unautremonde: (nc17)
[personal profile] unautremonde
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: incest, so don't read if that's not your cup of tea.
Disclaimer: not mine, no money made, yadayadayada.
Acknowledgements: At this point, this feels more like a team effort than anything else. So thank you to [livejournal.com profile] 4jinx_removing for reading and cheering, to [livejournal.com profile] alinewrites for being relentless, to [livejournal.com profile] simplybeing and [livejournal.com profile] castalie for making sure I had the right voices, and finally thanks to [livejournal.com profile] cupiscent for the beta. You girls rock.

Ecce Crucem Domini.

The thing about Sam being a girl is that everything is the same and then not.

Sam’s still taller, smarter and more charming than Dean feels even on his best days, and Dean’s still incapable of watching anything or anyone come close to Sam—friend or foe—without having this sudden urge to rip their heads off; of course Dean’s usual protectiveness would only be brought into sharper relief by Sam’s change.

Sam is all long legs and happy smiles, twice as efficient when it comes to seducing people into letting go of the secrets they want to keep holding onto. His face is still Dean’s brother’s face, but the lines are softer somehow, and it’s not just because when Sam blinks sleepily up at him in the morning, there is no trace of stubble on those baby soft cheeks. When Sam reaches up one slender and delicate hand to ruffle through his—her—hair, Dean can’t keep looking and has to turn away, stare out of the motel window in an effort to give Sam the privacy he’s never needed before.

They still fight, of course, the banter just as fast and easy between them as it’s been since Sam came back. Their footing is uneven though, their rhythm constantly a little off. Dean doesn’t really know why that is, whether it’s the feminine hygiene products riding alongside Sam’s knives in the old duffel bag, or if things were already like this before; whether Sam was already pissed off at him for every “Sammy” and “little brother” Dean spoke. Is Sam mad at him because of PMS or because Dean’s an overprotective jerk and an asshole?

But then…

Dean is hustling a pair of big dumb jocks, things going smoothly until Sam walks into the bar, hips swaying and dragging every single eye to the counter where he sits prettily, the skirt hiking up indecently over his thigh. Dean’s mark leers and that’s that; words are exchanged, turned into blows and Dean is clearly too drunk or too distracted or something because he ends up sprawled outside on the sidewalk, no money to show for the three hours spent inside but bruises and a black eye to add to his growing collection of hurts.

Sam walks out smiling, his big yet pretty hand wrapped around the jock’s bulging bicep and his eyelashes fluttering in an obscene manner. Dean wants to swear at him, drag him off and wipe that smirk off his face in the same way he always does, only they don’t do that anymore.

Sam coos at his knight in shining armor, smiles and says thank you before dragging his eyes over Dean’s sprawled body, silently assessing the damage. Sam’s hand is still absently caressing the guy’s arm but Dean catches the fleeting dip of Sam’s fingers under the rolled-up sleeve of the man’s shirt, expertly plucking away the money stashed there—money Dean won fair and square but lost again in the fight.

The thing about Sam being a girl is that he’s still Sam, still spitefully independent and unforgiving of his brother’s or anybody else’s bouts of manliness. The macho type is not Sam’s type, girl or not, and Dean doesn’t move, just lays his head down and closes his eyes, sulking, waiting for who knows what at this point.

If Dean could believe it would make a difference, he thinks maybe now he would pray.


It had stopped because—just like the beginning—the end had been inevitable.

They’d been in Ohio that week, just outside Columbus, working a classic exorcism and Sam had looked choked behind the white collar, trying to ignore the demon’s taunting. They didn’t really have to dress up as priests to perform the ritual but Dean had liked the cliché and anyway, he’d been pretty sure they wouldn’t have been able to gain access to the victim and do their job if they hadn’t introduced themselves as men of the cloth.

The little old woman on the bed had been looking greener by the minute, the demon inside showing more and more of itself as Sam kept chanting Latin; Ecce crucem domine, fúgite partes advérsae (*1) rolling off of college boy’s tongue as easily as if it were the words to Take me out to the ball game. Dean had been busy spraying salt and holy water, doing his best to block off the litany of insults spilling from the possessed woman’s mouth. This demon hadn’t been particularly creative, apparently going through every swearword in the dictionary in alphabetical order. It had just hit the Fs then and Dean had grinned grimly as the words spewed forth, fucking filthy fist fucker faggots… Dean would have laughed at the irony only it really hadn’t been that funny and so he’d bent forward over the bed, shoved his crucifix in the old woman’s face, happy when the demon had hissed pained curses at him.

