"A unicorn? A freaking unicorn, Sam?" Dean repeats for the fourth time in fewer minutes. He looks down at the arsenal of weapons in Baby's trunk, twitchy fingered and wild eyed. "How the hell are we supposed to kill a goddamn unicorn?"
'We're not gonna kill it," Sam snaps, elbowing Dean sharply in the ribs when he picks up a flame thrower.
Dean drops the flame thrower with an ill-concealed sigh, mumbling under his breath like a kid about never getting a chance to use the cool weapons. "What do you want to do with the damn thing then? Drop it off at a petting zoo? Sell it on eBay?"
Sam rolls his eyes. "Don't be a dick, Dean."
"Well, we're sure as shit not keeping a goddamn unicorn. I mean, I know you always wanted a pet, Sammy, but I'm not letting anything with a massive horn inside my car."
Sam snorts, he can’t help himself: there's a chance Dean's immature humor is rubbing off on him. "Really, Dean? You never complain about my massive h—"
"This is not the time, Sam," Dean cuts Sam off before he can finish that sentence, the tips of his ears turning adorably pink. "Seriously, what's our plan here?"
Sam wishes he had an answer to that. The truth is they are seriously lacking in the plan department. And also in the knowing what the hell they’re dealing with department. Frankly, they’re pretty freaking clueless.
What they do have is a dozen eyewitness reports of a unicorn running through the forest. That’s a lot more than can simply be put down to stoned teenagers or kids with overactive imaginations. Plus there’s also the fact that the local priest is one of those witnesses. The priest, absentmindedly running his thumb over the silver cross hanging on a chain around his flabby neck, had sworn blind he saw the unicorn frolicking (his words) in the woods. And while Dean is prepared to put that sighting down to an over-indulgence of communion wine, Sam isn't quite as cynical, especially not when all the unicorn sightings were recorded after the sudden disappearance of two teenagers and a boat load of family pets. Those disappearances are what brought Sam and Dean to this backwater town in the first place. Originally they had been thinking along the lines of a black dog. Understandably the unicorn sightings threw them for a loop.
"It's got to be witches, right?" Dean says with a shoulder shaking shudder. "This weird crap is always down to witches. Remember that bitch back in Maine? She put me off meatloaf for life."
Sam opens his mouth to argue, snaps it shut again, and makes do with an exasperated sigh. It's not like Dean doesn't have a valid point, and frankly his witch theory is just as feasible as anything Sam has come up with.
In the end they hike out into the wilderness armed with not much more than their usual weapons, plus a torch, a couple of canteens of water and a family-sized bag of M&M's. Sam has a couple of protein bars tucked away in his pocket too because the chance of Dean sharing his M&M’s is slim to absolutely laughable.
As usual Dean takes the lead; his sense of big brother privilege not dwindling despite the fact that Sam has a good four inches and twenty pounds on him nowadays. Sam trudges after him on a meandering path deeper and deeper into the forest, trusting that Dean's tracking skills cover unicorn hunting. His trust begins to wane after three mind-numbing hours of spotting nothing more exciting than a one-legged crow and an angry nut-throwing squirrel. Sam's growing bored, and frustrated and to make matters worse, more than one tree branch has sprung back and thwacked him across the face, accidentally, according to Dean, although his schoolboy snigger suggests otherwise. After another hour and another fucking thorny branch smacking into his forehead, Sam's temper snaps.
"Do you even know where we are?"
Dean doesn't break pace, just steps over a fallen branch and smirks over his shoulder. "Take a look around, Sammy. I'd say we're in the middle of a forest."
Sam grinds his teeth. "It's Sam, and I can see that, thanks. But are we lost in the middle of the forest?"
"No, we're not lost. Unlike you, I can actually— hey, did you see that?" Dean stops dead without any warning, almost sending Sam slamming into the back of his legs.
"Keep your voice down, you idiot," Dean growls.
Sam takes a calming breath and lowers his voice. “See what, Dean?” Dean doesn’t answer straight away and it’s weird but when he finally does Sam could swear that there’s a blush working its way up his neck. “It kind of looked like a... I dunno… a jackalope?"
"A jackalope." Sam laughs. "What the hell, Dean? That's not even a real thing." He peers over his brother's shoulder all the same. Not that there's anything to see other than a hell of a lot of trees.
"Neither's a fucking unicorn, Sam." Dean scowls back at him. "But we're still wandering around out here looking for the damn thing."
