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In the dream, the blossom sits heavily on the trees like clumps of pastel snow. In the breeze, it drifts through the air, scented and delicate, lands on the rippling crystal surface of the tiny river and is carried away.
Dean walks through the soft grass to the white lattice bridge, which arches over the river and where the silvery music of the water is loudest. He crosses the river. Leaves stroke his face like children's hands, and when they draw back, sunlight fills the glade and the unicorn is there.
"See?" says Dean. "Told you I'd find you."
But the unicorn is not what he expected. The unicorn is not some prancing little creature with twig-legs and downy fur. The unicorn is a beast. It smells of animal, hot and earthy, and the stamp of its hoof on the ground is a thud that promises to break bones. The twisted point of its long, glass-and-glitter horn is wickedly sharp.
It stares down at Dean, beautiful and terrible, flanks shuddering as it snorts.
"Yeah," says Dean. "I know how this works. Trust me, buddy, this ain't my first rodeo." He coughs, clears his throat, and glibly corrects himself. "I mean, this isn't the first deal I've ever made."
The unicorn dips its head, and, as it does so, its silvery mane sweeps forward into the sunlight and diamonds sparkle within it. Dean doesn't shy away, meets the dark intelligence in the beast's eyes without blinking.
Dean nods. "Agreed."
:::
When Dean woke as a woman, Sam's hand was on his breast. It felt proprietary, and one rosy pink nipple, stiff beneath Dean's washed-thin t-shirt, poked between Sam's spread fingers.
Sam had been clingy since Hell. Dean grumbled and protested, and was privately glad that he was spared the indignity of ever having to pull Sam into reach. They shared a bed like they had when they were preteens, when Sam was still small enough to fit under Dean's chin.
Sometimes, there was cuddling, because Sam had outgrown regular beds years ago and wouldn't keep over his own side, and because if Dean didn't pre-emptively cuddle Sam, he'd be the one cuddled, which was so much worse.
Most nights, there was cuddling.
So it was perfectly normal for Sam to be spooned behind Dean, his thighs tucked under Dean's ass and his arm flung over Dean's middle. Except Dean wasn't normally a B-cup.
Their bodies touched in new, unexpected places: the ball of Dean's foot touching Sam's shin instead of his ankle, Dean's spine running more along Sam's belly than his chest, the peaks of their shoulders forming a less symmetrical valley. And Sam's hand on his breast.
Sam's fingers flexed. Sleepily, he flicked his thumb against his nipple, and Dean pressed his lips tight together, felt the little knot of sensation in the absence between his legs tingle and squirm, which in turn pulled his hips and belly tight.
Sam froze.
Behind Dean, the bed creaked. Sam leaned over him, his shadow falling over every inch of his new body.
Dean tried a grin. "Morning, sunshine," he said.
:::
"I keep telling you, lesbian in a man's body," said Dean. "Known it since I was sixteen and spent three weeks straight thinking about two chicks going at it. Guess I couldn't live the lie anymore."
"Hilarious, Dean," said Sam.
He'd reacted in the expected ways. First, manic panic. Dean had been reassured, over and over, that Sam would fix this. Sam was going to find whoever had done this to Dean and he was going to fix this. Everything was going to be okay, because Sam was going to fix this. He'd had the whole pre-Hell – Dean's trip, not Sam's – attitude going: tight lips and raised eyebrows, like his whole face was straining with all the emoting he wanted to do.
Then, when Dean had admitted that he'd done this to himself, by way of a deal, Sam threw the kind of tantrum that would have been impressive if Dean hadn't been quite so over it. He'd seen it more than a couple of times before, as a result of everything from losing wireless connection to Dean leaving stinky food in the refrigerator. The sky had turned stormy, rain had painted the windows, an inhuman growling had emanated from beneath the floor and the air had crackled with static.
Dean had given him a moment to work it through, then told him to knock it off, and Sam had.
He hadn't stopped watching him though. In fact, when they'd got in the car, Sam'd turned himself in his seat to be able to watch Dean better. He'd watched Dean adjust his mirrors, and he'd watched him select a tape, and now he was watching him drive, watching him touch his hair, watching him click his tongue against the roof of his mouth, watching him watch the road. Dean would consider it a personal favor to his peace of mind if Sam would blink a little more often.
"I told you," Dean said breezily, "it's a deal. And a surprise. And you're just going to have to trust me."
"And where exactly are we going that you need to be a girl?"
There was almost, almost a hint of amusement there, as though Sam might just be letting go of the standard Winchester paranoia and mistrust long enough to actually, God forbid, let himself have a good time.
