I was a taller girl too, once. (regala_electra) wrote,
I was a taller girl too, once.

Supernatural, Double Feature (SPN/RHPS Crossover, Sam/Dean, NC-17, 2/2)

Supernatural, Double Feature (The Winchester Horror Picture Show)
Pairings: Sam/Dean, Sam/Frank, Dean/Frank, Sam/Columbia; NC-17

Summary, Author’s Notes, etc. can be found back in Part One. Artwork by ignited

Part Two

He’s shoved into a room, all dark, the lights switched on and the door closed, locked shut, before he can blink twice—it’s pink, red, mauve, frilly lace and lots of curtains. Victorian, or something, Sam forces himself to think when he’s sinking down tiredly on the bed, stretches out his legs.

It’s a big bed, a rare thing, something he’s thankful for—and thinks on that, something mundane, pushes out the weird feeling in his gut. Sam is drowsy but can’t bring himself to sleep, doesn’t want to think of what’s gone on and what’ll happen when his eyes shut. Like, will he wake up a thousand years later and find the skeleton of Dean wearing nothing but cobwebs and boxers and then Sam would go insane?

Thoughts like this doesn’t help when the room’s nauseously girly—Victorian.

Like bad karma or clockwork, Sam isn’t sure, Dean walks in, a shadow obscured by the four poster bed curtains. “Dude, this place is messed up. We gotta get out of here. This whole deal, it ain’t our kind of thing.”

“Dean,” Sam starts, harsh whisper, sitting up, “I think this is our kind of thing. Except the singing. The singing’s new for us.”

And that’s when Dean pushes through the curtain, all shadows, moving too quickly. Gets on top of Sam, straddling him, robe billowing around the both of them.

And, uh, what—

Sam can’t see anything in the dark, can’t even squeak, feels his breath go out of him in this choked gasp when Dean leans forward, his hand on Sam’s face, fingertips against his brow, temple, palm on his cheek.

It’s warm and inviting, feels familiar, and Sam’s too shocked to talk, doesn’t want to, he realizes, thinks it’ll break this funk, this thing, wisps of illicit elements, forbidden, wrong.

Barely a moment passes when Dean’s angling his head, and like that, a switch flips in Sam’s brain, dark voice that isn’t anything like the strange chorus following them around, his own voice, reasoning, sure this is wrong, but I’m in the mood to break a few rules.

Mouth sliding against his, steals a breath and he’s just fixed on automatic, hand goes up, easy as anything, cradling a cheek. Too slick, wet, opening, the tongue’s too fierce. Too sure.

Too not Dean.

Sam’s hand reaches higher, fingers fumble, pushes back, pulls back a clump, a wig of fake hair, gasps out—kind of stupidly, but, give a man some credit, he is kind of dazed here, certainly has to be some kind of spell he’s under—“You’re not Dean!”

Thing is, he wonders why he’s so disappointed that it isn’t Dean.

“I’m afraid so, Sam,” Frank says, garish stripe of lipstick ringing his teeth in the dark, Sam should’ve noticed—trained to be aware of things—that’s, oh, that’s kissing his neck, open sucking kissing, mouth pulls back and he smiles, saying, “But isn’t it nice?”

“No!” It comes out like a yelp, Sam’s moving real awkwardly, like he’s sixteen again, flailing, growth spurt happening right the fuck now to make him this uncoordinated. “Get off!”

“Oh, come on, Sam, I may not be your brother but we could still have a little—” Flash of his hand in the dark, hands covered with peek-a-boo lace, leaves fingers and palms bare, and Frank touches, slips behind the waistband, pulls Sam’s briefs down, wraps his fingers one by one around Sam’s erect cock, each little movement straining Sam—and his freaking sanity, “—a lot, my my, a large amount of fun. Won’t that be lovely?”

Sam’s gritting his teeth, his jaw hurting from doing this all night, like the movement’ll calm him down just as much as a bucket of cold water down his pants, “Where’s Dean?”

“Your brother is probably asleep by now, poor thing, contrary to appearances he just—” Frank bites his knuckle, starts to push Sam back on the bed with the other hand, “—couldn’t keep up.

Sam rolls his eyes, because he knows that’s a lie, and he knows he’s not supposed to fucking know about this kind of stuff; the barest glint of Dean, his sex life, the slammed doors and fussy glares Sam tosses his way when he catches Dean leaning over a girl, backside, frontside, the freckles on Dean’s shoulders, bead of sweat rolling down his back, muscle—


“Fuck,” Sam breathes out, by now Frank’s kissing down the length of his belly, smudging dark lipstick here and there, a trail that has Frank stroking, wrapping his fingers, still, his hand, around the base of Sam’s cock, lipstick smeared swirls and kisses down the length, the tip, graze of teeth that has Sam bucking up and into Frank’s mouth.

“I—can’t,” Sam gasps, tries to move—and does, up on his elbows, tucks his chin against his neck staring down at Frank, “No.

“Do you want him to see you like this?” Frank asks, a whisper between licks of Sam’s cock, cupping Sam’s balls, gives a little tug that tears through Sam, moaning, noisy and messy. Frank adding, in his gaze, not words, just this look, Do you want your brother to see you like this?

And Sam can’t say anything, nothing, can only groan out, “If Dean doesn’t know.”

“Oh, baby, there’s a lot of things Dean doesn’t know,” Frank tells Sam, and he goes back down, shuts up, Sam arching up and up under Frank’s movements, Frank’s tongue. Lapping him up, a thrilling hum and grin, licks come off the corner of his mouth, continuing in a breathy voice, “I’ll teach you if you’re willing to listen.”

Teach me, or something like it, in the way Sam grins when Frank’s lifting his legs up and over his shoulders, a laugh that steals away from him, crazed, voice not his own, this—this lustful thing, Teach me.

Touch me.


Bobby coughs, touching his tape record, thinking about stopping the tape, but then says, “There’s this old saying. You should see the other guy. Keep that in mind.”


