A/N:This was inspired by some genderbent gif sets on tumblr. They were so much fun I decided to try having the characters and their female counterparts interact. Though after the initial inspiration, there shouldn't be any resemblance to the gif sets.

Betas: SkyTurtle

Music:
Dean's Dirty Organ (Brother's Guitar Theme) by Jay Gruska & Christopher Lennertz
Gratuitous Sex and Violins by Jay Gruska & Christopher Lennertz

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

…

Hunter, Huntress

Part I

Raven Ehtar

…

Cut Bank, Montana
Four weeks ago

...

It was a warm night. Warm and quiet with the scent of approaching rain heavy on the air.

The streets of Cut Bank were mostly empty about this time, being a small enough town that any businesses staying open after eight or nine would be losing more money than they made. Sally Bedford was an employee of one of the few places that did stay open beyond that unofficial cut off time, a local diner called the White Hart. The diner stayed open much longer than anywhere else and as Sally was the one to lock up, she got to stay even later.

She didn't really mind all that much. The pay wasn't stellar, but she liked her job well enough. She enjoyed interacting with people, and in a town this size she knew all the regulars, some since childhood. And since she didn't have to get up early the next morning, what did she care about late nights?

Still, it might have been nice to have finished up earlier than midnight, she reflected as she hurried along her way. She walked to and from work when she didn't have any errands to run that required a car. Her house was close, so there wasn't much sense in wasting the fuel to drive. That frugal instinct felt more and more like a mistake as she walked the darkened streets, hurrying her pace slightly. She wasn't normally a nervous person, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched as she made her way home.

Ridiculous, she thought to herself, unconsciously picking up her pace again. She'd been a part of this town her entire life, there wasn't a single corner of it she didn't know. There was no such thing as an unfamiliar street for Sally. Yet she was hurrying from the diner to her home, only the second best known route after the one she took as a child from her parent's house to school. She was hurrying because the shadows felt unfriendly, threatening.

By the time her front door came into sight she was practically jogging down the pavement, her calm pretense frayed away. For whatever reason she did not feel safe exposed on the street. Tomorrow she would definitely be taking her car. As she approached her front steps she pulled out her keys, finding the one to her latch while on the move.

As she stood on the step the feeling of being watched became overwhelming, her mind became a blank. She fought with the lock. It had never given her trouble before, but now it was refusing to cooperate, jamming instead of turning. As she struggled, Sally thought she heard something, some kind of scuffle not faraway over the frantic sound of jingling keys.

She froze, and listened, eyes scanning the darkness behind her for the source of the phantom sound. She wasn't sure what it had been, or from where, or even if she had really heard it or if it had been her imagination.

Still, she slipped in the door as soon as she got it open – a long five seconds – and closed it firmly behind her, locking it again. For a moment Sally stood, leaning against the door, the solid wooden barrier a relief as it pressed into her shoulder blades. Anything that separated her from the menacing darkness outside.

After minute or so to just breathe, Sally laughed at herself, though it still sounded shaky to her own ears. Her, a grown woman jumping at shadows and rustling leaves. It must have been a more tiring day than she'd realized if that was how she was responding to her walk home.

Still, she reminded herself as she walked toward her bedroom: Car tomorrow.

...

Before the incoming clouds blotted out the full moon, the silvery light shimmered over a dark, shallow pool. It was a viscous fluid, spread wide and messily, all originating from beneath the still, prone body of a would-be attacker that had followed Sally home from the diner.

He had watched her for some time, familiarizing himself with her routine and habits. Tonight was to be the night all of his preparation and planning would come to fruition, just as he had always imagined.

He waited outside the diner for Sally to lock up. He followed her home at a fair distance and then lay in wait. He would let her open her door and then rush her, force her inside and lock the door behind them. She lived alone, so they would have the privacy they would need.

But just as he was preparing to make his run he'd heard something shift in the bushes beside him. He'd started to turn, and then there had been a hand clamped over his mouth and a white hot pain in his back, sliding between his ribs and into the lungs.