Dean gave him a pitying look. "The concept of a surprise is kinda lost on you, isn't it? Also, dude? I'm thirty-three. The word you're looking for is 'woman'."
:::
The first time Dean got time to look at himself in the mirror, he was surprised how little had changed. He'd lost some thickness and some height, gained a few curves. His breasts were a handful, but not much more. And his face was still undeniably his own. Same big green eyes (but longer lashes), same kissable mouth (but pinker), same smattering of freckles (but nothing).
He stared at himself in the cracked and silvering mirror of the truckstop restroom. Scraped his fingers through his hair. Pouted then bared his teeth. Made his hands into fists. Bounced his breasts. Tried to decide whether guy-Dean would wanna tap that if he were to meet chick-Dean. And then whether chick-Dean would let him.
Sam banged on the door. "I really hope you're not masturbating in there."
"Gotta try out the new equipment some time, Sammy."
The grin wasn't chick-Dean or guy-Dean, it was just Dean-Dean. The most basic Deanish quality there was, was the desire to wind Sam up at any given moment.
:::
There was an upside to Sam being crazy. When weird shit happened, Sam was always inclined to believe it was only occurring in the confines of his head. Dean could get away with a whole load of stuff so long as he could pretend it wasn't actually happening, and maybe he was a bad person for taking advantage of Sam's post-Hell state in that way, but he figured he was making up for it by being one damn fine brother in all other respects.
Dean knew that Sam had noticed that the sunshine was not only rolling down the road ahead of them, but was in fact changing direction with them. Sam had noticed it pretty much as soon as he'd taken his eyes off Dean long enough to notice anything else at all. But Dean had paid it no attention, so Sam had obviously decided to classify it as hallucination, along with God knew what else was going on in his imagination.
When the cloud of butterflies swept in, enveloped the car in pink and white and pale blue, then swept away again, unharmed, Sam cast Dean a quick look to see if Dean was going to comment on this. Dean didn't. So Sam didn't.
Then there was the deer, which picked its way delicately into the road just ahead of the Impala. It dipped its head as the car rushed by, and Sam drew breath to comment on it.
"Is it just me," said Dean, and Sam's gaze snapped towards him hopefully, "or is chick-me totally rocking a hot, early-Baywatch Pammy Anderson look?"
Sam's breath became a sigh.
:::
The gas station clerk's gaze was still firmly fixed a few inches south of Dean's face, when the front of his shirt blossomed red, his ribs snapped open, and his internal organs slithered out. They landed with a wet slap on the dusty ground.
Dean rolled his eyes. "Cas! Clean up on aisle three!"
When he looked around, Sam was standing right behind him. Earlier, he'd been wandering through the desert towards the bomb-blast orange horizon, in the seemingly aimless trajectory of a bird drifting over the sea.
Exasperated, Dean raised his eyebrows. Sam looked indignant, as though it was completely unreasonable for Dean to expect Sam to have any explanation as to why he'd exploded the clerk. He looked down at the corpse, as if it might have something enlightening to add to the discussion. But the corpse just lay there in a growing puddle of blood and viscera, radiating heat and the unpleasant smell of human guts.
Dean wiped the pooling sweat from the dip between his breasts, and left a trail of engine grease over his skin. "Cas!" he shouted again.
Castiel was suddenly crouched over the body, studying the sharp point at the end of a rib. "What happened?" This time went unspoken.
"Think Sam's still working on his anger management issues," said Dean.
Castiel tilted his head up to look at them, then frowned. Dean cut him off before he could get there.
"Yes, female, I'm aware," said Dean. "Listen, can you do something about…?" He gave an all-encompassing gesture at the corpse and red slop it was sprawled in. "Me and Sammy are kind of in a hurry. Thanks."
Castiel nodded distractedly, gaze still roaming over Dean's face and body. "I would appreciate it if you could try to reduce the number of resurrections you need me to do. People are starting to ask questions."
"We're trying, believe me." Dean gripped Sam's upper-arm and shouldered him towards the car. "Okay, Mr. Grumpy, I was gonna get you a nice cold soda, but I don't think you deserve one after that."
Sam sat next to him in the car, obedient and thoughtful, as he fitted the keys into the ignition and started the engine. Sweat had stuck his t-shirt to his back and shoulders. His body smelled different. He smelled male.
"I don't think I liked how he was looking at you," Sam said after a moment. He sounded mildly surprised. "I think that's why I did it."