Dean fuckin’ hates this, that’s the only thing goin’ through his mind. Hates the crumbling plaster bullshit that’s making his nose itch, the drowsy mood that’s making him pissy, the bed that’s way too comfy and he could sleep a long, long time. Wants to but can’t risk it, figures it’ll be worse if he lies to himself, does a little catnap.

Annoyed and frustrated, in another way, worse way, his dick’s hard and he’s in the mood to come and pass out, two out of three of the best things in life: orgasms and sleep, he can eat later.

Pulls down his boxers, kicking them off, somewhere on the bed, licks a stripe down his hand, no lotion or any such thing, fists his cock, starts pumping, slow, wants to build it up, force out the orgasm, the edge of it’ll keep him sharp, even before that heady rush, letting himself go buck wild.

But then, the door swings open, Dean wishes he had a knife, stupid to not have one shoved in his boot, doesn’t matter, had his boots taken off thanks to team Redhead, shoulda maybe had that in consideration, bad thing that his mind was kinda on other things when they were stripping him down.

Tosses over a threadbare blanket, doesn’t do a damn thing, hides nothing.

Sam’s voice coming through, can’t see him through the heavy curtain over his four poster, getting closer, saying, “Dean we have to get out of here. This is wrong, it’ll destroy us.”

“Sam,” Dean starts, ready to chide him, they can totally do this, freaky transvestite ghosts or monsters, whatever the hell they’re dealing with, hey it’s all in a day’s work, doesn’t matter that Dean’s been feeling doom and gloom gnawing at his bones. Or that he’d really just like to shoot a load without a goddamn interruption.

The curtain parts, shadow looming on high, but not that high, body sinking down beside Dean, not close enough to catch the look of the face, but he knows, it’s not Sam. “Hey, what the hell?”

Leans up, yanking off the wig, oh god, what kind of a monster would make a wig to match the mop of hair on Sam’s head, shit, did he scalp Sam? Feels it, almost bristly, like from the bottom of a broom, then says to him, know it’s him, sudden flash of light, great, now he’s taking to wearing Sam costumes in addition to thigh-highs and heels and god-knows-what-else.

“Mmm, you certainly are a clever boy,” Frank, like, purrs at him, trailing off at the end. “My little ruse couldn’t tempt you, now could it, mmmm?”

“Dude, Sam is about ten feet taller than you. Not that hard to figure out. Now where’s Sam? What have you done with him, bitch?”

“Nothing. Why, do you think I should?” Twists his face into a lie, like he doesn’t know exactly what’s going on.

“Yeah, I think you should bring ‘im to me. Because hosts usually don’t separate people.”

“Brothers,” Frank says simply.


“Separating brothers. I do quite agree, it is unfortunate to keep you separated, unity is ever so important.”

“Uh, yeah.”

Crap, he has no idea what’s going on and it’s too hot in here, heady and it’s like, his brain just does not want to work right now, fixed on one thing, that his dick is totally at attention and Frank’s eyes have been focusing on that for a hell of a long time.

Drawling low, Frank murmurs, “Now, I do love to be a part of the entertainment, noting more exquisite than the simple pleasures of a good show. However, watching is indeed a lovely activity despite requiring little audience participation.”

Frank’s hand fists the thin blanket, yanking up and before Dean can tamp it down, he’s exposed, dick hard and leaking, up against his belly. Frank smiles, his lipstick smearing the smile unnaturally wide. Doesn’t make sense that the light’s getting better, nothing’s making any goddamn sense.

“Why, what have we here? It’s quite a stunning example of male prowess.”

“Thanks,” Dean stammers out, adding, “holy shit.”

At that very moment of Dean’s brilliant move of thanking Frank, Frank goes down, tongue doing something wonderful to the head of his cock, further down, down to the base of his cock, zigzagging down the underside, hotwire sensation that leaves him mumbling nonsense, gasping in shock.

As Frank is busy sucking around his balls, Dean manages to get words enough to struggle out, “Really not into guys.”

“Oh come on, Dean, admit it.” Licking and slurping Dean down, Dean feebly twining fingers in Frank’s hair. Voice like a bubbling orgasm, Frank almost-laughs, “It’s enjoyable, isn't it? There's no crime in giving yourself over to pleasure. You’ve wasted so much time already.”

Time. Fuck. Yeah, there’s a matter of time, but there’s also, sudden, like lightning come to him, “But Sam...”

“Sam needn't know, I won't tell him.”

Rises back up and Dean finds himself caught in a kiss, bitter and hard.

“What are you doin’ to me?”

“Absolutely nothing more than you deserve,” Frank swears, pushing off his robe, but before that, grabbing something out of his pocket and for once, Dean isn’t hoping that it’s lube, he’s really not ready for that.

Flash and twirl of glasses, black frames, dorky style, like Nerdville, Population of 1.

“Um, what do you want to—mmphph—do with those?” Dean asks, mid-hardcore tongue-fucking.

“I’d like you to wear them, of course.”

“Why do you want me to put these on?”

“To remind me of someone.” Smiles bright but Frank’s eyes are hard. “Won't it be nice?”

“I don’t—”

Doesn’t manage to get out the protest, glasses gently pushed on, settling on the bridge of his nose, fitting snug behind his ears. Frank leans up, whispers in Dean’s ear, “For a moment, you look innocent enough to tarnish.”

It isn’t all that bad, not at all, kissing down Dean’s belly, tongue flicking a line down Dean’s cock.

Strangled, choking out, Dean wants the lie, asks, “You promise you won't tell?”

Murmuring, warm, hot breath on his cock, swearing, “On my mother's grave.”


“Emotions. They get ya in the worst ways. Don’t have much more to say on that. Not a goddamn philosopher by far.

Better get ready for the brunt of it, ‘cause the attempts at fighting whatever they’re being held under, it’s all over.”


Shudder and stop, almost falling over, seeking anything that’ll lead him to his brother, but they were whisked away, secreted away, only place to find him is maybe on a rusting monitor awkwardly lashed to a wall in the lab.

