(c)2006 you know.
What part of genderswap/het/slash/'cest/NC-17 did you not hear? Run! Run!
You steal my heart
And curse under your breath.
--Angels and Airwaves, Do It For Me Now
Yeah, there were only so many places he'd be.
Sam lucked out on the first bar he checked, if anyone could call it luck since he knew Dean. He tried to fight down the relief he felt at seeing him. There he was at the pool table, charm turned up full wattage. All the same things that annoyed Sam were causing other people to eat out of Dean's hands. There was enough confidence in the way he stood to one side with a cue in his hands to set Sam's teeth on edge. Small suggestive brushes of his fingertips along the length of it made things worse. And the look on his face - the faintest smirk, eyes a little hooded, watching everybody around him. He kept leaning over the table like he was hoping someone would throw him on it and do whatever came to mind.
Sam stood against the wall to watch for several minutes and reminded himself that it annoyed him because it was a contrivance. He got tired of seeing the Many Faces of Dean Winchester when there was really only one honest one that had to be startled out of him to be seen.
He tugged his top down a little, some blue stretchy thing that seemed to hug his new curves just right. He was suddenly conscious of the perils associated with owning cleavage, and he tried not to stalk to the bar. He never thought he'd miss his height, but he'd been carrying it with such practiced ease for so long and it was hard to adjust to the change in just a matter of hours. He was maybe 5' 5" by his estimation without the shoes, no longer wow look at the size of that kid , no longer Sam-tall.
He had to take an extra second to hike himself onto a barstool instead of lowering himself for once, and that was hilarious. He ordered a beer and then, with audible resignation, asked the bartender to send the jackass in the gray Jimi Hendrix t-shirt at the pool table one of whatever he was having. He would get this over with. He'd done scarier things.
But not fucking your brother, right Sam?
Losing Dean would be scarier. He could do this.
Dean would finish his current round at the table while flirting with anything that had opposable thumbs, then he would saunter up and lean over the bar next to Sam. His tone of voice would make Sam want to kill him. Dean would say something like 'looking for a ride?' or 'you have great taste and I bet you taste great' or something else just as awful and Sam would use all his restraint not to pop him right in the head. Dean would come over and lower his voice to something a little smoky and lean his hips against the bar and Sam would have to remember that it usually worked . On women who weren't even drunk .
Sam put his first beer down like he was still 6' 5" and when he felt his head float free of his shoulders a little he realized he'd forgotten to factor in his new weight ratio. Well, he couldn't think of everything. But he waved off an offer of a second beer because some coherent sentence structure might be necessary to get Dean to take him back to the motel, and -
Jesus. In a sidecar-driven chariot . He was going to sleep with Dean. This was nuts, the whole thing was nuts.
He actually smelled Dean just before he saw him - what the hell - and it vaguely occurred to him that women had a sharper sense of smell than guys did, okay whatever, and as Dean came right up behind, Sam recognized him. A hint of leather even though his jacket was off. The cologne and aftershave he used. Just a suggestion of clean sweat because it was too warm in there, and that last was something Sam knew already but it hit him as something more than familiar. There was something under it that made Sam pause because it was like he was finally realizing that Dean was male . Not just 'brother' or 'guy in my space all the time' but male. Male from the perspective of someone who was not, at the moment. Something a little sweetly musky and not just Dean but hey, Dean as a sexual being.
Dean leaned into view, one elbow on the bar supporting most of his weight because he could so casually show off a ripple of muscle that way. Fingers interlaced, face holding a bit of interested amusement until Sam met his eyes. Then there was an instant of concern there, gone so fast that Sam could have passed it off if he wasn't so tuned in to waiting for the slightest slip of the mask. He watched Dean tilt his head fractionally and quirk his brows. Nothing defensive, just a moment of honest inquiry.
Did he have to smell so good? Did he? Bastard.
Whatever suggestive thing Dean had meant to open with was gone. "Do I know you?"
Sam felt himself freeze and hoped nothing showed on his face. God, Dean knew him no matter what. He was blowing this without even opening his mouth.