It was all wrong. It's not how the plan was meant to go at all. He watched Sally retreat into her house without him, more concerned about losing her than in losing the copious amounts of blood he could feel running down his back and into the grass. Whoever was holding him up eventually let him into to the ground, landing hard on his face as none of his muscles obeyed him.

He wondered who it was that had snuck up on him, had ruined his plan. Then he wondered what language it was they were speaking, because it sure as hell wasn't English. He tried to get his mouth to form words, but like the rest of his body, it ignored him.

Then there was an explosion of pain from his back, between his shoulders, and a sickening, wet crunching noise.

Then he lay still, and wondered nothing at all.

...

Kettle Falls, Washington
Present day

...

It wasn't the weirdest way to start a day. Hell, if Dean actually sat down and tried to remember all of the ways he'd woken up over the years, or the situations he'd woken up into and rate them, then this probably wouldn't even make the top ten.

Well. Maybe the top ten. But definitely not the top five.

Probably.

It was made especially strange because it came out of nowhere. He and Sam had rolled into a little Podunk town in northern Washington, following a trail of bodies that they'd thought had a werewolf at the end of it, or possibly a shapeshifter with a weird taste for human hearts. This town had been the one most recently hit with a total of three dead and heartless, which was very noticeable when the population was less than 2,000.

After hitting all the usual checkpoints as Special Agents Roberts and Johnson – the police, the morgue and the families – they'd found surprisingly little, except that it probably wasn't a werewolf. The moon phases were right, but the bodies were wrong. No evidence of mauling or otherwise being chewed on, so not a werewolf. And the shapeshifter idea – which had already been weak – only became weaker as time went on. Shapeshifters had no need for hearts, and were generally good at staying under the radar. This job was bringing too much attention just to satisfy an organ fetish.

So with those few clues and no fresh leads – the last kill having taken place on the third night of the full moon, two days ago – Dean and Sam had trudged back to their cheap motel to brainstorm. The longer they thought, the more it looked like the work of humans, just some freak on a killing spree and making off with the hearts. Disgusting, but not really their bag. Still, there were a few more things to check before they bailed for the next town. If they couldn't find anything in the next few days then they'd start casting about for a different job and move on.

That had been last night, and Dean had collapsed into the hard motel bed as soon as they called it a night, asleep before his head hit the pillow. He'd been awake more than twenty-four hours, and a good portion of those spent hauling ass to this little corner of nowhere, running on nothing but caffeine and obstinacy. He was used to running on little to no sleep, but that didn't mean he had to like it, or that when the opportunity presented itself he wouldn't drop like a sack of rocks.

It was the closest thing to an excuse he had for why when an arm flopped over him in the small hours of the morning he wasn't instantly on his feet, gun in hand.

Through the befuddled fog in his brain he registered the arm as being nonthreatening, heavy with sleep and slender – a girl's arm. Struggling towards consciousness Dean couldn't remember bringing a girl to the motel, or of having Sammy pack himself off to another room for privacy. Still, having a sleepy arm draped over you at the break of dawn was pretty convincing evidence, and in his state he wasn't questioning it too closely. Instead he attempted to bury his head further into his pillows, intent on catching at least another hour of sleep before forcing his abused body vertical.

Just as he was slipping back into blessed sleep a drowsy voice behind him asked, "When did you get in, Cassie?"

And ouch, didn't that hurt his pride? One night stands were his usual procedure, but if there was ever any name awkwardness it was because one or both of them simply didn't know the other's name. Having someone else's name entirely used instead of his was new. It actually stung enough that Dean's mind started kicking over, reeling through the events of the day before and trying to fit in the girl.

"Who's Cassie?" he asked thickly.

Even as he was saying it the last of his memories clicked into place, that therehad been no girl the night before: He should be alone in bed. Whoever it was that infiltrated his sheets seemed to reach a similar conclusion a second before he did, and acted on it with a swiftness that belied her earlier, muzzy tone.

Dean found himself unceremoniously flipped out of the bed and on to the floor, which was only marginally harder. Before he could get his feet under him or even roll a safe distance away from the bed and his unknown attacker, something hard and heavy slammed into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Through watering eyes he could see that the girl – mid to late twenties, medium height, muscular build and chin length dirty blonde hair – had dropped on him knees first. The press of cold steel at his throat kept Dean from sitting up, not that he could if he tried. Right this instant he couldn't even draw breath to shout at Sam.