That’s a fair point Sam concedes, and bites his tongue. Although if their positions were reversed he’s not so sure Dean would let a freaking jackalope sighting go so easily. "Okay, so jackalope, and unicorns. What does that tell us?"
"That someone is spiking the water?"
"You really think so?" Sam actually considers the possibility for a second.
"No, genius." Dean rolls his eyes. "I think we're looking for a witch with a hard-on for magical creatures."
"But how? And why?" Sam argues. He’s not convinced that Dean's tunnel-visioned obsession with witches is entirely helpful.
"I don't know." Dean huffs, and digs moodily in his pocket for a candy. He tosses one in his mouth and another at Sam. Caught off guard, Sam doesn’t react quick enough to catch the projectile M&M nor avoid it. Dean laughs so hard when the candy bounces off Sam’s forehead and drops to the ground that he almost chokes. Sam kindly helps him out by smacking him on the back, firmly enough to leave angry Sam-shaped handprints. Dean squawks in protest and slaps him away.
"So what now?" Sam asks when Dean has stopped acting like a six year old.
Dean shrugs his shoulders and throws another M&M in his mouth. "Follow the jackalope?"
So that's what they do; traipse on through the trees, Sam doing his best to avoid low-hanging branches while Dean follows the invisible paw prints of his imaginary jackalope. The air is turning cooler and damper, the sun slowly heading west and taking its warmth with it. Sam doesn't relish the idea of blundering blindly around the forest at night and he's close to suggesting they head back before it gets too late when Dean lets out a victorious whoop.
"See, Sammy, witches. I told you."
Sam stares at the plain little cottage tucked in amongst the trees without any of his brother's enthusiasm. "It's a cottage."
"Exactly,” says Dean, drawing his colt out the back of his pants. "A witch's cottage."
Sometimes Sam really wishes he understood how Dean's brain worked. He knows his brother is smart, despite Dean’s pretense otherwise; anyone who can make an EMF reader from scratch is pretty goddamn intelligent. It's just that sometimes Dean's leaps of logic leave Sam feeling as though he's jumped from the first chapter of a book to the last page without reading anything in-between.
"Dean, how can you possibly know that cottage belongs to a witch?"
"Because it's in the middle of a forest." Dean states the obvious as though it’s explanation enough and Sam can see the ‘duh’ in his eyes.
"So?" Sam says, drawing his own gun and falling into step with Dean as he prowls towards the cottage. "Maybe the owner just wants some peace and quiet."
"Yep," Dean nods. "Because she's a freaky child-eating witch that fucks about with unicorns in her free time."
Self-preservation stops Sam from responding to, or even thinking about, that statement.
The cottage is grey stone and crumbling badly around the edges. Thick ivy and tangled honeysuckle crawl up the walls and across the slate-tiled roof, and appears to be mainly responsible for holding the whole thing together. Sam and Dean step over a low, once-white, picket fence into the small garden that surrounds the ramshackle cottage. Dean kicks pointedly at some of the plants growing in wild clumps; mandrake, belladonna, wolfsbane, his pretty lips sloping into a smug grin. Sam concedes, with a grudged nod, that the owner's choice of garden plants possibly points towards witchcraft of some kind. Maybe.
They continue to creep around the house, peering in the windows, though the grime clinging inside and out makes it nearly impossible to see much of anything. Around the back of the cottage lies a small outbuilding, its wooden door hanging lopsided on one hinge. Sam edges his nose inside and almost gags at the stench of animal shit.
"Looks like a horse has been living in there," Sam chokes out, trying not to breathe through his nose.
"Ugh fuck, sure smells like horse shit," Dean agrees peering around Sam but not moving closer than he has to. "Maybe even unicorn shit?"
Sam grunts, in half-hearted agreement, not quite ready to commit to Dean's theory. There's a vegetable garden at the back of the house, untidy and unorganized, but obviously tended. Although it looks like something has been chewing its way through the cabbages.
"You want to knock?" Sam asks, as they stop at the weathered back door.
Dean nudges his foot against the oversized cat flap cut into the bottom of the door. "And let the witch know we're here?"
"We still don't know it is a witch, Dean." Sam sighs. Cats and witches, it's such a cliché.
Dean tries the door handle, grins at Sam when it turns easily and takes it as permission to enter. Sam follows, praying some innocent old lady isn't about to have a heart-attack when two armed men wander into her home.