Feels unclean, worse than that (he wants more), couldn’t find a place to shower off all this mess. The tiny bathroom attached to his room had a crumbling marble bath, doll-sized almost, maybe good for a child, not a reasonable-sized man. Has to keep on pushing his hair so it stays out of his eyes, fumbling with switches, hopes that none of them will lead to him breaking out of song, like Dean, thinks Dean.

And the cold sweat starts, the knot in his belly, almost chokes on something, deep in his throat, hard to breathe.

He’d come shouting Dean’s name.

Finally, the damn thing turns on, grainy, worse than a bad TV in a cheap motel. Fuzzy but there are no rabbit ears to adjust, images rolling and then, forces down a lever, it settles on a room like his own, but, in the black-and-white world, it’s Dean, clearly, and, no, it’s him. Cigarette dangling between smeared dark lips, then taken away, a dainty move, extending it to Dean, blanket rucked down almost all the way, covering one leg, the other bare, no longer erect but it’s clear he once was, shiny splattering against his thigh. Glistening in sweat.

Dean doesn’t take the cigarette but moves, mouth opening, seeking something else and Sam refuses to look anymore, turns around, letting his imagination take over.

Then he hears it. Soft, barely audible, coming from that strange tank. Hard to see what’s in there, the once-clear glass has been stained, rainbow colors have blackened over time, looks over and sees a shape, body, small person, under a ragged blanket.


Yanks the blanket off, see Columbia, the ridiculous almost-clown makeup stripped off, faint dark shadows under her eyes, surprising, how young she looks: short bobbed hair mussed around, the way her pjs, striped pink, look like she’s another person entirely, different from the tap-dancing glitzy glam girl. Oh, and the Mickey Mouse ears, those kind of spoil the effect.

“What are you doing here?”

She doesn’t gets up, slow, has to raise her head up to look him in the eye, arms resting on the edge of the strange tank. “Just like before he throws me off for the new plaything. Two for the price of one.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam says, can’t find a reason to explain it, but has to continue on, “I didn’t know—”

“What? That me and Frank had a history? Don’t flatter yourself, he used you too. He’s off breaking in the new lug, ain’t he? Hope he’s got more than just rocks in his head, doesn’t hurt so much when he picks the new one.”

“It’s not that. I don’t, I’m not—”

“Oh,” Columbia says, her weird little voice, like something out of a bad B-movie, bad almost New York accent gone wrong, “You want Dean. Can’t blame you. Devil of a boy, gave me an evil wink.”

She almost sings that line out, and oh no, not again.

Sam finds himself climbing into the tank, feeling foolish, him in his underwear and a robe that barely reaches his knees, half-assed attempt at knotting it shut, barely covers him, and she’s just looking up at him, raising eyebrows already too high up, and Sam can’t help it, begins, “I was feeling done in. Couldn't win.

“Tell me about it, Sammy.”

Shakes his head, puts a finger on her mouth, doesn’t say it, but she nods, corrects, “Sam.

Now all I want to know is how to go.” Go where? Can’t say it, instead, sings, “I've tasted blood and I want more.

Columbia smiles, smirks, hands on his chest, pushing him back, “More, more, more!

Unties his belt, pushes aside the thin fabric, she yanks the robe off as he clutches the half-buttoned pajama top, tears it off, buttons flying everywhere. “I'll put up no resistance. I want to stay the distance.

Using her, knows he is, admits, “I've got an itch to scratch. I need assistance.


He’s twisted, utterly, nothing more to say than that, he’s yanking down a woman’s pants and he’s thinking of his brother, naked and debauched, wondering how his skin would taste all over, sweat and come.

Columbia seems to be waiting for him to take the cue, rolls her eyes, puts his hands on her breasts, begging, “Touch-a touch-a touch-a touch me.

Sam admits, gasping out when her hands round his ass, digging in, “I wanna be dirty.

Columbia, answering, “Thrill me, chill me, fulfill me.

Sam can’t help it, has to bite at the nape of her neck, she gasps out, “Creature of the night.

Can almost hear, distantly, a chorus, background noise, doesn’t care, yanks off panties, turns her around, pushing her up against smooth glass, spreading legs apart, soft and white, so easy to bruise.

Mumbling his promise to her, “I'll oil you up and rub you down.

Down, down, down!

And that's just one small fraction of the main attraction. You need a friendly hand,” moves his hand around her, gliding past the curse of her hip, hearing her loud gasp when he finds, easy, where she needs it, “And I need action. Touch-a touch-a touch-a touch me. I wanna be dirty. Thrill me, chill me, fulfill me.

Touch-a touch-a touch-a touch me.” Stuttering it out, so close to coming that Sam has to grit his teeth, grinding up against her ass.

I wanna be dirty.” Pushes back her short hair, bites bruises on the pale column of her neck, wants to see teeth marks that’ll take a long time to fade.

Thrill me, chill me, fulfill me. OH FUCK!” Orgasm flooding her as he pushes his dick inside, tight clenching that almost makes him lose it. “Creature of the night.

Quiet for a moment, of singing at least, there’s other noises to make. But there’s no rushing towards the end, can’t, and he pulls out, spins her around, landing on his back, she’s clearly aware enough to settled right back down, rocking hard and Sam, knows it’s wrong, but does it anyway, closes his eyes and thinks of—


Oh, touch-a touch-a touch-a touch me! I wanna be dirty. Thrill me, chill me, fulfill me,” shutting down the name he wants to cry out. Eyes fluttering open, orgasm so close, but doesn’t see Columbia, sees, for a moment, Frank, but then, it changes, Dean, amulet swinging, muscles corded, body driving forward, grunting, saying it.

Creature of the night.

Rushes out of him, sliding out a gasp, “Fuck me, Dean.


Dean can’t see shit, to be honest, and with this freaking get-up, he’s damn well glad about it.

Because, if it ain’t weird enough—oh, been weird, for a long-ass time—he couldn’t find his fucking underwear, so as strange as the situation is, he had to dig around for some in the blue plate special of a room and—long story short, he’s wearing gold panties.