But there was nothing preventing the girl from speaking, and if Dean had thought he was surprised before, he was floored – literally and figuratively – now.

Neither letting up the pressure on the knife or taking her eyes off of Dean she shouted, "Sammy! Get your lazy ass out of bed and help me!"

Dean didn't get more than half a second to wonder why this violent little stranger was calling his brother for help before he was distracted by the sound of voices, two of them, replying to her shout. They both sounded confused, and then both were raised in alarm, apparently at discovering each other, though the words were lost in the jumble. One of the voices was definitely Sam, though.

Dean nearly gave himself a second smile on the knife as he tried to see what was going on in the other bed, craning as far as he could but only catching flailing limbs and blankets over the edge of the mattress. Being pinned supine on the floor was not the best position for a view. But Dean could hear the struggle just fine and could watch the expression on the gal holding him down. From the look of it, she didn't like whatever was happening, but the distraction wasn't enough to loosen her grip on him. Very professional, whoever she was.

It was over quickly, whatever was happening, and Dean could see Sam sit up in the bed, in much the same position as the girl holding him down was in. At least one of them was up.

"Who the hell are you?" Sam demanded, glaring at Dean's captor from behind mussed, bed-head bangs.

"Could ask you the same thing, buster," the girl shot back, staring daggers at his brother. "And what's with the Santa's Chip N' Dale bit? You two decide to be creepy and then get too sleepy to stay vertical?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Talkin' about you two weirdoes sneaking into our room and deciding to play sleepover."

"Uh… sorry, but this is our room."

The girl scoffed. Dean was rather impressed how well she could hold a conversation and him at the same time. He was waiting for an opportunity, for her focus to waver and grip to slacken just a little bit, but it wasn't happening. Impressive, but annoying. "You really think that sorry excuse is going to work?" she snapped. "'We thought it was our room, just wandered in, didn't notice you'? Bull."

"No, the lights were on when we came in last night," Sam said slowly. Dean couldn't see, but he heard his brother's confusion well enough. The tone was much less belligerent, he could practically hear the questions lining up in his skull.

If the girl could hear the difference, it didn't have much effect on her. "So you're saying we came in without noticing you? How stupid are you, kid?"

"No that—" Now he sounded frustrated again. "That's not what I'm saying. I'm saying—"

"That you sleepwalked your way in? Because that's even dumber—"

"No, just—"

Just as Dean was deciding to risk a nick or two in the interest of interrupting the pointless argument, a third voice beat him to it.

"Excuse me, hello?"

Sam tore his eyes away from the girl holding down Dean – god, this was humiliating – to look down at the girl he had pinned. "We're all freaked out and confused," the voice said, sounding unreasonably reasonable. "And the shouting doesn't seem to be getting us anywhere. Think maybe we could all take a step back – literally – and chill for a minute to try and sort it out?"

"Seconded," Dean croaked out, moving his jaw as little as possible with the knife still pressing against his Adam's apple.

The girl's eyes flicked down to him for an instant – green, he thought – before fixing back on Sam, the bigger threat at the moment. Watching her face, the way her mouth twisted into something like a sneer and a snarl combined, Dean could tell she hated the idea of giving up any kind of advantage. In this case that was holding Dean down. But he could also see that she didn't like how her friend was at Sam's mercies, either. It was a question of how badly she wanted to see the other girl freed, how much of a threat she saw Dean as, and overall how much she thought she could trust either one of them. It was interesting watching the cogs turn, and turn quickly; he could almost call out a play by play by the muscles in her neck and jaw jumping, in feeling how her grip on him tightened or loosened.

Finally, as Dean was beginning to seriously consider making some move to break loose, the girl said, "Fine," and pulled the blade away from his throat – though she did not put it down. Her hard stare shifting between Dean, who was staying still until she was a safe distance away, and Sam, who was mirroring her every move in getting off of the girl he'd pinned.

