Genderswap: All About Blood
Dec. 18th, 2007 05:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thecatevariOkay. So this is the same scene as yesterday, but with the end filled out and moving into the next scene, wherein The Boys Go Shopping For Tampons. I don't know. I worry that it's too flip. But I can't help it. Boys and tampons are inherently funny. I'm also not sure about Sam using a certain word. This is the problem with not writing linearly; I don't know where the edges are going to smooth together. I think the funny parts are necessary to both highlight the angst and I think/hope their relieve the angst, give a little breathing space between the next hit. I really want to show how Dean tries to roll with (or cope with) each successive "problem", only to be hit by the next. That'll be key to selling his mental decline.
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, horny as he'd ever been in his life and he hadn't thought he'd let Sam fuck 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.
“This is your first menses?”
Something in the doctor’s tone—surprise, disbelief—makes Sam try to catch Dean’s eyes and signal no, but he’s not fast enough as Dean says, “The first time blood came running out my snatch and my lower intestine feeling like it’s going to fall out after? Yeah.”
“Ms. Aberdeen, we gave you an x-ray and CT scan and there’s nothing wrong with you that biology didn’t do to you first.”
Sam sees Dean puffing up again at that one and hastily catches the doctor by his lab coat sleeve, swinging him away from the examining table. “Doc, can I talk to you for a sec?” He scoops Dean’s clothes off the countertop with his other hand and flings them at his brother. “Get dressed.”
Dean goes white-mouthed at the command, but he starts sorting through his cloths with jerky gestures and vicious snaps of cloth.
Out in the hallway: “Look, I’m concerned about your…sister?” The doctor raises his eyebrows and hesitantly, Sam nods. “Her mental state,” the doctor clarifies. “The Ace Bandage, her extreme reaction to being touched, even superficially, her complete disassociation from her normal menstrual cycle…” His voice lowers confidentially. “Is there any chance your sister might have been raped?”
Sam jerks, surprised, but not that surprised. And angry with himself for it. “No.” He shakes his head. “No, Dean would’ve told me something like that.”
“You’d be surprised.”
Sam shakes his head, trotting out the story he’s been rehearsing in his head since they left the motel. “No. You don’t know what it’s been like for Dean. Our mom died when he was just four and after that, it’s always been just me, her and our dad. And we moved a lot. There just wasn’t anyone to show or tell her about all this stuff.”
The light in the doctor’s eyes changes and Sam feels a little guilty and a lot sick, both for pimping their past out like this and for how easy a manipulation it is. “Well.” The doctor sounds mollified. “I still think it couldn’t hurt for your sister to get some counseling.”
Sam nods. “We’ll look into that.”
The doctor pauses weightily, tugging his glasses off and polishing them on the hem of his lab coat. Sam has just enough time to worry what now? before… “Maybe… If you’re new to the area, maybe I could take you out for a drink and recommend some people.” The doctor looks up at Sam through his eyelashes.
Sam blinks, too astonished to answer. He’s mercifully spared having to make an answer—or an excuse—when Dean comes slamming out of the curtained area, stomping toward the exit with a terse, “Let’s go.”
Sam makes an apologetic face, spreads his hands and goes scurrying after his brother.
"Well, at least we found out one thing," Sam says, not wanting to say it but knowing he needs to. He fights the impulse to open the door for Dean, jamming his fists in his pockets.
"Yeah?" Dean looks over his shoulder. "What's that?"
"If you can get your period, you can definitely get pregnant." Sam hunches his shoulders and starts walking fast, so he doesn’t have to look Dean in the eyes.
Sam’s several steps away when he realizes Dean isn’t following. Dreading it, Sam stops and turns slowly. There is a long, edged silence. Then: "We are so buying a ton more condoms right the fuck now," Dean growls.
***
“Aw, come on,” Dean whines. “Do we really have to do this?”
Sam sighs and shifts on his feet, disliking it as much as Dean. “Unless you want to keep bleeding through every pair of panties and jeans you own.” He tries to make it sound lighthearted, but he fails. He totally fails. “Besides, we still need condoms, remember?”
Dean makes a noise somewhere between a whine and a growl.
The thing is, they’ve both been here before, at countless other drug stores all across the country. Not much longer than it took to dart in and grab a box of Trojans, it’s true, but there’d been no reason—and definitely no desire—to browse the other three-fourths of the Family Planning aisle. And so here they stand, right at the head of the aisle, where they’ve been standing for more than five minutes.”
“Well, go on,” Sam says finally and gives Dean a push.
Dean’s eyes widen and his arms pinwheel like he’s teetering on the brink of Hell. He backs up so fast he steps on Sam’s toes. “Why me?”
“Because it’s your twat.” Despite everything, he feels a certain spiteful younger-brother glee.
