Genderswap: Sex With Girl Dean, Take 3
Jan. 21st, 2008 07:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thecatevariSo, this is the re-edit and expansion of the Sam/Girl!Dean sex scene from here. It's posted in its entirety, so you don't have to go back and check the old entry. I think...I think I feel better about it. I worry that the sex is too fast, but otherwise I think it's fairly solid. I hope so, anyway.
Sam's already awake—or really, still awake, if you want to get technical about it—when Dean twitches, moans in his throat, and then blinks up hazily into Sam's eyes. "I want to try again," Sam says.
Dean stares at him blankly for a long time. Then, when it penetrates, Dean makes a face and hisses disgustedly through his teeth and starts to roll away. "It wasn't bad enough for you the first time?"
Sam grabs Dean by the arm and tugs him back. Dean's eyes are already stony, stubborn and Sam's hard pressed not to squeeze his fingers tight until he leaves bruises. "I want to try again," Sam repeats, putting all the hardness he can't express physically into his voice. "You asked me to fuck you and I did, Dean. I did it your way. Now I want to try it my way."
Dean's eyes flicker uncertainly. "Sam…"
He knows Dean is sensitive about the changes in his body, that he's loss mass and muscle, if not height. Sam looms over him more than ever, can manhandle him more easily than before. And because Sam knows it bugs Dean, he tries not to lord it over him the way he might if the circumstances were different. But sometimes it's the only way he can get Dean to listen to him—with anger, with force.
Sam pushes Dean back on the mattress, forcing open his mouth, forcing open his legs. Dean's knees come up, and his hands plant on Sam's chest between them. Dean undulates, uncomfortable, but he doesn't push, panting fast into Sam's mouth. Sam squirms his fingers between them and touches Dean, not dipping in but just rubbing around Dean's lips; rough circles that will draw the blood, sensitize him.
Dean makes a low, desperate noise.
"Let me, Dean," Sam breathes into his brother's mouth. "Please. Let me do it right. Let me make it good."
Dean doesn't answer in words, but he shifts his hips sharply, grinding himself against Sam's hand.
Sam would be lying if he said he hasn't thought of this since whatever turned Dean into a woman. It's been a long time since there's been a woman in his bed and an even longer time since he's been with a woman that he cares about as much as he cares about…well, as much as he loves Dean.
It's ridiculous and sappy and more romantic than Sam thought was even possible, but he's wanted to kiss Dean like this, hold Dean like this since the first rumblings of ha ha, you have tits! faded into something deeper, something darker. He thinks it says something that though Dean's shaking, his hands skid up Sam's shoulders and then Sam's neck to tangle in his hair and hold them together. He hopes it does, anyway, though they're long past destined for hell.
Dean's breasts are just as Sam thought they'd be, satin soft, firm muscled and just enough to fill Sam's palm, the nipple rough and even more responsive than before if the noises Dean's making are anything to go by.
Sam bites and sucks his marks into the pale, freckled flesh of Dean's neck and shoulder; dark, urgent bruises that say owned, that say mine. All these guys, all these fucking guys looking at Dean—his Dean—wanting to do so much more than look. Stupid, pointless excuses to brush past, to touch him, all of them wanting to be where Sam is now and not even knowing what the hell they're looking at.
"Sam—" Dean's voice sounds like sobs when Sam tongues Dean's nipples, drawing on them hard. Sam's roots protest as Dean's fingers tighten brutally in his hair. Sam doesn't stop. Can't.
"Not yet." Sam licks his way into Dean's mouth for a slow, lingering kiss before returning his attention to teasing Dean's breast. Between Dean's legs, he feels wetness, blessed wetness, slick and thick, slipping across his fingertips and now, now, Sam can feel aware of his cock, hard and aching with want for his brother, his brother's wet, tight cunt. Sam slithers down, scraping his teeth across Dean's belly, holding Dean's hips flat when Dean tries to buck, still making frantic little noises. "I'll make it good, Dean. Promise."
"Sammy…"
"Shhh." Sam pushes Dean's thighs apart with his shoulders, then spreads them wider with his hands, until the big tendon on either one stands out like a cord. Sam can feel the tremble better, both the strain of being so far opened and the lingering nervousness. Dean's pussy is a mystery to him still, a stranger in his body. Dean knows what to do with girls—Jesus, so many girls—but it's always been an outside, secondary experience. It's never been him like this, even when Dean's been on the bottom. Sam's really looking forward to showing him the pleasure his pussy can feel.
