Author: Regala Electra
Warnings: Sexual Content, Language
Word Count: 2,731
Summary: Don't ask Dean how they got here, that’s not the interesting part. No, what’s a hell of a lot more interesting is the way he's got his own body shoved up against a wall that's one good shove away from tumbling over.
Author’s Notes: ignited prompted me with bodyswap porn and I delivered with um, bodyswap porn in a barn. Title from Happiness is a Warm Gun by the Beatles.
Feedback is appreciated.
He’s fucking nuzzling the stubble of his jaw, darting out his tongue quick to trap a little bead of sweat, right at the jawline, and neither of them can quite muster up a word, especially the word they should be saying in this here situation: stop.
Don't ask Dean how they got here, that’s not the interesting part. No, what’s a hell of a lot more interesting is the way he's got his own body shoved up against a wall that's one good shove away from tumbling over. Fuck it, mighta needed to get those Amish zombies to do a new barn raising, 'cause what they're gonna do, well, he has to say it, try it out in a voice he's still gettin' used to, doesn't quite work the way he means it.
“Damn, I'm gonna suck you off till you feel like you’re gonna pass out. But don't, 'cause I'm the only one who's gonna do anything to my body.”
Yeah, his body might not be in his control right now, what with them getting a little switched out, which hell, it doesn't make sense, and there wasn't time, had a hunt to finish. No way to call it off to freak out, start researching and panicking, didn’t even give Dean any time to plot and figure out how to get Sam's mop cut off while Sam's none the wiser. And hey, he didn’t even get any time to, you know, try out the new package (and oh, he means that in every sense), that’s how rushed they were, no fucking time at all.
But despite having no time to adjust, they managed to get it done, uh, adjust that is, and there ain't no more evil Amish zombies lumbering about.
Even thought Dean was tempted to shove some girly barrettes in this stupid goddamn hair just to get a clear sense of where the fuck he's going (how the hell Sam sees, he’s got no friggin’ clue, it's a miracle), but that was then and this, oh, this is now.
Dropping to his knees (Sam's knees and fuck, bruises already on Sam's knees, what’s he been up to?), he grunts, which sounds too much like Sam and says, “You gotta take care of yourself, Sammy—not getting any younger. But, damn, you are gettin' harder. I'm getting harder.”
Feels the front of his own jeans, his best pair, leave it to Sam to pick the least torn for a good old zombie hunt, and Dean can’t help but run the thumb over where he knows the head is, Sam bucking in response. Wet spot starting to form on Dean’s best pair of jeans. Goddamn son of a bitch.
There’s no need to dress up when you're ramming stakes into animated corpses; he shoulda told Sam that, it’s a little lesson for later because it'll be something to crack a smile on Sam's face and that's more than worth it.
“Man, you better start begging or I'm gonna whip out the dick that I'm currently ownin’ and jerk off,” and Dean can feel the heart pounding in his chest, the rush of blood to his head that should be impossible, considering how much blood must be pumping to get him this hard and let him have a functioning brain. “Shit, Sam, you need to get laid on a more regular basis.”
Okay, and maybe they better be getting laid together, because his dick, Sam's dick, whatever, it's all the same except where it's not, cock's a cock and he never paid much attention to the differences. Maybe he needs a little harder tug once he's got the cock out of the jeans and briefs, hard stroke that makes him press his face into Sam's leg (his leg, fuck this is confusing). Breathes in the smell of sweat and dirt, and oh, they're so gonna get a whole lot messier if he's got any say the matter.
And considering Sam still ain't saying anything, which, uh, he better voice something because Sam not talking to Dean is almost as annoying as when Sam's bitching him out for whatever goddamn reason.
Looks up, has to flick his head, irritating, to get the hair out of his eyes, and oh, huh, okay he gets it now. Sees it now.
He is a fucking sex god.
That is, when he's in his own damn body because fuck, looking at his own body, looking at Sam in his body, it's like, fucking a call to some hardcore fucking of whatever in the hell you can get, sex any which way. Look, eyes shut and lashes pressed tight and way too pretty against the face (man, he never looks that fucking girly, it’s gotta be all Sam's work there), mouth panting and open in a perfect shape, perfect ‘o’.
It’s a real cocksucking mouth at least and Dean'll love to shove that mouth open and pushing into, down that throat, and how fucking perverted is that, wanting to fuck your own mouth?
Dean's kinda okay with it right now, and hell, it's weirder that it's fucking hotter than hot ‘cause it's not just his mouth, but it's Sam's mouth. Yeah, Sam's mouth but it's his mouth and it's his dick but Sam's hard dick getting sucked off by his lips, which are Sam's...
