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When Sam opens his eyes, he doesn’t recognize the set. But Dean does.
“Finally!” he exclaims. “Some decent fucking TV!”
Dean repeats the swear under his breath and smiles. The last four channels they visited didn’t allow swearing. Most simply edited the words entirely (Sam thought he might die of mortification when the phrase “Fiddlesticks!” passed his lips; Dean’s reply of “Darn tootin’” between snorts didn’t soothe his ego in the slightest), but their last stop had them on the set of Jerry Springer, where foul language was bleeped out instead—and Dean, of course, wasted no time cursing up a storm. Sam’s ears are still ringing. Not to mention...
“Sam, your brother here tells us you had sex... with a demon,” Jerry says solemnly. “Is that true?”
“Well, I mean...” Sam’s eyes dart side to side: Dean looks expectantly at him to his left; Steve the bouncer stands with his arms crossed to his right. No escape. Play your role. He swallows. “It’s, uh, true, Jerry.”
The crowd boos as Jerry shakes his head. Sam flushes with humiliation. Knowing that none of the people in the audience are real doesn’t alleviate his shame in the slightest. “It’s not like I cared about her!” he insists (“Ooooh,” goes the crowd). “Dean was gone and... I was, you know...” He can’t bare to look at Dean but can feel his brother’s stare burning into the side of his face.
Jerry nods sympathetically. “So if Dean hadn’t left you, you wouldn’t have lain with a hellspawn, is that right?”
“That’s not what I—”
“And you, Dean, where exactly were you during all this mess?” Jerry continues. “Sounds like it was your job to look after Sam but you weren’t there.” (“Yeah!” “Where were you?” cry errant audience members.) “Care to explain?”
“Ah, screw you, Jerry,” Dean dismisses. Naturally, this enrages the studio audience; before Sam can blink, Dean’s throwing a chair at Steve and picking a fight with a member of the crowd. Right on cue, the chanting begins:
“JERRY, JERRY, JERRY—!”
Sam shakes his head and rubs his ear. “So where are we exactly?”
Nothing stands out to Sam in particular. It’s just a living room, though definitely in a nice house, with a large white sofa with a chaise, a gleaming chrome and glass coffee table, and a flat-screen over an electric fireplace. The light fixture hanging from the ceiling is practically a piece of abstract art, centered over what might be a real Persian rug. A quick peek out the curtains reveals a Porsche parked in the driveway.
A sitcom maybe? Sam speculates. But no; the suspicious lack of personal touches debunks that theory. It’s more like a furniture showroom than a place people actually live. Hell, maybe it’s a commercial for a furniture showroom. Doesn’t explain the swearing though. When he turns around to share his observations, Dean’s yanking off his button-up. It doesn’t click what Dean’s doing until he starts pulling up his t-shirt.
“Woah, woah, woah!” Sam yelps, slapping Dean’s hands down. “What are you doing?”
Dean just grins. “Dude, we hit the jackpot!”
“What are you talking about?” Sam demands. More than surprising, Dean’s sudden mood change is grating. Then again, he wasn’t hit in the nuts by a plastic globe two hours ago.
Dean spreads his arms wide. “Paradiso Mansion!” Sam’s expression (flat and unimpressed) must say it all because he hurries to continue. “The House of Love! They shoot the Casa Erotica movies here, man!”
Sam’s face contorts. “We’re in porn?” he asks in disbelief. Much to his distress, Dean nods, enthusiastically at that. “This is a porn set?” he demands, waving at the opulence.
“Probably one of the producer’s houses,” Dean dismisses. “But forget that! This is a role I was born to play!” He strips off his shirt with a flourish. “I hope it’s one of the ones with Carmelita. She’s so classy.”
Sam snorts. Right. Classy and porn are like oil and water, especially when it came to Dean’s porn. Not that Sam hasn’t watched porn, of course (he’s still a red-blooded twenty-something after all), but if he needs visuals to get there he prefers pulling up free clips and passing over all the cringe-worthy attempts at storytelling and acting leading up to the main event. He’s there to get off, not sit through plumbing problems, or pizza deliveries, or whatever flimsy excuse is used to get to the show on the road. Dean, though? Dean goes in for all the showmanship. Sam suspects he likes to take his time, really lean into the anticipation. Probably doesn’t even unzip until the actresses have stripped, watching with half-lidded eyes and rubbing himself through his jeans right up until there’s the first hint of exposed breasts—
Not that Sam thinks about that at all. That’s just his guess. He usually can’t wait that long, even with all the awful dialogue. He’s tried teasing himself like he imagines (guesses, not imagines, guesses) Dean does, but he usually ends up fast-forwarding to the good stuff. The teasing’s just too much.