Then Dean turns that huge freaked-out look on him and Sam’s pricked with his guilt all over again. “Dude. I don’t know anything about…” Dean can’t even say it, waving his hand wildly and nearly smacking another customer in the face. Then he grabs Sam’s arm, just short of clutching. “You lived with a girl. You know all about this.”
Sam scratches the back of his head. “The extent of my relationship with Jess’s period was getting the same box of stuff she showed me before I went to the store and putting a towel down before we fucked, man. That doesn’t make me an expert.”
“Still means you know more about it than me.” Dean tugs Sam’s sleeve.
“Dude, as many girls as you’ve…” Sam thinks about the other people wandering the aisle and lowers his voice to a rushing hiss. “As many girls as you’ve fucked across the nation and you don’t know anything about tampons?”
“It never came up,” Dean insists.
They stop and stare at the shelves and shelves of feminine hygiene products in a silence that feels both reverent and horrified.
“What’s the difference?” Dean’s whispering, as if he’s afraid the tampons will hear him and attack.
Sam calls his rusty and fragmentary knowledge up from the mothballs it all got stored in after Jess died. At least these memories don’t bleed. Much. “Uh. Yeah. So I don’t even know what those…panty liners are for, but pads go outside and tampons go, you know, in.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Even I know that, dipwad. That’s not real fucking helpful. What about the sizes?”
Sam looks at the boxes helplessly, shrugging. “What do you want, man? I avoided everything I could about Jess’s period as much as humanly possible, other than plying her with regular doses of Hershey’s Nuggets and Lay’s plain potato chips.
Dean is comparing two boxes of tampons, but he’s distracted by the mention of chocolate and chips, an intrigued expression crossing his face. Sam makes a resolution to detour through the snack and candy aisles before checking out. He grabs one of the boxes from Dean’s hand. “These are the ones Jess always bought.”
He expects that that will be the end of it, given Dean’s discomfort with the whole subject, but with Dean-like perversity, Dean starts reading the back of the box. Sam fidgets. And they still haven’t bought the condoms. “Dean..?”
Dean puts the box Sam gave to him back on the shelf.
“Dean?”
“I’d have to change those wimpy things every hour, according to the box. There’s no way I’m going to the can every hour just to fiddle with my bits. Besides, bigger is better, right?” He waves the box still in his hand. “Now ‘super plus’. That sounds like a man’s tampon.”
Sam snorts and doesn’t point out the disconnect between ‘man’s’ and ‘tampon’, only glad to see a little of the grimness lift from Dean’s face. “Hey, let’s go to the candy aisle,” he says instead, looping an arm around Dean’s shoulder. “I’m in the mood for some Whoppers.”
Dean’s eyes brighten, which makes it mostly worth it, when Dean jabs his elbow into Sam’s side.
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, horny as he'd ever been in his life and he hadn't thought he'd let Sam fuck 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.
“This is your first menses?”
Something in the doctor’s tone—surprise, disbelief—makes Sam try to catch Dean’s eyes and signal no, but he’s not fast enough as Dean says, “The first time blood came running out my snatch and my lower intestine feeling like it’s going to fall out after? Yeah.”
“Ms. Aberdeen, we gave you an x-ray and CT scan and there’s nothing wrong with you that biology didn’t do to you first.”
Sam sees Dean puffing up again at that one and hastily catches the doctor by his lab coat sleeve, swinging him away from the examining table. “Doc, can I talk to you for a sec?” He scoops Dean’s clothes off the countertop with his other hand and flings them at his brother. “Get dressed.”
Dean goes white-mouthed at the command, but he starts sorting through his cloths with jerky gestures and vicious snaps of cloth.
Out in the hallway: “Look, I’m concerned about your…sister?” The doctor raises his eyebrows and hesitantly, Sam nods. “Her mental state,” the doctor clarifies. “The Ace Bandage, her extreme reaction to being touched, even superficially, her complete disassociation from her normal menstrual cycle…” His voice lowers confidentially. “Is there any chance your sister might have been raped?”
Sam jerks, surprised, but not that surprised. And angry with himself for it. “No.” He shakes his head. “No, Dean would’ve told me something like that.”
“You’d be surprised.”
Sam shakes his head, trotting out the story he’s been rehearsing in his head since they left the motel. “No. You don’t know what it’s been like for Dean. Our mom died when he was just four and after that, it’s always been just me, her and our dad. And we moved a lot. There just wasn’t anyone to show or tell her about all this stuff.”
The light in the doctor’s eyes changes and Sam feels a little guilty and a lot sick, both for pimping their past out like this and for how easy a manipulation it is. “Well.” The doctor sounds mollified. “I still think it couldn’t hurt for your sister to get some counseling.”
Sam nods. “We’ll look into that.”