“I'm so fucking confused and horny right now and if you don't let me suck my cock I'm gonna fuckin’ kill you,” Dean says, which is nearly in the top five of weirdass things he's said when trying to get laid.
He's said some pretty fucking weird stuff when he's been wasted. Still he got laid each time (okay, almost-laid that one time, but hey, he got that chick off and that totally counts).
Rattle of a shaky breath and Sam chokes out, finally opening his damn eyes, “You are a walking libido without anything controlling your urges.”
Oh hello victory for Dean. Because Sam might try to lie about it but he’s being undone and it’s all Dean can do to keep from flat-out grinning.
“That means you want it, don't you? Betcha can't wait to get my cock sucked off with your own mouth.”
Then, catching something on Sam's face, which man, Sam better never do that again to his face as long as this...whatever it is, this thing lasts, fucking gloomy eyes, he adds, “Oh. Huh.”
“Dean, I,” Sam says, soft, and it's good that it's still dark enough that Dean can't quite figure out if Sam's got him blushing because he'd hate to maim his own body in order to explain to Sam that blushing is not okay ever. “I've been...”
“Oh fuck it,” Dean says, before it's let loose, flood of even more shit he can't handle. He can barely think about what's left: how many months and days before it's hellfire and dammit, better have his body back by then, Sam doesn't need a reminder every goddamn time he looks in a mirror, catches a reflection, but no, he ain't gonna think, he's gonna do.
And doing is this: unbuttoning and pulling down the zipper, shoving the shirt up and away, getting all the access he can, damn near pawing off the boxer-briefs with his hands that he's not too sure of, these longer fingers, a little slimmer too, takes some getting used to, the hands.
But that doesn't matter not when touch is the same thing anyway. Touch and response and the best thing ever is getting to work a cock he's known forever, probably can get Sam off in under a minute but even if it's an out-of-body handjob, there's no way he's gonna shame his own body. Not when he can get Sam moaning, drag it out, and that's before he even gets that cock in his mouth, not to deep-throat, 'cause all he has to do is suck on it a little bit, and he'll have Sammy begging for more.
He's really not too goddamn concerned about how fucking hot he thinks it'll be hearing his own voice all ragged and torn up, all broken, the frustration bleeding through, Sam's way of speaking. ‘Cause fuck yeah, that's all right with him.
Hell, Sam's enjoying getting jerked off by his own hands, watching (the kinky fucker). His hands (Dean's hands) are spread flush against the barn door, spastic clutch every now and then, not like he's trying to get away, more like, yeah, Dean knows exactly what he's thinking of doing.
“If you want,” Dean says, and man, Sam's voice sounds great like this, dark and taunting, “you can grab my hair and make me suck you off.”
“Jesus Christ, Dean, shut the fuck up,” Sam snaps, but it's all broken and short, clipped words and Dean barely has time to prepare before he's got a mouth of cock, has to still hips by pushing back, fingers gripping the hard bones underneath smooth skin. Gonna leave marks, bruises, and it's so worth it.
Dean slobbers something on the backstroke, nearly chokes when Sam manages to figure out how to push forward. Sam's mouth is good for lotsa things but apparently not deep-throating. It'll take practice for that and yeah, they are totally working on that, later, because this fucked up thing between ‘em, it ain’t gonna end once they’ve righted themselves. In a manner of speaking, that is.
“Dean, Dean—Dean,” Sam starts chanting and it's really fucking weird to hear his name in his own voice, like he's lost sense of who the fuck he is.
So he gets up, letting Sam go with a wet pop, off knees already bruised, and having to look down at his own face, okay, that is fucking weird.
Bites Sam's bottom lip, tongue darting out and before he lets Sam get a sense of time-and-place, he's back to jerking Sam off. This time he’s working the cock with just one hand, his other hand's behind the balls, finding that spot, damn, wetted finger going there and Sam fucking moans long and slow, goddamn yes.
The buildup’s impressive, Sammy’s finally figured out there’s some control in Dean’s body. He holds out a bit longer than Dean thinks is possible, way he’s working that cock, but he fucking lets go in the end, spurting, and okay, Dean mighta just dry-humped his own body while Sam came all over Dean.
Which means Sam's so doing the fucking laundry since he made a mess of both of their jeans.
Little pause, lets Sam have a few breaths and damn, Dean needs to focus too, realizing that Sam's got his hands clutching on Dean’s asscheeks, damn near deathgrip, so he says, “Hey Sammy, we got better things to do than play some grabass.”
Sam doesn't respond in words, just shoves himself, hard angles, jut of his hip, against Dean, and fuck, Dean really, really fucking needs to come. Now, yeah, now would be awesome.