Dean leaned forward in his seat to get a better view as he steered the Impala's tires past the clerk's blood. "Not to brag, kiddo, but people looking at me like that ain't exactly new."
"Maybe I should have exploded them too," said Sam.
Dean laughed, then flicked a look towards Sam to make sure it was a joke. But Sam was waving awkwardly out the back of the car at Castiel and the clerk.
:::
They went to a diner, and, though the pretty waitress gave Sam an appreciative once-over, she didn't flirt with him.
Later, they went to a bar to play pool, and the guy Dean was hustling didn't miss an opportunity to lean in too close, but he didn't hit on him.
They figured Sam and Dean were together, Dean realized. They saw how comfortable they were in each other's space, their uninterrupted awareness of where the other was in the room, the conversations spoken through glances and half-shrugs and barely-there smiles, and read it as 'together'.
"I think we're dating," said Sam.
"You noticed that too, huh?" said Dean. There was a brittleness in his chest, made of anxiety and sickness but, most of all, a crazy urge to laugh. He worried his lip between his teeth while a smile spread across his face.
Sam took a slow sip of his beer, licked his lips, and said, "At least I don't have to worry about whether my mom and dad would like you."
:::
The bag was pale pink and flowery, and, despite his occasionally heinous taste in shirts, there was no way in hell Sam could have mistaken it for anything belonging to him.
Dean snatched it away from him, then made a second grab from the filmy, pale green panties dangling off one of Sam's fingers. Cheeks burning, he shoved the panties back into the bag with the bra and hid the bag back in the glovebox.
It had been a stupid waste of money. Being a chick was only temporary, and the money should have gone on something useful, like guns or ammo. It had been stupid, and Dean had handed the credit card over with the kind of guilty self-disgust that probably normally accompanied buying hardcore drugs.
"Keep your freaking hands off my underwear," he snapped. "And stay outta my stuff."
"Are you really gonna wear that?" said Sam.
So fucking stupid. He'd only tried it on because he'd kept thinking about Rhonda Hurley's pretty little scraps of pink underwear. And then he'd only bought it because the bra had made his breasts look incredible, made them soft, plump curves just at the point of overfilling their delicate, lacy green cups.
"Why don't you mind your own fucking business?"
Sam's gaze slipped away from him, and right then, he might as easily have been in a whole other state than beside him in the passenger seat.
Later, when he slipped the panties on in the crappy truckstop restroom, Dean thought about Sam's hands on them. About how Sam had pulled them out of the bag, and touched them, and realized that Dean was going to wear them.
When Dean came out, Sam looked up from where he was toeing a hole in the dirt by the side of the road, looked at him, and Dean flushed and didn't look back at him.
:::
It was never hard to figure out what Sam was thinking about, because it was pretty much always the same thing when he was in these moods.
If Sam didn't keep a firm hold on it, his mind wandered back to the cage, and Dean was terrified that, each time, he was leaving a little more of himself behind. One day, Lucifer would have him back, and Dean'd only have an empty thing where his brother used to live. And then there'd be nothing left to do but empty himself out.
So Sam slouched in the car, watching the farms and mills and trees, thinking about that place at the bottom of Hell, and Dean kept watch on him, like he'd be able to see the moment he started to slip away, so that he could snatch him back in time.
He felt bad for snapping at him earlier, but didn't know how to apologize for it without reintroducing the topic of his underwear, which Sam had touched, and was now rubbing against his skin, like Sam might as well have put his whole damn hand between Dean's legs.
Adjusting his abruptly sweaty grip on the steering wheel, Dean cleared his throat. "How's about when we stop for the night, I find a place with a good wireless connection, so's you can have some private time with the Victoria's Secret website, huh?"
Sam flicked him a cautious look, which Dean met with a grin, to show that this was a reconciliation attempt and not more mockery, because it wasn't always easy to tell.
He smiled at last, and Dean's heartbeat dropped and softened in his chest.
"And after that," Sam said, eyes bright and wicked, "you can go online shopping for more underwear. I hear they have some real pretty things."
"Fuck you," said Dean good-naturedly, and turned back to driving with Sam next to him again.
:::
Back before Ruby and Hell and the apocalypse, this was what used to happen sometimes:
Sam would sit cross-legged on his bed with his laptop, and Dean would sprawl out on his bed and watch porn on cable while he ate pizza and chips. Eventually, Sam's attention would shift from his laptop to the TV, and Dean would notice, and grin, and comment on it, and Sam wouldn't take his eyes off the screen as he told him to shut up.
