-•-
Dean can't believe he's saying this, but… hallelujah.
Hallelujah for a witch's curse.
-•-
The humidity of Amarillo, Texas creeps in with them. It remains tacking to their necks as both Winchesters shuffle into their new motel room—themed to be like a pop punk superstar had the courtesy to explode all over it and forget to inform the manager before checking out.
Dean resists the strong urge to rip the dangly, noisy fringe of clinky, silver beads off the bedside lamp. He tosses twin duffels onto the shaggy, ultra-purple carpet.
It only takes several minutes to secure their room, protective wards and everything. The younger woman beside him—strings of long, dark brown hair damp to her sun-flushed, angular cheeks—lets out a cranky noise in the opposite direction.
"Problem, Sammy?"
"I'm… sore."
Sam massages herself through her padded camisole, attempting to itch at the bra underwire without sticking her hand right up her shirt. It's a cheap Wal-Mart brand and apparently not the least bit tolerable. They're not out in public. There's no need to be polite—Sam can do whatever the hell she wants in front of Dean now.
They've had years and years and sometimes feels like lifetimes of establishing a comfort zone: wet-willies while cramming past each other in motel bathrooms and Sam expertly chucks Dean's frothy toothbrush at the back of his brother's skull; farting and burping contests during longer drives, and they're down to playing fucking Eye-Spy to keep themselves sane when Dean plays dirty with onions in his digestive arsenal; a fair share of vomit and blood and piss because Dean likes to think he's done enough to be considered a decent big brother and they're family—so what's a little body fluid between them?
Just because Sam's missing a dick doesn't mean anything's changed.
Also doesn't change the fact that, dick or not dick—Sam's been the center of Dean's attention for a long, damn time and up until recently, they haven't been backing away from the thought of fooling around with casual sex. Hell, it's turning out to be a good run. Great, even.
There's nothing philosophical or life-shattering happening, and like always, Dean's personal life is no one else's business.
The way Sam's lips pucker when she's irritated at Dean's blatant displays of renewed machoism when she's stuck in bizarre-girl form, when she's thoughtfully musing a decision before taking a swig of beer and Dean's eyes follow where her muscular, golden throat flexes—they're distracting enough as it is.
But the deep plunge of Sam's gloriously 36C cleavage takes the cake.
Dean's pulse quickens, and he feels it in his slowly hardening dick. They're an ideal shape and size for most breast-loving men. Was the curse meant to objectify Sam in a manner that the witch may have assumed all men tended to objectify women or… just to make Dean frustrated and jonesing for a taste all day?
Those too-plump and pink lips twitch to fight down a pout. "I hate this," she grumbles, pushing her hands through her hair and sinking down into a very high-back, very low-to-the-ground chair that looked more suited for a wacked out modern-art exhibit than someone to relax in—with the bleeding eye fuchsia and an obscene amount of velvet on it.
"Bobby says to wait," Dean says, gruffly. It's a lie. Bobby still thinks they're in Oklahoma.
He heads for the AC on the wall beneath the window. It kicks into full gear after a sputter and a knock of Dean's fist, pushing out thick, warm air for a few seconds. Sam continues to hunch over into herself on the chair, the picture of misery.
Damn it, she's still friggin' taller than Dean.
"You had to go and piss her off…" Sam mumbles under her breath, fingertips pinching desperately at her shirt and right side of her chest.
"Oh, my bad, Sam," Dean wears a duh expression as he stares at her, voice edging on his temper, "figured getting rid of the bitch who wanted to slaughter the entire town and us included was more important than her feelings. I didn't know we were supposed to go all Dr. Phil about her crazy too while we were at it."
"And then you iced her before we could get the counter-curse."
"What's the big deal? So you've got boobs? Boobs are awesome."
"They don't feel natural," Sam tells him, eyebrows scrunching together. She's—he's doing one of his serious, college-boy faces. "And what if I start menstruating?"
Dean comes back to his bed and decidedly frowns in loathing. He yanks off the shimmery pink cover on his pillow, stowing his gun from his side-holster under his now bare, normal-looking pillow. "Still haven't earned my red wings yet, even after getting rehymenated," he says, grinning.