Shiny gold panties, and there were matching boots, what the hell. Dean pretty damn sure he saw a bit of dark red boxer-briefs sticking out of the pocket of Frank’s jean jacket when he’d taken off at some crackling overhead announcement from the creepy handyman that there’d been a disturbance in the lab.

But look, he’s not going to run around in goddamn part of fuck-me spankies, like he’s a fucking cheerleader or something. So, robe. Silky white, yeah, he’s wearing one, don’t care how it like glides smooth over his body, he’s got sensitive skin damn it, all he really cares is that it covers his ass ‘cause he’s pretty sure the top of his ass is exposed and he’s not digging the plumber’s crack look.

One, two, breathes in and out, deep breaths to calm his thoughts, his muscles, lets himself sink back against the cold metal of the elevator. Recalls what the Riff-Raff dude said, Master, your new playmate is trying to lay waste to the lab equipment.

“Co-ming!” is all Frank had said in response, and Dean was past response, past reasoning, these embarrassing moans coming from him, the way Frank capped off the word by humming, little thrills at the tip of Dean’s cock, and fuck yeah, he was coming, just in the dirtier way.

Now though, all he’s hoping is that Sam’s dismantling the Gaydar or whatever’s got him jonesing for cock. Fuckin’ lie, the thing, the cock, that’s occupying his thoughts is Sam’s. Shit, the Incestudar or somethin’ then.

“Your brother is trying to make a mess of my lab,” Frank snaps, arms folded, and wait—right, Dean isn’t seeing things, he’s looking at a damn whip in Frank’s hand, where the hell did he get that? “Dean, it’s hard to have any fun around here when you and your little Sammy decide to poke around in places that you don’t belong. And I mean that in every sense imaginable.”

It’s hard to say anything, the way Frank’s running a hand down Dean’s arm, up again, his neck. Breathing against his ear, little slip of voice that continues, “I’m all for exploration, Dean, but your brother has been very naughty.”

He can’t fucking move. There’s a little part of his brain still intact, laughing at this whole situation, telling him it’s fucked up, it’s wrong, and he’s being mind-controlled. Has to be.

It’d explain the heavy weight in his stomach, not a bad meal, this—this guilt, like forgetting to pick up Sam at practice back during their school years, taking a girl out instead but not as childish.

It’s Sam.

Needing him. More, imagining his body instead of Frank’s, arching over Dean, eyes beneath bangs looking up, sucking Dean’s cock—

Oh, hell.

The elevator door opens, the whole lab seemingly empty, only sounds being the buzz of the television screen, blue static. Frank steps out, Dean a step behind, looking around like a pair of idiots for nothing—

There’s a moan, and a slap, a hand hitting flesh, choked out, “oww!” following. Dean moves forward and almost slips, bare feet sliding on tile, bumps into a naked marble statue with his shoulder. He lets out a grunt, straightens the glasses on his nose because everything’s blurry.

Uh. Right. Takes off the glasses, shoves them in his robe pocket just as there’s a bundle of red sheets moving in the rainbow-stained tank, and up pops a chick—Columbia, right—and Sam. The sheet’s covering Columbia’s chest but it’s hanging low around Sam’s hips, dark trail of hair.

God, has to get a handle on this, looks at Sam’s face and shit, the look there, doesn’t help at all.

“Sam!” Frank snaps, makeupped eyebrows shooting up.

Sam turns his head, looks over to Frank. “Frank!”

“Sam!” Dean shouts, can’t help but stare. At Sam’s face, that’s what he’s looking at. Not his happy trail and god, strike him down right there for calling it ‘happy.’

Sam’s doing that open mouthed gaping fish-face thing, saying, “Dean!”





Frank, when he—and the brothers—stop looking back and forth, perks up his shoulders, interjects with, “Threesome!”

Sam and Dean look at Frank, Columbia meanwhile rolling her eyes, mumbling about always being chopped liver.

Sam now, he’s staring at Dean, nods at him, eyes going up and down, taking in the gold panties and white silk robe, and uh, Dean’s totally sure Sam wasn’t checking his package, because that would be wrong. “You only need a gold chain to complete your creepy playboy look, man.”

Dean curls a lip, points. “You say that while you’re fucking my redhead!”

There’s a slap against metal, Frank having smacked the handle of his whip against the tank edge, making both Sam and Columbia jerk, and Dean’s pretty happy with his view of Columbia and her tits.

Good to know some priorities haven’t changed, sex with a transvestite notwithstanding. And uh, the weird thoughts about his goddamn brother.

“Columbia! I thought I told you to entertain the toys, not have sex with them!”

“Same diff, boss,” says Columbia, and she winks at Dean, him smiling back. Gotta love a girl with spirit. But right, Sam, Sam glares at Dean, Frank, back at Dean again and it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.

“At least I have Dean here,” Frank says, stretches one part of the whip with his other hand, grinning, lipstick smeared and white greasepaint all the more garish with this crazed look in his eyes.

“Dude, you don’t have me. I mean, I’m not like...hey, I had dibs on the redhead!” Dean retorts, affronted, glaring at Sam, who, although quiet, is probably trying to figure out a mental way to roast Dean’s eyeballs. Jedi mind trick.

“I believe you have to be more descriptive, there are two, after all,” Frank responds drolly, takes languid steps towards the control panels and levers, glancing back at Dean over his shoulder.

Dean though, can’t help but mumble about a threesome because uh, mind-control or not, Dean’s gonna get something positive outta this freaky-ass night besides all of the one-on-one sex and, ‘cause, threesome. Two redheads. Nothing wrong there.

“Hey, it ain’t like we’re interchangeable!” Columbia points out, stamps her foot. “You take and take and now you’ve got your new boytoys, and you ain’t any fun any more! I’m tired of covering up your tracks! You made me to love you. Don’t you love me?”

