can we come in and talk?” Sam asks, nodding at Dean to play along.
Mary Alice stops smiling so quickly it’s like she never was. “What’s in it for me?”
“How about we don’t shoot you?” Dean asks, emotion getting the better of him so his voice comes out more feminine than Sam has ever heard it. “Fuck,” Dean says, and then, lower, “Fuck.”
“What do you want?” Sam asks, because the look on Dean’s face is one he never wants to see again.
Mary Alice’s smile returns, but it’s more sinister now. “Same things every American wants, of course. Shall we say five thousand?”
“Dollars?!” Dean sputters.
“One thousand for you to try, five thousand if it works,” Sam says evenly, and Dean turns to stare.
“You good for it?” Mary Alice asks.
“I’m good for it.”
She narrows her eyes at Sam, then nods and pulls the door open wider. “Well, come on in, then.”
“Sam, where are we gonna get that kind of money?” Dean hisses as they follow her into the living room.
“Don’t worry about that, Dean. Just concentrate on doing what she says, okay? This might be our only chance.”
Dean looks doubtful, but he sits down when Mary Alice motions for him to.
“Do you want him here?” she asks Dean, and he nods.
“Absolutely. Sam stays.”
“Fine. Take off your clothes.”
Dean blanches. “W-what?”
“Take off your clothes. I can’t read the spell with fabric in the way. Do you want the spell broken or not?”
“Jesuschrist,” Dean swears, but he starts taking off his boots.
Sam looks down, keeping his eyes on the floor. He can hear the rustle of clothing, can see the legs of Dean’s discarded jeans on the rug, and then his tee shirt and tank top.
“Panties, too.”
Panties?
It’s shocking enough to make Sam raise his eyes. Dean is peeling off a pair of plain black cotton underwear—they’re not panties, they’re the same boxer briefs he’s always worn, but they look completely different. Sam stares, transfixed, as the pale skin of Dean’s hip is revealed, the long line of his legs distinctly feminine. His small, rounded breasts are bare, nipples pink and soft, and his belly is smooth and hairless, a gentle curve down to the sandy thatch of hair between his thighs.
When Sam looks up, Dean is looking right at him. He’s blushing bright red, even the tips of his ears on fire. His expression is one of humiliation; Sam feels sick to see it. He slams his eyes back down to the floor. A moment later he hears Dean turn away, and sneaks another peek. He needs to be sure nothing goes sideways. At least that’s what he tells himself.
The witch gets up and leans in close, her hands traveling over Dean’s slender shoulders, down his arms. She’s not touching him, her fingers hovering a half inch above his skin, but everywhere she almost touches, goosebumps rise in her wake. Dean’s nipples peak and he shivers, but he doesn’t move, lets her work though it looks like it’s killing him to sit still for it.
“Such nice work,” the witch is mumbling. “You should be grateful; she made you beautiful, so beautiful. It could be a gift, looking like this.”
Dean’s shaking his head, about to speak, when Mary Alice suddenly looks over at Sam.
“Could be a gift to him. He wants you, you know. Everyone wants you, pretty.”
Sam’s stomach bottoms out, icy panic gripping his insides. She knows.
Dean’s hand shoots up and catches the witch’s wrist. His eyes are hard, green flint sparking in the afternoon light. “Can you fix it?” His voice is steel, too, like he’s a fragile second away from ripping her throat out if the answer is no.
She’s smart enough to back away and make him let go before she answers.
“I cannot. But there’s no malice in it—this is a spell she thought you might want. That both of you might want. I can’t undo it. No one can.”
Dean sits perfectly still for almost a minute, only his jaw working. His hands are clasped into fists and Sam can see his body tremble.
When he finally speaks, it’s so soft Sam can barely hear it. Like he can barely force the words out.
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, but if you don’t want a bullet right between the eyes you’d better rethink that thousand dollars,” he says, and then he’s pulling on his clothes so quickly he tears the neck of his tee shirt putting it on and doesn’t even bother with his underwear. He stalks out of the house in unzipped jeans, barefoot, slamming the front door behind him.
Sam hands over the money he’s managed to amass anyway, too stunned by the witch’s words to take a chance. He scoops up Dean’s boots and underwear and climbs into the Impala beside his brother.
Dean floors it the second Sam closes the door. He drives for eight hours, until the car needs gas.
Sam tries to think of something to say, and fails every time. There are too many questions, and he doesn’t have the guts to ask any of them. What did Dean think when the witch said it was Sam who wanted this? That it was Sam who wanted him?
When had Sam’s attraction to his brother become so conscious that a fucking witch could pick it up just like that?
Is there some way this really is my fault?
It’s a ridiculous thing to think, if only because Sam’s secret fantasies never included Dean being a girl. If this was somehow Sam’s forbidden dream come true, Dean’s dick would be hard and his ass would look just like it used to.
* * *
Dean’s awake before Sam the next morning, or maybe he never slept at all. He’s sitting at the tiny table drinking a beer at 8 AM.
“Dean?”
He doesn’t even look over.
“I can’t do this anymore, Sam.”
And Sam’s heart starts to beat too fast, adrenaline rushing through him.
“Okay, look, I know this was a big disappointment…”
“It’s not just this one, Sam! It’s been disappointment after disappointment and I can’t keep—I can’t keep getting my hopes up each time and then just have them fucking crushed. I can’t, this is too—it’s too big! I know you don’t get it, you can’t get it, but it’s just—I can’t do it, Sam. I can’t.”
Sam sits down across from his brother, and Dean finally looks at him. There are dark circles under his eyes, and so much sadness there.
Sam wonders again if he’s to blame, if what the witch said has made Dean want to get as far away from his sick little brother as possible.
“What are you gonna do, then?”
It’s probably said with more fear than Sam intended to slip out, because Dean’s expression softens. It’s the same expression Sam has seen all his life, the one that says Dean will do anything to keep Sam safe. To keep Sam from hurting.
“Nothing, nothing, I—I just can’t keep fighting it day in and day out like this. If this is the way it’s gonna be, I’ve gotta try to find a way to make peace with it.”
The relief Sam feels that Dean isn’t talking about them splitting up makes his words come out in a rush. “Oh, oh—I thought—yeah, okay, if that’s what you want. Whatever you want, okay?”
Dean looks at him for a long moment, and Sam can’t tell what he’s thinking. Finally he nods and pushes the chair back.
“Okay then. I’ll be back.”
“Where—”
“Don’t worry, okay? I’ll be back.”
Sam worries. He distracts himself with trying to find more leads, with trying to find anything. He hopes someone will tell him that Mary Alice is fallible, but everyone insists she’s the best there is at curses and undoing them.
The sun is going down when he finally hears the rumble of the Impala’s engine. Sam tries to look calm so Dean won’t know he was beside himself the whole time.
That falls apart when Dean walks in the door.
Part Two
