Author: victoria p. [musesfool]
Summary: Dean wakes up a girl. This is weird, even for them.
Pairing: Sam Winchester/Dean Winchester (Sam/Girl!Dean)
Disclaimer: Sam and Dean belong to Kripke et al.
Warnings: Genderswap, incest
Notes: Thanks to laurificus and mousapelli for looking it over.
Original story: When It Was Cold Outside by la_folle_allure
Wishing Well Surprise (The Mecha-Meta Mix)
Okay, the thing you have to understand is that this is weird, even for them. And given some of the shit they've seen--like that time with the telemarketers who really were zombies, or the thing with the swamp monster who wanted to make their father its mate--that's really saying something.
Picture the scene:
Dingy room at the nearest no-tell motel, ugly green and brown patterned carpeting on the floor, ugly green and yellow polyester comforters on the beds, weak winter sunlight trying its damnedest to push through the yellow sheers on the windows, and Dean Winchester, poking out from underneath the covers to stretch and yawn as he wakes up.
But Dean knows his body really well, has been trained to be aware of it, to use it, since he was four years old, and Dean really likes his body--it's been good to him, better than he deserves probably, considering some of the shit he's put it through, and he's not even talking about hunting--and there's just one problem.
This isn't his body.
He looks down, and instead of the very broad, very manly (if he does say so himself, and we have to agree) chest he's used to seeing, he sees a pair of tits. Now, don't get him wrong, they're really nice tits--not too big, not too small, kind of perky, with nipples that are pink and totally lickable--but they're somewhere they don't belong, and that's kind of freaking him out.
"Sam?" His voice is high-pitched, girlish, again, not his at all, though he thinks he's kept most of the panic out of it. Sam's staring at him like he's, well, like he's grown a pair of tits and a twat overnight. Dean thinks it's the weight of that freaked out stare that probably woke him. "What?"
Sam swallows hard, looks like he wants to start crying. "You look like Jess," he says hoarsely, and sniffles.
There's really not enough oh, fuck in the world to cover that, is there?
Dean scrambles out of bed, clutching at the waistband of his boxers as they threaten to slide right off his newly curvy hips, and slips right into big brother (or is it big sister now?) mode.
"It's okay, Sammy. We're gonna figure this out, okay? Nothing we can't handle."
Sam reaches out, cups Dean's face tenderly, runs a thumb over his lips like he still can't believe what he's seeing. Sam's hand is huge and warm and familiar, even in this new skin, but Dean's not in the mood for comfort. He pulls away, stomps to the bathroom, arms folded under his new and bouncy breasts.
He gives himself a lingering once-over in the bathroom mirror, finds all his scars are still intact, silvery-white marks cutting through sprays of cinnamon colored freckles--the map of who he is and where he's been, though his skin is smooth and hairless now, and prickles when he touches it with long, slim fingers that end in nails painted pink.
There's no sign of the damage he took last night on the hunt, though, and Dean curses softly, because they don't know what, exactly, it was that they killed, and whatever's left of it has melted into the wet earth where they killed it.
His face is the same--eyes wide and green, lashes ridiculously long (as a girl he'd probably appreciate them more, though chicks do love to tell him how pretty they are), nose a little bent from that time he broke it playing baseball--but everything is rounder and softer. His hair is wavy and blonde and comes down past his shoulders; it makes him shiver a little when he moves, not used to the constant brush of it against his bare skin, though it's a sensation he enjoys a lot when it's someone else's hair spilling across his thighs or belly.
He tilts his head, tries to see what Sam is seeing. He only met Jess the once, and had only seen her from a distance before that, and through the haze of smoke and flame and blood after, but he doesn't think he looks like her at all, except in the generic hot blonde chick way (and he grins, because of course, he's a hot blonde as a chick--it could be no other way).
And seeing that grin in the mirror makes something click inside his head, and, well, here's the part that makes this whole thing even more fucked up than before (bet you didn't think that was even possible, but you obviously haven't spent much time with the Winchesters)--he doesn't look like Jess so much as he looks like Mom.
He realizes he can't ever tell Sammy that.
He doesn't feel so much like grinning anymore, and you can't exactly blame him, can you?