“Dean, I don’t think you’ve thought this through,” Sam says. Dean’s hands move away from his fly. Thank God. “I mean, this is the Trickster after all. There’s gotta be a catch.”
Upstairs, there's the thump of feet. Suddenly, they’re both barefoot wearing silky, Japanese-style robes. Sam realizes instantly he’s wearing nothing underneath the robe.
Well, almost nothing.
He clutches the robe tight around himself. Dean does the same.
Drifting in from down the hallway, the sound of the front door opening cracks through the air. They both jump.
“Papi and Mama are off!” a deep voice booms. “Now, don’t you two get up to any trouble while we’re gone! No parties!” There’s an awkward lit to the voice, coming from what Sam can only assume is a fake Spanish accent.
“Mama and Papi love you!” follows a husky feminine coo; then the door slams shut. They’re alone.
Sam and Dean stare at each other (Dean’s robes have koi on them), wide-eyed. Dean offers a shaky thumbs up.
“No parties,” Dean repeats.
*~*
Dean’s convinced any second now two gorgeous sisters are going to come down the stairs. Sam’s... less sure.
“Weekend in Paradise,” Dean explains as he paces back and forth over the rug. “The Sexy Sanchez Sisters get up to all sorts of fun while mom and dad are away. Pretty sure frat boys are involved. Or football players. I can’t remember.”
The fact that Dean remembers any details of a porno he rented three years ago is worrying in and of itself but Sam says nothing. Pointing out the obvious—that the salacious siblings have yet to appear, despite Dean’s certainty of their role in this production—seems dangerous. His feet are getting cold and it’s getting harder and harder to ignore what’s on underneath the thin garment.
Ten minutes go by. Then twenty. Not even feature-length porn parodies take this long to get started.
“Dean,” Sam says. “I don’t think we’re the frat boys.”
“Football players,” Dean snaps. “I’m sure now.”
“Whatever!” Sam explodes. “We’re not the frat boys or football players—”
“Sam—”
“We’re the sisters,” Sam hisses.
For a long time, Dean says nothing and Sam’s sure he’s about to be punched which he’s positive doesn’t happen in this or any other Casa Erotica movie; but Dean drops onto the couch, head in his hands.
“I know, okay?” he confesses. “I know. And football players don’t even show up until after...” Dean groans and rubs his temples.
“After what?” Sam demands.
“After they’re done ‘experimenting,’” Dean finishes blithely, finger quotes and all.
Sam drops on the couch next to him. Maybe he should have given it ten more minutes.
*~*
It doesn’t have to be a big deal.
In the original Weekend in Paradise, the girls mostly just kissed and groped each other until the men made their appearance. Nothing too dramatic... Unless it’s not Weekend in Paradise.
“There’s another one of these?” Sam asks dismally.
Dean doesn’t explain the plot of Stuffed Fuller House. It’s sort of self-explanatory. They also don’t discuss what happens if the Trickster doesn’t decide to change the channel before the football players show up.
“And you wanted to ask for his help,” Dean sneers.
Sam glares. “Let’s just get this over with, okay?” They don’t have a choice. If the Trickster hadn’t gotten bored with them by now then he wouldn’t. But as Sam moves to shrug off his robe, Dean stops him.
“We need to... you know,” he says uncomfortably. Sam stares; he doesn’t know. If anyone would want to get through this as quickly as possible, you’d think it would be Dean. Instead, he’s digging his toes into the rug and looking askance. “You know. Play the part,” he finishes in a rush.
Sam blinks. “Right. Right.”
Christ. Sam takes a deep breath and lets his mind go hazy. He doesn’t understand how it works but knows that if he waits, the solution will come to him, like retuning an old TV set. It doesn’t take long for the answer to come and he cringes.
“No, uh, guys pay attention to me,” Sam parrots out stiffly. Dean straightens his back, looking straight ahead. “Do you think it’s because my breasts are too small?”
He’s gonna die. Again. This is how he goes because Dean doesn’t say a word and Sam wonders briefly if this is somehow an elaborate joke: Dean’s in on it with the Trickster, all in a ploy to humiliate Sam to death because Dean’s not saying anything at all; bad enough getting nailed in the balls, if Dean makes fun of him for talking about his breasts he’s going to lose it—
“I’m sure that’s not true, little... bro,” Dean replies with awkwardness matching his own. Figures it would take until now for Dean to decide that calling him a girl was a terrible joke. “Let me see.”