“That’s right, you cocksucker, you’ll be rotting in hell again soon.”

That had been when the demon’s eyes had caught his, evil burning bright as day, making Dean gasp and clench his fist around the little wooden cross, splinters and blisters blossoming over the skin of his fingers as he’d desperately tried to not let go and back off. He’d pushed the crucifix closer instead, so close that he could feel the warmth of the demon’s breath ghosting over his knuckles. Sam’s voice had become louder and Dean had been able to read the pain on the woman’s features. They’d been close to success; the demon had known it, known it had pretty much lost this battle so it had lashed out, one last desperate attempt at eating its judges’ souls. The words had been barely above a whisper, yet had scorched Dean’s ears as he alone had caught them.

“Your own brother, Dean Winchester? You are more made of sin than even I am.”

And just like that it had all been over, wind sweeping through the locked room, dizziness pushing Dean away from the bed as Sam’s voice had rung Ab omni hoste visibili et invisibili et ubíque in hoc sáeculo liberetur (*2) one last time and driven the creature out and away into oblivion.

Two towns over in a dingy motel and when Sam had tried to slide his arms around Dean’s waist, Dean had growled and pushed him away.

“Not tonight, I’ve got a headache.”

Sam had laughed at the joke like he’d laughed when Dean had started humming Hell’s Bells under his breath on the way over; but Dean hadn’t meant it for a laugh, not so much then, not when he’d meant it more as not tonight, not tomorrow night, not ever again. Sam had kept asking though, once in Illinois, twice in Iowa and five times that one day they’d spent driving through Minnesota. Why, why, why? And Dean had just snapped, told him no more, don’t ask, don’t challenge it, take a fucking order for once. Sam had shut up then, hadn’t uttered another word for the next 90 miles, had waited until they were both tucked in their separate hotel beds before asking one last time.

Ab omni hoste visibili et invisibili et ubíque in hoc sáeculo liberetur, huh Dean ?”

“Yeah, Sammy. That’s exactly it.”


They don’t talk about what happened in Kansas, about Mom and what she did, how she died all over again before their eyes this time. Sam’s nightmares calm down a little and Dean’s pick up but he’s so used to them that hiding them from Sam comes naturally. Where Sam spent weeks after Jessica’s death wearing the grief and every single sleepless night on his face, Dean can just smooth his own worries over and melt them into a slightly deeper frown and rarer smiles. Either Sam doesn’t know him as well as he knows Sam or Dean can really look like nothing ever hits too close to home because life just goes on and it’s business as usual.

But that’s on the surface. Inside Dean is breaking a little more with each new case, with each more graphic nightmare of Mom and Sam and losing everything all over again. Dean spent weeks on his own, convinced he could make it, but he was wrong. He’s maybe not quite ready to say that out loud yet but he can at least admit it to himself. Having Sam with him helps more than just for dealing with ghosts and monsters and evil things of all caliber.

Still, they don’t talk. Dean believes talking is overrated which, the one time grief comes up in the conversation, Sam points out is probably only one of the many ways Dean is so much like Dad. Sam always said Dean was their father’s son more so than he ever was himself. Partly that was anger talking and partly that was because Dean never had any trouble following the old man’s rules and passing them on as Sam was growing up. Dean is a good little soldier, Dean doesn’t talk back, doesn’t ask for advice, doesn’t take no for an answer, doesn’t develop weaknesses like girls and friends and dreams of independence from this lifestyle he’s grown into; even when he does, he never lets them tie him down. Dean lives for the hunt and in that is and always was what Dad wanted him to be, and that’s what makes him Dad’s spitting image in Sam’s eyes.

Yet Dean knows better. He knows he’s less like John Winchester than Sam realizes. Dad is driven, purposeful and dedicated to the point of being obsessed, but Dad knows what he needs to be doing with his life because that’s what he chose for himself. That the choice was made out of grief doesn’t really matter because ultimately it was his choice and his choice alone. Dean does what he does because that’s all he knows and would rather not question it. What else could he be doing knowing the things he does? He didn’t choose and it never occurred to him that he could.