Okay, so they're demon-hunters, right? They can figure this out. Dean reckons he's been hit with some kind of crazy genderbending curse or spell, and they spend a couple hours phoning everyone they know (and a few people they don't, who hang up on them muttering threats). Nobody's got an answer, but a few folks promise to get back to them soon, which isn't good enough, but it's what they have, so Dean'll take it.
He gets tired of telling the story after the first three calls.
Here's the gist, for those of you playing along at home:
Two kids had fallen down an old well and died--one had suffocated, and one had broken her neck. It was a pattern repeated every year during the same week. The well was haunted--they'd gone in expecting a dead baby or some kind of elemental, but what they got was...well, Dean doesn't know exactly, but it went right for Sam, and Dean had stepped in the way, like he always does--reflex burned into him the night of the fire and twenty-two years of Dad's training--had shoved Sam down to the ground and took the full force of the thing's anger. It was made of mud, which meant they could kill it with a salt and burn, and they did, gagging at the stench of decay, but Sam had to half-drag, half-carry Dean back to the car, had to hold him up under the lukewarm spray of the shower to wash the mud off, and some of Dean's skin had gone with it. He'd tried to make a joke about spa treatments and facials, but he'd been shivering like he'd spiked a fever, and his teeth had chattered too much for him to get the words out.
Sam dumped him into bed and started to wrap himself around him, but Dean had held him off, too sore and achy to stand anything more than the soft touch of sheets against his skin.
And when he woke up this morning, well, you already know that part, right?
After they've run out of people to call, they hit the local K-Mart. Dean's not thrilled with the clothing choices available to him, but he settles on a pair of jeans that don't chafe too much, and a few bras, because damn, he is not used to carrying that much extra weight up front, and it's throwing him off balance, though not nearly as much as the way Sam keeps staring at him when he thinks Dean's not looking.
After the thirty thousandth time Sam slides a glance his way over the edge of the laptop screen, Dean says, "Dude, what is your damage?"
Sam makes some meaningless gesture with his hand and says, "You just..."
"Look like Jess. Yeah, I get it, Sam. I got it the first fifty times you said it."
Sam just looks sad and turns away. Dean hates making him look like that, but sometimes he can't help it.
It's not like Dean's jealous of Jess--it'd be pretty stupid to be jealous when she's dead and Dean's alive and has Sam with him--but okay, he kind of is, because Jess got to have Sam when Dean wasn't around, got to know things about him that maybe Dean doesn't, and that rankles.
Dean doesn't like to think he's a replacement for Jess, that he and Sam are fucking again because Jess is dead, and Sam can't have her anymore. If anything, he thinks, Jess was a replacement for him. And then he realizes how fucked up that is, and he tries not to think about it at all.
The night they came back from Jericho, the night Jess died, he and Sam were parked outside the apartment, fucking around in the car, Dean's hand wrapped around Sam's dick and Sam's mouth hot and wet against Dean's collarbone, both of them apologizing in the only way that's ever meant anything between them, so desperate after so long apart, and maybe if he hadn't tried to hold onto Sam like that, hadn't tried to keep him, he'd have been in time to save Jessica.
No, he can't think like that. If they hadn't been fucking around, Sam would have been there when the demon showed up, and maybe he'd be dead now too, and that's unacceptable.
Still, Dean can't help but wonder if Sam regrets it, if guilt over that is one more thing Sam's carrying, and if there's one thing Sam's really good at, it's feeling guilty. Dean knows. He's kind of a master at it himself.
Having a whole different body isn't going to deter them from fucking (hell, as far as Dean's concerned, it's an opportunity for some honest-to-God scientific research about what it feels like for girls; we think that's something more men could stand to learn), though Dean tries hard not to think about Mom or Jess when he's straddling Sam's lap, Sam's huge hands spanning his waist like a cage, then sliding up to cup his breasts, and Dean can't help but gasp and grind down against him, the sensations similar but so different in this body, wet heat flooding between his legs, cunt flexing with desperate, aching need.
"Fuck, Sam," he growls against the sweaty skin of Sam's neck, or it would be a growl except it comes out in that sweet, girlish voice, and Sam laughs breathlessly. "So fucking weird."