"You're disgusting, Dean." Sam's familiar scowl on not-so-familiar, slimmer features don't hinder Dean's teasing nature. "And you're using the terminology wrong, again."
"Dude, you obviously haven't been getting enough tail to appreciate how lucky you are right now."
"You're kidding, right?" Sam barks out a laugh. Dean ignores the outright cynicism and tugs on one of Sam's forearms, pulling her onto her feet and planting his hands on Sam's fuller hips swallowed up in oversized denim. Curves, curves and more curves. Sam is being dense.
"I'm not against demonstrating, Sammy."
-•-
Jesus freakin' christ, they're literally the most perfect set of tits Dean has ever had the pleasure of rubbing his face into.
The little, soft gasps heaving out of Sam's mouth—coming out breathier than what Dean's used to hearing from him. The lithe, naked body pressed beneath the weight of Dean trembles against the length of dark, sheen-glossy bed sheets, spurring Dean to tighten his sucking lips molded around a nipple.
Feeling with his tongue how swollen, how nicely it protrudes and rubs against his lower lip.
(Although… they may just be the perfect set of tits because they're Sam's perky tits.)
As much as Dean marvels at the sight of the female body, as experienced as he is with it—he's really not as particular as others would lead to believe. Because people, all people, will always be made of the same flesh and bone. They share the physicality of lines. Some are harder, ridged lines; some are more formed with contours and tapered, less flat. But they share all these characteristics—their joints, their waists, the strength in their arching fingers and in their hands, the meat in their thighs, and the roundness and tender of earlobes.
Dean preferred people, and damn the idea of preferring anything else.
Blunt nails scrape into the material of Dean's loose-fitting, charcoal gray henley. Sam's legs wound together and nudge under the seat of Dean's jeans. She moans out, bending her spine in as the pad of Dean's thumb circles her other nipple, pushing back into his touch and struggling to hasten the sensory overload.
"Deann…nnhn…"
A heavy kiss against the jut of her throat, saliva-slick. "You're gonna like this next part," Dean says, flashing another grin as he spreads Sam's legs apart, crawling down to kneel at mattress end. The bronze amulet hanging from Dean's neck slides the path of her belly and over the crest of her pubic hair before Dean's nose bumps her inner thigh. "Capeesh?"
Sam props herself on her elbows, hair mussed, and peers over her knees with mild confusion.
"What are you…?" she trails off, and then groans out dazed when a tongue flicks to separate the outer folds of her vaginal lips, prodding wetly for entrance.
"Oh god, god yes!—Dean!"
-•-
He blissfully loses track of time, and how many times Sam's orgasms leak around his mouth. How he worships and undulates inside her, how Sam clenches her leg muscles and weakly pleads for Dean—she needs a moment, she can't feel her toes, Dean, it's so weird, he's never been inside, it's so hot, Dean, Dean, fuckfuck Dean—and Dean growls against her come-moistened skin, lapping at her swollen clit. With his other hand, he frisks under his jean belt and grabs at his dick, just on edge, just and he could go get a condom and…
The thought draws release, spurting in his boxers and dripping to his fingers. Sam whimpers, coming apart, twisting, pink lips bitten together at Dean's panting breathes.
"Oh my god…" she murmurs, green eyes swallowed up in dark pupils and bereft, examining him when her brother heaves back over her, hands on either side of her head.
"Couldn't stop and… let me catch my breath… could you?"
Dean's lips crook up, bright. He licks around his sticky mouth, eyes gazing into those nearly identical to his. Curse or no curse, there's a scatter of grey-gold flecks, of constellations inside of those eyes and Dean could spend what feels like lifetimes silently memorizing their elaborate verses and stories—no matter what Sam looks like to him.
"My bad, Sam."
-•-
SPN is not mine. Not enough stories exist of clitoral stimulation/going down. GOD BLESS THE KINK MEMES. And if you enjoyed, lemme know? Cookies for everyone.
Prompt:
"girl!Sam/Dean, breasts, teasing, marathon sex, begging"