Title: A Lingering Fringe
Author: pink_bagels
Chapter: seven
Rating: R (for swearing, sexual talk, crack!fic-ishness)
Characters: girl!Dean/Castiel/Jimmy, Bobby, girl!Sam/omc that looks like Hugh Dillon (w00t!), genderswap, Trickster, etc.
Spoilers: end of season four--If this ever freakishly became canon (checks mirror--Nope, still not Kripke. Not even if he had a sex change), it would hover somewhere in the middle of an AU season five.
Summary: The boys figure out why they've become girls, but the Trickster knows way more than what he lets on. What happens in Vegas hunts you down and refuses to let you forget it. Just ask Sam Winchester. Both he and she can tell you all about it.
Note: Feedback is love! Even if you're telling me you hate it!
a lingering fringe--chapter seven
"Bobby needs us, Sam," Dean's voice implored of her. "Where are you?"
"I'm at the diner two blocks from the motel," Sam said, ignoring the concentrated effort Paul was making to appear nonchalant at this admission. "I'll see you in five minutes." She slapped the cell phone shut, her wrist pressed tight against the prim line of her mouth, the grimy window of the diner letting in spotted rays of morning sunlight that lay pooled in dirty circles on the surface of the table between them.
Paul's coffee was getting cold. "This is my last day here," he reminded her. "I get my flight at three o'clock, and it's back to February in Alberta." He gave the swirls in his coffee a wan smile. "I was kind of hoping of keeping up the heat for at least a few more hours."
"I'm sorry," Sam said, genuinely meaning it. She pocketed her cell phone as the Impala came into view, its sleek black body nearly obscured by the brown clouds of filth on the window.
"You don't have to go," Paul said.
"Of course I do," Sam replied.
"No. You don't." Paul sighed, his coffee pushed away from him, the handle of the mug kissing Sam's own. "I get the whole family is everything deal with you, but there's something to be said for making them deal with their own demons."
Sam bristled at this. "You don't understand. It's a family emergency, I can't just abandon my sister, or my uncle." She'd done that once before, puffed full of ego and high on demon juice, and look at what it had gotten them. A one way ticket to the obliteration of life, the universe and everything.
Paul's voice was soft against the dirty gloom of the diner. "You're holding onto a pattern, and if anything is going to change in your life, you need to start getting rid of those things that have you trapped. Like running to your sister's aid at first opportunity. Or living in fear of what Simon might do next."
"You don't understand," Sam said, pocketing the cell phone into the back pocket of her jeans. She stood up, not waiting for Dean to honk the horn, her battle weary soul fractured and uncertain. Paul strung his arm around her waist and pulled him close to where he was sitting, his face buried just beneath her breasts. His hands roamed, grazing their periphery, his lips placing a teasing bite on the beginning of her belly. "I guess the next time I see you will be a cold day in hell," he promised.
"You've got my cell number," Sam said. She hesitated before breaking free, the small embrace of her palms as she lightly caressed Paul's head interrupted by the rude honking of the Impala.
"I have to go."
"No. You don't."
She parted from him, refusing to endure the judgemental tapping of the waitress's nails as she pretended to read the classifieds in the morning paper. Paul was hunched over the table at their booth, his hands clasped tight together as though in earnest prayer.
"I'm...I think I...I really like you, Sam."
Sam paused at the door of the diner, a pain she hadn't felt since Jess stabbing at her soul in all kinds of concentrated hurt. Without saying another word, Sam left Paul and his quiet chaos behind in favour of her sister and the path that so stubbornly held them hostage.
Dean waved her over the second she opened the diner's door, honking on the horn again if only to press the point further that choice had little to do with the Winchester existence. Sam fought the urge to look over her shoulder, knowing that Paul was hunched over his coffee, his large thoughts reshaping the circumference of the cup, mentally inverting and reshaping its exact measurements, until the mug became the donut, and then with one figure eight twist became a mug again. Cosmic topology defined by breakfast. Paul would butter his toast with the handle of his knife, just to illustrate the point.