Frank, though, doesn’t take too kindly to this idea, because now he’s just shrugging his shoulders exaggeratedly. Even holds the back of his palm to his head like a silent film damsel in distress. “I try and try again, and yet my children always turn on me! The transducer won’t...

He scrunches his nose, hesitating, and flips a lever, shouting, “Oh, it won’t seduce them!”

And that’s when Dean, Sam, and Columbia are turned into naked marble statues.


“They didn’t tell me what happened there. I didn’t ask. Don’t want to know. I’ll leave it to your imagination.”



Use your imagination.

Oh c’mon.

Won’t that be nice?

It’s a medley, that’s what it is, and he’s done the rehearsal once before, can tell that, even as a statue, sees the ease, stage-nervousness smoothed out, can’t feel but can vaguely makes out the feather boa wrapped around him, no sensation at all. Waiting. It’s very peaceful, cold too.

Then, hot, livewire bursting him open, finds the words spilling out, opens his face, feels heavy, stranger and god, he feels weird, tall, not that he’s short, it’s just that, he’s really, really tall right now and goes to take a step and fuck.

He’s wearing heels.

But, get this, he doesn’t care.

I am twenty-eight years old,” he says, to no one, to an audience of dust bunnies maybe, not like they’d give a damn about his age, stumbling forward, flashing a smile as he declares, “truly beautiful to behold.

Yanks the boa off his neck, ignoring the urge to sneeze, pivoting forward, jerkily tossing the stupid feathery thing around. “And somebody should be told: my libido hasn't been controlled.

God help him, but he thinks he can hear, distantly, the low satisfied chuckle of someone who’s gotten proof of that fact.

Now the only thing I've come to trust, is an orgasmic rush of lust.” Hell yeah, that’s true, doesn’t care that the only way he can prove that is by rocking the long stretch of feathers against his thighs, finishing, “Rose tints my world keeps me safe from my trouble and pain.

Shit, and it’s true, for a moment, his burdens are going, but maybe he’s just lightheaded from the fucking corset.

Then all Dean’s in the mood to do is pose, lean up again the curtained wall, shifting ‘cause these panties were not made for a dude packing heat up front. Waiting for Sammy’s grand entrance.


First, you see, he’s an expanse of white marble, done up in a corset that can’t cover his torso properly, boa held across him like a banner, cross this line, and you’re in for a hell of a ride.

Then he’s released and Sam sucks in a breath, blinks, gasps, “It's beyond me.

Newborn colt, he struggles forward on the stage, legs now ridiculously long, heels making him totter forward, almost falling head over heels, cries out, “Help me, Mommy,” instinct, turns his head to Dean, desperate glance that probably looks ridiculous in his painted face, mouthing, help me Dean.

But Dean still can’t move, his eyes are the only thing animated in his own painted face, white and blue lines, contrast to Sam’s white and red.

I'll be good, you'll see. Take this dream aaaaaa-way,” Sam says, pitches forward, takes center stage, down on his knees, leaning to one side, stretching his leg up, up, over his head, muscles flexing, easy, limb shaking with something else, staring at Dean. “What's this? Let's see. Oooooh, I feel sexy.

The spell must’ve broken for Dean or he’s so hard-headed that he’s ignoring that he’s supposed to be in the background, just like Columbia is, waiting patiently for her cue, ‘cause Dean’s striding, confident in heels but his stompy way of walking doesn’t lend itself to...hell, Dean’s crotch is right in his face and Sam starts up again, asking “What's come over me?

Breathes against Dean, nuzzles at the soft fabric, hard under that little piece of clothing, nothing to the imagination, almost better, this way, even more indecent.

Getting back up, then bowing down, corset slipping down pectorals, raising the boa over his head, “Oh! Here it comes again!

That moment, right there, hard kiss, probably ruining the lines, greasepaint white, lipstick drawing Dean’s lips fuller, ridiculous, full enough as it is, but it’s just, it’s the moment, gone, and Sam’s released too, finally, takes in this huge breath, understands something that’s been there all along, and then, there’s—more singing.

Rich, slow lull, dream of a voice, but he’s not listening to the words, looking at Dean and that’s sensation enough for him.

It’s just, the corset, it’s fitted just so, laces digging into Dean’s skin and Sam notices how the black lace exposes the faint freckles on down his torso, like little freckly framed windows and Dean has freckles lower, on his thighs. Sam goes down again, wants to kick off his shoes to make it easier, but he wants this more, to tug down Dean’s thigh highs. Sucks on the exposed skin, probably freckles on the back of Dean’s knees if he searches for them there.

Hears, as he starts sucking Dean’s cock through the panties, “Give yourself over to absolute pleasure.

Dean pulls him back up, painful burst of pleasure, Dean’s hand fisting Sam’s hair to encourage back up, ungainly in heels. Running a thumb over Sam’s bottom lip before dipping his finger in, running over teeth, lets Sam flick his tongue around, sees Dean shudder, eyes fluttering closed.

Swim the warm waters of sins of the flesh.

Ignoring everyone around them, that Frank’s walking down this elaborate stairway, towards a pool, can hear Columbia, faint splash, as she climbs down, into the water.

Only thing is this: the curve of Dean’s mouth, yielding sweet when Sam presses forward. Digs his hands underneath Dean’s corset, running fingertips against the sharp of Dean’s hips.

Erotic nightmares beyond any measure.

Dean pushes Sam away, a split-second of worry, then sees it, intoxicating, that look, could sway a priest over to Dean’s way of thinking.

And sensual daydreams to treasure forever.

Follows Dean, into the pool, splashing hard, sinking down, down with Dean, legs twisting, bumping into each other. Surfacing into a kiss, wet, smooth arc.

Can't you just see it?

Teeth grazing Sam’s nipple, corset pushing tight under his pectoral, Dean’s got his hands on Sam’s ass, moving every which way, snapping off one of the belts holding his thigh-highs to the garter belt, pulling the wet, tight panties down, thumb digging into his hip, memorizing the sharp angle.

Oh oh oh.