Sam pulls back, looks serious, concerned--not surprising, considering he's making out with his brother, but that part they're used to, mostly; it's the whole having turned into a girl thing that's throwing Dean (not to mention the whole Oedipal thing he's trying really hard not to think about), and the apparent resemblance to Jess that's throwing Sam, and okay, you really need to pay more attention if any of this is throwing you--anyway, Sam pulls back, concerned, his fingers slipping up the inside of Dean's thigh and along the elastic of his new pink bikini panties (Dean had wanted something less...pink, but Sam had insisted, and they look freaking hot, and that's what matters, right?), and asks, "But good?"
Dean wiggles, trying to get Sam's hand closer to where he wants it. "Fuck, yeah."
Sam laughs and pushes the wet cotton aside, long fingers stroking up and in, circling over Dean's clit, and it feels so good Dean can't get enough, can't do more than gasp and press down, desperate for more. "So close, so close, Sam, so close," he mutters, open mouth pressed to Sam's jaw, breathing him in, the taste of salt and skin and sex, soft stubble on Sam's cheek like rough velvet against Dean's sensitive skin.
"Gonna get you there," Sam answers, fingers thrusting and rubbing until Dean can't form words anymore, and fuck, it's more work to get off as a chick, but it's totally worth it, he thinks, as his body clamps down on Sam's hand and he comes in a rush of breathless pleasure.
He's still trembling from how good it feels when Sam tumbles him onto the bed and slides down to put his mouth where his fingers have been, not giving Dean a break at all. Sam goes down on him with an enthusiasm he rarely shows for sucking cock, and it doesn't take long at all for Dean to come again, and wow, he is never gypping a girl on this part ever again. Sam kisses him, lips slick and salty, and Dean licks the taste of himself from Sam's mouth.
He can feel Sam's dick hard against his thigh and he spreads himself wide again, urges Sam on with low words and the rough jerk of his hand, eager to be stretched and filled, and Sam obliges, fucking into him with long, quick strokes that rattle his bones.
Sam thrusts hard and Dean pushes up to meet him, nails raking down his back and heels pressing into his ass to get him as close as he can.
Pleasure's rushing in his veins, and his heart's beating so loud as his whole body clenches and shudders into orgasm that he almost doesn't hear Sam's whispered, "Oh, Jess," as he comes.
That's when Dean realizes just how fucked he really is.
Dean doesn't say no, though. He can't, not to Sam, not when he wants it so badly himself, even in this body. He's still Dean, even if he's suddenly got tits and a cunt, and he'll still take every scrap of affection that Sam is willing to give him.
They both pretend not to notice when Sam slips and calls him Jess, though Dean's nerves are wound tight after the second day, when no one's called them back with any ideas or solutions.
Sam acts like he's offering comfort, mouth hot and wet against Dean's ear, his jaw, his collarbones, tongue licking at the hollow of his throat before teasing Dean's lips open the way his long fingers tease at his cunt; Sam just has to look at him a certain way and he gets wet, learns to cross his legs and squeeze to relieve the constant low throb of need.
Sam acts like he's offering comfort, and Dean takes it, because what else can he do?
After Jess died, Dean did the same for Sam--not sex, not for the first couple of months, because Dean understands grief, respects it, because it's shaped his whole life--but the pure comfort of physical proximity. When Sam did finally want sex, Dean was happy to provide it, and since then, they've been doing all right. A few bumps in the road, but nothing some really great blowjobs couldn't fix. Or so Dean had thought. Now, he's not so sure.
By the fourth day, Dean's bored and irritated, half-convinced he's never going to get his dick back, and God, he misses it, though having a clitoris ain't too shabby. It's just not actually his, and while Dean's spent his life making do and going without, the one thing he always had was himself, and now he doesn't even have that anymore, and he won't admit it to Sam, but it's kind of freaking him out.
He wishes Sam didn't seem okay with this whole thing, but he can't say that, either, because then Sam'll get that hurt look on his face, that wounded tone in his voice, and they'll end up fucking anyway, just to make Sam feel better, and Dean will lie there afterwards wondering if Sam is fucking him or Jess (or Mom (we don't know, and honestly, we don't want to)) and if there is any level on which this is not completely and utterly fucked up.
It makes him want to cry. This stupid girl body makes him want to cry all the fucking time, and he doesn't know how women deal with it; the ache in his chest he's used to--Sam's always made him feel that way, like his heart is too big, too full, to be contained in the cage of his body--but the way his eyes well up with tears at the weirdest things is driving him crazy.