“We need to figure out a way—”
“We will,” Dean says and for a moment, he lets Sam believe that he's finishing another thought: a way to get you out of your deal.
There's a messy, bad kiss, the kind that Dean should make fun of but they're both so bad at it, acting like they're in their own bodies, hit and miss. Seriously, an actual fuckin' hit to the nose that Sam's currently wearing, the better nose, if Dean says so himself, and Sam scrunches up his face again and motherfucker, he has got to stop doing that.
Still, it gets a little better, tongue-fucking does its work, and once Dean feels how Sam's all pushy with tongue and sloppy, like he’s fucking drunk or something with the want, it's really kinda hot, damn, sometimes it's good to be hard up, makes Sammy a lot more desperate to figure out all the way to push Dean's buttons.
The way is to get Dean off and fuck it, he knows it's fucking weird saying this, but does it anyway, “You don't start sucking this here cock and I'm never gonna do the same to ya when we've got our bodies back.”
Man, Sam can still rock the bitchface. If Dean remembers it, he'll have to tell Sam later.
“Dean, I’m not just going to—”
“Dude,” Dean says, affronted, “Return the goddamn favor.”
Dean expects more fussin’ and whining, which is so fucking wrong when it’s his voice doing all that prissy shit, but Sam surprises him again, gets a look on his face that Dean knows he’s done tons of times before. It’s amazing that even with their jeans kinda shucked down, Sam does it at all, pushing Dean back up against the condemned barn door (they are going to die in here if they keep this up, walls toppling right over their mismatched heads), slumping down.
“Yeah, fuckin’ perfect,” Dean manages and that’s the last coherent thing he says.
There’s a bite to Dean’s throat, which holy fuck feels way too good, and then Sam’s licking the underside of Dean’s cock and words, yeah, they’re blown away the moment Sam wraps those lips around the head, flick of tongue right across the slit.
Sam’s noisy which ain’t a problem, not like Dean can hear anything, rushing noise in his ears, sometimes a creak overhead, old wood settling (and hopefully not cracking, dying in a barn is not the way to go). He gags a little when Dean pushes, gentle, even though he’d love to go hard, there’s no need to rush it, has to give time to adjust and yeah, yes, that mouth a hot suck all wet and perfect and he’s only halfway in and still, it’s fucking magnificent, only he can’t say as much.
Only one moment gets thrown off, goes to put his hands through Sam’s hair and just brushes the soft short hair, his hair, almost forgot, and looking down, man, fucking debauched as all get out.
The orgasm plows through him and it’s selfish what he does, not paying attention and no fuckin’ warning, spilling into Sam’s mouth, fuck his mouth, but at least he isn’t pumping in, that’ll really piss Sam off.
Sam settles back on his heels, wiping off his mouth, chin, spit and come dribbled all over, and he spits into the ground, rolls his tongue in his mouth, tasting and not looking all that disgusted.
“That was fucking...awesome,” Dean says, going for the biggest word he can think of, and smiling all stupidly when he says it.
Sam looks down at the ground before looking up, craning his neck, frowning when he accidentally cracks his neck. Wincing he says, “We really need to figure out how to switch back.”
Like Dean’ll disagree. There’s plenty of ways he wants to fuck Sam and most of his best ideas involve experiencing it in his own damn body.
“There’s one thing I gotta do before that, Sammy,” Dean says, going for pompous jackass, but falling more towards whiny bitch. He pulls up his underwear and jeans, zipping and buttoning up the fly, reaching in his back pocket and yes, still has it there, completely intact.
Waves it in front of Sam and it’s awesome how like, his eyes widen, only not so awesome because it’s Dean face and it looks totally fucking stupid. Whatever, Dean’s thoroughly fucked out and can’t be held accountable for any of his actions for the next coupla hours.
“Dude, you’re totally worth at least two Andrew Jacksons,” Dean says, waving the two twenties in Sam’s face, having to bend down ‘cause Sam’s still sitting back. “If ya swallow, that’ll mean a Ben Franklin.”
Turns out that barn door’s ready to give out ‘cause when Sam just goes and pushes him through, it bursts apart like nothing. Sure, they might be tussling in the grass with the wrong bodies, morning dew leaving them damp and cold when they make the long trek back to the car (but that’s later, much later), but there’s something settling between them that had been gnawing at them for ages, and when Sam cheats by pulling on Dean’s now-long hair, Dean lets out a deep laugh and it don’t take much for Sam to follow.
Plus, Dean’s so gotta show Sam how fucking amazing he is at giving head—when in possession of his own fucking body, thank you.
Sequel: lying with his eyes