She was going to miss him.
Sam silently slid into the passenger seat of the Impala, wheels skidding against asphalt as Dean sped out onto the main road. The early morning hour hadn't many patrons, according to the deserted appearance of the streets. Dean's foot was heavy on the gas, and she cursed when her black flip flops slid off, her heels dug in deep to prevent it from happening again. "So here's the plan," Dean said, bringing their saga back into focus. "I brought Cas along for some extra ammo. We leave him in the car, and we head in ourselves, making like we don't have any back up. Determine where Bobby is holed up, but we don't go to him right away. I say we call out the Trickster first, make him reveal all his little reality morphing crap, let him think he's got the upper hand." Dean made a sharp turn, hurtling Castiel against the back passenger window. The angel made a silent howl of pain as he rubbed his bruised shoulder.
"Once he starts getting cocky, and that'll be soon, you know how that Trickster bastard is, we go with a few rounds of rock salt. You know, make him think we're rusty and too damned tired to keep at it like we used to. Then, just when he's ready to kill us off, we bring in the big gun." She pointed with her thumb to the back seat, where Castiel was looking unwell and dishevelled. "There's our 'gotcha'."
Sam only half listened. She rested her forehead on the cool glass of the passenger window, her eyes shut against the onslaught of red dust that crept over the Impala in a grainy mist. "Sounds great, Dean," she said, uncommitted.
"Of course it does," Dean said, giving Sam an angry sidelong glare. "It's going to save Bobby. Whether we fix our chick flick moment here or not, at least Bobby being safe puts us back on track."
"Back on track to what?" Sam asked.
"To saving the world, of course! Dammit, Sam, where the hell are you? It's like ever since that night at the bar you've been all, I don't know, disconnected."
Sam wouldn't answer, keeping her emotions buried deep as they violently turned to the right, a thick wall of desert dust obscuring her view. Dean's plan had more than a few holes, but Sam wasn't about to start repairing them. If anything, the hopeless feeling that throbbed deep and unrelenting within her being could use a few stumbling blocks to fall into in this adventure. By late afternoon, Paul would be on a plane, heading far, far north, farther than they had ever travelled. If she survived this particular run-in or not, the outcome would be the same. The intelligent, interesting and downright deviant in all the right ways Paul Nash was to be lost to Sam Winchester forever.
A shame, really. Because, when she thought hard about it, she really liked him, too.
The Impala screeched to a screaming stop, the wheels leaving long black lines on the cracked surface of the side road. Tin warehouses loomed around them, their creaky corrugated walls gently conversing with the desert breeze. Not a soul was present, a fact that gave Sam some measure of hope. Demons on a war mission loved to make sure lots of innocent lives were involved. The Trickster's choice of meeting suggested he wasn't looking for a real fight.
This didn't stop Dean from loading up her shotgun full of rock salt, however. She tossed Sam another gun, this one full of blessed bullets that Castiel had marked with enochial etchings. "We're not letting that bastard get away," Dean promised. "Not this time."
///
The address of the warehouse where Bobby was being held prisoner had a distinctive odour, Sam noted, and it certainly wasn't sulphur. A soft, flowery scent that had an underlying hint of patchouli beckoned them in, the caress of dusty mist pooling around their ankles as they opened the creaking entrance and stepped inside. Their path was lit by candle pillars placed strategically in parallel lines along the concrete floor, where they meandered for several feet before suddenly separating into a wide circle. Flames were dangerously close to the hem of red silk that draped the large, circular bed now the ending focus of the path of candles. Two candelabras were placed behind it, the flames creating just enough light to reveal the scattering of rose petals over the top of the red silk coverlet.
"I'm guessing Hugh Hefner is planning on some playmates," Sam said.
