Author: Regala Electra
Warnings: Sexual Content, Language
Word Count: 3,035
Summary: Yes, Sam’s body is still singing with Dean’s essence, bleeding through and Sam would like to make light of this, no he would love that. Post-bodyswap, Sam struggles to reclaim his identity.
Author’s Notes: Sequel to while his hands are busy (Bodyswap porn, Dean POV). For ignited who is fabulous and assisted with fantastic beta services that include doodling all over my first draft. Title from Happiness is a Warm Gun by the Beatles.
Feedback is greatly appreciated.
“Man, I’m so friggin’ happy to be back in my body.”
Dean says this to Sam as they continuing their futile attempts to scrub their stained hands clean. Sam says nothing in kind. Ducks his head low to avoid Dean’s gaze.
Their fingers are blotchy and it looks as though they devolved to childish pursuits, an innocent act. The stains paint an idyllic picture of a life they never lived as children: spending a lazy summer day picking blackberries off trees and left with the damning evidence of purple stains on their hands. But their mouths are clean.
No, Sam hesitates at that—to say that they’re clean—it’s not right at all. Frowns at his inability to form the words in his mind and resolve the disconnect between his thoughts and his need.
Dean’s lips are swollen, ever so slightly, but Sam can easily notice the slight difference. He has years of experience, too many occasions spent looking (up and then later, after puberty, down) at Dean.
Sam has no idea what his mouth looks like now. His mouth and yet it feels awkward. He purses his lips to feel the familiar pinch of lips contracting into a smaller grimace and he flinches when his teeth press against the inside of his mouth. Pokes his tongue against the inside of his cheek like an experiment. It’s scientific at best and utterly alien at worst. It doesn’t feel right.
Sam shoves his hands into the near-boiling water again. The soap bubbles turn grey in the brackish waters. Submerges his hands until he’s touching the bottom of the murky waters and Dean follows after. An accidental bump of wrist jolts through Sam’s entire body, a new unfamiliar sensation—he’d been in control of Dean’s wrist before—and Sam tries not to react to the unseen skirmish of fingers touching. It’s too much.
“Thought you said this was gonna get rid of it,” Dean says, adding a disgusted grunt for emphasis. “I don’t want to be walking around like a purple handed thief.”
“It’s not like those dyes they use in the movies when the cops try to do a bait-and-switch on criminals, Dean. It’s organic. It’ll come out.”
But it’s magic too and Dean clearly thinks Sam’s lying, annoyed grumble under his breath that Sam can’t make out. Sam won’t dare lean in because if he does that he won’t be able to break away.
“There’s worse that could’ve happened,” Dean says, quick and soft as though he doesn’t know if he wants to let the words out, each syllable stumbling after the next.
Sam stares at him then, a hard look that has Dean raising an eyebrow in confusion—it can be read, that face, what the hell’s your problem? and Sam wants to answer Dean—so Sam has to keep his mouth shut and ignore how strange it is, lips shuttered closed. He shifts as he stands there beside Dean and creates a little more distance between them.
Recalls how hurried they’d been when their bodies were inhabited by the wrong heart and soul, they had a case to finish and they’d figure out how to fix things later on and then they’d stumbled into each other and it had been good. Yes, he wanted it and there’s no stopping Dean so they’d fucked themselves into a half-waking stupor and then fucked all over again once they touched, a little brush of skin against skin, nothing more and it set them off. Running off the thrumming call of sex building between them—still—even though they’d emptied each other how many times? Sam hadn’t been keeping track of the orgasms but the number’s disturbingly high.
They’d been going for another round when they’d gotten the call. An answer to their problem and it’s so simple that Sam should wonder why he couldn’t figure it out on his own. Make up a witch’s brew of poisons and herbs at the midnight hour where magic’s at its strongest and they’ll be returned to where they belong.
Sam had—his mouth then Dean’s mouth, lips more swollen than ever—gone down on Dean in celebration and it took too long, Dean spilling in his mouth and they’d had quick work of it to stay within the rules for they had to abide by days of magic. Three days or else three weeks; these spells had rules. Lacking a mortar, they’d smashed the pokeberries with their hands to release the toxins and entice their minds to return to their rightful bodies.
It worked perfectly except for the fact that Sam feels like he’s in a stranger’s body. No, that’s another lie. Here is the truth: he doesn’t want to adjust back to being himself, to return to the floundering status quo, the desperate countdown of time—how many days? how many hours? seconds?—until Dean’s gone.
As if, in a twisted fairytale’s edge, by being in Dean’s body he could have figured out a way of keeping Dean’s soul safe. That somehow by being stowed away in Sam’s body not even the devil could steal him away.
It’s foolish to draw Sam out of his thoughts but Dean tries it anyway and Sam cuts him off with a choked word, “Don’t.”
He can only submerge his fingers for so long, pulling them out to see the fingertips wrinkling and again he doesn’t register them as his really. It’s as though every cell is still adjusting to his consciousness, bereft of the original self for only three days (three days, long days but the nights were longer still, reckless nights spent doing things he had not thought would ever happen). As though whatever animates the body without the spirit is refusing to acknowledge Sam as the rightful owner of the body.