"Not yet," Sam said, dropping his eyes to Dean's mouth to keep him from seeing anything else. Wow, was that the beer and hormones talking or did Dean have the most fascinating lower lip? Was he totally female, then, estrogen and everything? Because this was bullshit, he'd never noticed any of that before.
Well, of course not. He shouldn't have.
It was suddenly the funniest thing ever, being female enough to get all kinds of random insight but not female enough to know how to act like one.
Oh, now Dean was being concerned. First, he'd managed to trip Dean's recognition-meter, and now his freak-meter was going off.
Note to self, Sam thought. I really suck at picking up guys.
"I'm great," he said. "You know, sooner or later those idiots at the table are going to realize you're not quite human. Then the villagers will revolt. Torches, boiling oil, the whole thing."
Dean snorted. Still on his guard, but interested.
"Look, this is totally unlike me," Sam said, going straight for the cliche' and barely able to keep a straight face, "...and you're probably some kind of serial killer, but you're hot enough that I'll take the chance."
Dean did laugh, then. "You're not big enough for me to make a girl-suit out of, so don't worry," he said.
Girl suit. Sam found himself cracking up, and it turned out his new laugh was adorable, not that lunatic crow's-call he'd been sporting since puberty. Of all the references Dean could make, he had to talk about girl suits.
"It doesn't have to put the lotion in the basket," Dean said.
Sam lost it. "Oh, my God," he said. He'd have to go in for the kill soon or just run away laughing. "You're hot and funny, so, you're either married or gay. Which is it?"
Dean held his left hand up so that the back was visible. "No ring," he said.
"Like that means anything," Sam said, still laughing.
"It does to my dad," Dean said, and the look on his face immediately after indicated he hadn't meant to say it and his guard was down a little and he wasn't sure why.
Sam quit laughing then and saved Dean from the awkward moment by creating one even more awkward. "Gay then, I guess."
Dean tilted his head and quirked his brows and mouth into what Sam recognized as the beginnings of pique. Had Sam still been Sam he'd have gotten a shove and instructions to go fuck himself. Had he been any other guy, there would have been some really choice insult and an invitation to get his ass kicked right there or in the parking lot, dealer's choice. Had he been in a female form that didn't match Dean's basic criteria or hadn't already startled him somehow, Dean would be messing around a moment longer and then taking a pass. Button-pushing was not something Dean looked for in a girl. A challenge, sure, he loved that, but he could find bullshit anywhere and rarely was he in the mood for it.
Sam just couldn't resist.
"You trying to pick me up, you have one weird-ass way of doing it," Dean said.
"Told you already this was unlike me," Sam said. "And I've got a feeling it's usually a little too easy for you. Plus, there's no way you don't already belong to somebody."
That head-tilt happened again, Dean out of his element but too amused to back off. He opened his mouth to say something and thought better of it and settled for chuckling under his breath instead, and Sam would have given anything to know what it was. "Not by definition," he said finally.
"That's loaded," Sam said, trying to figure out what Dean really meant and whether it was a smokescreen or a case of Dean not caring what he revealed to a stranger he'd never see again. Sam had this one chance to get a bird's eye view of how other people saw his brother, what he gave away, what he guarded. Dean was trying to front and was failing and looked confused over it. It was one of the weirdest moments of insight Sam had ever managed to get. "On the other hand," he said, "I'm not. Loaded. Or belonging to anybody. Dude, what's a girl gotta do to get a beer in this place?"
He was going to need to be a bit drunker to do this. Stuck in a girl's body? Check. Contemplating fucking his brother, as a girl? Check. Doing it over a threat? Strike three. Maybe tequila was in order.
What if he never changed back? What if it left him this way?
Second beer in hand, he hopped off the barstool and said, "C'mon, Dean, we need a booth." Oops. Girl shoes + beer = floor a little further away than he'd thought. Girl shoes were worse than bras. What the hell was it all for?
"How'd you know my name?" Dean said.