“I couldn’t,” he replies flatly, knowing he’s supposed to exclaim it. If the Trickster wants enthusiasm, well, tough luck. “Grin and bear it” is the best he’s going to get.
Dean exhales slowly. “Show you mine if you show me yours,” he says, low and serious. That can’t be what the next line is supposed to be. At least, not the way Dean said it—like it’s a promise. What he means is, I hate this too, but we can do this, we can do this together. Believe me.
Sam nods. He can get behind that.
...Poor choice of words. He clears his head with a shake and slowly slides the robe off his shoulders. No point in hiding anymore.
Lingerie. He knew what the garments were the moment appeared; the light fabric stretching across his chest and over his groin could only be one thing. He hadn’t dared check before, but now his suspicions are unfortunately confirmed. The brassier is black and sheer, doing nothing to disguise his nipples, peaking in the chill—nor do the matching panties succeed in hiding the exact size and shape of his dick. For some reason, however, what embarrasses him most is how the bra fits snugly across his pecs, not sagging as much as one would hope for someone with no actual breasts of their own.
Sam looks to the side, abashed. But then Dean lets his robe drop.
Pink. Dean’s lingerie is a delicate pink, fitting as suspiciously well on Dean as Sam’s does on him, though he doesn’t fill out the bra quite as well. The underwear on the other hand...
Dean’s cheeks match his garments. “Shut up,” he mutters (though Sam had said nothing), crossing his hands in front of his groin in a belated attempt to shield the slight bulge there.
Sam shakes his head and looks away. He doesn’t need to know. They’ve both learned way too much about each other as it is. “S-so,” Sam stammers, “what do you think?”
It takes only a moment for Dean to take control of himself. “Please,” he says dryly, laying a hand on Sam’s chest, “size is not your problem.” He gives his right pec a suggestive fondle.
“Big brother,” he mutters (like Dean, he can’t go so far as to call him sister), “that feels, um...” God, this is humiliating. “Strange.“
“Good strange or bad strange?“ Dean asks, but he doesn’t wait for an answer. “Good strange, right?” He twists a nipple.
Sam gasps and it’s not entirely faked. “Dean,” he says. His face is getting as red as Dean’s. “You’re right. It’s a good strange. Maybe you can show me what guys like? Help me... practice.” He winces. It so absurd, every dignified part of him shriveling away to dust at the dreadful dialogue.
Dean snorts but his eyes are humorless, hysteria building behind them. “Of course. Let me show you how it’s done.”
With those words, it could almost be a normal afternoon between them: Dean, the arrogant older brother, showing the kid brother what he, in all his wisdom, has known for years. But, of course, this isn’t normal at all. Not by a long shot.
“We should make sure you’re kissing right,” Dean says, his bravado unwavering. “Guys won’t even bother if you don’t know how to kiss. Come here.”
Sam makes a face. He knows first hand that’s not true, not by a long shot. This innocent younger sibling bit is truly ridiculous. It doesn’t occur to him until he’s leaning in that they just as easily could have changed guys to girls as they did sister to brother. Dean having a private joke? Or did he forget the same way Sam did?
(As if either one of them could forget.)
“Tilt your head to the side,” Dean instructs and Sam realizes, annoyingly, that he did try to jump straight in like some amateur. Just getting into the role, he tells himself with mental eye-roll. No different than putting on a fed suit and talking to a witness. Not different at all.
Sam tilts his head. Dean guides him forward. Seconds before their lips touch—
“I can’t,” Dean whispers frantically. Sam’s eyes snap open. He didn’t even realize he shut them. “Sam, I can’t, we can’t—”
Sam shuts him up with a kiss.
It’s... not great. Sam came in a little too fast and hard (just like the amateur he’s pretending to be), and he’s a little off center. The soundtrack that kicks off in the background that sounds like it wandered out of a 70’s B-movie doesn’t make it any better. But, slowly, somehow, they manage to adjust. Dean opens his mouth mouth first, introducing tongue. Sam holds back another too-real gasp as Dean’s tongue teases against his own. His hands drift, unbidden, to Dean’s shoulders as Dean’s go down to his waist, leaving his chest with a parting pat.
When they break apart, they stare at one another for a long moment before hastily returning their hands back to their sides. Sam tries not to look too long or hard at Dean’s lips, which shine with spit and are slightly swollen. He licks his own lips in sympathy before averting his gaze toward the ceiling. They’re stalling. Dean must be thinking the same thing he is—surely that’s enough. Any second now, the Trickster will snap his fingers and they’ll be on some reality show or stuck in a pretentious cable drama. Anywhere but here.
