Chapter Text
“So you’re the cheekiest little shit I know.”
Dean’s called you from your room, and you’re laying on Dean’s bed with a book, filling in the day with inconsequential things. “Oh yeah, why’s that?”
“I’m still-” He grunts as though he’s pulling something out from underneath himself. “I’m still uncomfortable from a lovely conversation I just had with Sam who, for some reason, felt compelled to come tell me about this awesome orgasm he recently experienced in this body. Yeah laugh it up, funny boy.”
And you do, thoroughly enjoying the feel of Dean’s body tightening and tickling from such a good laugh. “Oh, my god. Were there diagrams?”
“Almost!”
“Are you in my room?” you laugh.
“Yes,” he grunts again. “I’m just adjusting your stupid pillows. I feel weird.”
“Oh well, bottom drawer, to the back. Something there should do the job.” You put your finger in your book to keep your place.
“Wait, you have toys? Actually-” Dean shakes his head. “I don’t wanna deal with that. Let’s talk about something else.”
“Sure, okay. You wanna hear how I’ve been talking to myself?”
“Really? Like, commentating?” he asks, sounding a little more relaxed.
“No, like, ‘Good job, Y/N, that’s a killer sandwich.’ You’ve been complimenting me all day!”
“HA! Ha-haa, that’s awesome. Man, I should do that. Say all the things I wish you’d say.”
“Oh, it is therapy, let me tell you.” You put the book down and settle against the pillows, crossing your ankles and tucking a hand under your arm. “‘I am so sorry, Y/N, for every argument’,” you demonstrate, and Dean starts a long snort at his end, “‘-I ever started. You were right every time.’” He’s still chuckling uncontrollably so you say another. “‘You’re such a great driver, Y/N. Love the way you drive my car.’”
Dean giggles high, and offers one of his own. “‘I’ve never seen a decapitation so smooth, Dean. Show me how?’”
You laugh in reply and add, “‘You know I’d ask you for this recipe, Y/N, but I couldn’t top it.’”
“‘Please, no more of your beautiful breakfasts, Dean! I can’t run it all off!’”
“‘Teach me to cook!’”
“‘No, teach me!’” he insists and you both laugh at your clever selves.
“‘Would you show me that move? I love how you fight, Y/N. Goddamn you’re good,’” you say, nearly closing your eyes at the sound of his voice saying such things.
“‘Hey Dean, you wanna just hang out? Watch a movie? Throw popcorn?’”
“‘Hey, I’m not against hand holding!’” you pretend, quite authentically. “‘I’ll hold a hand!’”
“‘Tell me, seriously, Dean,’” he mimics, “‘how do these jeans look on me? I’d really like your specific opinion on this. How’s my ass?’”
“‘Smokin’, Y/N,’” you answer. “‘They’re so hot it’s probably safest you remove them. You want some help?’”
“‘Fuck yes, I’m needy,’” he says, though this time he means it. “‘Seriously, if you could just look after all this-’”
“‘You know I would, Baby. Two hands an’ all.’”
“‘I’d be grateful.’”
“‘On your knees grateful?’”
“‘Oh God, yes.’”
What the hell did he just say? “Dean!”
“What? Wait, what did you just say?”
You feel strange all over, like you’ve farted in company, or you’re late for something. “Dean, I-” God damn this voice! Get it together! You clear your throat and gruff yourself out of the moment. “D’you feel any better?”
There’s some shifting around at the other end, followed by a long pause as he deals with you smothering whatever just nearly happened. “I’ll just go work out or somethin’.”
“Doesn’t help,” you tell him. “Just comes back.”
Dean groans through his teeth and huffs back into the pillow. He doesn’t have anything to add.
“Go on, you have my permission.”
“Yeah, right. Talk me through it?” His sarcastic tone isn’t that convincing. “I’d love to get off to myself needing me.”
“Why, uh would that be-?” You clear your throat. “Would that really be so terrible?”
He doesn’t answer. You dread it becoming even more awkward so give him an easy out. “I guess it would take some squinting to make that work.”