The doctor pauses weightily, tugging his glasses off and polishing them on the hem of his lab coat. Sam has just enough time to worry what now? before… “Maybe… If you’re new to the area, maybe I could take you out for a drink and recommend some people.” The doctor looks up at Sam through his eyelashes.
Sam blinks, too astonished to answer. He’s mercifully spared having to make an answer—or an excuse—when Dean comes slamming out of the curtained area, stomping toward the exit with a terse, “Let’s go.”
Sam makes an apologetic face, spreads his hands and goes scurrying after his brother.
"Well, at least we found out one thing," Sam says, not wanting to say it but knowing he needs to. He fights the impulse to open the door for Dean, jamming his fists in his pockets.
"Yeah?" Dean looks over his shoulder. "What's that?"
"If you can get your period, you can definitely get pregnant." Sam hunches his shoulders and starts walking fast, so he doesn’t have to look Dean in the eyes.
Sam’s several steps away when he realizes Dean isn’t following. Dreading it, Sam stops and turns slowly. There is a long, edged silence. Then: "We are so buying a ton more condoms right the fuck now," Dean growls.
“Aw, come on,” Dean whines. “Do we really have to do this?”
Sam sighs and shifts on his feet, disliking it as much as Dean. “Unless you want to keep bleeding through every pair of panties and jeans you own.” He tries to make it sound lighthearted, but he fails. He totally fails. “Besides, we still need condoms, remember?”
Dean makes a noise somewhere between a whine and a growl.
The thing is, they’ve both been here before, at countless other drug stores all across the country. Not much longer than it took to dart in and grab a box of Trojans, it’s true, but there’d been no reason—and definitely no desire—to browse the other three-fourths of the Family Planning aisle. And so here they stand, right at the head of the aisle, where they’ve been standing for more than five minutes.”
“Well, go on,” Sam says finally and gives Dean a push.
Dean’s eyes widen and his arms pinwheel like he’s teetering on the brink of Hell. He backs up so fast he steps on Sam’s toes. “Why me?”
“Because it’s your twat.” Despite everything, he feels a certain spiteful younger-brother glee.
Then Dean turns that huge freaked-out look on him and Sam’s pricked with his guilt all over again. “Dude. I don’t know anything about…” Dean can’t even say it, waving his hand wildly and nearly smacking another customer in the face. Then he grabs Sam’s arm, just short of clutching. “You lived with a girl. You know all about this.”
Sam scratches the back of his head. “The extent of my relationship with Jess’s period was getting the same box of stuff she showed me before I went to the store and putting a towel down before we fucked, man. That doesn’t make me an expert.”
“Still means you know more about it than me.” Dean tugs Sam’s sleeve.
“Dude, as many girls as you’ve…” Sam thinks about the other people wandering the aisle and lowers his voice to a rushing hiss. “As many girls as you’ve fucked across the nation and you don’t know anything about tampons?”
“It never came up,” Dean insists.
They stop and stare at the shelves and shelves of feminine hygiene products in a silence that feels both reverent and horrified.
“What’s the difference?” Dean’s whispering, as if he’s afraid the tampons will hear him and attack.
Sam calls his rusty and fragmentary knowledge up from the mothballs it all got stored in after Jess died. At least these memories don’t bleed. Much. “Uh. Yeah. So I don’t even know what those…panty liners are for, but pads go outside and tampons go, you know, in.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Even I know that, dipwad. That’s not real fucking helpful. What about the sizes?”
Sam looks at the boxes helplessly, shrugging. “What do you want, man? I avoided everything I could about Jess’s period as much as humanly possible, other than plying her with regular doses of Hershey’s Nuggets and Lay’s plain potato chips.
Dean is comparing two boxes of tampons, but he’s distracted by the mention of chocolate and chips, an intrigued expression crossing his face. Sam makes a resolution to detour through the snack and candy aisles before checking out. He grabs one of the boxes from Dean’s hand. “These are the ones Jess always bought.”
He expects that that will be the end of it, given Dean’s discomfort with the whole subject, but with Dean-like perversity, Dean starts reading the back of the box. Sam fidgets. And they still haven’t bought the condoms. “Dean..?”
Dean puts the box Sam gave to him back on the shelf.
“Dean?”
“I’d have to change those wimpy things every hour, according to the box. There’s no way I’m going to the can every hour just to fiddle with my bits. Besides, bigger is better, right?” He waves the box still in his hand. “Now ‘super plus’. That sounds like a man’s tampon.”
Sam snorts and doesn’t point out the disconnect between ‘man’s’ and ‘tampon’, only glad to see a little of the grimness lift from Dean’s face. “Hey, let’s go to the candy aisle,” he says instead, looping an arm around Dean’s shoulder. “I’m in the mood for some Whoppers.”
Dean’s eyes brighten, which makes it mostly worth it, when Dean jabs his elbow into Sam’s side.