The back door opens into a kitchen. The first thing that hits Sam is the warmth. After traipsing around in the forest for hours, the heat is glorious, makes his face flush and his toes tingle. The second thing to strike Sam is the funky smell. Like a noxious mix of boiled giblets, wet dog and a cat litter tray that seriously needs emptying.
The third thing he notices, which maybe in retrospect should have been the first, is the dragon perched on top of the kitchen table.
"Sam." Dean says, voice calm in the way that means Dean is definitely not calm. "Are you seeing this? Cause I gotta tell you, I think I must’a drunk the cool aid."
"Nope, I'm seeing it too," Sam replies, sotto voce, standing stock still, and staring in disbelief at the creature who blinks once and stares right on back.
"So… dragons, huh. Can I shoot it?" Sam's not sure whether Dean's asking for permission or just contemplating out loud if a bullet will actually kill the thing.
"I don't know, Dean; you might just piss it off."
The dragon at this point waddles a little closer, its claws clicking on the table top and coppery scales shimmering in the weak sunlight that’s filtering through the tattered drapes. It might be an inappropriate thought given the immediate threat but as far as dragons go this one is pretty cute with its chubby tummy and big green eyes. It's also decidedly small. More Lassie-like than Smaug-sized.
"It's kinda fun-sized for a dragon, don't you think?" Sam observes, stepping forward for a closer look. "You reckon it's a baby?"
"A baby fire-breathing, man-killing monster? I don't know, Sammy, does it really fucking matter?" Dean asks, voice high and tight, and slightly frantic. The dragon turns towards Dean, its head tilting to the side and tail flicking up behind it, an indolent cat swish.
"I dunno, Dean. I wouldn't say it looks vicious."
"Jesus Christ, Sam, please don't tell me you want to adopt the thing. It's not a fucking puppy."
Sam ignores the exasperation in his brother's tone, slips his gun back into his pants, and takes another step towards the table. Dean curses and Sam can feel a big-brother glare burning into the back of his neck.
"If that thing doesn't kill you, Sam, I swear to god I will."
The dragon edges towards Sam as cautiously as Sam approaches it, and when Sam —lips moving in silent prayer for the dragon not to barbecue him on the spot— reaches his hand out towards its snout, the dragon dips its head and sniffs, dog like, at his palm; its nose, hot and dry against Sam's skin. And then it sneezes, a violent body-wrenching sneeze, accompanied by a blast of silvery smoke.
Sam nearly craps himself. Not because of the dragon-sneeze but because Dean makes a high-pitched squeak, that he will forever deny, grabs Sam's sleeve and yanks him backwards, almost sending then both toppling to the floor. Sam lets out a startled yelp and Dean cocks his gun. The dragon flares its wings and jumps onto the floor, landing with a clumsy whumf. It plods across to Sam's feet and sniffs curiously at his boots. Despite Dean's sharp intake of breath, Sam bends down to pet its head, careful to avoid its stubby horn nubs.
The little guy really is adorable.
"Jesus," Dean grumbles, edging out from behind Sam and scowling down suspiciously at the dragon. "What, now you're the freaking dragon whisperer?"
Sam grins and scratches the dragon under its chin, finding the scales there surprisingly soft. The dragon's eyes flutter shut and it croons quietly, rubbing against his leg.
"Well, don't blame me when it sets fire to your hair, Doctor Doolittle," Dean says rolling his eyes in disgust and stomping away. "Come on; let's check out the rest of this place." Sam's pretty sure Dean is just pissed that animals always like Sam more than him.
Sam follows Dean through the cottage, with the dragon tagging along happily behind. The place is, well... lived in would be putting it nicely. A shit-hole would be more accurate. There are piles of books on nearly every surface, most of them covered with a layer of dust. The titles are mainly variations of the words; Witchcraft, Potions, and Spellwork, which definitely lends credence to Dean's witch theory.
The witch herself is nowhere to be seen. They do find cages and aquariums lining a room which is probably supposed to be a bedroom. Some of them appear to be empty, but one is filled with white mice, another inhabited by half a dozen rats. The aquariums house several different varieties of snakes, as well as frogs, toads and what Sam thinks might be newts. Needless to say the stench in the room is enough to make Sam's eyes water. Dean throws his arm over his nose, and backs out of the door as quickly as possible.
In the bathroom there's a mermaid in the bathtub. A real, live, auburn-haired, golden-tailed, mermaid. Considering there's a small dragon winding its tail around his knee, Sam probably shouldn't be so shocked.