“Well, it’s a fair offer,” he says. “I mean, this is some specialised equipment I’ve got here Y/N, and you are its only expert.”
“Was Wednesday that much of a disaster?”
“Hey, I will have you know,” he declares, “that I got off very nicely, thank you very much, that first day.”
“Did you?” you ask.
“Yes. In the shower. Even had to wash off the sweat.”
“Very impressive.”
“Thank you.” You imagine him doing a slow, smug blink.
“Well, since you do know how to deal with this particular situation, I’ll let you get back to it.” You don’t move, though. Just bite your lip and listen.
And his silence speaks reams.
“Did you want some help?” you offer. “I… I don’t mind.”
You hear the weak throat clearing of someone who doesn’t want to admit something… “Uh… I…”
More silence answers, and if you listen carefully… the silence has a rhythm. “Dean, have you started already?”
“You um…” The air blows out his nose, measured and tight. “You said you like me, you know? And I was coping with that just fine, right up until my damn brother starting talking about- you know. Inches.” He sounds so conflicted, so coy. “And you have a full length mirror in your room, Y/N. It’s distracting. What the fuck am I supposed to do?”
“I could just keep talking,” you say, as if to help.
“Yeah?”
“Sure. I mean, I’m sure you’ve noticed, um, what this voice does to that body…” Not that kind of help.
There’s short groan, a break of breath at the back of his nose, and you hear the swallow wrench his throat. He’s doing something over there, something that moves skin or breath with a slow, backheavy beat.
So that’s actually happening, right now, while Dean is talking to you. He’s doing things to your body, things you’ve always wanted, while you listen to him in the body you’ve never been able to have.
But he doesn’t want to hear your voice come out of him right now. Maybe that’s too much like a roleplay he doesn’t want to do. Then again, there’s no reason for him to really speak… “I like, um… my body… she likes it when I graze her nipples,” you say and there’s the sound of movement at the other end. “Just the tip. The rough of my thumb, it’s-”
“Oh… uh huh?” It’s your voice alright, but that’s the way Dean pushes his jaw forward when he’s into something.
“Keep going,” you tell him, and he hums back.
You can hear him breathe, everything quiet enough you think you could guess the softness of his lips like this, the shallow moments when his tongue pushes between them to whet.
“When you pinch, just catch the corners of the peak, let your fingertips slip off the end of the tug.” You hear the panting shift, the way he blows on the exhale now. “S’nice huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Do them both,” you suggest. “She feels it in her pussy.”
There’s a quiet “Shit,” and you can tell the phone’s not flush against his ear now, maybe laying by his head on the pillow. It’s the quiet ruffle of clothes being removed, and Dean’s noises quietly commentate whatever his hands are doing. “Why are you okay with doing this?” he asks.
“So you know what you’re doing for next time. With me.”
“Y/N-” Dean pauses from distraction, thoroughly distracted anyway. “I seriously had no idea.”
“I didn’t want you to. Now, I do. Okay?”
“…Okay.” Sounds like he’s smiling, too.
“So take a hand south, get all the fabric out of the way-” He’s quick to get that done, “and hug her mound… She likes it when I do that, big hands and all hot.”
“Yeah, this is good.”
It’s kind of easy to talk about yourself in third person with Dean’s voice, not least of all because it sounds fucking hot. It’s just more things you’ve wanted to hear from him, or things he might brag to Sam, fantasies spoken aloud. “She likes the way I roll the pressure over the bone, up into the dint.”
“Mmm,” he sighs.
“Wet fingers are good.”
While you wait for him, you push down your track pants, wrap your hand around Dean’s dick, and take a moment to appreciate the bunch and roll of his arm muscles across his body, the thickness of his thighs from this angle. “What’s going on over here, you think?”
“Oh fuck,” Dean sighs, slightly annoyed at having to word. “Your- shit, that body doesn’t care what you do. Everything’s good. Hands are good.”
“Get your fingers inside her,” you tell him, “deep as you can.”
“Uh! Oh god, it’s hard to reach.”