When she was all the way to her feet and had taken a step back, Dean pushed himself away and stood up slowly, moving away from the beds and more towards the small open area of the motel room, his hands raised slightly. It was the strategic high ground, but he was fairly sure he'd gotten it by accident. Sam joined him as he backed away from the second girl – a very tall, lanky thing with dark hair cut in a shaggy style – who was working her way to the edge of the bed and toward the blonde, her eyes locked warily on the boys. He couldn't say as he could blame them for that. He didn't trust them, either.

Standing side by side, watching the two girls closely, Sam cast him a brief glance. "You okay, man?"

"Yeah, sure," he replied, unconsciously rubbing at where the knife had been pressing. "Just a bit more aggressive than I usually like my early morning wrestling."

The blonde glared at him, catching the comment, but was prevented making any sort of comeback by the taller girl. "You alright, Dee?"

"I'm supposed to be asking you that, idiot," 'Dee' snapped back.

"I'm fine, thanks," was the unruffled reply.

"Well," Dean said, doing his best to sound unshaken by finding two women in their room with no explanation as to how they got there. "As nice as this has the potential to be, mind telling us who you two are?"

Dee scowled at him. Or at least, the scowl already in place got deeper. "You first, buddy boy, you're the ones who—"

"Dee," the other girl stopped her quietly, acting as the diplomat. Dee sighed but clamped her mouth shut. The taller girl looked at them, face deliberately neutral. "I'm Samantha, and this is my sister Deanna."

The room went very quiet, the brothers staring at the sisters with nearly identical expressions. When Dean looked over at Sam and raised his eyebrows as a silent 'What's going on?' he only got a shrug and a shaking head in reply.

The exchange wasn't lost on the sisters. "What is it?" asked Samantha.

"Oh, nothing. Just the family weird seems to have gotten an early start today." Dean jabbed a thumb first at himself then his brother. "I'm Dean, this is Sam."

There was another stunned pause as the girls gave them the same incredulous stare they had just received a moment before. Deanna spoke first. "Uh huh. And I'll just bet that your last name's Winchester, right?"

"Actually, yeah…"

"Oh, come on!"

...

So no, it hadn't been the strangest morning ever. They'd been in the hunting business too long for a couple of girls with their names appearing in their beds to be as Twilight Zone as it could be. But it was definitely a first, and that counted for something, Dean supposed. It was getting harder and harder to spring anything new on the Winchesters, but this? This counted.

After some preliminary precautions – salt, silver, and holy water tests all around – the four were able to relax enough to sit and start talking. Once everyone was finished getting dressed, anyway.

After about half an hour they were all reasonably reassured that no one was a demon or other beastie in disguise, but neither was anyone any closer to figuring out what was going on. They took it in turns to tell stories about themselves, random and little known details that no one but Sam or Dean – or Samantha or Deanna – would know. Unless the girls were a shapeshifting creature that could read minds and had a very, convoluted plan that necessitated them appearing as female versions of the brothers, then they really were female versions of the Winchesters. Dean had serious trouble believing the former, so he was inclined towards the latter – though he still intended to keep an eye on them. Better safe than eviscerated and all that.

The girls seemed to reach the same conclusion, with Deanna still looking a little wary. Score one more point for her being him, minus a Y chromosome.

Now, with the hunter 'introductions' out of the way, they were comparing notes to see what else was different between personal histories, if it was just gender or if there were other discrepancies, and just how far the gender flip-flop went.

They were sitting around the cheap round pressboard table, coffees and beers spread out for everyone. Well, most everyone. Dean was still pulling on his shirt, the last one to get dressed. This was an interesting detail, Dean thought, fishing his own beer out of the micro-mini fridge the motel provided. Wherever their very curvaceous counterparts got zapped from, their bags had come with them. It was convenient, since they slept in tees and underwear like the brothers did, and Dean doubted that anything they had would fit the two of them, especially Samantha if they went counterpart to counterpart. She was tall, but she wasn't quite Jolly Green Giant tall.