Dean might give some appreciative commentary on the size of the girl's tits, or the way the guy was giving it to her, and Sam would moan and whisper, yeah, God, yeah, sounding awed.
And if they both jerked off at the same time, they only ever looked at the TV.
Despite the tradition being long discontinued, Sam didn't seem all that surprised when Dean flicked the channel on to porn. Tonight, a skinny little redhead was bouncing up and down on some ugly guy's dick, while he pawed her breasts and ass.
Dean drank a mouthful of warm beer, then gestured towards the screen with him bottle. "Dude has no technique at all. Look, look at that, he's going at her tits like he's got a fucking lobster claw instead of a hand." He flung his hand over his breasts. "I'm telling you, I'm aching in sympathy over here."
When he looked over at Sam for a response, Sam's eyes flickered guiltily back up to his face.
"Yeah," said Sam, in neutral agreement.
Dean looked back at the TV, thinking about it. The beer was a good, hot buzz inside his body, warmer even than the stuffy air of the cheap motel room. He rubbed his lips thoughtfully against the glass mouth of his bottle, just hard enough to feel the shape of his teeth.
The little redhead was squealing with each downward slap onto his dick. If Ugly Dude moved her much faster, he was in danger of setting his groin on fire.
Dean took another long drink, and gave Sam a sly, sidelong look, the beer bubbles still crackling on his tongue. A flush was creeping up the back of Sam's throat, and his breath was coming harder. He saw the moment Sam registered him looking at him, saw it in the slightest shift of his gaze, the subtle change in the shape of his mouth. The way his face went immobile, tense.
Dean licked the tang of alcohol off his lips, and said, "Hey Sammy, I'm wearing my green bra. Wanna see?"
Sam's cheeks went a deep, dark red. "Go to hell, Dean."
"No, no, I'm serious!" Dean climbed unsteadily onto the end of Sam's bed, positioned himself so Sam couldn't look at the TV screen without seeing him. "C'mon, Sam, I've seen you looking. I know you're curious. Hell, roles reversed, I'd be curious too."
Sam frowned, and Dean patted his knee, his hand coming down a little more heavily than he intended, resting a moment longer than he'd meant it to.
"It's like a doll, see?" he said.
Reluctantly, Sam's gaze shifted to him. "What's like a doll?" he said.
"I am. This body. It's not really me. It's like a body that I can dress up and play with," He paused to catch his breath, "and touch, and undress. And it doesn't mean anything, because I'm a guy really, and this is a girl's body, so, it's not like…" He trailed off, losing his thread somewhere after Sam started looking at him like that, hot and dark and just on the edge.
Onscreen, Redhead was licking her own wetness off of Ugly Dude's cock, but who gave a fuck about that?
Before he could lose Sam's tentative cooperation, Dean peeled his t-shirt off. He looked down at his breasts in the pretty green bra, cupped the curves together and bounced the flesh lightly, before he looked back up at Sam to see his reaction.
"What do you think?" he said.
His eyes caught on the flicker of muscle in Sam's throat as he swallowed. "Nice," said Sam roughly.
His eyes darted over Dean's belly and shoulders, and Dean obviously had an untapped exhibitionist streak because just having to hold still while Sam looked him over was hotter than anything Dean had ever done when he had a cock.
"Fuck," said Sam gravely, as serious as only someone after a couple of beers can be. "Fuck, I can't get over how you look. You're all soft and smooth." Sam finally left off examining Dean to look him right in the eye. "Show me the panties."
Dean pushed forward onto his knees to unthread his belt, and he didn't miss the way Sam's gaze followed his breasts. "The panties I caught you fingering, you mean?"
"Yeah," said Sam. He was apparently taking the whole 'doll's body' metaphor pretty seriously, because his hands were on Dean without asking, or hell, even warning, and maybe he'd been intending to help Dean wriggle out of his jeans, but all he did was touch and squeeze and pinch, before tipping Dean over his knee to undress him.
For a moment, before Sam righted him, Dean was lost in hot darkness, breathing in the fuggy old smell of the motel bed, while Sam's big hard hand spread out over the back of his thighs, and Sam's thigh pressed into his belly, and the denim chafed Dean's skin with every downward drag.
Then Sam pulled him upright, and Dean wondered if Sam was aware that he was still holding Dean by the elbow - like he needed to hold Dean still so he could get a thorough look, unconsciously making sure Dean couldn't cover himself back up - because Dean was hyper-aware of it.
"Oh fuck," said Sam. "Fuck fuck fuck."