Dean presses up sharply against Sam's mouth at the first lick and he tries to bring his thighs together, bitten nails scratching coarsely at the sheet. "No." Dean twists against Sam's hands. "Sammy…" His voice fades into a moan, ground out through his teeth. "Please, Sammy, I. I can't. I don't…"
"Shhh," Sam says again, nuzzling against the crease of Dean's thigh. Dean, of course, hasn't shaved or trimmed. It's unlike almost every woman Sam's ever been with, coarse and sort of dirty and he breathes in Dean's smell with his eyes closed, feeling it in the pit of his belly, in his cock. "Shhh. You're okay, Dean." His thumb finds Dean's cunt, slipping across it, slicking up to his clit and pressing in. Dean moans, pushing down, begging without words. Sam breathes out, groaning himself. Yesterday feels so far away…hell, ten minutes ago seems so far away and Sam feels drugged, crazy, starving, wanting to fuck himself in deep and hard until Dean unravels. "God. Dean," he mutters and plunges his tongue deep.
***
Dean's gone down on his share of girls. Damn good at it too, if he says so himself.
It's different feeling it from the other side. Different from having his cock sucked. At the same time, there's a sense of wrongness to it too, a strangeness to the pleasure that disorients him, worries him, distracts him from losing himself in that place he always goes in his head.
He can't escape it, though; can't escape feeling. Not with Sam holding him down and holding his legs wide. He feels wet, soaked through and so raw. He can smell himself and it's different. It's so goddamn different.
He can't focus, though. Sam won't let him, grabby and growly, strength that would be terrifying if it was anyone else. At the same time, he knows he could fight off Sam if he wanted to; that Sam would let him go without argument if that's what Dean really wants.
Dean doesn't know anymore, what he wants.
He wants his cock back. He wants his body.
Sam tongues Dean's clit and oh, God, he wants to come, the orgasm coiled and bunched tight inside him, waiting for that nth degree of pressure or frequency or something to release. Dean gropes down blindly and threads his fingers in the thickness of Sam's hair, tugging. He needs Sam to stop. He needs Sam to stop.
Dean's orgasm washes over him in hard, muscular pulses, making him scream, making him shake. His mind flashes back to the rawhead, the basement, a million watts of electricity amplified through his bones. His hips push him down against Sam's mouth as Sam licks the last shudders from him, tonguing and tonguing and not letting Dean squirm away.
"Fuck, Sam. Fuck." His voice sounds shredded, deep enough that it almost sounds like his real voice. He drags on Sam's hair again, hard enough he's sure he pulls some out by the roots. This time, Sam lifts on his arms and lunges up the bed to seal his lips over Dean's. Sam's mouth—his whole lower face—is wet, tastes and smells like pussy. Another, deeper moment of disorientation, of panic, when Dean realizes it's his own smell, his own taste that he's sucking from his brother's tongue.
There's no time to process that, though; he feels Sam's cock against his cunt and then Sam wriggles, knuckles pressing into Dean's spread-wide thigh, and then Sam is pressing in. Dean didn't come back or shift or whatever as a virgin—Life, it seems is not quite that cruel—but he is probably as tight as one with his new, practically unused hole. In any case, Sam fucking into him hurts nearly as much as it did yesterday, even with the addition of his own lubrication.
But at the same time, Dean tightens around the invasion, the brutal rub, shivering in his breasts, across the surface of his belly. The ache of his emptiness has been replaced by the satisfaction of fullness deep inside and Dean's body flexes with a mind of its own, taking Sam in, rising to meet the thrust. Sam groans incoherently and his fingers slip up Dean's arms, bringing them up and out to the side until he wraps them around Dean's wrists, pinning them to the mattress. The noises Dean's making aren't real clear either; animal sounds that even Dean doesn't know how to interpret—fear and want, stop and don't stop and more.
He hates that he's rolled over for Sam so easily, that he wants this, rutting and grinding toward his second orgasm like it doesn't even matter that his cock is gone, that he's stuck in this stupid, foreign body. He's always liked Sam to get a little pushy with him—why waste all those muscles—but it feels, weirder, dirtier…as if anything can really be that much dirtier than fucking your little brother on the regular.
It feels wrong. And the problem with that is that Dean's always liked wrong. Just a little bit.