Sam on the other hand… whether his dreams were unrealistic or not isn’t something that he ever stopped to think about; not once he’d made up his mind about college anyway. Dean might never confess to it but he’s proud, damn proud, of his brother’s accomplishments. If he’s really honest he can even admit that he also feels guilty for pulling him away from a life he’d chosen, one so different from the one he’d been raised to believe would always be his only option. But then he remembers Jessica’s death and Sam’s resolve and he knows that Sam would not be with him if he hadn’t decided. If one of them is more Dad’s son than the other, chances are it’s not Dean, even if only Dean realizes that.

When the nightmares wake him up and he’s screaming silently into his pillow, fear clutching at his lungs making him feel like he’s drowning, desperately trying to claw his way back from a devouring black hole of hurt and doubt, it’s not the certainty that what they’re doing is right that can help calm him down. The lack of options doesn’t help, the knowledge that there is no other way can only choke him further… until he hears it, hangs on to the sound and starts breathing in the same pattern, following Sam’s every breath with one of his own. Sam’s presence is the validation Dean doesn’t want to admit he needs more than anything else, more than money to eat, more than a new case to give him purpose, more than even Dad at his side.

Having Sam with him makes it easier for Dean to breathe.


Dean doesn’t remember what state they’re in this week but he can at least say they’re somewhere that’s not south, not Texas or Florida or any of the warmer states. They’re definitely somewhere up north because his back is fucking freezing from lying here on the cold asphalt and if he opens his eyes again, he knows he’ll be able to see his breath puff out in little clouds and hover ominously above his lips. He’s not opening his eyes though, he’s not moving either; he’s just letting the cold seep through his leather jacket and numb the aches from the fight. He’ll need the numbness to face Sam.

Something hard and heavy settles on his chest and Dean finally looks up, past Sam’s boot and up Sam’s slim leg. His eyes follow up the curves, around a slightly bony knee to the fuller rounder shape of Sam’s thigh—disturbingly familiar even in fishnets—to finally plunge into the dark warm space where skirt meets skin. Sam presses his boot a little harder, grinds the heel and makes Dean wince.

“Ow! Watch out, I’ve got enough bruises as it is, fucker.”

“And whose fault is that, asswipe?”

Dean brushes his brother’s—sister’s?—foot aside and drags himself upright, biting down on the easy retort; yours, asshole. Sam is glaring, hands on hips and foot tapping against the pavement. The girl before Dean looks every bit like the wet dreams he used to have at fifteen: all legs and attitude, short short skirt and tanned skin, teeth biting at a too pretty red mouth. It takes every ounce of willpower Dean can muster to keep from staring, though it doesn’t help him catch his breath. He wobbles slightly, feels his stomach cramp painfully and wonders if maybe there was one beer too many and he’s about to pay for more than his misplaced chivalry. Hands on his knees, his breath is coming short and his eyes are closing once more, as if since nothing can seem to make the world right it was just easier to never look again.

Sam’s hand on his back jolts him back to himself and he feels the heat of it through layers of cold, leather and cotton. He gasps and starts dry heaving, spitting nothing but anger and pain on the sidewalk.

“Dean? Are you ok?”

Sam’s voice is higher and thinner but the concern sounds the same, anger replaced by what Dean has learned to recognize as fear. Girl or boy, Sam does concern like no one else. But Dean can tell the difference between the soft-spoken sympathy Sam feels towards other grieving victims of evil, and the much sharper and more painful worry he feels when someone he cares about is in danger or pain. Sam’s worry cuts through the last of Dean’s numbness and he sighs, shakes the hand off and stands up, stepping away from Sam. He doesn’t even look at him, doesn’t look back at the hot girl who’s no more his sister than she is his brother. He’s confused and aching and all he wants is a shower and a clean bed, preferably in that order.

“I’m fine. Can we go back to the motel now?”

Sam doesn’t answer, just follows him to the car, doesn’t even try to argue when Dean opens the door on the driver’s side and slides in behind the wheel. Dean’s not drunk but he’s had enough that any other day Sam would be wrestling him for the keys. They make the drive back in chilly silence and when they’re finally back in the room, Dean doesn’t pause on his way to the shower.