Fuck. Way to go, Sam thought. "Bartender told me," he said. "I'm Marissa." Not a lot of thought put into that one, it was the name of one of the main characters in the last movie he'd seen on cable. He patted Dean on the chest and flipped his own hair before sticking a hand out for Dean to shake. Dean's expression had settled back to amusement and Sam was glad he'd guessed right. Dean had no real reason to be using an alias, at least where his first name was concerned. It told Sam that yeah, Dean might be hustling, but it was low-key low stakes hustling, marking time before leaving town. "Dean what?"
"Winchester," Dean said without hesitation, still shaking Sam's hand, still looking at Sam (down at him, that hadn't happened in about a decade) as if sizing him up, and Sam had to laugh to mask his shock. Got the whole name, had Dean hook, line and Winchester .
"Like the rifle?" Sam said, because he'd heard it a thousand times and it never stopped being funny.
Dean smirked. They had yet to stop shaking hands.
"You couldn't come up with a better fake name than that?" Sam said, trying to look up at him with all the wide-eyed innocence he could muster. He took a swig of beer. Dean's expression was back to what is your problem but Sam was also picking up and why am I playing along , and loved it.
So sad that he'd never be able to share this adventure. Well, parts of it anyway.
Sam took off for a booth and knew Dean was following. In several ways.
"So you're driving around the country on a road trip with your younger brother," Sam said. "Something...usually happens to people to make them want to do something like that. Siblings are a pain in the ass."
Dean grinned. "Well, yeah."
Beer number three. Sam discovered that beer made him horny in girl-form. He tried to think about how maybe it had something to do with volume, or fat-to-muscle ratio, or some biological thing, but really who gave a shit? This was fun. He'd be serious and worry about stuff later. Later, later. They were sharing an order of nachos at Sam's insistence even though he wasn't hungry because he didn't want Dean trying to buy him dinner. It was too much like a date.
"Something did happen," Dean was saying. "Sam, uh...there was a fire. And he lost his girlfriend. So maybe a little change of scenery is good for awhile. Kind of get his mind on other things."
That goddamn sincere tone, telling a half-truth that sounded like a story.
"Where is he?" Sam said.
"Visiting friends," Dean said. "Doesn't hurt him to get away from me every now and then, either."
Sam nodded. He felt a little mushy all of a sudden. "You sound like a good brother, Dean."
Dean shrugged and wrapped his hands around his beer bottle. "Not as good as I could be," Dean said. "Sam's a good guy. Smart, funny, good with everybody. He gets things in ways I don't, sees stuff better. Sometimes I wish I was more like him."
A mouthful of beer sprayed across the table at Dean, who straightened and leaned away, startled.
Sam scattered for napkins, apologizing as he went. "Jesus, I'm sorry. I mean, who talks about their little brother that way? You're like...you're amazing."
He looked at Dean across the table. His brother's eyebrows were still raised.
"We should just get you out of those wet clothes," Sam said.
Sam declared the Impala a sweet ride and praised Dean on his kickass taste in music. He was drunk, and wearing another form entirely, so it was okay this once.
"Hang out with me, Dean," drunk-girl Sam said. "You're cool."
"Vanilla or chocolate?"
"Nectarines or peaches?"
"David Lee Roth or Sammy Hagar?"
Sam laughed. "Man, Hagar has to go . Like, march him to Mars or something."
They were driving around listening to music and talking about nothing. Like they used to. Only now Sam wasn't Sam and couldn't quite figure out why it was different.
"Don't you have to check in with somebody?" Dean said.
"No," Sam said. "Plus, if you get weird I can kick your ass."
Sam was sassy when he was drunk.
When Dean snorted at that, Sam said, "I'm more than you can handle, tough guy." Dean quit laughing when Sam added, "Are you gonna kiss me? Because I want to know what that's like."
Dean pulled over and turned the headlights off but left the engine running. Then he leaned over and waited to be met halfway. Sam only hesitated a moment before closing the distance and tilting his face in.