Sam's mouth breaks away from his, both their breath gasping and swooping so loudly Dean feels struck deaf for a moment. Then Sam's nuzzling the side of Dean's face, the faint rasp of his babyish stubble burning Dean's cheek as Sam urges, "C'mon, Dean. You first. Wanna feel you come around my dick. So goddamn tight, damn near choking me." Sam's fingers get even tighter around Dean's wrist and his thrusts pick up, hard, solid and deep, Dean's cunt clenching around Sam each time in pure reaction. "Want you to come so fuckin' hard."
Dean's fingers spasm on empty air, his toes tense and curl, but it's not enough. He can only ride where Sam's cock takes him and when Sam mouths kisses down Dean's neck and shoulder only to fasten hard onto Dean's tight-budded nipple, lips and teeth, it's too much. Dean takes Sam so deep he can feel his brother's cock tap against his inside, arching up, tightening in his whole body in persistent, percussive waves that tear Dean's grip loose and cast him free of his skin.
"Good, you're so fucking good, Dean…love fucking you…" Sam shoves Dean deeper into the mattress, fucking so hard now that Dean's starting to ache, his legs shuddering from the strain of being held so far apart for so long. Every time Sam drives deepest, he makes a grunt that becomes a whimper by the end, face hidden against Dean's neck and the blurt of his breath hot enough to scorch even Dean's sweat-slick skin.
His hands are a lost cause, but Dean tips his hips up as much as he can with Sam's greater weight pressing him down and wraps his legs around Sam's waist. "C'mon, Sammy," he murmurs, trying to soothe the heated desperation he feels coming off Sam's skin as much as heat. "Your turn, now. Let me feel you come."
Sam lets out a low, hurtful noise and goes stiff and rigid, other than the serpentine flex of his hips, grinding him deep into Dean and the brief twitches as he comes. Gritting his teeth, Dean feels the bones of his wrists grind together as Sam grips tighter, tighter, tighter…and then lets go. Dean counts to ten, flexes his arms experimentally and then pushes Sam's shoulder. "You're heavy."
"I just came," Sam mumbles back, made even more indistinct by his face buried in Dean's neck. "Can I have a minute for afterglow?"
"No. I have to pee." It's an out and out lie, but Dean would cut his tongue before he tells he's freaking out and he needs Sam off of him. Now. Still, Dean's voice cracks a little when he snaps, "I gotta fucking pee, Sam. Get off."
Sam grumbles, but he shimmies his softened cock out (Dean takes a deep, relieved breath) and rolls awkwardly to the side, throwing his arm over his eyes. "Bring me back a washcloth, will you?"
Dean makes himself move slow, unhurried. Even slack-jawed with orgasm, Sam's no dummy and he's been watching Dean like a hawk. "Sure." Dean feels a mess between his legs, worse than when he and Sam…
Dean stutter-steps. Turns around.
There, on the bed is his brother, in all his naked, sprawled out glory. Any other time, Dean would stop to admire the view, but now… "Sam."
"Wht?" For someone so gabby, Sam goes positively non-verbal after sex. Not that Dean's complaining on that score.
But.
"Sam." Dean feels sick. He feels like he really does need to pee, his stomach taut and hot as if he swallowed a charcoal briquette.
"What?" Sam lifts his head from the pillow, his hair mussed and sticking up all over the place.
"You." Dean swallows. "You didn't use a condom."
"No, we never…" Sam stops and Dean watches his expression change. Dean sinks-falls to the carpet, his legs too nerveless to hold him. "Oh, fuck. Dean."
Dean scrabbles into motion, crawl-running into the bathroom and turning on the faucet full blast, grabbing a washcloth from the pile of unused linen and shoving it under the spray. He scrubs his cunt hard, wets the cloth again and then repeats. Then he goes for the soap.
Sam comes up behind him. "Fuck, Dean, I'm sorry."
Shut up. Shut up. Dean shakes his head, running the dampened bar between his legs over and over, foam spilling through his fingers and plopping wetly on the tile. He's still tingly from the sex; the slippery touch of the soap is a little intense, but Dean ignores it, concentrating on the task at hand.
"You don't… We don't know that you can…"
Dean's head jerks up and he meets Sam's eyes in the mirror. "Do you want to take the chance that I can?"
"No. No, of course not."
I'm not freaking out. I'm not. "Then. Then we gotta fix this. I need drugs."