For the first time in months, Dean locks the door of the bathroom behind him.


It had started because it had to. At least it was what Dean would tell himself every morning afterwards, when he woke to the sound of the shower and the sight of the undisturbed bed next to the one where he’d be lying in rumpled sheets.

Necessity. That was what their life was all about. The necessary battle of good against evil, Dad’s teachings engraved deep down like the words of the prophet set in stone. But Dean was only human and even when he knew what he had to do he could never quite keep all the doubts at bay. Was he a savior or a killer? An angel or a demon of death?

Sam was just as tainted by this necessity, this desperate way of living from one kill to another; only there was still some innocence left in him where in Dean there was none. Or maybe not quite innocence but at least hope and the belief that all this would eventually lead to something better. Whatever it was, it brightened Sam’s smiles just a little bit more, had made them more sincere than Dean’s when they’d been talking to the local pastor about monsters and evil and the rapture which was coming any day now, yes boys, get ready for it. Sam had laughed softly, genuinely amused; Sam might have made Dean laugh on a regular basis but Dean couldn’t remember him laughing like this in a long while.

Maybe that was why later, back in their room—both of them tired and covered in soot—Dean hadn’t been able to help himself, had had to taste Sam’s mouth, swallow his giddy laughter in a rush of adrenaline-driven kisses. Sam hadn’t kissed back immediately, had gone still and quiet under Dean’s mouth. It had only served to make Dean’s kisses more urgent, more desperate, more eager for a response which had come finally, Sam grasping his shoulders and thrusting up into Dean’s embrace.

Their first time had been over fast, Dean pushing Sam against the wall and not bothering with taking off clothes or even reaching skin. Pressure and friction had been enough and when Sam had finally kissed him back, his teeth tugging on his lower lip, Dean had shuddered and come to the rhythm of Sam’s urgent whispers of Dean, Dean, Dean!

Dean didn’t do guilt. In his line of work, guilt was as much a luxury as fear; though fear could at least sometimes help you to stay alive. Guilt was just likely to get you killed. But when in turn Sam had come undone under his hands, Dean had worried that maybe this time he had gone too far, that he’d managed to fuck up the last thing in his life that had kept him going forward.

Sam had disappeared into the bathroom and Dean had just dropped into bed, hidden under the covers the way he had when he’d still been scared of the bogeyman—before Dad had slain the fucker before their eyes. When Sam had come out again and called his name softly, Dean had pretended to be asleep; there were consequences he didn’t want to face just yet and with his eyes shut tight against the light and reality, he had fallen into a fitful sleep.

He’d woken up later in a cold sweat, shuddering and breathing harshly, the nightmare still sharp and fresh and rushing through his veins. He hadn’t heard his brother get up and when the bed had dipped under Sam’s weight he’d tensed, his hand under the pillow, his fist wrapped tightly around the handle of his gun. Sam had draped himself around and over him though, reaching under the pillow too, his hand warm against Dean’s chilled fingers, coaxing them into relaxing and letting go.

“What were you dreaming about?” Sam had asked, his voice low and his breath warm against the nape of Dean’s neck. Dean had remembered another day, another conversation, their roles reversed and he’d relaxed into Sam’s arms.

“Lollypops and candy canes.”

Sam had chuckled sleepily, his nose nudging against Dean’s ear. “Freak.”

“Runs in the family.”

“Go to sleep, asshole.”

So Dean had, because if there was one thing he’d learned in all those years spent chasing his and Dad’s demons, it was that it’s always easier to not fight the inevitable.


Sam takes to the whole girl thing like a fish to water.

Well, no, that’s not quite what happens; at least not right away. There’s freaking out at first, a healthy amount of it. Dean wakes to the sound of his brother retching and he has a moment of sheer panic at the thought that Sam’s in the next bed, pulling a Linda Blair, his head doing a 360. He’s already reached for the crucifix and the bottle of holy water when he realizes that the sound is coming from the bathroom, along with a string of curses that could sound like a demon but really only ring like Sam’s fear.