"So, uh, let's start from the beginning, I guess," Sam began, looking between the two girls. "Back in the nursery, six months after I – and you, I guess – were born…"

"Yellow-eyed demon," Samantha provided, gulping down her coffee with a grimace. "Azazel. Came in to the nursery late at night and slipped me a mickey of demon blood."

"More like a first dose of heroin," Deanna corrected. "You know, 'first hit's free' kinda deal."

Both of the Sams – god, this was weird – snorted a little at that, the 'I'm not really amused, more frustrated with your bullshit, Dean' snort. Good to see it wasn't restricted to just his pain in the ass sibling. "And Azazel," Dean said. "Did he sit or stand for the call of nature?"

Deanna snorted. "None of our business what his kinks were, but the meat suits he always grabbed were of the point-and-shoot variety."

Which was a fair enough point, if a little on the snarky side. Who knew what sex demons really were? They only assumed based on what they tended to grab out of the human clothing rack. Kind of creepy to think about, really.

There was an awkward pause, made more awkward since Dean was fairly sure they all knew what question was coming next. It was a subject guaranteed to make Winchesters squirm a little: family.

Deanna beat everyone else out to the question. "So was it your mom or your dad who…?"

Another little silence, then Sam answered. "Our mom," he said softly. "Mary Winchester. Walked in and got pinned to the ceiling, right before the whole place went up in smoke. Then our dad, John, he started hunting down Azazel and raised Dean and me in the life."

Samantha nodded. "Same here."

Dean took a swig of his beer, wondering if a light buzz would make the day look better. Though getting that off of beer wasn't likely to happen. He foresaw a bar in his future. "Okay. So far it looks like pretty much the same reality or whatever, just that the folks popped out daughters instead of sons."

"Or sons instead of daughters," Deanna countered.

"Yeah, whatever."

"But that can't be the full extent of it," Samantha argued. "I mean… Sam. When you were at Stanford you had a girlfriend, right?"

Sam looked surprised. "Well, yeah. Jessica. She died the same way mom did, twenty years later."

His counterpart nodded. "Same for me, expect instead of a girlfriend named Jessica, I had a boyfriend named Jesse."

"Okay, so the genders on relationships are switched, too. Makes sense."

"And it's one of the very few things that does," Deanna snapped. Dean noticed that one of her legs was bouncing under the table; a little tell of nervous energy. He wondered if it was deliberate, something she was allowing for now, or if she was just that sloppy. He hoped she was better on the job, as a sideways matter of personal pride. "When do we get to the part about how these two scruffy us's got here, and more importantly, why?"

"She—I've—She's got a point," Dean added. "We could sit here all week picking apart differences between our sides of the mirror, but that's not really the issue here. Having femme doubles pop into bed with us might be a sign of something else, something big."

"I agree," Samantha said. "But we don't know just now what information is important and what's not. For all we know it could be similarities or differences in our histories that will give us a clue."

"And sorry, we popped into your beds?" Deanna turned to look at Dean full on instead of out of the corner of her eyes like she had been. "I don't remember falling through an interdimensional portal to get here. You crashed in on us."

"Come again?"

"You heard me," she said, pointing at him accusingly. "This type of thing is always happening to us, and you learn to tell the difference between being the home team or the visitors. This is our reality, bud."

For a moment all Dean could do was stare, trying to piece together a coherent response. It was weird because he hadn't thought about whose 'home field' they were in as being all that important, at least at the moment. But now he could feel his hackles rising at someone suggesting that he was the invader. In the back of his mind Dean was very aware that the reason for that was because of who he would be arguing with rather than about what. It didn't stem the impulse, it just made him realize what a child he was being while he gave into it. "Oh yeah, sister? I don't see your frigging name written on it," he took a step closer to the table – one of those things one picked up after years of conducting interrogations. Make them uncomfortable as you get inside their personal bubble, and if at all possible, loom over the one being questioned.

Deanna, in response to the step, pushed her chair away from the table, making it easier for her to spring up, eyes locked on him. It wasn't the usual response, he stopped.

The two of them were caught in their personal staring contest for perhaps half a minute before a chuckle made them look away.

It was Samantha, hiding a wide grin behind her hand. She leaned a little closer to Sam, who was also watching them with a stupid little smirk. "That took a little longer than I thought it would, honestly."