Dean watched the shiver of Sam's breathing, watched the ripple of the pattern at the front of Sam's shirt as his breath got away from him. His eyes had narrowed to glittering intensity.
"You wanna touch?" said Dean.
In the moment that Sam's grip on his arm went slack, Dean tugged free and undid the clasp at the front of his bra. He'd always loved that moment with a chick, the soft tumble of breasts out of satin and lace, and he grinned at the way Sam shifted suddenly on the bed.
He admired his own breasts unselfconsciously, drew the pad of his thumb around one stiff pink nipple, then squeezed. His thighs clenched instinctively at the sensation, and he was a little breathless when he looked up at Sam.
Sam was fixed in place, each hand curled into a fist on his thigh, as he watched Dean unblinkingly.
Dean rolled his eyes. "C'mon, Sammy. Don't go all shy on me. You've touched a girl before. I know you have."
When Sam still didn't move, Dean picked Sam's hand up by the wrist, and pulled it up to his chest. Sam's hand splayed awkwardly over the curve of one breast. That thing happened again between Dean's legs, the hot, wet clenching thing, but it wasn't going anywhere close enough to good, and he squirmed, fretful and impatient.
"Sam, c'mon." Dean laughed to cover the strain in his voice "This ain't rocket science. Just touch me. Pretend I'm a chick, and touch me."
He shimmied around on the bed to put his back against Sam's chest, then drew Sam's arms around himself. His spine rubbed the rough cotton of Sam's shirt, and, in the cradle of Sam's spread legs, the inner seam of Sam's jeans pressed into the soft skin of Dean's thighs. Sam's breath was hot on Dean's shoulder and face, stirring the short, messy tendrils of Dean's hair with every shuddering pant.
Without having to look at Sam's face, without having to know how he was reacting, it was much easier for Dean to concentrate on putting Sam's hands where he wanted them. Lacing their fingers together, he brought Sam's hands under each curve, so the weight of his breasts rested in Sam's palms, shifting with each rise and fall of Dean's breathing.
Without direction from Dean, Sam's thumb shifted slowly, until the pad was just touching the hard, little peak of Dean's nipple. Dean tipped his head back slightly, lips parting on a small, involuntary gasp.
There was another guy on screen now, fucking sloppily into Redhead's mouth while Ugly Dude crammed his dick up her ass. Dean had a deep appreciation for spit-roasting, and the scene was fine and dirty, but it couldn't take his attention off the slow, serene circles Sam was drawing on his breast.
His hips clenched and rolled, and the movement drove his ass back into the unmistakable thickness of Sam's cock. Sam groaned, and tightened his arm around Dean's waist.
Heat crawled over Dean, made him tingle and ache. He watched Sam's hand drift lower on his body, twitched when Sam tickled his belly, and then they both went very still, as the tips of Sam's fingers brushed the lace frill of Dean's panties.
Sam's dick was pushing insistently against Dean, the thickness of it pressing between the cheeks of Dean's ass, and his breathing was brutal and hard, but he was holding himself very still. The effort was making his whole body tauten up, almost like he was hurting, and Dean didn't like it.
"It's okay, Sammy. You don't need to be careful with me. It's safe. You're safe. I've got you." Dean was held by Sam and wrapped up in Sam, with Sam's fingers spanning from one hipbone to the other. "I've got you," Dean said again, because it wasn't any less true for all of that.
Sam flicked his fingertip into Dean's panties, and Dean grinned mindlessly, biting down hard on his lower lip. Sam's hand curved easily around Dean's cunt, the satin stretching over his knuckles, and he held Dean in his palm, and Dean could feel himself getting wet on Sam's hand, slippery on Sam's fingers.
"God, you're all…" Sam choked the words off. He rubbed his fingers through the wetness, then curled his long middle finger to press in deeper. It shocked a shapeless sound from Dean, and Sam's arm flexed tighter around his middle to hold him in his lap. "How does it feel? Is it good?"
"Mmm," Dean managed. He swallowed and caught his breath. "Yeah, s'good."
"Yeah, must be good," Sam murmured, his mouth against Dean's ear. "You're so fucking wet. Bet you'd be such a smooth ride. Bet I could just slide right inside of you, just open you up all sweet and easy on my dick."
And Dean was nodding, crazy for wanting Sam to find out just how sweet and easy it would be, before sense caught up with him.
Dean's thighs snapped shut, trapping Sam's big hand between his legs. The beating of his heart jolted back into motion, running too fast to make up for the moments it had missed. His belly was trembling with sudden panic.