"Dean? Dean!" Sam slaps Dean's shoulder hard enough to jolt him when he notices the way his brother is staring open-mouthed at the mermaid, or more specifically at the mermaid's naked breasts. To be fair, her breasts are more than worthy of a centerfold spread in Playboy, but Dean could stand to be a lot less obvious, and a little more respectful.
"Dude, what the hell?" Dean says, rubbing his shoulder.
"Exactly, Dean," Sam nods at the mermaid. "What the hell is going on?"
The dragon uncurls its tail from Sam's knee, toddles across the room, stands on its back legs, hooks its front paws over the side of the tub and blows playful smoke rings towards the mermaid.
"Your guess is as good as mine, Sam. Why don't you try asking Ariel over there?"
Any other time Sam would take a swipe at Dean about his not-so-secret Disney princess obsession, but what with the naked mermaid in the bathtub and the baby dragon, he's kind of distracted right now.
"Erm… hey," Sam waves awkwardly, and unlike Dean, tries very hard to look the mermaid straight in the eyes. "Are you okay in there?"
Dean snorts. "Real smooth, Sammy."
"Shut it, Dean," Sam snaps. "Do you need help?" he tries again. "Can you tell us who brought you here?"
The mermaid looks curiously at them, her shiny tail slapping down into the water and sending waves flowing over the bottom edge of the tub. She doesn't look dangerous. She doesn't even look upset that she's stuck in a tub in a dingy bathroom. Confused possibly, but not frightened.
When it becomes clear the mermaid isn't about to break into conversation or a killing spree, Sam and Dean edge awkwardly out of the bathroom leaving her smiling softly and patting the dragon’s head. It's like a scene out of a very weird Disney film.
"What the actual fuck?" Dean mumbles, scrubbing his hands across his eyes. "What are we supposed to do with a goddamn mermaid? Is she… I mean… can we..?" Dean tapers off, at a loss for words for once.
"Let's just check the rest of the cottage out," Sam suggests.
"And then what?"
"And then... then we... I don't fucking know... phone Bobby?."
They don't find any other mythical creatures lurking in the cottage, although they do come across half a dozen bats hanging from a curtain pole. And a clutch of eggs, bigger than Sam's fist, in the airing closet.
It's the basement where they make the most interesting discovery, well, not counting Ariel in the bathtub or Sam's new friend the miniature dragon. One wall is lined from floor to ceiling with metal shelves, most of which are filled with rows of large glass jars. Some of them are empty, but others are filled and meticulously labeled. Sam picks up a jar to examine the contents, squinting to read the label in the dim glow that’s emanating from the single bulb lighting the room. He's quite proud that he doesn't drop the jar when he finally realizes what it contains; eyeballs. Virgin’s eyeballs, according to the label. The jar next to it contains virgin's blood. The next virgin's tongue. The dates carefully recorded on the labels are all the same, just two weeks ago. He has a sinking feeling he knows what happened to at least one of the teenagers.
Sam glances at the jars on the shelf above; rat skulls, newt’s legs, puppy-dog's tails, bunyip feet.
Dean reads aloud beside him, his voice climbing higher with each increasingly fucked-up thing he finds. "Mandrake root, belladonna flowers, dragon's fire? Unicorn hair? Succubus venom? Werewolf spleen! It's like a weird-ass witches’ Walmart. All your freaky spell ingredients under one creepy roof."
"Makes a twisted kind of sense, I guess." Sam picks up a jar that turns out to be full of shriveled penises and quickly sets it back down. "You think that's what she's doing?" he asks, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Collecting ingredients and selling them on?"
"Looks like," Dean nods. "What's the betting there's a small fortune to be made selling this kind of crap. Where is the skanky bitch finding this stuff though? I mean, the herbs and the insects and shit, yeah okay. But you don't just find a mermaid lying around at the beach."
"No, you don't, boys," a deep voice says from behind them.
Sam and Dean spin around. Sam draws his gun. Dean's is already aimed at the stranger's chest. The guy looks wholly unafraid.
"Who the hell are you?" Dean growls.
"Now that's not very polite, is it? I mean, you are trespassing in my home. A little respect wouldn’t go amiss." The guy flicks his fingers, and the gun in Sam's hand transforms into a banana; black steel smoothly morphing into thick yellow fruit peel. Sam drops it in shock, stares open-mouthed at it lying harmlessly on the floor at his feet. He looks up to find Dean glaring at a large zucchini in his hand.
"What the fuck?" Dean says, looking at the vegetable as though he doesn't know whether to slip it back into his pants or throw it at the guy's head. "What the fuck are you?"