“Drag it back up and go up and down her clit.” You start to pull at an even pace, letting your grip slip up around the head sometimes, tickling the nerves and tugging on the rim. It makes you feel like using your ass, thrusting up off the bed. “Play with that,” you’re starting to struggle to sound calm. “However you like. The more random the better. You’re doin’ so good.”
“Ohhh, fuck,” he sighs. “Yeah, Dean. Feels amazing.”
“That’s what she’d say.”
You’re not playing each other any more. You listen to Dean get more and more heated, noticing how he shifts from sighs to groans, to moans, the shortening breath. You notice, too, the tipping point where he starts to get frustrated. When you’re with a guy this is usually when your hands stop stroking and start pulling, clawing, asking for more, and if he’s any good, he won’t give it to you.
But Dean doesn’t know how to pace your body yet. “Ah! Aah! God!Fuck it. I need a toy-” He collects the phone and moves.
“No!” you blurt. “No, you can’t go in cold with those! It takes practise!”
“Fucking, I need something. Fingers are shit.” You can hear him pulling open your drawer and getting the clothes out to see behind them. He finds a tripod thing with balls on each end, a straight finger-like vibrator, and a big bullet toy, and rejects them all…
You clamp onto your hard-on and notice how damp you are all over. “Dean, just- put the phone down and use your other hand for the depth -” His muttered curses float down the phone while he tries to interpret switches and settings. “- Fingers are still good! You know how to do that! -”
With the phone tucked between neck and shoulder, Dean sweeps one hand back and forth through the collection to see if there’s more, while the other threads fingers between folds and lips to keep the fire going. There’s nothing here like what Sam described. None of them look thick enough either. He wants something with heft, dammit, something that’ll make his legs spread.
“- and I’ll talk you through it, I will. I just don’t want you to accidentally hurt my body with-”
“Put on a condom,” he growls.
“What?”
“Put on a damn condom. This is ridiculous.” Then he hangs up.
You guess they’re in the bedside table? You don’t know but you reach over and dig in there, finding something that feels right. In another 3 seconds your pants are off and you’re rolling it down this erection you have, trying to remember whatever the hell you did with Rose that worked so well but then this isn’t Rose, this is Dean and there’s no way in any dimension you’re playing him with his own dick-
Just as you’re pulling off your t-shirt, Dean bursts in the door with your dressing gown clutched closed under his bust. He looks furious, confused and dishevelled, as though he’s escaped a tumble dryer. All at once he slams the door, shakes the robe off his arms, and crawls onto the bed. You lean back on your hands, frozen in trepidation, watching your face fixate on Dean’s dick as he climbs over you.
You’re bigger than you thought, and it’s not a bad thing, here. Even if the sight of your breasts and belly leaning over you is a little confronting, it’s not bad. And Dean’s body doesn’t mind one jot.
“Hi,” he mutters and hooks his hand around your neck to kiss you, square and dry. You have to close your eyes just to manage the sight of your own head descending on your lips. “Ugh, so weird.”
Sure is. You think your brain might’ve eaten itself.
With expert fingers, Dean tilts up your cock and tucks it into the dint. The heat makes you refocus and you think to lie back and put your hands on his hips, his waist, and look him in the eyes - your eyes - while he positions his palms on your chest.
“Okay?” he asks, dropping as he does, not even waiting for your reply, and you fold up at the feel of such scorching heat pushing down so tightly. Some kind of sound gets past your clenched jaw.
“Oh, fuck, yes,” he sighs, leaning against you and dropping his head. “Fuck, yes, that’s the stuff.”
He tries a tentative rise and fall, groaning openly at how good it feels and you dig your fingertips into the fat to restrain yourself.
“Jesus Christ, Dean.” Your eyes are shut tight, all the air of your lungs in your throat. “I can’t-”
“Yeah, you can.” That’s his accent in your voice, his firmness. “We can do this.” He starts to move up and down, moaning at the sweetness of each pull and push, closing his eyes and moving your face like there’s some opera going on inside. “It’s the size,” he says, and rocks enough for your breasts to join in. He cups them in his hands to feel the weight. He’s rapturous, and you’re beautiful. “God. The friction, what’s attached. So good.”