"The Trickster's losing his touch," Dean said, shaking her head, her barrel of her shotgun balanced on her shoulder as she took in the lame attempt at a romantic scene. "He ripped this right off of Sister Sluts Do Dracula In Detroit. We fit right in with the ammo, and the camouflage digs. We're the star attractions, Sam. Lesbo sisters ready to take down Dracula while he goes down on them."
"That is disgusting," Sam said, an unwelcome vision of the Trickster as a lame porno Dracula assailing her.
"I didn't think so at the time, but yeah, the story was so implausible. I mean, it was obvious that they weren't sisters, especially since one had a Spanish accent and the other one was Russian. Then the dude playing Dracula was a horrible actor. He could barely talk through the fake plastic teeth." Dean sighed. "Heck of a schlong, though. At least he knew how to put that to good use."
"Okay, let me clarify. *You* are disgusting."
The sentiment was growing in scope as Dean picked up a stray flower petal, which crumbled into fragrant powder in her fist. "You don't think he's serious about this, do you?" Dean asked, worried. "I mean, I know I'm hot and all, but seeing as how the Trickster implied he's going to take us back to our Kansas boyhood home, bodywise, well...Doesn't that mean that, technically, he'd be doing a guy?"
"It doesn't work that way, Dean," Sam impatiently replied. "Just because you have an expectation of becoming a guy doesn't mean you *are* a guy."
"Yeah, I get that, it's just the mindset is there, that's all. If you're just going through the motions to get from point A to point B..."
"I'm not going through *any* motions, Dean."
"I didn't say you were. I'm just saying that if the Trickster is going to get nasty with either of us, with that promise of guyhood hanging in the background, he's not really having sex with a woman, he's having sex with a woman expecting to become a dude in the next few minutes, so, ergo, he's doing a guy."
"I am physically present as a female, and I don't necessarily expect the Trickster to solve our girl trouble, so no, I can't see your convoluted logic."
"So what you're saying is, if the Trickster has sex with you, he's one hundred percent into the chick flick, and will have no gender confusion repercussions despite knowing you as a guy for most of your life." Dean crossed her arms over her ample chest, her expression surly. "I'm not buying it, Sammy."
"You're making one hell of an assumption, Dean."
"Which is?"
"That we're going to have sex with a Trickster demon."
"Whoa, there, little sis. That just ain't gonna happen."
"Believe me, I know."
Their guns were cocked in unison, the barrels aimed in perfect synchronization at the Trickster demon's heart. He stood before them dressed in a silk brocade bathrobe, his hands held high against their unified murderous intent. "Interesting conversation," he said. "Just for the record, I didn't think too hard about the gender issues. I just figured it was an easy way to get laid."
"Yeah, I know," Dean said, proud of herself. "I used to be a guy too, remember?"
"And that hot conversation was just to bait me into your little trap. Wow." The Trickster shook his head in admiration. "It's true what they say. The girls are smarter than the boys."
"We figured it would be a good distraction," Dean said, cocking her head sweetly to one side. The barrel of the gun pressed her point further. "Where's Bobby?"
The Trickster laughed, his bravado brought to the fore. "Nice try, girls, but a few little pinpricks of rocksalt is just the kind of foreplay I was looking for." The mist curling around their feet began to gain density, a gritty sandstorm suddenly erupting upwards, obliterating the red silk coverlet, the mattress shorn by violent winds and abrasive pebbles. Both Dean and Sam turned away from the howling, sandpaper wind, all exposed sections of skin earning a serious case of concrete burns. With a snap from the Trickster's fingers, the winds receded, leaving the sandy mist to curl in a desert sentience at their ankles. "Take your best shot, ladies," the Trickster taunted them. "This little sandstorm of mine will grind your bones into diamonds. A bit low budget on the theatrics, I know, but hey, I figured the Wizard of Oz reference wouldn't be lost on you."
"Actually, it is," Sam said, confused. "What does sand have to do with anything?"
The Trickster shrugged. "A duststorm whisked Dorothy away to the land of Oz."
"No it didn't," Dean said, unreasonably annoyed at the inaccuracies. "A tornado did."