The living room doesn’t disappear and they’re both still wearing women’s underwear. Of course. It would be too easy otherwise.
“Not a bad start,” Dean says flatly. “But you need more practice.”
Sam’s pretty sure kissing practice isn’t going to cut it but the alternative is... still too much at the moment. “Show me?” he offers weakly and Dean replies with a curt nod. They lean back in.
This time is better, more natural, and Sam tries not to think about what it means that it only took kissing his brother once for him to take to it. They make out long and slow on the couch, terrible music playing incessantly the whole while. Nothing changes. When Dean retreats for air, Sam whispers; “Take my top off.”
“What?” Dean asks, bewildered.
Sam guides Dean’s fingers under his bra strap. “We can’t do this forever,” he hisses. “Take my top off.”
Dean doesn’t want to, that much is obvious. But he obeys, tugging the strap down his shoulder then doing the same to its twin. Dean inhales slowly, steadying himself, before taking a handful of pecs in both hands and squeezing, hard. “Come on, Sammy,” he says (and God, Sam wishes he didn’t use his nickname here, not in this context, because it doesn’t disgust him or disturb him the way that it should and the possibility of any other reaction is—), “guys don’t just want to look, you know? You have to get involved.”
“How?” Sam asks dumbly, every bit the silly virgin he’s supposed to be playing. He’s never really had his chest played with before. It feels...
Strange, he concludes unhappily. Good strange.
“Well, genius,” Dean snarks, sounding more like mean big brother than teasing older sister, “you usually have to be naked to get to the good stuff.”
Sam turns to give Dean better access to the clasp in the back and it only takes a moment for him to get the hooks loose; Sam, on the other hand, fumbles his way through doing the same for Dean. Dean laughs but it’s too bright and loud, reeking of desperation.
“There we go,” Dean praises when they’re both bare from the waist up. Somehow it’s worse, both of them sitting in only little silk panties. “Better, right?” Dean takes Sam’s hands in his own, bringing them to his chest. Sam fondles the flesh before him, Dean pushing into it with enthusiasm Sam’s not sure he could imitate. “This is what guys like.”
No. This is what Dean likes. Dean likes watching porn where two girls pretending to be sisters touch each other. How did Sam forget that?
Dean captures his mouth before he gets lost in his head. They’re bolder this time around, touches roaming over each other’s bodies, fingers pinching, grasping, twisting. “Lie back,” Dean murmurs against his mouth; Sam doesn’t hesitate in obeying, letting Dean guide him down to the white cushions. Then Dean’s kissing across his neck and down his chest, stopping only to suck a nipple in his mouth as he toys with the other. Sam can see it in his mind, the beautiful girls who must have done this in reality, girls who’d probably only known each other a few days, one actress buried in the chest of her co-star, massaging soft mounds of flesh under her hands as the moaned with exaggerated pleasure. But right now there’s only Sam, trying not to sigh and shake as his actual brother sucks on his non-existent tits.
Dean’s lips travel lower. “You ever play with yourself?” he asks and Sam almost snaps at him. He’s been jerking off since he was twelve. He can remember the first time. He’d had a funny dream and woke up feeling strange—good strange. He couldn’t remember the faces in the dream... except his brother’s.
“No,” Sam lies fervently. Play your role. Dean stops at the line of his panties, eyes flicking up to meet Sam’s. Don’t, Sam begs wordlessly, don’t put this in my head. I can’t have this image in my head. Dean licks his lips and Sam is lost.
“Guys are gonna wanna touch you here too,“ Dean says gruffly. He hooks his fingers over the edge of the black silk. “You’ll never get a guy to like you if you don’t let him go there, you know.”
That’s messed up, Sam thinks dizzily. Not that he should be expecting thoughtful sex education from porn, but Jesus. His groin throbs. “Should we practice that, too?” he asks in a hush.
Dean doesn’t answer. He just slides the underwear down his legs. Sam keeps his eyes fixed on the ceiling, focusing on how ugly the chandelier is from this angle instead of the sensation of his erection hitting this open air. He should probably be ashamed. Disgusted, maybe. But he’s mostly just embarrassed and turned on.
“Guys like this?” Sam asks faintly.
“Yeah,” Dean answers throatily. Sam’s gaze snaps down but Dean’s not looking at his face. He’s focused entirely on Sam’s dick bobbing in front of his face. “Guys like this too.”