Yes, Sam’s body is still singing with Dean’s essence, bleeding through and Sam would like to make light of this, no he would love that. But it doesn’t work. The thought of ownership or belonging to Dean makes him react in a very different way.
It was different before when he’d been the stranger in Dean’s body. He’d been comfortable in Dean’s skin. In Dean’s body.
It’s too disturbing to consider so he snatches the soap out of Dean’s hands, scrubbing all over again though he knows it is a futile attempt to scrub blunted feelings back into confused skin. If he can see the familiar color and reclaim his body, be himself all over again, ignore that for a time, he was not, well he will fine then.
And will not have fucked his brother.
The thought is not a sobering one. It echoes around in his head, a muted violence too similar to his lost visions. The burgeoning headache has him gag and he turns his face away, hot with shame and want.
There’s also the issue of the fact that Sam is so very hard and horny right now that for a fleeting moment he thinks he’s still in Dean’s body. And is sickened again by being comforted at the thought.
“Sam? Are you okay? Shit, you didn’t eat of those damn berries, did ya?”
Wet hands pulling at the front of his shirt and Sam has to squeeze his eyes shut, not daring to look at the face that he’d once worn with ease, fitting so well he’d not needed to worry who he was. That is the problem at its very troubling center. He had no identity crisis in Dean’s body.
He was merely Sam in Dean’s skin. Perfectly accumulated to the comfortable stretch of limbs that ached for sex and oh, how Sam relished touch with a fierceness that sometimes threw off his thoughts and make him just act. It’s an ache that now unsettles Sam because it’s still here, in his own body.
He wants Dean.
It’s a blind kiss, searching with a half-formed memory (and he has no idea if it is his mental memory or a body-memory, something so ingrained in his body that his mind has no control over it), but Dean meets him almost and takes the brunt force on his bottom lip. Has to let go of Sam’s shirt and bring wet fingers into Sam’s hair, a gentle push here and there, guiding Sam. Their mouths open and tongues touch and for a moment Sam forgets who what where and only knows yes.
A kiss made exquisitely painful, shards of glass pricking the jumble of Sam’s thoughts, puncturing worries that deflate and wither away, and he thinks—he thinks—he—
(He isn’t breathing.)
—is going to black out.
“Breathe through your nose. Jesus.” And Dean is helping Sam familiarize himself with the world, bringing him down to the ground. Has him sit on the broken tiles of the decrepit motel bathroom. Bends over to checks Sam’s pupils, fingers at his pulse, checking out his body.
“I’m fine,” Sam says and tries not to be disturbed by his wrinkled and stained fingers as they sweep across his field of vision when he attempts to brush the hair out of his eyes.
“Yeah you don’t look like a stoner checking out your aura or whatever. You’re totally fine.” Dean catches Sam’s chin between the knuckles of his thumb and index finger. Trying not to leave stains but they’ve scrubbed off all that would have stained. It still leaves invisible marks and Sam twists out of the touch. “Hey. Don’t be fuckin’ pissy ‘cause you can’t molest your laptop until you get scrubbed shiny and pink.”
Dean’s tugging Sam’s shirt out of the way, leaning over him, nudging him back until Sam’s leaning against the doorway. Scrunches down as Dean says, “Only you’d have a panic attack about...all this.”
He’s waving a hand in the general direction of the shower curtain as if Sam’s particularly offended by the cheap polyester blend. Sam can see the rust under the old sink basin, the pipes that barely connect underneath. It’s a ratty rundown place and Sam’s learned better than to look too hard at his surroundings.
“What,” Sam says, trying for dismissive and failing spectacularly, “we switch bodies and have a lot of sex? That’s not a little too much?”
“No,” Dean says and Sam doesn’t even need to guess at that look, can feel it burning on his own face, the raw and naked lust. “That ain’t enough at all.”
“Yeah,” Sam answers before he can stop it from escaping past his treacherous mouth. Licks his lips and it feels awkward, even stranger is the near-chaste kiss that Dean lands with settled ease, mouth slightly dry. It doesn’t last for all that it is worth—a mere fleeting touch—but the sensation remains.
Sam grabs the back of Dean’s neck to keep him from straying and breaking this little fragile understanding. Tries to let the panic subside.
They reek of hurried potions and sweat and drugstore soap. And sex, Sam can’t blot that out, the stink of it as stubborn as pokeberry stains.
Sam blurts out, "Your hair was longer before."
"Your hair," Dean clarifies, fingers twisting in Sam’s hair and tugging down just hard enough to get Sam wincing but he feels it and for a moment isn’t having a body identity crisis.
Then he completely forgets everything when Dean grins, then stretches his mouth unnaturally wide and says quick, diving down, "and your dick."
Buckles and zippers are taken care of with deft precision as Dean’s had enough experience of this though it’s been from a different perspective. There’s awkward shuffling necessary to shove down jeans and underwear, Sam’s dick is red and god, he has to look away when Dean chuckles low in his throat.
“Learn,” Dean says and before Sam can figure out what the hell that means, Dean’s licking the slit, tricky twist of his tongue that he’d done before—oh yes—when it had been Sam’s tongue doing that to—oh fuck.