Dean doesn’t notice the change right away because when he steps inside, Sam has his back to him, his shoulders hunched and his hands gripping the edge of the sink tightly. Sure, the fuller hips and narrower shoulders could have tipped him off, only Dean knows that you never see what you’re not looking for, especially if it’s something that you would never think could exist in the first place. Most people don’t see the things they don’t want to see even when they’re staring them in the face, but Dean’s not most people and Sam turns around and wow.

Sam has boobs.

And it’s just out of this world, way beyond anything else Dean’s seen because there’s a girl here and she looks like Sam, she curses like Sam, even sounds like Sam to a certain extent—her voice thinner and not as deep as Dean’s used to but yeah. So it’s Sam but it’s not and confusion spills over and Dean’s... freaking out.

Sam is too, frantically pulling jeans on, jeans which only yesterday were hanging low on his hips and are now just a little too snug.

“Fuck, Dean. You’ve got to change me back. We’ve got to find a way because this is just way fucked up, man, and…”

Sam is turning and turning, looking for a shirt that won’t pull tight over his breasts, won’t ride up in front and make him look like a tease. Dean can see that it’s not just the shirt which is coming apart at the seams and so he shakes himself off, pulls himself together and tries to calm Sam down, to make him settle and slip into Dad’s old college sweater which is so old and worn and just big enough that it will fit even Sam’s new tits.

Sam’s vibrating under Dean’s hands, panic-stricken, nerves left raw with confusion and fear and Dean isn’t entirely sure he knows what he’s doing anymore, whether it’s helping or not. He’s whispering soothing words the way he remembers doing years ago when Sam would wake up crying from a nightmare and they were alone in the house.

“Come on Sammy, come on little brother…”

The blow takes him by surprise; he falls to the floor, kisses the dirty motel carpet hard before rolling over and wincing up at Sam who’s standing there, teeth clenched and eyes blazing.

“What the fuck, Sammy?”

“It’s Sam. I am NOT a fucking kid.”

There’s a moment of tense silence, both of them glaring and refusing to back down first. The showdown is a little unfair on Dean of course. His ass is on the floor with Sam towering over him like a pissed off giant; Dean’s elbow and his face are sore from the fall and the blow respectively and he shakes his head at the tableau they’re making, nervous bitter laughter bubbling inside his chest and raising to his lips.

“You’re a fucking girl though.”

“But do I hit like one?”

Dean can hear that Sam is still on edge, his nerves still frayed even hiding behind that mocking grin. Sam’s only barely halfway to relaxing, his voice still ringing with residue anger, so Dean shrugs, tries to diffuse his words with a trademark smirk he knows will only be made cockier by the bruise he can feel blooming on his cheekbone.

“You’ve always hit like a chick.”

There’s another moment of flickering tension where Dean braces himself for more rage and maybe a few kicks, but then Sam seems to be breathing again, fists unclenching and shoulders sagging in relief. Dean smiles and nods because yeah, this is fucked up and it’s maybe not true that he’s ever seen anything weirder than his little brother turning into his little sister, but he can cope, he can take it, they both can and even find a solution in the process. Sam smiles too, even through the remaining tension and anger which he visibly hasn’t been able to shake completely, and Dean bites down hard on the need to say something reassuring again, something he’s pretty sure would sound patronizing anyway. He picks himself up, dusts himself off and grabs Dad’s journal before heading for the door.

“Come on, beautiful. Let’s go get food and then maybe we can do something about your wardrobe. You ever been to Victoria’s Secret?”

Sam doesn’t answer right away, just grabs the keys and heads for the car, sits behind the wheel and still pushes the seat back to fit his long limbs. When he speaks his voice is husky and warm and drips both honey and acid.

“I bet I look hot in garters.”

Because Sam’s adaptable, if nothing else, and he takes to the whole girl thing like a fish to water. It’s only Dean who’s left flailing on the shore, gasping for breath, the water just out of his reach.


Dean’s world shifts again just North of Boise, lines criss-crossing and rearranging themselves around Sam in blues and blood red and Dean jerks awake, his hand grasping at air and fuck. The nightmares weren’t as bad before Columbus, at least they weren’t bleeding over like they are now that he’s awake and he can see Sam standing over him again, blue and red stripes slanting across his chest.

Dean blinks slowly, rubs sleep and hallucinations from his eyes tiredly, only when he looks again Sam’s still here, still looking at him intently with lines across and over and highlighting the fact that yeah, this is Sam and not a girl.