Sinking back down, underwater, Sam's legs kicking in the water feebly, somehow manages to keep the shoes on (you’ll need them for later, something tells him, an impertive wired in his brain). Dean, annoyed, yanks the panties off too hard, not easy to do when all their clothing’s waterlogged, freeing Sam’s cock and there, underwater, only lasts so long, Dean’s mouth, can feel the lips, tongue, doing most of the work. Has to come up for air, doesn’t last long, ‘cause Dean's lips meld against him, sealing him, keeping him, Sam’s cock, half in, half out of the underwear, bumping against Dean's hip.

They hear the splash, Frank’s in the pool now too, spinning around in an inflatable ring, looking up towards the ceiling, slowly, delicately declaring, “Don't dream it. Be-eeee it.

Dips out of the ring, joining Sam and Dean, Columbia coming over as well, Dean tongue-fucks her for a moment as Sam’s compelled to leave hard, bruising kisses across Frank’s torso, shoulders, biceps, almost looks like his tattoo’s faded in the water, weird, but the taste of skin is salty-bitter, familiar on his tongue.

Out of the corner of his eye, sees Dean’s mouth fastening on a nipple peeking out of Columbia’s corset, she throws her head back, eyes glazed.

Knows this feeling that bursts in him, jealously, they’re all close enough that he can touch the back of Dean’s head, and it’s just that, brief touch of his fingertips and Dean’s aware, knows, goes back to Sam, touch of sweet in his mouth that he shares with Sam.

Don’t dream it. Be it.

Columbia nipping at the back of his neck, Dean’s tonguing Frank’s necklace, kissing across the flat of his chest as Sam’s got a hand in Dean’s panties, working him off hard and tight. Sam whimpering, so close, “It’s beyond me. Help me, Mo—

“Call me Dean,” he says, annoyed, turning away from Frank for a moment, careful, because Sam’s still got his hand there, bite-kisses Sam’s lips, seals him tight, hard fuck of his mouth before Dean grunts, “Idiot.

Dean comes first, a grunt of Christ, Sammy, Frank has Dean’s head pulled back, fusing bite to where shoulder-meets neck, Dean’s eyes roll back from the sensations. Sam’s next, can’t help it, hands on his balls, down his ass, Dean’s hand, best of all, on his cock, he’s been a goner from the start, grabs Frank’s head, stilling him, gasps into his mouth when he comes, but cries out Dean’s name.

They’re out of the water now, dripping, ready for the finale, ready for Frank, shouting, joyous, “My my my! My my my my my, my my my my...

Forming a dance line, the music’s going crazy and so are they, some more, dancing in unison, kicking legs high, well, Dean’s struggling a little, they’re both still half-hard almost, as Frank takes the lead in the song, they’re just backup now,

I'm a wild and untamed thing. I'm a bee with a deadly sting. You get a hit and your mind goes ping!

Sam’s mind’s certainly gone there, as Frank continues, thumping his chest, intricate move of his legs, “Your heart will pump and your blood will sing.

Dean stumbles into him, nearly kicking the back of Sam’s leg, mutters a quiet, fucking hell that Sam can barely make out.

So let the party and the sound rock on,” and they all start shaking as Frank sings, “We're gonna shake it ‘til the life has gone-on-on. Rose tints my world, keeps me safe from my trouble and pain.

They’d continue too, dancing, if the doors to the theater didn’t burst open, entering in a dramatic puff of smoke, the help, Riff-Raff and Magenta, dressed in golden B-Movie space outfits.

Riff-Raff, voice high and clear, declares, “Frankenfurter, it’s all over. Your mission is a failure, your lifestyle's too extreme. I'm your new commander, you now are my prisoner. We return to Transylvania, prepare the transit beam...

“Not again!” Frank’s got his hands on his hips, flicking hair off of his face with an annoyed shake of his head. “I specifically built you without the rebellion streak.”


“Dude,” Dean says, eyes going bright, looking a lot better now that most of the ghastly white face makeup’s been washed away, “Are you all mandroids? Have I been fucking mandroids?”

“And your brother,” Frank smartly adds.

“Uh. Yeah. Mandroids and my brother. Dude.”

“We are androids,” Magenta hisses. “And I grow vreary of this.”

“And I AM TIRED OF FUCKING MY SISTER,” Riff-Raff screams, waving the gun around.

“Better be careful with that,” Dean says, projecting butch even wearing, um, what Sam’s also wearing, “you keep whipping it around, you might give off the impression that you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Oh, I know exactly what I’m doing,” Riff-Raff promises.

But apparently Frank’s mad scientist skills worked well with androids, Riff-Raff misses, horribly, the laser beam hits the giant RKO transistor in the background, letting it—

“Burn, baby burn,” Dean says, admiring the fire. “I think it’s time we book it. Look, it was a great party and I got to mark some things off of my list of things to do before I die, but I think me and Sam are doing being fucktoys. Um, for you know, mandroids.”

“I can assume you that I am not robotic,” Frank declares, strutting towards Dean but Sam struggles forward in his heels, ungainly, pulling Frank away, tossing him back into the pool.

“Yeah, but you’re not a good guy either.”

Sputtering, Frank says as he climbs out of the pool, “Now, I’m sure we can arrange a mutually beneficial situation.”

“Three’s great. Four? Awesome. But you know, you’re an evil scientist and bein’ a sex slave ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. Gotta love that free will.”

Takes his bow, and exits with Sam, stage left.

Sam says, shocked at Dean’s philosophy on the matter, “You’ve really thought about this.”

“Nah, I just think we should book it before we get stuck in the blaze along with the mandroids and whatever the fuck Frank is.”


Give him time and Dean’ll tell you about that old joke about the guy who’s escaped a burning castle, and all he’s left with is a corset and heels.

Or that could go on a t-shirt, whatever, it’s not like he can think straight, uh, smoke inhalation’s isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. The castle goes up quick, this whoosh and sucking noise, like engines even—but nope, there’s just charred wood and metal, old statues and furniture poking up here and there out of the brick rubble like fingers.