Dean’s mouth parts and Sam hopes—prays—Dean’s going to put his dick in his mouth. They’ll be done that much faster if he does. Absurdly, he only lifts up one of Sam’s legs, bending it at the knee. He kisses the inside of Sam’s thigh, explaining softly, “They like putting it inside,” and then his fingers...
Right. He supposes Dean figured it out, then. Which video they’re in. The barest touch circles Sam’s hole. He can’t believe he every thought it was cold in here. He’s so hot. He’s gonna burn up from the inside out, where Dean’s touching him, going to touch him.
“Here, you ever touch yourself here, Sammy?” Dean asks urgently. A fingertip—just the tip, mind you—presses inside. Sam wonders if Dean can feel how hot he is.
Yes, Sam thinks; Dean’s breath hitches and Sam fears he’s broken character but Dean says nothing, just sinks his finder in deeper. It goes in easy, far easier than it should. But then, this is porn. Of course it’s easy. It doesn’t take long for the number to go from one to two to three; then Dean’s pumping them in, not rough but hard. Now, Sam can’t help but cry out—Dean effortlessly hits his prostate every time. Of course he does. Porn logic. By that same logic, he knows exactly what to say next.
“Big brother,” Sam cries out in a weird haze; Dean groans. “I feel strange.“
“Touch yourself,“ Dean orders. ”Guys don’t—“
Sam doesn’t need to be told twice. He wraps his hand around his dick, pumping in time with Dean’s assaults on his insides. It should chafe but he’s slick, precum making him wet like the girl he’s supposed to be. It’s never felt like this. He’s never been able to get the right angle, get this deep. The pressure builds between his legs to the back of his spine, and he’s dripping like a faucet over his fist and, unbidden, he twists his own nipples viciously because now he knows he likes it. Knows that because Dean groped him and kissed him and is finger-banging him like a pro—
Sam finally finds courage enough to look down. The sight of Dean between his legs, lower lip bit in concentration as he circles his hips into the couch, pretty pink fabric pulled tight over his ass—it’s too much.
”Feel—strange—” Sam manages. When he comes, he swallows back the wail threatening to explode out of him—the Trickster will just have to settle for a moan and whimpers. He comes a truly obscene amount, up his chest and streaking his brother’s face and hair in white. Shocked, Dean flinches back, pulling his fingers out too fast; Sam whines his disappointment but can’t take his hands off his cock, milking himself dry as his now-empty asshole clenches hungrily. He goes until it hurts, left shaking and pumping his hips into the air. Dean rubs his thigh until he’s done blowing his load. Then, he’s licking the cum off Sam’s sensitive dick, tongue traveling up, up, up until he reaches his mouth. His cum, Sam realizes with surprise, tastes faintly sweet. Porn logic. His brother spits it into his mouth and Sam swallows it eagerly, licking past Dean’s teeth for more, then wandering over Dean’s jaw to gather up the spunk on his face. Dean’s hips grind lazy circles into Sam’s abs and the slide of silk across his skin makes him shudder. He can tell the panties are soaked.
“Was that good?” Sam murmurs as he pulls away. “Did I do it right?”
Dean stills. “Yeah,” he answers, sitting back. “Guys... guys will...” He trails off, gazing off in the distance, then at the coffee table where he can undoubtedly see his reflection. He wipes his face clean and stares at the tacky white coating his fingers. He freezes completely, hardly breathing.
Shit.
Change the channel, Sam begs silently. Change the channel. Of course, nothing happens. So he does the only thing he can do. He plays his role.
Sam guides his hands up Dean’s legs to his behind, squeezing—playing grab-ass. “I probably need more practice,” he suggests breathlessly. He toys with Dean’s underwear, tugging at it. He might just rip it off. “I should try now, right, big brother? To show I was paying attention?“
Sam wasn’t paying attention. He was losing his goddamn mind. But his words snap Dean out of whatever funk had taken hold of him. He taps his index and middle finger against Sam’s lips, who obediently opens his mouth and sucks the cum off them, savoring.
“Good point, little brother,” Dean says. He’s smiling and Sam’s sure his brother the best actor pornography has ever seen. “Show me what a fast learner you are.”
The Trickster doesn’t touch that dial. Sam doesn’t have much of a choice, really. And if Dean pants and groans and writhes and comes harder than he ever has in his life, all the while praising his little brother for his technique, his attentiveness, his mouth, well...
You can’t believe everything you see on TV.