"I'm a witch obviously. I thought you'd have figured out that much. Hunters really aren't the brightest crayons in the box, are they?"
"But you're... you're..." Dean gesticulates wildly, mainly in the direction of the guy's crotch.
The witch rolls his eyes. Sam doesn't really blame him. "Male?" he asks. "You really are all about the stereotypes, aren't you? You were expecting an old crone with boils and a broomstick? A couple of children roasting in the oven?"
"Well, I was kind of hoping for a pretty chick with a nice rack.” Dean tilts his head, and quirks his lips in that infuriating smirk that makes Sam itch to punch it off his face. Or kiss it off his face, depends on the situation. “And doesn’t that make you a freaking wizard or something?"
"Do I look like Harry Potter to you?" the guy says, eyes narrowing.
Actually with his lanky blonde hair and sharp features he looks more like a cheap imitation of Lucius Malfoy than Harry Potter. Unlike Dean though, Sam doesn't find it necessary to vocalize every thought that pops into his head. Certainly not one quite so dorky.
Dean takes a step forward, and Sam can tell by the muscles bunching below his brother's multiple layers that he's planning to launch himself across the room.
Unfortunately the witch reacts quicker than Dean can move. With one flick of his hand Dean goes flying against the shelves lining the wall, jars falling to the floor, and shattering around him in a shower of glass. Sam leaps forward to help and finds himself frozen, feet glued to the spot. If the guy is a witch, he's a damn powerful one. More powerful than any witch Sam has seen or even heard about before.
"Now, what am I going to do with you boys?" The witch saunters past Sam, running his fingers over the curve of Sam's ass and around the top of his thighs, his fingers slipping dangerously near Sam's junk, before he steps away and stands in front of Dean.
"Hey, keep your hands to yourself, dirtbag," Dean grits out, eyes glinting dangerously.
"Why sweetie? You jealous? A bit possessive of your boyfriend?" The witch smirks, reaching up to trace the sharp edge of Dean's jaw line. "I don't blame you. He is a fine specimen of a man. Is he that big all over? I bet he is. I bet he reams your peachy ass real good."
"Screw you," Dean spits, the vein in his neck bulging as he strains under the invisible force holding him immobile.
"No, I don't think so, darling," the witch says, letting his fingers trail down Dean's throat. "Although if you beg nice enough I might just screw you."
"Get your fucking hands off him," Sam growls
The witch chuckles. "Oh, you two are precious. A definite step up from the hunters I usually come across. Less Neanderthal and more spank-me-daddy, hmm? This is going to be fun."
"You don't have enough freaky fun around here with your mermaid?" Dean asks.
"Hah, no as lovely as she is, my pretty fish is purely for business not pleasure."
"Business?" Dean scoffs. "You gonna chop her up for body parts you sick son of a bitch?"
The witch shakes his head and tsks. "You make it sound so sordid. I'm simply a businessman fulfilling the needs of my clients. It's all about supply and demand."
"Bullshit. You kill people. That makes you more Ted Bundy than Bill Gates."
"I don't just go around killing people for fun. I'm not crazy. I only kill if I absolutely have to. And I do it humanely. Not like you barbaric hunters. My quarry barely feels a thing."
"You're scum." Dean says, disgust wrinkling his nose.
The witch grabs Dean by the throat. “Maybe, but I'm powerful scum, sweetheart; you'd do well to remember that."
"Dean!" Sam shouts, wishing that just once his brother would shut up and not deliberately antagonize the evil psychopath. Dean's face quickly turns an ugly shade of red, desperate noises rattling from his lips. Sam fights against the invisible bonds restraining him, uses every ounce of his strength, but all his exertion gets him is a searing pain piercing his skull.
"I could kill you without breaking a sweat." the witch hisses. "Both of you. Right now."
"Please," Sam gasps watching Dean's eyes start to roll back in his head. "No!"
The witch squeezes his fingers into Dean's throat one last cruel time and then to Sam's relief, finally releases his crushing grip, leaving Dean gasping, watery-eyed, and heaving in shaky breaths.
"Luckily for you I don't believe in waste. And I’m definitely not foolish enough just to kill the pair of you. No, we’re going to have some fun, boys. Or, I am at least." The witch smirks and with one touch to Dean's shoulder and a few words whispered under his breath, Dean's clothes disappear leaving him pinned in place, naked except for his underwear. Underwear not even remotely suitable for hunting in. A pair of panties. Black lace panties edged with gold ribbon.