A haze of dust that Dean can barely see through, coughs up a lungful of smoke while rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand. Just smearing makeup, calling out, forceful, choked, “Sammy! Sam!”

And he doesn’t need this scared feeling either, on top of all the shit that’s gone down not just tonight, but for months, doesn’t want to see Sam’s hopeful face and all of a sudden have it ripped away, getting stabbed in the back—

“Dean!” Sam’s voice, coughing, weak and wobbly, all long-limbed awkward and thick muscle at the same time, body streaked with dirt, with makeup. They’re a real sight, the two of them, corsets in tatters, panties likewise fucked up, torn up stockings, heels poking through, gashes all over their legs.

Dean crawls over to Sam on his hands and knees, the better to see through all the smoke, and cause he’s pretty sure he can’t stand right now. They’re moving towards each other, and when they hit a clearing, no musty tattered rug or wood floorboards, just solid ground, Dean collapses against Sam, slings an arm around his shoulders.

Sam pants, chest heaving, moves and angles so that his shoulder, his side, hip, is pressing right against Dean, this huddle of heaving breaths. Dean angles his head away from the feathery edge of Sam’s gloved arm, doesn’t give a shit if his white greasepaint face smears against Sam’s bare, sweaty shoulder.

He clears his throat, swallows down, heavy, smells Sam above all of it, the rubble, the fire, charcoal, whatever; doesn’t help that Sam’s near naked, doesn’t help that his bangs are falling in his eyes, tips smeared red and white.

Sam turns his face towards Dean, this look, just slides his mouth over Dean’s, soft, unhurried. Sucks on his bottom lip. Dean though, pushes in, tongue hard and unyielding, moans against Sam’s mouth when he starts to palm the side of Dean’s face, pulls away his fingers.

Sam pulls away, inches, shocked, voice shaky, “You’re bleeding.”

“No fucking kidding, genius. We just burned a castle down to the ground. Tend to get roughed up after that,” Dean retorts, doesn’t care when the blood trickles into his eyes, presses, lets his chest, his body fall against and on top of Sam, licks a trail along his neck. In-between kisses, he continues, “We shoulda just burned the house down the moment we spotted it, we wouldn’t have, you know...”

With a free hand, he wiggles gloved fingers. Sam nods, shakes his hair out of his eyes, stretches a little, saying, low, “Yes. It’s wrong.”

Dean kisses Sam’s collarbone, that spot near his shoulder, his neck, murmurs, “Really wrong.”

He lets his hand wander, down, down, pushes Sam’s ruined panties aside to wrap a hand around Sam’s dick, strokes him. He tries to anyway, because Sam’s moving suddenly to wrap his arms around Dean. Too many actions at once, this slow and uncoordinated fumbling and touching for both of them, exploring. And they’re groaning too, the way rocks and rubble sting against their skin besides what they’re doing to each other.

I’ve done a lot,” Dean starts, his voice breathy, shaky, half muffled against Sam’s mouth, chest. “God knows I’ve tried...to find the truth. I’ve even lied. But all I know...is down inside I’m—

Bleeding, that chorus, far off, static, dissolving on the wind.

And superheroes,” Sam responds, rubs his hands over Dean’s chest, his thumbs on Dean’s nipples when he stretches, lets the ruined corset down a little, lets it fall apart. Sam nips Dean’s neck, smiling when he gets a ragged moan in response, “Come to feast. To taste the flesh not yet deceased. And all I know, is still the beast is—

Feeding. The chorus voices seem to lower and die off like a TV knob being turned off, volume and picture dying off right when Sam moans, crumbling dust of rubble following.


And crawling on the planet’s face. Some insects, called the human race. Lost in time, and lost in space. And—

Bobby closes a book, drums his fingertips on it. “Meaning.

“That's the end of it,” he says, knows the tape’s winding down, says, “it’s how they got rid of a monster. One we still, to this day, can't figure out how he rose from the dead. Some things, not even death can keep back.”



“We accidentally cross-dressed this weekend,” Sam says to the closed bathroom door.

Sam has no idea how girls do it, he almost blinded himself in his attempts to get the eyeliner off.

“And fucked,” Sam says. Not accidentally though. There, uh, yeah, there was no accident there.

Still no answer, so Sam decides to strip down, get into the bed (two beds, it’s the motel room they’d picked out before this whole mess, and Sam settles on his own bed, has no idea where he and Dean stand, or um, lie, horizontally).

The only light that’s on is dim, probably going to die out in moments, and Sam waits, anxious, almost expecting that Dean took off, out of the bathroom window, but it’s one of those tiny vertical ones, narrow, can barely squeeze a arm out.

Dean, even when he’s spiraling, isn’t this quiet. Gets back up, pushes on the door, surprised to find it locked. “Dean?”

“Dude, chill out,” comes Dean voice through the door, sounding slightly off, not muffled, but like, he’s working his mouth around something.

Oh, that gives him a very wrong visual.

“I’ll be out in a freakin’ minute. Turn the lights off.”

Okay, that’s, well, that’s suspicious. “Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“Seriously? You’re going to try to pull that one? Dean, we need to talk.”

Sudden thump against Sam’s face, just meant to shock him, then Dean’s voice, goes all velvet (crap, he can do that, Sam’s spend so much of his life being annoyed by it that he hasn’t noticed, well, there’s a sudden twist, thrill blooming inside of him, warm washing over). “Sam, for once, the thing we don’t need to do is talk. Turn off the lights.”

“Uh, okay.” Sam clicks the little desk-light off, enjoys the little click it makes when he yanks the antique cord, so of course he breaks it. Could be that his mind is on other things. Dean things.

Finally, the door opens, slow, Dean’s body backlit in the faint light, outside there are overhead lights, the evil cousins of floodlights, sodium yellow and casting everyone in a sallow pallor, here, it’s just a faint, faint color, tinge of sepia-light.