Sam nodded, looking between Dean and Deanna. "Yeah. I still give it a few hours on the outside before we have to start taking weapons away."

"That long? I give it an hour. I'll put money on it."

"Oh yeah? How much?"

"Ten spot?"

"Done."

The two Sams shook hands on it and, in unison, pointedly checked their watches before looking back up at their siblings, nearly identical smirks painted over their faces.

"Bitch," the elder siblings tossed out.

"Jerk," the younger ones responded without rancor.

Dean tossed up his hands. "This is getting us nowhere. How the hell did we end up in Mirror 'Verse? I don't remember stepping into any faulty transporters lately."

Sam looked briefly confused at the Star Trek reference – Dean rolled his eyes at his brother's spotty knowledge of classic pop culture and caught his counterpart doing the same – and responded with a shrug. "I dunno, Dean. This isn't something I've ever heard of before, from anyone or anywhere."

Of course. Seems like just about everything they ran into recently was either brand spanking new or so old that no one in the last few centuries could remember it. "Alright," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. "Then what do we know that could do something like this?"

"Take your pick," Deanna said with a groan. "Anything from witches to demons to angels could have the juice for something like this. Hell, even a regular old Joe Schmo off the street could pull it off if he got his hands on something with clear enough instructions."

"It might not even be something that strong," Samantha said thoughtfully. "I mean we don't know exactly what is going on, so it could be something like a djinn, and we're all just tripping out heavyweight."

"A djinn?"

The girl shrugged at her sister's question. "It's not impossible. We've seen djinn induce nightmares as well as dreams, so why not something in between?"

"But this? A brown acid trip with the other side of the wrong bathroom door? I'm having trouble seeing what the point of that would be."

Samantha sighed in frustration. "Not saying that it is a djinn, Dee, just that it might be something like it. Something that's making us hallucinate. Knowing what's caused this would go a long way to knowing what kind of mojo we're dealing with."

"Awesome," Dean chuckled. "Instead of a transporter malfunction, we could be stuck on the holodeck. Knowing what did this would help with knowing how, and knowing what happened would clue us in on what did it."

Everyone paused for a second, processing. Sam sighed. "Chicken or egg deal. Which do we try to figure out first to unravel the rest?"

Deanna stood up abruptly and headed for the door, grabbing her oversized jacket on the way out and shrugging it on. "Well, I know which one I'm going for first."

"What's that?" Samantha called.

Deanna turned at the door and pointed back at them. "Egg. Or rather: eggs, with a side of bacon. Can't think properly without something to eat first." She popped open the door, then called back over her shoulder, "Anyone who wants to come along hurry up. I'm starving!"

The door banged shut, and the three remaining in the room all shared a look. Without having to exchange another word they all got up and shrugged into shoes and jackets. When Sam came close enough to him that he could speak privately, Dean muttered, "Maybe she's not as bad as I thought."

"Why, because she thinks with her stomach, like you?"

Dean grinned at his brother, letting the little dig slide by. "It's hard to stay mad at a chick that's got her priorities straight, y'know?"

Sam just rolled his eyes and continued tying his shoes. Dean chuckled a little and started thinking about what he thought sounded good for breakfast. It really was hard to stay annoyed or frustrated when the promise of a solid meal was close at hand. Less than thirty seconds later that fine mood was broken by the familiar rumble of a very familiar engine coming from the parking lot. Dean's head snapped up at the sound like a hunting dog's.

"She wouldn't…"

Dean bolted for the door and yanked it open, squinting into the early morning sunlight. He found what he was searching for an instant later. "Hey!" he shouted. "Get the hell out of Baby!"

About ten minutes later, after some heated argument, a few colorful phrases and a slight bruise or two, Sam handed Samantha ten bucks out of his wallet.

…

A/N: I'll admit it. This is fun.

I've been to Kettle Falls, (lived close to it once), so hopefully I'm not getting anything wrong with that town. Cut Bank, though, I'm working completely off of what I can find on the net.

Hope y'all enjoyed, everybody, next chapter in the works!

Thanks for reading!