"Duststorm, tornado, same difference."
"No," Sam said. "A tornado is a high air pressure system created by severe changes in temperature, the ensuing residual differences resulting in a typical funnel shape."
"Duststorms are just high winds pushing dirt along," Dean added. "And it was Munchkinland Dorothy landed in, you douchebag, not Oz."
"Thanks for the weather forecast," the Trickster said. "As for the Munchkins, what can I say? I was always more a fan of the flying monkeys." He moved close to Dean, his fingertips grazing the haughty line of her chin. "Now, now, no biting," he said when she cocked her gun at his throat. "I'd play nice if I were you. That is, if you want to see your friend Bobby again, you'll best be getting knowledgeable about other natural disasters." The Trickster held open his arms, the sandy mist rising to meet his outstretched palms. "Like the fiery tempest that happens when a man and a woman get jiggy with it. Or, as in this case, when two women and a hotter than hell fireball burn each other into slow cinders."
Dean let out a disgusted groan. "Oh come on, Sam, I can't even play this anymore."
"I know what you mean, he's so Larry Flint slimy. Ew."
Dean stared up into the heavens, as though searching out inspiration.
"Don't bother asking your angel to come to your rescue," the Trickster warned them. "I made sure to angel proof this place in my own damned blood."
"Oh, we don't need the help of no angels," Dean, sweetly smiling, replied. She shouted to the rooftop. "Yo! Cas! Put some light on the situation!"
There was the surge of a generator, and in seconds the romantic gloom of the warehouse was suddenly awash in bright light, the onslaught enough to make everyone wince against it. The Trickster stood within a pentagram, its charmed circumference riddled with archaic symbols that held him firm within it. Confused, he tested the periphery with his fingertips, earning a burning spark in return.
"It's a projection," Sam explained. "We drew it on a pane of glass and had Cas affix it to the ceiling light."
"You missed a spot on the roof," Dean gleefully added. "Don't go beating yourself up about it, though. In case you did really angel proof the place, we were going to get Jimmy to cut a hole in that green plastic roofing they're so fond of around here. All it took was a pane of glass, some black magic markers and a couple of vice grips and here we are, our own little hex circle slideshow."
"One hundred percent organic human ingenuity," Sam added. "With a touch of girl power thrown in." She didn't even need to ask; Dean met her high-five with a quick slap and a snap.
The Trickster pouted and paced within his shadow cage. "I wouldn't have done either of you bitches anyway," he sneered. "You're too aggressive for my tastes, blondie. And you..." He made a disgusted face at Sam. "Ruby did one hell of a number on your psyche. Makes me feel kind of sorry for you. Believe me, I don't even want to think about the scary shit you're now into."
"Where's Bobby?" Sam asked, getting to the point, her psyche irked at the mention of Ruby.
'I don't have Bobby," the Trickster whined. He swore in protest when Castiel peeked through the open door, the symbols secretly painted on the warehouse's outer surface forbidding his entry. "All I really wanted to do was ball your girlfriend!" the Trickster shouted to him.
"Forget it," Dean said. "You know as well I do that angels are gender blind."
"That may be so, but Jimmy in there is pretty pissed at me. Hey, James! Try an edition of Chatelaine next time--Make sure you read it for the articles!"
"...sonofabitch..." Jimmy muttered.
"He is subletting to an angel," Dean reminded the Trickster. She uncocked her shotgun and balanced it on her shoulder, her pose decidedly Lara Croft in nature. "It might not be a good idea to taunt him. Your smiting might come in an extra-'splody bits flavour." She stepped closer to the periphery of the circle, her breasts standing at attention and definitely taking all of her prey's. "If you didn't call us here for a little two on one, then you'd better have a damn good secondary reason."
The Trickster pressed his palms together, his steepled fingers pressed tight against his lips as he sadly sighed. "I hate having to say this," he said, keeping his eyes firmly entrenched on Dean's cleavage. "But I have the magic formula that's going to turn the incredibly hot Winchester sisters back into the lacklustre Winchester brothers."