And Sam moves, walks closer and crouches next to Dean’s hand hanging over the edge of the mattress. “Yeah Dean, I’m back,” breathed into Dean’s mouth. Because this isn’t a dream, this isn’t a hallucination and Sam’s really here and whole and fucking beautiful in the light from the neon sign outside their window.

So then it starts again, as inevitable as the first time only slow, Sam sprawling over him, Dean clinging to his shoulders, digging his fingers and his heels in, anchoring his brother to his skin. Because there’ll be skin this time, a whole fucking lot of it where Sam’s hands are pushing Dean’s T-shirt up and around Dean’s stretched-back wrists, trapping Dean’s hands above his head and taking charge.

Sam bites and licks and gives Dean no space to even squirm, pins him down and under him, drives him mad and then does it all over again. Dean just hangs on, waits for his demons to quiver and die, at least for now, while Sam slays them in a few strong strokes, a few swirls of his tongue. His T-shirt still binding his wrists, his boxers now at his ankles, Dean is trapped and can do nothing but surrender, let himself feel the sweep of Sam’s mouth over his hipbones, the wet drag of Sam’s tongue on the underside of his cock.

Even when Dean’s coming, shaking all over and losing his breath, Sam doesn’t relent, just drags the boxers off and Dean’s legs up over his shoulders, kisses his thighs, dips his fingers in come and sweat and pushes inside. One finger, two, and Dean’s hard again, giving up control entirely, giving in completely. Sam doesn’t waste time, replaces his fingers with his dick, pain flaring briefly but even that is ok with Dean. They’ve never done it like this before and they weren’t doing this anymore anyway but when Sam starts moving—his thrusts shallow at first until Dean urges him on, asks for more, come on, come on—Dean knows there are no Latin prayers that can drive this away now. He frees his hands and brings them down around Sam’s neck, pulls him closer and kisses him, all wet tongue and nipping teeth.

Sam comes first, breaking their kiss and dropping his forehead to his brother’s shoulder, shaking over the edge silently the way he always does. Dean knows this, knows the way Sam comes, knew it for a long time and missed it when he didn’t know it any longer. So he watches, drinks the sight in, hangs on to it as he drops a hand to his own cock and starts jerking himself to completion. Sam’s head is still bent, his eyes still closed but his hand finds its way to Dean’s, wraps around and over and accompanies the movement, their entwined fingers squeezing and pulling and Dean’s coming on a long breathless moan.

Hours later or maybe just minutes, sticky beneath the sheets and sleepy, Dean buries his face in his pillow, smells Sam there and sighs contentedly. Sam rolls over, slips an arm around his waist and squishes his face against his back, mumbles something that could be love ya or you’re hogging the covers; is probably the latter. Dean smiles into the pillow.

“I missed you, man.”

Sam remains silent long enough that Dean starts drifting, his eyelids as heavy as his limbs. Then Sam shifts again, his lips painting words on the skin of Dean’s back.

“I know.”


“But Dad said I could try!”

There’s just the hint of a whine in his brother’s voice and Dean smirks, looks down at the kid and makes sure he puts all the weight of his 10 years into his stare and his smirk. Sam’s pouting, of course. Big baby that he is.

“You’re too young. You can try it when you’re old enough, kiddo.”

“Dean! I’m not a kid!”

“Sure you are.”

“Well, so are you!”

“Am not.”

“Are too!”

There’s a scuffle then, a short-lived one because Sam’s so small, it’s really easy for Dean to throw him down, climb on his back and give him a wedgie. Daddy’s baby shouts and starts crying, crawls up from under Dean and starts running like the wuss that he is.


Dean smirks and picks up the BB gun, aims it at the tree and shoots one more time before turning back to the house and Sam already clinging to Dad’s pants’ leg. He scowls and draws in a big breath, shouting loud enough for every kid in the neighborhood to hear.

“Sam Winchester, you are such a girl!”


(*1) “Behold the Cross of the Lord; be scattered hostile powers” (from Prayer to St Michael the Archangel)
(*2) “From every enemy both visible and invisible and everywhere in this lifetime be freed” (from Prayer to St Michael the Archangel)
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November 2011

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