It had been some time since he'd last kissed anybody, and he was wasted, but if he didn't think about it, if it was just a kiss, it was good. It was the kind Sam usually knew to lay on girls he'd just met, friendly and kind of searching. Respectful but with lips parted enough to say there's a lot more if you come and get it. Yeah, like that. Dean had a mouth that fit his just so, silky with a lot of steel underneath and I'm pretty sure the rest of you is like that.
"Like what," Dean whispered, lips just millimeters away.
Sam opened his eyes to look. It was too dark to see more than the vaguest outlines. Had he said that aloud?
Christ. No worse than finding himself wearing girl-parts and making out with his brother. In the car.
Just pretend it isn't Dean.
Right. Kind of hard to ignore that.
Either he was drunker than he thought, or the thing with ice-eyes had messed with his head, because it just wasn't as big of a deal as he'd thought. Dean would never know and Sam would have no one to try and forgive but himself.
The only answer he had was to lean in and press a stranger's mouth to Dean's, nibble his lower lip and get in past teeth until they were breathing each other's air and tasting alike. Maybe that little bit of fear that lurked in the back of Sam's mind about the unknown, about what might happen no matter what he did, was a turn-on. He could psychoanalyze himself later when things didn't feel so goddamn good. He got his hands into Dean's hair and meant everything he did with a mouth that wasn't even really his. Dean had just the right amount of pressure in all the right places, and what he was doing with his tongue had to count as fucking, no matter who you asked. So when Sam ended up straddling Dean's lap it wasn't his fault. Kind of an interesting shock to suddenly remember skirt and whoa, it rode up, leaving a thin layer of something silky between him and the roughness of denim stretched taut across Dean's thigh. Tighter yet in one particular area.
Okay. That was weird, but felt damn good, and, hey. In for a penny, in for a pound. He didn't remember purposely moving anything below the waist in response, but he must have because it got even better and then Dean had both hands on Sam's ass and had pulled him in a little tighter. One of them made a back-of-the-throat sound and Sam wasn't sure who it was, but it translated to yeah, right there.
Also kind of hard to grow up right in each other's space and not know all the vulnerable spots. So it was probably in the interest of making it more of a done deal when Sam dropped his face to Dean's throat and shoved nimbler hands right under both flannel and t-shirt. Nails trailed right under the last rib on either side, and Dean bucked underneath Sam and sucked in a breath between clenched teeth.
Sam suddenly found himself sitting shotgun again instead of eight seconds from first place in the Winchester rodeo. How the hell did that happen? Oh yeah. He weighed a lot less and Dean was really good at wrangling the female form.
"Got a little more in mind than pulling a fast one in the car," Dean said. He had one palm flat against the ceiling and the other elbow propped against the back of the seat. Sam was torn between being grateful for not having enough light to see more than a flash of teeth and missing out on what it looked like when Dean was really keyed up for something besides a hunt. "Don't you?"
"Yeah," Sam said, not bothering to straighten that damn skirt. Now he was gonna be a gentleman. Shit.
"Awkward," Sam said, and laughed when Dean did. He wasn't supposed to get through to him, goddamnit, this was a one night stand with all kinds of strings attached.
Still. He was drunk enough to think about it being his only chance to get through. Also, yelling 'no, you're gonna fuck me right here' didn't seem to be the best way to handle things. Other circumstances, maybe. Like an alley during Mardi Gras. Oh well.
"So, where are you staying?" Sam said.
Another flash of teeth. Then Dean turned back to switch the headlights on.
Sam heard him say the name of their motel but was already talking over him in feigned panic. "Jesus, your brother's not gonna walk in on us, is he?"
"Nah," Dean said, pulling off the shoulder. "He's not due back until tomorrow afternoon."
Sam slid back across the seat until they were thigh to thigh, resting his head against the outside of Dean's shoulder. Christ. He really was shorter in girl-form. He slid his right hand under Dean's shirt again, fingertips drawing patterns along his solar plexus. Muscles tensed under skin soft enough to make Sam think silk, over steel again and he simply blamed it on beer because it was just so convenient.