Sam looks confused, but he also looks as shaken as Dean feels. Sam nods. "Yeah. Okay. Let me grab my jeans."
Dean clenches his teeth and reaches for the washcloth again.
Sam's already awake—or really, still awake, if you want to get technical about it—when Dean twitches, moans in his throat, and then blinks up hazily into Sam's eyes. "I want to try again," Sam says.
Dean stares at him blankly for a long time. Then, when it penetrates, Dean makes a face and hisses disgustedly through his teeth and starts to roll away. "It wasn't bad enough for you the first time?"
Sam grabs Dean by the arm and tugs him back. Dean's eyes are already stony, stubborn and Sam's hard pressed not to squeeze his fingers tight until he leaves bruises. "I want to try again," Sam repeats, putting all the hardness he can't express physically into his voice. "You asked me to fuck you and I did, Dean. I did it your way. Now I want to try it my way."
Dean's eyes flicker uncertainly. "Sam…"
He knows Dean is sensitive about the changes in his body, that he's loss mass and muscle, if not height. Sam looms over him more than ever, can manhandle him more easily than before. And because Sam knows it bugs Dean, he tries not to lord it over him the way he might if the circumstances were different. But sometimes it's the only way he can get Dean to listen to him—with anger, with force.
Sam pushes Dean back on the mattress, forcing open his mouth, forcing open his legs. Dean's knees come up, and his hands plant on Sam's chest between them. Dean undulates, uncomfortable, but he doesn't push, panting fast into Sam's mouth. Sam squirms his fingers between them and touches Dean, not dipping in but just rubbing around Dean's lips; rough circles that will draw the blood, sensitize him.
Dean makes a low, desperate noise.
"Let me, Dean," Sam breathes into his brother's mouth. "Please. Let me do it right. Let me make it good."
Dean doesn't answer in words, but he shifts his hips sharply, grinding himself against Sam's hand.
Sam would be lying if he said he hasn't thought of this since whatever turned Dean into a woman. It's been a long time since there's been a woman in his bed and an even longer time since he's been with a woman that he cares about as much as he cares about…well, as much as he loves Dean.
It's ridiculous and sappy and more romantic than Sam thought was even possible, but he's wanted to kiss Dean like this, hold Dean like this since the first rumblings of ha ha, you have tits! faded into something deeper, something darker. He thinks it says something that though Dean's shaking, his hands skid up Sam's shoulders and then Sam's neck to tangle in his hair and hold them together. He hopes it does, anyway, though they're long past destined for hell.
Dean's breasts are just as Sam thought they'd be, satin soft, firm muscled and just enough to fill Sam's palm, the nipple rough and even more responsive than before if the noises Dean's making are anything to go by.
Sam bites and sucks his marks into the pale, freckled flesh of Dean's neck and shoulder; dark, urgent bruises that say owned, that say mine. All these guys, all these fucking guys looking at Dean—his Dean—wanting to do so much more than look. Stupid, pointless excuses to brush past, to touch him, all of them wanting to be where Sam is now and not even knowing what the hell they're looking at.
"Sam—" Dean's voice sounds like sobs when Sam tongues Dean's nipples, drawing on them hard. Sam's roots protest as Dean's fingers tighten brutally in his hair. Sam doesn't stop. Can't.
"Not yet." Sam licks his way into Dean's mouth for a slow, lingering kiss before returning his attention to teasing Dean's breast. Between Dean's legs, he feels wetness, blessed wetness, slick and thick, slipping across his fingertips and now, now, Sam can feel aware of his cock, hard and aching with want for his brother, his brother's wet, tight cunt. Sam slithers down, scraping his teeth across Dean's belly, holding Dean's hips flat when Dean tries to buck, still making frantic little noises. "I'll make it good, Dean. Promise."
"Sammy…"
"Shhh." Sam pushes Dean's thighs apart with his shoulders, then spreads them wider with his hands, until the big tendon on either one stands out like a cord. Sam can feel the tremble better, both the strain of being so far opened and the lingering nervousness. Dean's pussy is a mystery to him still, a stranger in his body. Dean knows what to do with girls—Jesus, so many girls—but it's always been an outside, secondary experience. It's never been him like this, even when Dean's been on the bottom. Sam's really looking forward to showing him the pleasure his pussy can feel.