"Me and the girls are listening," Dean said.
The Trickster's eyes slowly left their inspection of her chest to meet Sam's more nervous disposition. "It's a very simple procedure," the Trickster offered, his gaze never leaving Sam's. "Trusting, of course, that you are both still virgins."
"Yeah, whatever, out with it," Dean said.
Sam shifted nervously where she stood, her head shyly turning away from the Trickster's scrutiny. "Define...'virgin'..." she said.
"Sam?" Dean's eyes were wide.
"Nah, I'm just shitting you," the Trickster said, Sam's sigh of relief not missed by a shocked Dean. "There's no magic formula. All you have to do to be boys again is just click your heels four times together and say, as loudly as you can, "That's not my name. That's not my name. That's not my..."
"I want to kill him," Dean said.
The Trickster sighed, his hands on his hips, his tone one of a highly educated professor trying to educate a poorly trained monkey. "It amazes me how you didn't see this one coming. I mean, let's face it, Sam, you aren't exactly one hundred percent human to start with. Your real daddy floats through fifty percent of your DNA and that's one heck of a big chunk of your humanity snuffed out like so much smoke. And don't go thinking you're off the hook here, Dean. You were dead and buried and your corpse was lying in the ground, rotting away. Your soul spent forty years in Hell, before you were stolen by that sanctimonious filth waiting on your every move. All scrubbed and clean like a newborn--better, even."
"What's your point?" Dean asked.
"The point is, girls, you can't touch the supernatural without it giving a little back." The Trickster paced his circle, searching earnestly for a tiny shadow of weakness within it. He found none. "Doesn't it bother you both, how skilled you've become at fighting us 'monsters'? If I were you, I'd be wondering how that came to be, especially since you two aren't exactly the merely shoot 'em and leave 'em type." He smiled in victory as he glared at them. "Androgyny is the mark of a true magus," he said. "Consider it a hazard of the job."
"You said you know how to fix this," Sam reminded him.
"Aren't you listening to me?" the Trickster snapped in impatience. He sat on the edge of the torn bed, rose petals swirling in circles at his feet. "Your angel should have given you a clue, Dean. In our worlds, there is no male or female, and in this one, we can just as easily swing one way or the other. A meatsuit's a meatsuit as far as any of us are concerned. In your case, just flex a little of that supernatural muscle you've been blessed with and you're free to be her and he."
"What do you mean?" Sam asked, frowning.
"It's just like your fairy godmother is trying to tell you," the Trickster replied, his voice suddenly a high pitched vibrato. "All you ever had to do was want it badly enough. Just click your heels together and make a big, big wish..." The Trickster's face fell at their increased confusion. "A couple of kiegels ought to do it."
"I can turn back into a guy if I clench my butt cheeks?" Dean asked.
"Dean," Sam said, trying gently to explain. "You have to use a muscle that's a little, well...Elsewhere."
Dean was about to ask a further question only to suddenly understand. "Oh," she said.
"What is a Kiegal?" Castiel, or possibly Jimmy, asked, his head still peeking in the front door.
"Look it up on Google," Dean said. She braced herself and stretched, her body sighing as it morphed into a far more familiar shape. Dean the man was now happily checking out his newly flattened chest, wider shoulders and ill-fitting blue jeans. "Ah, much better!"
"Not really," Jimmy muttered from behind the door, his face long with disappointment.
Sam flexed then shrugged into her own male skin, the effort putting a strange kink in his neck. He rubbed at it with the back of his large palm, his shoulders rolled to their proper width and positioning, the socket crackling like double jointed knuckles at the effort. "This feels so weird," he said, surprised by the sudden brevity of his voice. Dean was busy adjusting the fit of his jeans, as promised, but Sam remained immobile beside his brother, confusing questions about their physical selves swirling in the same unhappy eddies as the grainy mist that crept hungrily around their ankles. He checked his memory of the nights before, and was inwardly sick at the fact that no, manly man Sam didn't regret it half as much as he felt he should have.