“Okay.” You start to get used to the feeling, but it would be much easier to deal with if you were in control. “You have- sssshit! You have no idea, Dean.”
You take hold of his ribs, pausing him mid-thrust, and lift him up. He gasps “Hh-uh!” pressing on his lower belly at the emptiness, catching himself on all fours when you guide him to the bed beside you.
“You gotta see this.” You move around, take hold of his hips, spying a glimpse of him looking back a moment, watching you. He’s apprehensive yet thirsty, every sensation something to capture - the assertive hold, the vulnerability and exposure, thighs on thighs, and then you’re dragging broad, hot, rough hands down his spine and over the cheeks before you line yourself up and fuck yourself in.
“AH!” Thump! “FUCK!” Thump! “YYY-YAh-ha!” Thump! “Sonofa-” Thump! “Don’t stop! I-” Thump! “Fuck, don’t-” Thump! “Don’t stop! Oh God!”
Long, steady strokes, all friction, all fuck, and Dean walks his hands on the mattress, squeezing his eyes as he wraps his head around the feeling. You give him everything you can, everything he’s got, tucking your ass into it, knowing full well the rise of his bone and thickness at the base makes the pressure so hot-and-sour-good, all of it pushing his ass open just enough, the balls slapping his clit.
“Holy hell!” You hear your voice bounce, and watch the scene of your body taking Dean’s. It’s a fantasy you’ve played many, many times, and he’s following the script just fine. And the body you’re in, with every method is has, tells you that it’s so frikkin’ sublime, right down the back of the knees, and up to your neck. Sweat breaks out across you and your awareness of everything else drops away.
You manage to bend forward, nudging Dean’s knees apart to lower him so that you can reach over and lean your knuckles on the bed by his. Snaking one arm underneath, up between his breasts and towards his throat, you get your lips by his ear, kissing and tickling with your breath, and it makes him whimper at all the contrasting sensations.
You rumble your words lowly, “You thought of this, too?” and spread thick fingers wide and gentle around his neck. He shudders inside your hold, his sighs barely holding on.
The heel of your hand high on his chest, fingers lax on his collarbones, you fuck him tightly a few more beats before pushing away and helping him roll over. You don’t look at him, just focus on what you’re doing, guiding yourself back in, settling your knees where it works, arranging your weight.
When you do look up, you see him wide-eyed and open, as though it’s all about to be too much. Quickly, you lean down, rest your elbow by his head and wrap a big hand over his eyes. “Just take notes, okay?”
“Okay,” he nods and swallows.
“It’s going to feel amazing.” You drag yourself in, feel the flesh smeared against your bone, and reach yourself up inside your own body to make it feel wonderful. “Alright. For next time… Hook your feet behind me.”
Dean does as you ask, and on the first thrust he arches back, clawing at your shoulders and sucking air through his teeth. You take your hand from his eyes, but he keeps them closed as you brush your fingers through his hair. “Please,” he gasps, “do what you like! Just, go!”
“Okay.” It’s not hard to visualise his point of view, now that you know how long he is inside. It’s a complicated move really, to get your bone to roll over the clit, and your cock to push and strum, but you can do it, and it’s surprisingly persuasive to hear your own voice outside your head, climbing and gasping, desperate and pleading, wishing this body would do exactly what you need.
There’s a moment you think it won’t happen for him, so you reach down to flick at his clit and his eyes pop open in shock. Then you recognise it - the long deep gasps you have when you realise you’re coming, and the tremble begins, right in front of your hips. It makes you fuck a little faster, looser, and for a moment you focus on just how exquisite it is, and it pops. Like you’ve deafened his balls, they tuck up hot and tingling, everything seizing on the orgasm and blindly fucking into him until it’s done.
You feel huge and heavy, and quite wet around the pubes, but there’s no way you’re doing more than tipping sideways right now. You just hope there’s enough bed for that.
“Oh, God,” Dean puffs. “Oh my god. I’m gonna cry.”