Dean presses up sharply against Sam's mouth at the first lick and he tries to bring his thighs together, bitten nails scratching coarsely at the sheet. "No." Dean twists against Sam's hands. "Sammy…" His voice fades into a moan, ground out through his teeth. "Please, Sammy, I. I can't. I don't…"
"Shhh," Sam says again, nuzzling against the crease of Dean's thigh. Dean, of course, hasn't shaved or trimmed. It's unlike almost every woman Sam's ever been with, coarse and sort of dirty and he breathes in Dean's smell with his eyes closed, feeling it in the pit of his belly, in his cock. "Shhh. You're okay, Dean." His thumb finds Dean's cunt, slipping across it, slicking up to his clit and pressing in. Dean moans, pushing down, begging without words. Sam breathes out, groaning himself. Yesterday feels so far away…hell, ten minutes ago seems so far away and Sam feels drugged, crazy, starving, wanting to fuck himself in deep and hard until Dean unravels. "God. Dean," he mutters and plunges his tongue deep.
Dean's gone down on his share of girls. Damn good at it too, if he says so himself.
It's different feeling it from the other side. Different from having his cock sucked. At the same time, there's a sense of wrongness to it too, a strangeness to the pleasure that disorients him, worries him, distracts him from losing himself in that place he always goes in his head.
He can't escape it, though; can't escape feeling. Not with Sam holding him down and holding his legs wide. He feels wet, soaked through and so raw. He can smell himself and it's different. It's so goddamn different.
He can't focus, though. Sam won't let him, grabby and growly, strength that would be terrifying if it was anyone else. At the same time, he knows he could fight off Sam if he wanted to; that Sam would let him go without argument if that's what Dean really wants.
Dean doesn't know anymore, what he wants.
He wants his cock back. He wants his body.
Sam tongues Dean's clit and oh, God, he wants to come, the orgasm coiled and bunched tight inside him, waiting for that nth degree of pressure or frequency or something to release. Dean gropes down blindly and threads his fingers in the thickness of Sam's hair, tugging. He needs Sam to stop. He needs Sam to stop.
Dean's orgasm washes over him in hard, muscular pulses, making him scream, making him shake. His mind flashes back to the rawhead, the basement, a million watts of electricity amplified through his bones. His hips push him down against Sam's mouth as Sam licks the last shudders from him, tonguing and tonguing and not letting Dean squirm away.
"Fuck, Sam. Fuck." His voice sounds shredded, deep enough that it almost sounds like his real voice. He drags on Sam's hair again, hard enough he's sure he pulls some out by the roots. This time, Sam lifts on his arms and lunges up the bed to seal his lips over Dean's. Sam's mouth—his whole lower face—is wet, tastes and smells like pussy. Another, deeper moment of disorientation, of panic, when Dean realizes it's his own smell, his own taste that he's sucking from his brother's tongue.
There's no time to process that, though; he feels Sam's cock against his cunt and then Sam wriggles, knuckles pressing into Dean's spread-wide thigh, and then Sam is pressing in. Dean didn't come back or shift or whatever as a virgin—Life, it seems is not quite that cruel—but he is probably as tight as one with his new, practically unused hole. In any case, Sam fucking into him hurts nearly as much as it did yesterday, even with the addition of his own lubrication.
But at the same time, Dean tightens around the invasion, the brutal rub, shivering in his breasts, across the surface of his belly. The ache of his emptiness has been replaced by the satisfaction of fullness deep inside and Dean's body flexes with a mind of its own, taking Sam in, rising to meet the thrust. Sam groans incoherently and his fingers slip up Dean's arms, bringing them up and out to the side until he wraps them around Dean's wrists, pinning them to the mattress. The noises Dean's making aren't real clear either; animal sounds that even Dean doesn't know how to interpret—fear and want, stop and don't stop and more.
He hates that he's rolled over for Sam so easily, that he wants this, rutting and grinding toward his second orgasm like it doesn't even matter that his cock is gone, that he's stuck in this stupid, foreign body. He's always liked Sam to get a little pushy with him—why waste all those muscles—but it feels, weirder, dirtier…as if anything can really be that much dirtier than fucking your little brother on the regular.
It feels wrong. And the problem with that is that Dean's always liked wrong. Just a little bit.