No further preamble or warning, Dean’s sucking Sam all the way down. There’s a momentary hesitation as Sam’s pulling back, trying to pull out, but Dean stills his hips with strong fingers, steady. Dean might not be a position to talk at the moment since Sam’s dick is going past the back of Dean's mouth but he’s never needed that many words to express himself. Sucks and Sam slips in a bit more and more and then, oh god.
Sam’s first rational (if he could dare call it that) thought is that Dean’s been planning on doing this and then Sam’s thoughts kind of short-circuit into blissful sparks that he’s needed. This sparking explosion across the entirety of his body, this is what he expected when they’d been switched back. This is Sam, body and mind, and whatever comes between that.
It’s not the sensations that keep him a split-second away from coming. Were it only that, being drained and shocked—a better kind of shock and awe that man has ever devised—as Dean sucks and moves around, humming in the back of throat, then pulls back to lick and even his lips, oh, it’s not only this.
It's the noises, desperate and stubborn. So Dean. It's all Dean, as he stills his mouth and doesn’t even do anything but make these little sounds, messy and slurping and Sam isn’t being quiet either, but Dean.
Dean at least can’t quite speak right now and that’s a very good thing as that would have ended Sam straight away.
This can't last and to be honest, Sam's glad of it. Nothing should feel so right and so wrong.
Sam doesn't want Dean to stop.
Dean’s let go of Sam’s hips, either trusting him as this point or rather wanting Sam to start pumping into Dean’s mouth and Sam has no need to hesitate. He’s already figured out Dean’s limits since he’s had that very up close and personal perspective, had used Dean’s mouth on his own dick and now that things are reversed, or oh, now that things are back to normal (whatever that means, the current definition has been stretched to the breaking point), Sam pushes to Dean’s limits and doesn’t worry about making Dean gag.
Can’t wrap his hands in Dean’s hair. It’s too short and what need is there to do that? Sam knows exactly what to do, running his fingers down Dean’s cheeks, graze of stubble and presses into the skin, knows that under that, there he is, and he can’t help but touch where Dean’s lips and his dick meet.
A bit of deceitful maneuvering, saying, “Please Dean,” and “I’m gonna come,” to drag it out, Dean actually listening to him and stopping completely like a total bastard. Sam’s fisting his cock as Dean licks his lips; wearing swagger on his face like it’s going out of style.
“You come on my face and I’m gonna kick your ass,” Dean says, his voice a little hoarse.
Sam can’t help it, a natural wickedness that survived the switch or maybe it’s just a natural aftereffect of being raised a Winchester, “And what if I come on your ass, Dean?”
Dean gapes at him and that’s all Sam needs to pull Dean’s mouth back where it belongs and Sam doesn’t even need to ask or beg or demand, Dean knows and yes he does it. Too well and Sam’s thinking that there’s going to be a later and there will be more and it’s all fucked up to hell but that seems to be where everything’s headed so why not let go?
Only then does he come to his full senses, his mind and body in firm agreement as the tension wire snaps under a weight that has been impossible to carry and he loses time—should disturb him—yet he welcomes it.
His mind and his body.
“Hmm?” Dean’s standing up now, tugging off his shirt and tosses it on Sam’s head.
“Did you, um,” Sam pulls the shirt off his face, notices that Dean’s turning on the shower.
“Spit it out, Sammy. And hey, notice that I didn’t spit it out?”
“I want this.”
Dean gestures to the front of his jeans. “Awesome. And duh, of course you do. Now hop in the shower and let’s see if we can fuck and forget that we still got freakin’ purple hands.”
Sam doesn’t get up, stays there as Dean strips and steps into the shower, promising a show if Sam decides to be a selfish fucker.
“Dude, you just gave me a sympathy blowjob.”
And it’s amazing how it rolls off his tongue, easy as that and he’s back, that pesky edge in his voice more than annoyance. The weariness of being the brother, accomplice, and general aggravator of Dean has been restored to him and maybe it’s just a weird aftereffect of sexual release but if it’s not then Sam could almost deceive himself into believing things will be okay.
He embraces the lie.
“Can’t hear you over the water, Sammy,” Dean shouts which is ridiculous and he sprays water all over Sam.
Sam finally gets up, nearly tripping on his jeans and squeezes into the narrow shower stall. “Sympathy blowjob.”
“Dude, you needed it. And hey, I’m a sex god,” Dean declares. Then he slaps Sam on the ass and says under the rush of water, “I want this.”
“Yeah,” Sam agrees. He pulls Dean’s smug mouth towards his, lands a wet smacking kiss that has Dean pushing up against him as teeth click, little sucks and bites, capturing a bottom lip with teeth, a graze here.
These actions say thing that they can’t find the words for so when their tongues are rolling the unspoken agreement is you and me. Dean’s hands running down Sam’s back, says we’re good, and Sam agrees, curling fingers around Dean’s cock, yeah we are.
They’re good. Under each other’s skin, like they weren’t wrapped in each other in too many ways already, sense of together stronger. A curse and a thrill, striking deep in his belly, the exhilaration of something that’s been there all along and there is no mine and his only them.