He’s naked, Sam can figure that out pretty quick, didn’t go to college for nothing. Naked, as in, no clothes, half-hard cock in the shadows and looking up, up, up, Sam finds something strange. “What the hell is that?”

Smile, reverse-Cheshire grin, instead of dark-on-white, it’s glow-in-the dark lips, like, God calling out of the darkness let there be lips, perfect lips, glowing bright. Still, there’s a brief flash, white of Dean’s teeth, and then Dean, still just standing there, begins, voice low but in this fakey falsetto, which sounds strangely familiar (oh god, that’s what Sam sounded like when he’d been hitting the high notes, isn’t it?), “Science Fiction. Double Feature.

“Hilarious, Dean. This isn’t, it isn’t cool man.”

Ignoring him, Dean sways, forcing his mouth wide as he sings, “Dr. X will build a creature. See mandroids fightin’ Dean ‘n Sammy.

Mandroids. Oh, god, you’re, you’re gone, aren’t you?”

Has to get up, ignore the rest of Dean’s bizarre song, throwing out all these random B-movie characters that he just don’t know about, no clue, can’t, but has to listen, Dean bites his mouth at one point and fuck, Sam’s there now, stopping him mid-word, probably smearing that horrible glow-in-the-dark mess all over.

Dean doesn’t sing this, just says, low, his dick now pressing into Sam, thrusting forward, rubbing, Sam’s got his hands dipping low, almost down to Dean’s ass, when it’s promised to him, “I'm gonna give you some terrible thrills.”

“Like what?” Has to ask, push it, Dean laughs, about to sing something else, but no, it’s over, just a little misplaced lightning-in-a-bottle, Dean’s way of saying, this is how it’s going to be.

“Fuck, Sam,” Dean mutters, Sam grinding against him.

“Good idea.”

Like worlds colliding, pushing Dean against the wall, pins him, says, “And then, some pelvic thrusts?”

Dean, grunting, thrusting into Sam’s hand, slackened mouth, all smeared and glorious, but Sam has to bite at the edge of his jaw, enough to draw a breath out of Dean, surprise, even now, with where they’ve gone, there will still be moments, surprise, shock, and Sam puts something else into his touch, a promise, this isn’t the end, this isn’t, dammit, it’s not like, less than a year and then, hell, fuck no.

“Dammit. Drives me insane,” Dean says but doesn’t say much else when Sam goes down on his knees, swallows his brother’s cock, messy and sloppy, best way ever to shut up Dean. Sucking, guttural positive noises interspersed, Sam doesn’t risk anything, opens his mouth wider, earns a shocked, “Hell, Sammy.”

Gets Dean down, back of his throat, deep, noses Dean’s belly, pulls back, tongue rolling around the head of Dean’s cock, and that’s it, Dean’s many things, but above all, easy, spurting, warm and sticky, into Sam’s mouth.

Doesn’t give Sam a shot to make a decision about spitting or swallowing, yanks him back up and for a moment, Sam’s oafish, would’ve stumbled but Dean holds him something fierce, tongue welcome in Sam’s mouth, licking, greedy to take the mess that Dean left there. In his mouth, fuck, Sam rubbing his dick against Dean’s hip, needing to let go, but Dean’s hands are wrapped up in Sam’s hair, yanking, just a little, but careful. Too careful.

“Look at what we’ve done,” Dean says to Sam, gesturing down there, and Sam sees, faintly, that glow-in-the-dark stuff smeared all around.

“Dude, where the hell did you get that?” Amazing, he can say that while he’s dry-humping (not too dry, cock leaking at the tip, needing to come now but wants something else, Dean’s mouth, has to figure out a way of saying it without Dean mocking Sam for not asking dirty enough.

Shrug of his shoulders and hell, his hand wrapping around the base of Sam’s cock, shallow pumps, drawing it out. Says, “I thought it looked funny, it was next to a register at a gas stop. I don’t plan stuff, man.”

“Except for serenading me?” Sam says, gasps at Dean sucking on his neck, feels stupid, teenagerish, Dean’s tongue slicking a stripe up and then stopping, bite to Sam’s bottom lip.

“Idiot. I was just making a point. We, we’ll do this, right? And not like, fucking analyze it or talk about our feelings. Or, uh, I’ll...”

It’s dark so Sam can’t tell if Dean’s got that glazed-over look he gets, but Sam’s figuring that his hand, pushing back at Dean’s ass, spreading him, finger sliding, pressing, might be a bit of a distraction.

“Dammit,” Dean says, “get on the fucking bed.”

“Which one?”

“Whatever one your ass falls on, genius.”

Messy glowing kisses down Sam’s torso, stomach, and Dean’s mouth, hot, almost on Sam’s cock and Sam, impatient, says, “Fuck, just do it, creature of the night.”

“Oh man,” Dean almost cackles, hard to do when his mouth is all over everywhere except where Sam wants it to be, but Dean manages to do it. “I’m so giving you hell for that one. You better make this a late night double feature.”

Dean's lipstick smears all over Sam's thighs (stupid lipstick, should’ve been kissed off by now, Dean must’ve put layers and layers on, explains why he took so long in the bathroom) kissing around the base of his cock, then, oh yes, Dean’s done teasing, always intended to deepthroat and by god he does.

Not much else to say after that, Sam almost comes straight away into Dean’s mouth, too much hot and right, slow slide down, tongue flattening on the downstroke, molding, rounding around the tip, working Sam’s balls with one hand, keeping Sam from sitting up by pushing down on Sam’s stomach with his other hand.

Dean’s way of saying, I’ve got you, Sammy and just, loses it, right then and there.

Later, when they’re so fucked out that they don’t care that they’re twisted in blankets, sticky all over and painted in slapdash glow-in-the-dark madness, Dean points to one low on Sam’s hip, mouth-shaped, not saying anything.

Huh. So they do have tattoos, not meant for the light, but guides them, here, in the dark. That’s the point.


Tags: crackfic, crossover fic, dean/frank, fic, rocky horror picture show fic, sam/columbia, sam/frank, spn fic, wincest
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