He caught hold of Sam's wrist. "We're not gonna fuck." He tugged Sam's hand out of his panties, and he wanted to moan at seeing the glistening wetness on Sam's fingers, so he did the only thing he could and scrambled gracelessly off the bed and away from Sam. He scraped his hair off his face while his whole body burned with shame and arousal.
"Yeah, so… Sorry," he said. "Playtime's over. Go jerk off in the shower."
Sam blinked, looking bereft and bewildered, and Dean felt really bad at the state he'd left the poor guy in, because that was one impressively big bulge in Sam's jeans.
"What? Dean-"
"You heard me. Do as you're told," said Dean, and he hoped he sounded commanding enough to compensate for the fact that he was only wearing a pair of soaked panties.
Sam's confusion shifted to petulant indignation.
With false nonchalance, Dean shrugged and redid the clasp on his bra. "Fine, suit yourself. Sit there with blue balls all evening. Ain't gonna bother me none, but all that tension isn't good for you."
Sam didn’t budge.
Equally stubborn, Dean ignored the furious pounding of his own heart, sat back down on his own bed, helped himself to another beer, and flicked the TV on to an old rerun of some nineties crime procedural. Three minutes later, when his bottle exploded and showered his bare belly with beer and broken glass, Dean gave Sam a pointed look.
"Seriously, dude. Jerk off before you explode something important, like my head."
"You're such a fucking jerk sometimes," Sam muttered, as he slammed into the bathroom.
"Remember, nice long twist on the upstroke!" Dean called after him.
:::
"I don't understand," said Castiel. At Dean's raised eyebrow, he flicked his fingers up and down the length of Dean's body. "This. I don't understand."
Dean opened the store refrigerator and removed a six-pack of beer. "There was a unicorn involved."
"I suspected as much. But that doesn't explain why you did it." He obligingly held the beer Dean shoved at him, while Dean crouched to retrieve another.
"It's for Sam. To cheer him up."
They both looked out to where Sam was propped up against the hood of the Impala, hands shoved in his pockets and his expression moody as he contemplated the dirt beneath his feet.
"Is it working?" said Castiel. "I'm finding it hard to tell."
Dean pulled a face. "Ah, I was kinda a dick last night. Lost sight of the mission a little. And the kid doesn't understand and I don't wanna ruin the surprise and… I'll fix it."
Castiel grinned at him, proud and excited. "I get it. You were a dick. It's funny because you don't have one."
Dean nodded slowly and then added a third six-pack. "Okay. That's enough buddy-time for today."
:::
When they stopped, the afternoon was warm and swimming with sunshine. They walked into the cluster of trees at the feet of the mountain, where the rainbow dipped to the ground. There were sweet, interlacing trills of birdsong, the music of dawn and empty roads. Gaudily colored butterflies flittered through the patches of sunlight that made it through the patchwork of leaves overhead.
Dean carried an old blanket and some food, and Sam carried the cooler of beer, obedient but clearly unenthused by the prospect of a picnic and probably about five minutes away from bitching about some nonexistent bug bite.
"You know, werewolf hunts are kind of time-sensitive," said Sam. "Invigorating as all this fresh air is, I think maybe we should be concentrating on-"
Then the trees opened up on a glade, full of the soft snow of blossom and cut through with the glass-clearness of a stream. The unicorn moved into sight, shimmering pink and blue like a dream in the shadows. Then the sunshine reached it, and the unicorn turned crystal white.
Dean heard Sam catch his breath beside him, and he grinned. "How about that then, Sammy?"
Sam didn't even dare to take his eyes off the unicorn long enough to twitch a look at him.
"Dean," he hissed. "Dean, is that real? Do you see that? Tell me. Is that really a unicorn?"
"You could go over there and give its horn a real good yank, and I guarantee you it ain't gonna come off." Dean considered the supple strength in the unicorn's flanks, and added, "Your hand might though."
"How did you… how did….?" The beer bottles trembled together gently in the cooler as Sam's grip wobbled. He looked over at Dean, all lit up and hopeful, and Dean was warmed with the satisfaction of a job well done.
"Unicorn and the maiden," said Dean. He approached the unicorn with a slowness that wasn't uncertainty, but respect. "He gets kinda a power-up having a chick in the world that's bound to him." He glanced back at Sam quickly. "It's only temporary. And hey," He stroked his hand down the unicorn's muzzle, grinning at Sam over his shoulder as he did so, "whatever floats his boat, right?"