Sam's mouth breaks away from his, both their breath gasping and swooping so loudly Dean feels struck deaf for a moment. Then Sam's nuzzling the side of Dean's face, the faint rasp of his babyish stubble burning Dean's cheek as Sam urges, "C'mon, Dean. You first. Wanna feel you come around my dick. So goddamn tight, damn near choking me." Sam's fingers get even tighter around Dean's wrist and his thrusts pick up, hard, solid and deep, Dean's cunt clenching around Sam each time in pure reaction. "Want you to come so fuckin' hard."
Dean's fingers spasm on empty air, his toes tense and curl, but it's not enough. He can only ride where Sam's cock takes him and when Sam mouths kisses down Dean's neck and shoulder only to fasten hard onto Dean's tight-budded nipple, lips and teeth, it's too much. Dean takes Sam so deep he can feel his brother's cock tap against his inside, arching up, tightening in his whole body in persistent, percussive waves that tear Dean's grip loose and cast him free of his skin.
"Good, you're so fucking good, Dean…love fucking you…" Sam shoves Dean deeper into the mattress, fucking so hard now that Dean's starting to ache, his legs shuddering from the strain of being held so far apart for so long. Every time Sam drives deepest, he makes a grunt that becomes a whimper by the end, face hidden against Dean's neck and the blurt of his breath hot enough to scorch even Dean's sweat-slick skin.
His hands are a lost cause, but Dean tips his hips up as much as he can with Sam's greater weight pressing him down and wraps his legs around Sam's waist. "C'mon, Sammy," he murmurs, trying to soothe the heated desperation he feels coming off Sam's skin as much as heat. "Your turn, now. Let me feel you come."
Sam lets out a low, hurtful noise and goes stiff and rigid, other than the serpentine flex of his hips, grinding him deep into Dean and the brief twitches as he comes. Gritting his teeth, Dean feels the bones of his wrists grind together as Sam grips tighter, tighter, tighter…and then lets go. Dean counts to ten, flexes his arms experimentally and then pushes Sam's shoulder. "You're heavy."
"I just came," Sam mumbles back, made even more indistinct by his face buried in Dean's neck. "Can I have a minute for afterglow?"
"No. I have to pee." It's an out and out lie, but Dean would cut his tongue before he tells he's freaking out and he needs Sam off of him. Now. Still, Dean's voice cracks a little when he snaps, "I gotta fucking pee, Sam. Get off."
Sam grumbles, but he shimmies his softened cock out (Dean takes a deep, relieved breath) and rolls awkwardly to the side, throwing his arm over his eyes. "Bring me back a washcloth, will you?"
Dean makes himself move slow, unhurried. Even slack-jawed with orgasm, Sam's no dummy and he's been watching Dean like a hawk. "Sure." Dean feels a mess between his legs, worse than when he and Sam…
Dean stutter-steps. Turns around.
There, on the bed is his brother, in all his naked, sprawled out glory. Any other time, Dean would stop to admire the view, but now… "Sam."
"Wht?" For someone so gabby, Sam goes positively non-verbal after sex. Not that Dean's complaining on that score.
But.
"Sam." Dean feels sick. He feels like he really does need to pee, his stomach taut and hot as if he swallowed a charcoal briquette.
"What?" Sam lifts his head from the pillow, his hair mussed and sticking up all over the place.
"You." Dean swallows. "You didn't use a condom."
"No, we never…" Sam stops and Dean watches his expression change. Dean sinks-falls to the carpet, his legs too nerveless to hold him. "Oh, fuck. Dean."
Dean scrabbles into motion, crawl-running into the bathroom and turning on the faucet full blast, grabbing a washcloth from the pile of unused linen and shoving it under the spray. He scrubs his cunt hard, wets the cloth again and then repeats. Then he goes for the soap.
Sam comes up behind him. "Fuck, Dean, I'm sorry."
Shut up. Shut up. Dean shakes his head, running the dampened bar between his legs over and over, foam spilling through his fingers and plopping wetly on the tile. He's still tingly from the sex; the slippery touch of the soap is a little intense, but Dean ignores it, concentrating on the task at hand.
"You don't… We don't know that you can…"
Dean's head jerks up and he meets Sam's eyes in the mirror. "Do you want to take the chance that I can?"
"No. No, of course not."
I'm not freaking out. I'm not. "Then. Then we gotta fix this. I need drugs."
Sam looks confused, but he also looks as shaken as Dean feels. Sam nods. "Yeah. Okay. Let me grab my jeans."
Dean clenches his teeth and reaches for the washcloth again.