You start to laugh, as much as you can, and notice the condom becoming loose. So you get up and clean up while you still have the energy. You wipe Dean up a little too, trying not to look at him too much.
“I don’t mind going back to my room,” you say. “We can wake up in our own places then.”
“No.”
It’s easy to give in and let him lead you onto the bed beside him, under the covers, in his skin. Instinctively, he expects you to rest your head on his chest, except that gives you an eyeful of boob.
You shake your head, “Nope. Can’t,” and he chuckles at you, watching you get up to find a pair of t-shirts and boxers and after you’ve both gotten them on, he lets you pick where everything goes.
“Hey, let me show you this,” you say, “before tomorrow. Shift down.”
Dean scoots a little, both of you still moving at half speed, and rolls onto his back to look at you leaning over him, his head tilted back to see you properly. “You think you can remember this for later?”
“I’ll try,” he slurs.
You look at him properly then, and search for him behind your eyes as you drag your fingertips over his forehead and into the hair. With your other palm on his jaw, you hold him still and lean into it, kissing him full on the mouth. He hums a little, happily, and after a second you roll it, asking for the plush of your lips with his, feeling him slacken and give more. A little tilt and you can lick a lip, taste inside. You push your fingertips over the crown of his head, move your hand down to slide it around his waist to haul him up into the curve of your body, warm and firm and thorough.
He sucks in a breath of surprise, floating into it, and you try to show him how delicious it is to be held in suspension by someone’s affection and strength, before you both run out of air.
“Hohhh,” he sighs, swallowing, and gazing at your lips, “that’s lovely.”
“It’ll be on the exam.”
“Can I request some one-on-one tutoring then?” There’s that cheeky smile, all that promise.
You peck him on the lips, and he does the same back, but it’s maybe 5 more minutes before you’re both fast asleep, and you slumber right through dinner. Sam even checks on you, slightly surprised but none the wiser as to how you came to be sharing Dean’s bed.
…
When you wake next, it’s because the person beside you has woken. He’s shifting and sighing, his hugging arms kind of kneading you conscious, and you both slowly blink awake and see each other there.
“Mornin’,” murmurs Dean.
You close your eyes saying, “It is so fucking bless-ed to hear your voice coming from you.”
He smiles broadly and squeezes you closer. “Same. Yours is beautiful coming from you.”
“Oh god, this is the gooey Dean I’ve been missing out on?”
He leans in, fishing for a kiss, and you happily give in, feeling his lips on yours before he rolls up onto his shoulder and dives into the most passionate pre-breakfast kiss you’ve ever met - holding you close, bending you back, lovely soft, warm arms around you, and hands holding your head. It’s positively dreamy. “A-plus,” you rasp. “Gold star. Blue ribbon.”
Dean wheezes his chuckle, looking down at you, and you smile up at him, everything still and sweet and timeless- “Shit!”
“What?!”
“We forgot to eat your KitKat last night!”
Dean thinks about why you might’ve said that, his gaze roaming around as he thinks.
You tap him on the shoulder as you talk. “It’s gone back to normal all by itself. The curse only lasts a day, sleep to sleep.”
Then Dean’s eyes flash a glare as he realises. “Sonofabitch, we just rotated the spell,” he says. “Like, we got back to square one but a whole day later than if we hadn’t.”
“And the day after, we were actually still under the spell just,” - Holy crap - “transported into our own bodies.”
Woah. “Damn.”
“Should we tell Sam?” you wonder. “I mean, the cramps plus the flirting.”
“Eh. Also got the orgasm of his life, so.” Dean shrugs, ready to not care. “Speaking of.” He bites his lip, bounces his eyebrows, and before you can do more than laugh, he’s pecked you on the cheek and pulled back the covers. “Let me see this thing up close. I got questions I need answering…”
…
Three weeks later, there’s a parcel on your desk. The note on top says, “This is as close as I could find. Hope it does the job.”
You’re not sure how you know, but this dildo is from Sam and, somehow, Dean is definitely involved. He definitely will be involved too, you decide, and add another Kit Kat to the shopping list, just in case.