The third time Sam and Dean are turned into animals.
There's scratching at the motel room door. Sam pauses in the act of shoving his jeans down. Dean's still at the bar, or, more accurately, he's still with the blonde waitress from the bar; his brother had tossed him the car keys and walked away, one arm slung across the blonde's waist while he stuck his tongue in her ear. Sam was just grateful that he'd gotten the car and hadn't had to sit in the parking lot after the bar closed down, waiting for his pain in the ass brother to get back and pick him up.
The scratching noise comes again; Sam listens to it for a second, identifies it as claws raking on wood. He's been in a lot of motel rooms in his life. Scratching? Not actually all that normal.
He can think of a dozen monsters that might try to claw through a door, but the minute the thing on the other side whines in a particularly familiar way, Sam knows what it is.
"You've got to be kidding me," he says, loud enough that the paper-thin walls aren't going to do anything to keep it from traveling. The scratching noise stops for a half beat and Sam allows himself to think that maybe, just maybe, his brother is not the complete and utter idiot he thought he was.
Then the thing on the other side whines pathetically and Sam can hear a tail thump on the sidewalk (and, wow, the walls really are paper thin, he thinks offhandedly, if he can hear that).
"Oh my God," he hisses, kicking his way free of his jeans and stomping over towards the closed door in only his boxers. The scratching stops, replaced by a hopeful sounding whuff of doggy air. Sam unbolts the door and eases it open just far enough that he can stick his head out into the hall and glower without accidentally giving anyone more of a view of himself than he's comfortable with.
A grey blur streaks into the room. Sam leans his head against the door, closes it slowly, and turns to find his brother lolling on Sam's bed with his tongue hanging out. They've only been human again for something like a month. There's no way Dean could have found another Native American to piss off in that time frame. No. Way.
"The hell did you do, Dean?" he finally asks, morbidly, crossing his arms.
Dean promptly turns his head, lifts up one of his back legs, and starts... licking himself. Sam slams his eyes shut, turning his face towards the ceiling out of sheer self-preservation. With his eyes closed, he can hear the wet, rasping noises better though, and his brain whimpers, starts to shut down.
"Man, do you realize you're licking your own dick?" Sam asks helplessly. The noises continue without a hitch. Sam's forced to drastic measures. "Dean, dude, If you don't stop masturbating in front of me, I'm going to get you neutered."
The noises stop, replaced by an incredulous silence.
He can't kill his brother. No, really. He can't kill Dean. Sam doesn't want animal cruelty added to his litany grave desecration, armed robbery, officer impersonation, and "aiding and abetting" charges. (The last ones are bullshit anyway. If anything, Dean's the one who's aiding and abetting him not the other way around. Sam deserves his own entry in the FBI database, dammit).
When the silence stretches for a full minute, Sam cautiously opens one eye, ready to close it again at the slightest hint that Dean's still... doing that.
Dean's got his head on his paws, tail slowly wagging as he stares at Sam. As soon as he notices him watching back, Dean tries to give him innocent eyes, which completely fails because his brother is a huge wolf. If Sam gets turned into a cheetah again because his brother can't keep his goddamn mouth shut, he's going to rip his throat out. Slowly. While purring. Sam narrows his eyes at his brother and says as much.
The wolf rolls over on his bed, thrashing on his back with all four feet flailing madly in the air.
Sam opens his mouth to be snotty, maybe say something about how Dean's being a giant bitch or how he's sleeping in that bed now because Sam's not going to the library smelling like intoxicated wolf-brother, but then he gets a maybe-familiar tingle down his spine. He's got a half-beat to think that that's it, Dean's going down, and then his world's dissolving into faded colors and sharper scents.
Dean happily jumps on him the minute Sam's spotted, striped, and on all fours.
Sam swats him in the face with one paw and pins his ears back against his skull. Dean leans his front half down on the floor, back end up in the air and wiggling with the force of his tail wagging and Sam is never, ever, ever going to let his brother get drunk and screw a blonde waitress again. Ever.
That's when Dean charges with a low growly bark.
Sam ends up on his back, blinking moodily at the fur between Dean's ears. Dean's licking at his throat, running his stupid slobbery wolf-tongue over Sam's pulse, which is bad enough because Dean had been licking his dick with that tongue, but in addition to that, he's doing it in the wrong direction. Sam's fur is standing on end, it's bothering him and he can't get up because Dean's got him pinned down, crouching over him triumphantly.
I hate you so much, Sam thinks. He narrows his eyes and hopes Dean can feel his hatred all the way through his tiny drunk wolf brain. I am going to tell everyone we've ever met that you gave yourself a blowjob while you were a wolf.
Dean just gnaws on the slope of his jaw with his front teeth, tail wagging madly.
