Genderswap: Dean's First Period
Dec. 17th, 2007 12:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thecatevariI've had this scene in my mind for a few days. As usual, I'm really iffy about it, but I think the general gist is here. This is another of those parts that I find laugh out loud funny at the same time that it breaks my heart. Super rough and incomplete.
Dean wakes up in the morning feeling like he needs to take a righteous shit.
He wriggles out from under Sam—more difficult than it was before he had boobs—and puts on Sam's T-shirt, crumpled at the foot of the bed. Walking hurts, deep in his cunt, the bones of his pelvis. He'd been kind of caught up, he hadn't thought Sam had fucked him that hard, but he's paying for it now.
In the bathroom, Dean lifts up the shirt just far enough to see the dark bruises on his thighs and hips, some of them sucked in and some from Sam's fingers. He doesn't know how to feel about it anymore. Time was, he liked those reminders on his skin, proof that he means something that someone cares about him enough to mark him up. Now it isn't his skin anymore and he doesn't know what to feel. Dean makes a face and lets the cloth fall, billowing around his thighs.
Dean sits on the pot for a long time, the ache in his groin made worse by the low, grumbling unhappiness in his bowels. But despite that, nothing's coming out. "Aw, come on," Dean mutters and he'd never tell Sam, but he feels as close to crying as he ever has in his life, head in his hands and half-ass wishing he could die because now even his fucking bowels don't work.
Eventually, though, Dean's got to give up the ghost. Sniffling, hot-eyed and hating himself for it, Dean tears off a triple handful of toilet paper and thoroughly mittens his hand. He hates the seeping wetness of his cunt, this perpetual dampness, gushing when he walks, when he coughs, if he laughs too hard, not that there's been much of that…
Dean freezes, cold scrawling down his spine with a fingernail of ice. The toilet paper is pink tinged, fading to darker rose near the back. Almost red. Dean drops it into the bowl as if it's red hot as well and reels off another swathe, scraping frantically between his legs.
It's blood. It's definitely blood.
Dean makes a sound that is most definitely not a whimper and rips off half the roll, cramming it between his legs and crab walking back into the main room, where he finds his panties and pulls them on, wedging the toilet paper in. Next he puts on his jeans, his socks and his boots, carefully tying the laces tight because he is not freaking out. Totally not freaking out.
Then he kicks Sam dead in the ass. When Sam lurches up, wide eyed and disoriented, Dean says tightly, "Get up. You broke my cunt. We're going to the emergency room."
***
"Dean, I didn't break your cunt." Sam pinches the bridge of his nose, trying very hard not to hear the words coming out of his own mouth.
"It's bleeding," Dean insists yet again. "It hurts. That's not fucking normal."
It's on the tip of Sam's tongue to ask, how the fuck would you know what's normal, Dean? but he bites it back just in time, pretty literally. He tastes his own blood.
Dean jerks his jacket—which he refuses to give up, even though he looks like he's playing dress-up in Sam's clothes—from the back of the chair, toppling it over. "I don't need you to go with me, dude," Dean declares, shrugging into the sleeves. "I can drive myself."
"I know you can." Sam throws the covers back and, as usual, Dean's eyes dart to Sam's cock and then away in an agony of self-conscious hunger. "It's not about that. Dean. Look at me."
Dean's jaw juts out, his hands open and close on nothing and his weight shifts from foot to foot like he can't stand still. The way he keeps shifting his hips, like he's trying to stretch or bend looks vaguely familiar and…
"Have you even thought about the fact that you could just have your period?" Sam asks, also trying very hard not to think about the fact that he's had to use the words 'just' and 'your period' to his brother.
Dean does get very still then, eyes widening and all of the color blanching out of his face so fast Sam worries Dean's going to faint.
"Dean?" he asks gently, when several moments go by and Dean still doesn't say or do anything or move.
Dean blinks and then he looks straight at Sam. "We're going to the emergency room."
***
The emergency room is a complete clusterfuck.
Dean, despite his insistence that they come, really hadn't thought out the logistics of it, specifically that to figure out what was wrong with him, the doctor was going to have to look at and touch Dean's vagina. Sam has a hard time imagining anything he's enjoyed less than interceding between them; keeping Dean from punching the doctor and keeping the doctor from calling security.
Sam's suggestion of sedation is roundly vetoed by both sides and instead, he gets to stand next to Dean and hold his hand, steadily getting his circulation cut off as Dean grips tighter and tighter.
"Look, I can't find anything medically wrong with you," the doctor says finally, sounding both baffled and frustrated—emotions Sam can empathize with wholeheartedly. "How much heavier is this than your normal flow?"
"There is no normal flow," Dean insists through clenched teeth. "I told you, you dumb motherfucker…"
"This is his…her first period," Sam interjects hastily, prying Dean's fingers loose from his as Dean clenches convulsively again.
The doctor's eyebrows cant up. "And…how old are you?"
Dean doesn't answer, struggling up on the exam table. "Twenty-seven," Sam says for him, handing Dean his folded up clothes from the nearby chair.
"And this is your first menses?"
[STUFF—yadda yadda "our mother died, she didn't have anyone to tell her."]
"Well, at least we found out one thing," Sam says, not wanting to say it but knowing he needs to.
"Yeah?" Dean slouches down in the seat, head leaned against the window. "What's that."
"If you can get your period, you can definitely get pregnant." Sam starts up the Impala and immediately throws it in gear and pulls out of the space, all so he can avoid looking into Dean's eyes.