The unicorn snorted and shuddered, pressed closer into Dean's hand like an affectionate cat. Dean smoothed the lines of its head, then rubbed his thumb around the base of the unicorn's horn. The connection between them was so pure in its intimacy, joining Dean and the unicorn on such a basic, natural level, that Dean just knew that if he made some gross joke about human chicks and horny animals the unicorn would not only totally get it, but would probably think it was pretty funny too. Because the unicorn was just that cool.
He looked back at Sam, who was standing there, open-mouthed with child-like awe, blossom petals in his hair and a butterfly on his shoulder.
"You want a pony ride or not?" Dean said.
:::
Dean laid in the grass, dangling one foot in the stream and drinking beer, while the unicorn trotted around the glade with Sam on its back.
Every time the unicorn circled close enough, Sam beamed at Dean and waved, like an over-excited kid on a carousel, as though any time now he'd start calling, look, Dean, look, I'm on a unicorn! Do you see, Dean? Dean, I'm on a unicorn!
Dean waved back lazily, mid-mouthful of beer.
"I am an awesome big brother," he murmured. He looked down at the small spill of his breasts under the neckline of his t-shirt. "Big sister." He splashed the surface of the stream with his toes, and settled on, "Big sibling."
:::
The sunlight had changed from buttercup yellow to amber gold by the time Sam bounded over to Dean. He seemed impossibly tall from where Dean peered up at him in the grass, shining and breathless and not at all the kind of guy who might have smudges of Lucifer-clay mixed in with his own.
"Oh my god, Dean! That was fucking incredible!"
Dean passed Sam his salad shaker, then patted the unicorn's nose as it ducked its head to him.
"You're welcome," he said, smugly indulgent.
The ground shook as Sam dropped next to Dean. He sprawled across Dean to grab a beer from the cooler, and Dean smelled unicorn fur and boy-sweat. He blocked the sun's warmth, but his own body was a thicker spike of heat next to Dean.
"I can't believe it," said Sam. "I just rode a real live unicorn." He drank some beer and Dean listened to the wet roll of his swallow, while he stared up at the same shifting wave of leaves that Sam was seeing.
"I'm good to you," said Dean.
Sam rolled over onto his side, and Dean's gaze flickered to meet his. Sam wasn't smiling. "You are," said Sam. He looked down at the flatness at the front of Dean's jeans. "Can't believe you did this for me." He caught Dean's eyes briefly, before he returned to addressing Dean's fly. "You know, this is the third time in your life you've been a virgin."
He waved away Dean's immediate protest, amused and exasperated. "I know the lore, Dean. The unicorn and the maiden. It's about purity. About not having been touched."
"You touched me," said Dean, intent on the rippling leaves overhead, his grip slipping through the melted chill on the beer bottle.
"Yeah, but, I didn’t fuck you," Sam said, stubborn enough to point out how Dean was wrong despite how awkward it was to do it.
"You want to?" said Dean.
Saying it without thinking about it made it easy. Dean couldn't attach any guilt to words that were already floating above their heads like dandelion seeds, couldn't catch them back or examine them.
He turned his head enough to look at Sam. "Doll's body," he reminded him. "It's not me."
"Yeah," said Sam. "It is. I wouldn't wanna do it if it wasn't."
:::
It wasn't totally unlike wrestling. Except there were places where Dean was soft and tender, and Sam made a point of touching them all.
They rolled and fought in the grass. Their clothes came off as part of the struggle. All technique lacking, their bodies moved together in uncoordinated, unplanned jabbing and gripping, while, breathless, they laughed and cursed.
Sam's dick was long and thick, inescapable between them, rubbing wetness against Dean's belly, nudging his ass when he rolled over onto all fours and Sam tackled him back flat and rolled him over. Sam's face was flushed, hovering right over Dean's and wearing a smug smile, because he didn't need any moves to trap Dean under him. He could just lay his big, broad body down on Dean's and let gravity do the rest.
But Dean was an expert in what some people had been known to call fighting dirty, though Dean preferred to think of it as an unannounced change in the rules.
He spread his legs and let Sam's weight sink between them, into the hot cradle of his thighs, Sam's dick pressing fat and firm against the opened v of his cunt.
It was easy from there for Sam to fit himself inside, just a jerk of his hand between their bodies, a push and then the wet give of Dean's body letting him in. The bodily possession of having a piece of Sam inside himself was surprisingly uncomplicated. Their bodies moved without any of the incestuous hang-ups Sam and Dean had, or that they should have had.
Blossom drifted down around them, and Dean knocked a few white petals off the sweat-slick bridge of Sam's raised shoulders. He tried to catch Sam's eyes, but Sam was watching something a little to the left.