(An itemized list Dean would deny making and shoot you before showing you, but here's a sneak peek (we won't tell if you won't):
Things About Sam That Make Dean Want to Cry Like a Baby
- the way Sam smiles after he comes, wide and satisfied;
- the way Sam's face relaxes when he's asleep; he looks so innocent, and Dean wishes he could look like that all the time;
- the way Sam touches this body--with awe and reverence and a kind of nervous hesitation Dean hasn't seen from him since they first started doing this, and Sam had worried about everything--that he was doing everything wrong, that it was massively fucked up, that Dad would catch them; it's not the same way he usually touches Dean, because this is Jess's Sam and not his, and god-fucking-dammit, he is not going to cry about it.)
Dean's flipping through Dad's journal, still hoping to find some kind of answer, when the words wishing well and unseelie catch his eye.
Wishes gone wrong, paid for with the lives of children fed to hungry, angry creatures who took pleasure in granting them in the most twisted way possible.
Dean's not sure he wants to know what kind of wish did this to him (though if he had to guess, he'd say half-assed and totally fucked, considering how it's worked out), and he knows he doesn't want to know whose wish it was.
There's nothing in the journal about how to break the spell, but since they killed the thing, Dean's pretty sure the effects will go away on their own, fade like fairy magic always does. At least, that's what he keeps telling Sam. It's what he tells himself, as well.
On the seventh day, Dean spikes a fever that wakes him from a sound sleep, skin feeling like it's burning and peeling off his bones, muscles contracting in angry, spasmodic cramps that send him tumbling to the floor in agony, still tangled in the sheets. Sam, before he realizes that Dean's actually in pain and not just the world's biggest klutz, takes pictures he will later use as blackmail material (Dean "accidentally" destroys the phone, but Sam's already backed them up onto his flash drive; it's password protected, or we'd totally share); when it finally dawns on him that Dean's not joking around, he runs an ice-cold bath and dumps Dean into it.
Dean doesn't remember much after that.
He wakes again in the morning, still in the tub, the water now lukewarm and his skin all pruney, Sam's hand clutched tightly in his. Sam's leaning against the tub, long legs drawn up and head tipped forward, shoulders rising and falling as he snores softly.
Dean feels that tightness in his chest again, a soft ache compared to the torture he'd felt earlier, and he laughs at himself a little for being such a sap where Sam's concerned. He shifts, back and neck sore from spending the night in the tub, and realizes he's back in his own body, angles and planes where there'd been curves and hollows a few hours earlier, and the warm, solid weight of his dick against his thigh where there'd been slick, grasping muscle.
"Oh, thank fuck," he mutters, sliding his free hand down to get reacquainted with his dick and his balls.
Water sloshes over the side of the tub, hitting Sam's back in a way that makes him yelp and jump, and Dean didn't intend it, but he'll take whatever karmic payback he can get. He's just spent a week without his dick; he thinks he deserves a little petty revenge (and we agree).
Dean grins wide--all's right with the world again--and says, "Hiya, Sammy," and his voice is low and familiar and his.
Sam jerks away and stares at him in astonishment, and Dean feels his joy dim, though he probably should have expected something like this, given the way Sam's acted all week.
"Sam?" he says again, voice as steady as possible, no cracks in it. Show no fear, he thinks.
Sam smiles at him, and goddammit, he is not supposed to feel that sting behind his eyes now that he's himself again and can't blame it on hormones or something, but the smile is so sad and resigned all at once that he can't help it.
"I just wanted a chance to say goodbye," Sam says, and for the first time, Dean thinks he understands.
He reaches up, cups Sam's cheek gently, the only comfort he can offer. Sam turns his face, presses warm lips to the palm of Dean's hand, tongue sliding along the webbing between his fingers. He covers Dean's hand with his own when Dean tries to pull away, unsure.
"Let me," Sam says, looking at him through the uncombed mess of his bangs. "Dean, please?"
Dean's never been able to resist that.
He lets Sam lead him into the bedroom, lay him on the bed, and cover him with kisses--slow, almost tender, the same way he's been all week, except where that was goodbye, maybe this is hello.
Dean's always been an optimist.
So does the story have a happy ending?
Depends on your definition of happy.
Sam and Dean are still on the road, kicking ass and taking names, so we like to think it does. We think they'd agree.