There is a long, edged silence. Then: "We are so buying a ton more condoms right the fuck now," Dean growls.
Dean wakes up in the morning feeling like he needs to take a righteous shit.
He wriggles out from under Sam—more difficult than it was before he had boobs—and puts on Sam's T-shirt, crumpled at the foot of the bed. Walking hurts, deep in his cunt, the bones of his pelvis. He'd been kind of caught up, he hadn't thought Sam had fucked him that hard, but he's paying for it now.
In the bathroom, Dean lifts up the shirt just far enough to see the dark bruises on his thighs and hips, some of them sucked in and some from Sam's fingers. He doesn't know how to feel about it anymore. Time was, he liked those reminders on his skin, proof that he means something that someone cares about him enough to mark him up. Now it isn't his skin anymore and he doesn't know what to feel. Dean makes a face and lets the cloth fall, billowing around his thighs.
Dean sits on the pot for a long time, the ache in his groin made worse by the low, grumbling unhappiness in his bowels. But despite that, nothing's coming out. "Aw, come on," Dean mutters and he'd never tell Sam, but he feels as close to crying as he ever has in his life, head in his hands and half-ass wishing he could die because now even his fucking bowels don't work.
Eventually, though, Dean's got to give up the ghost. Sniffling, hot-eyed and hating himself for it, Dean tears off a triple handful of toilet paper and thoroughly mittens his hand. He hates the seeping wetness of his cunt, this perpetual dampness, gushing when he walks, when he coughs, if he laughs too hard, not that there's been much of that…
Dean freezes, cold scrawling down his spine with a fingernail of ice. The toilet paper is pink tinged, fading to darker rose near the back. Almost red. Dean drops it into the bowl as if it's red hot as well and reels off another swathe, scraping frantically between his legs.
It's blood. It's definitely blood.
Dean makes a sound that is most definitely not a whimper and rips off half the roll, cramming it between his legs and crab walking back into the main room, where he finds his panties and pulls them on, wedging the toilet paper in. Next he puts on his jeans, his socks and his boots, carefully tying the laces tight because he is not freaking out. Totally not freaking out.
Then he kicks Sam dead in the ass. When Sam lurches up, wide eyed and disoriented, Dean says tightly, "Get up. You broke my cunt. We're going to the emergency room."
"Dean, I didn't break your cunt." Sam pinches the bridge of his nose, trying very hard not to hear the words coming out of his own mouth.
"It's bleeding," Dean insists yet again. "It hurts. That's not fucking normal."
It's on the tip of Sam's tongue to ask, how the fuck would you know what's normal, Dean? but he bites it back just in time, pretty literally. He tastes his own blood.
Dean jerks his jacket—which he refuses to give up, even though he looks like he's playing dress-up in Sam's clothes—from the back of the chair, toppling it over. "I don't need you to go with me, dude," Dean declares, shrugging into the sleeves. "I can drive myself."
"I know you can." Sam throws the covers back and, as usual, Dean's eyes dart to Sam's cock and then away in an agony of self-conscious hunger. "It's not about that. Dean. Look at me."
Dean's jaw juts out, his hands open and close on nothing and his weight shifts from foot to foot like he can't stand still. The way he keeps shifting his hips, like he's trying to stretch or bend looks vaguely familiar and…
"Have you even thought about the fact that you could just have your period?" Sam asks, also trying very hard not to think about the fact that he's had to use the words 'just' and 'your period' to his brother.
Dean does get very still then, eyes widening and all of the color blanching out of his face so fast Sam worries Dean's going to faint.
"Dean?" he asks gently, when several moments go by and Dean still doesn't say or do anything or move.
Dean blinks and then he looks straight at Sam. "We're going to the emergency room."
The emergency room is a complete clusterfuck.
Dean, despite his insistence that they come, really hadn't thought out the logistics of it, specifically that to figure out what was wrong with him, the doctor was going to have to look at and touch Dean's vagina. Sam has a hard time imagining anything he's enjoyed less than interceding between them; keeping Dean from punching the doctor and keeping the doctor from calling security.
Sam's suggestion of sedation is roundly vetoed by both sides and instead, he gets to stand next to Dean and hold his hand, steadily getting his circulation cut off as Dean grips tighter and tighter.
"Look, I can't find anything medically wrong with you," the doctor says finally, sounding both baffled and frustrated—emotions Sam can empathize with wholeheartedly. "How much heavier is this than your normal flow?"
"There is no normal flow," Dean insists through clenched teeth. "I told you, you dumb motherfucker…"
"This is his…her first period," Sam interjects hastily, prying Dean's fingers loose from his as Dean clenches convulsively again.
The doctor's eyebrows cant up. "And…how old are you?"
Dean doesn't answer, struggling up on the exam table. "Twenty-seven," Sam says for him, handing Dean his folded up clothes from the nearby chair.
"And this is your first menses?"
[STUFF—yadda yadda "our mother died, she didn't have anyone to tell her."]
"Well, at least we found out one thing," Sam says, not wanting to say it but knowing he needs to.
"Yeah?" Dean slouches down in the seat, head leaned against the window. "What's that."
"If you can get your period, you can definitely get pregnant." Sam starts up the Impala and immediately throws it in gear and pulls out of the space, all so he can avoid looking into Dean's eyes.
There is a long, edged silence. Then: "We are so buying a ton more condoms right the fuck now," Dean growls.