"Hey, buddy-boy, you with me?" said Dean, unable to quite catch his breath with Sam bearing down on him and thick inside him.
Sam's gaze didn't flicker, and Dean really hoped he wasn't going to have one of his crazy moments while he had his dick in Dean. Talking Sam back to sanity generally required Dean to think fast, and he was having trouble concentrating what with all the awesome amounts of sensation going on between his legs.
"Sam?"
"Your unicorn is totally watching," Sam said.
Dean craned around as best he could. The unicorn was stood a few feet from his shoulder. It was definitely watching. The connection between them was already leaking away, but the unicorn still lowered its head to Dean's touch.
"Aww," said Dean, straining out a hand to pat the unicorn's muzzle. "He just wants to say goodbye."
Sam rolled his eyes, looking awkward and embarrassed, though his cock stayed stiff inside of Dean. Dean smoothed his hand over the unicorn's head, finished with another pat. He didn't watch the unicorn retreat back into the trees; his attention was already back on Sam.
"So, you gonna fix this 'I'm a chick' problem?" he said.
Sam's tweaked Dean's nipple, almost thoughtfully, watching color flush the teased flesh. "I'm not convinced it's a problem." He grinned at Dean, planted his hand on the ground beside Dean's head to steady himself, and moved.
He fucked Dean sloppy and hard. A couple of times, he got over-eager and his dick slipped right out. The first time, Dean just reached down and grabbed him in his sticky, sweaty hand, guided him back in blind, squirming forward to take him back deep. Mostly, Sam fucked in so hard he rattled Dean's tender little cunt between his hips.
It was all heat and tenderness where Sam was buried inside him. The sound of Sam's cock driving inside of him was slick and dirty, and his thighs tingled where Sam rode between them.
While Sam moved on top of him, crushing his breasts and rubbing them to achingly sensitive peaks with each slide of his chest, Dean drew Sam's head into the crook of his neck. He carded his fingers through Sam's sweaty hair, bit his lip as he rocked back onto Sam's thrusts.
Sensation was growing inside him. Dean wasn't in control of the greedy, clenching of his cunt. Too much arousal fluttered through his belly, flooded his cheeks with heat. He clawed at Sam's shoulder, then realized that wasn't where he needed his hand to be.
"Jesus," said Sam, low and shocked, as Dean drove two fingers down into the slippery heat of his cunt, right around Sam's cock.
The combination of his fingers at his clit, and Sam's perfect dick hitting Dean just right every single time worked Dean into a frantic haze, where he didn't even realize how rough and ridiculously girly the half-cries he was making were. He twisted and strained, chasing his climax shamelessly, as Sam fucked him with short, rough thrusts, which Dean's body just took and took and took.
He came staring at the sky, caught in a moment of watching a petal of blossom fall, watched it flutter and drift, right up until he realized Sam was watching him.
And the way Sam was looking at him, there was no way Sam could be anywhere else inside his head except right here with Dean.
:::
There wasn't any come to tidy up afterwards. Sam had filled Dean's cunt up with it, and Dean's cunt didn't exist anymore. There was sweat though, and grass stains too. While they dressed, Dean catalogued the marks he'd left on Sam's body – scratches on his shoulders, a red mark on his jaw.
The unicorn's glade was nothing but a patch of woodland, cut through with a trickle of water like a line of piss outside a cheap bar.
Dean's pretty green bra lay half-hitched over the tall, scratchy stem of some weeds. The panties were nowhere in sight. Dean wouldn't put it past the unicorn to have taken them as a trophy, and was right now stringing them up with the others it had acquired over the centuries.
"Is the unicorn still here?" said Sam, neatly collecting the empty beer bottles and other litter.
Dean shrugged. "No idea." It hadn't even occurred to him to look. He was still aching, even though that fucked body had melted back into his own.
"C'mon," said Sam. "We should get back to the car. Find a motel for the night."
Dean scooped up his bra and shoved it into his jacket pocket, before trailing after Sam. He stretched his spine out contentedly. "Didn't we pass a Super 8 a few miles back?"
Sam didn't answer. He was walking along with his eyes on the ground, but Dean could see a curl of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Dean turned his own wide grin to the darkening horizon.
"So," he said, "who was the better ride? Me or the unicorn?"
The look Sam gave him said he wasn't going to dignify that with a response. But as Sam bent forward to stash the empty beer bottles in the Impala, Dean saw a pair of pale green panties dangling from the back pocket of Sam's jeans.
~end