"It's good to be back," Dean said, palms thumped on his chest in a good show of machismo. Sam wasn't so relieved, and he opted to keep his uneasiness at the situation to himself. The Trickster, bastard demon that he was, instantly latched onto Sam's reticence, his cruel, twisted smile pulling the young hunter into his newest game of emotional hide and seek.
"What happens in Vegas doesn't always stay here. I know the brochure says so, but those advertising execs are such liars. I should know, my meatsuit was one for nearly twenty years." He was cocky as he paced his prison, the shadows of various symbols bruising the exposed sections of skin on his chest. He pulled his silk brocade robe tighter around him, preventing further injury. "Your friend Bobby is right, Sam. You sure do know how to pick them."
Sam didn't want to be baited, but it was Dean who took it, his testosterone upped to level eleven. "What the hell are you talking about?" Dean asked. He turned on his brother. "You got something to say, Sammy?"
"Oh, he won't tell you anything. He's sworn himself to secrecy." The Trickster tutted at this, and then cursed as a shadow symbol met his cheek and neatly cut it. "Let me go and I'll tell you what Sammykins has introduced to you."
"Not a chance," Dean replied.
"Frankly, I'm feeling a lot safer locked in here," the Trickster replied, his cocky bravado beginning to wither. "You go ahead and check out the morning news when we're done. What he did to that poor Maneater at that diner. Tsk, tsk...You're not safe here, boys and girls. What he did to her he's going to do to you, too."
Sam contemplated this a long moment, his memory of the past week slowly morphing into an unexpected conclusion. "You're talking about Paul," Sam said. He frowned as he looked at the now shivering form of the Trickster, his twisted sneer rubberized into odd shapes as he expressed his distaste of Sam's understanding.
"You're afraid of him," Sam realized.
Dean kicked at the sentient mist that curled around his foot, the tiny grains of sand hugging tight onto his now too small black flip-flop sandals. They dug into the knuckles of his toes, causing tiny pinpricks that bled like fresh mosquito bites. He brushed at them with his hands, and the grains of sand swarmed like fruit flies around his leg.
"Why would he be afraid of Paul?" Dean asked. He patted more of the sand off of his knee, the tiny grains crawling over his palm in a pattern he hadn't seen since his grade eight science class. A large clump of sand lay in the middle of his hand, while several smaller clumps surrounded it in a ticklish orbit. His teacher, Mrs. Menckil had taught them something about it, but back then his horny pubescent self couldn't concentrate because she was only twenty-three and even if she was a physics geek, she was blonde and busty and hot. Adams, Dean thought, searching his memory hard. Elections. He shook the grains of sand off, scattering them into chaos.
"Which came first, Sammy?" the Trickster taunted. "The chicken or the egg?"
This was no idle threat. The pattern that had played out on Dean's palm was unmistakable to Sam. A sick well of hurt and fury overrode his good sense, and without consulting his brother first, Sam cocked his shotgun and fired a round of enochial blessed bullets directly at the chest of the Trickster. The demon's meatsuit was obliterated into the same sand that now suddenly collapsed into inert lifelessness, the only stir that remained being a natural breeze that crept in through the open warehouse door. There was a good chance the Trickster was dead and sent back to hell, but Sam had been wrong so many times before. He let out a shaky breath, not realizing he'd been holding it.
"Why did you do that?" Dean shouted at his brother. He grabbed Sam roughly by the shoulder and was pushed off just as brutally. "He was going to tell us something important!"
"We need to get out of here," Sam said, refusing to tell Dean more. He could feel his brother's furious glare on his back, but what the Trickster revealed was far too important for hurt feelings and a lingering sense of betrayal to matter. Atoms and electrons. With one shake of his brother's hand their pattern was obliterated.
The coded message was more than clear. Paul Nash, for reasons as yet unknown, was a ticking nuclear bomb.