The witch sucks in a surprised gasp and Sam flips Dean an incredulous look. "We need to do laundry," Dean croaks defensively, cheeks burning up in embarrassment.
"Well, aren't you full of surprises, pretty boy," the witch says, thumbing over the elastic waistband where it's digging a pink groove into Dean's pale skin.
"Screw you, asshole," Dean snarls.
The witch laughs in Dean’s face, spins on his heel and whips his fingers towards Sam whispering under his breath. In the blink of an eye, Sam's clothes disappear too, leaving him in nothing but a threadbare pair of pink cotton boxers. The only clean pair he had left since they really do need to do laundry. Vanishing along with his clothes is the second gun strapped to his ankle, his knife and his cell phone. It's disconcerting to say the very least. And kind of chilly.
"Hmm, I knew you'd be a big boy." The witch grins, nodding at the significant bulge in Sam's shorts. And Sam would be more embarrassed that he's sporting a chubby right now, but seriously… Dean in black lace panties? He's only human.
"It almost seems a shame."
"What?" Dean spits. "What's a shame?"
The witch has walked behind Sam so Sam can’t see what he’s doing but he can hear glasses clinking and metal scraping. Then Dean's eyes widen and the color drains from his face. That can't mean anything good. “So many questions,” the witch muses. “But I guess you do deserve a few answers; you did manage to hunt me down after all. How did you manage that by the way?"
Sam and Dean stay close lipped, right up until Sam feels something sharp, a knife presumably, press against the side of his neck.
"We tracked you, okay." Dean glares. "Between the unicorn and the jackalope it wasn't exactly difficult. A ten year old Boy Scout could have found you. Now get the fuck away from him."
"That blasted unicorn. Ridiculous thing has caused nothing but trouble," the witch mutters, removing the blade from Sam's neck. Sam’s relief is short-lived when, without warning, he feels a sharp slice across the crook of his arm. Dean curses for all he's worth.
"Oh, shush now," the witch scolds. "I just need an ounce or two of blood. He's not going to bleed out."
A minute later the witch approaches Dean, knife in hand. Sam watches horrified and useless as he runs the blade across the inside of Dean's arm, collecting the dripping blood in a glass vial. Sam's eyes catch Dean's, hoping to see some kind of plan hatching there. But all he sees is his own frustration mirrored back at him.
"What do you need the blood for?" Sam bites out, more with a hope of killing time rather than any great desire to hear the answer. Monologuing bad guys can be a hunter’s best friend.
"Just a little blood spell, darling," the witch says unhelpfully, disappearing from Sam's view again.
"That’s how you have so much power? Blood spells?" Sam asks.
"Oh no, that would be because my mother was half-fae, and my father, well apparently there was a little of the demon about him. Add in my grandmother's collection of spell books and there's nothing I can't do."
"And this is what you choose to do with all that power? Butcher virgins and sell their body parts?" Dean looks vaguely sick.
"We all have to earn a living, don't we? And let me tell you I have quite the pension fund."
It still doesn't make much sense to Sam. "So you capture magical creatures and–"
"No, no, dear boy. I make magical creatures. The right spell. The right ingredients. The right sigils. A little fairy dust. I can transform anyone or anything into something amazing."
"So what, you just say the magic words and bam some poor sucker’s suddenly got a fish tail?" Dean asks incredulously.
"Well," the witch huffs out an offended breath. "There's slightly more to it than that. It just takes one wrong word to upset the whole balance. And let me tell you, fairy dust is not an easy thing to use. That's why the results are rather... unpredictable. You'll see for yourselves in a moment."
Sam's chest tightens at the threat uttered so casually, and his skin crawls when he feels the witch approaching him from behind. The prick in the side of his neck is more of a shock than painful. The following burning sensation that trickles down his body, however, is agonizing. Makes the blood feel as though it's boiling in his veins. Sam bites his lip and tries to hold in a scream.
"What the fuck are you doing to him?" Dean rages. "What is that?"
"Just a little shot. So much more efficient than tricking you into drinking potions. A lot less time and effort."
By the time the witch steps across to Dean and jabs him in the neck with another syringe, pushing the serum into his bloodstream, the molten pain flowing through Sam's body is ebbing away leaving him shivering and exhausted.
The only thing that stops his eyes drifting shut are Dean's screams. Sam watches Dean's muscles clench in agony and a mottled red flush crawl down his body.
"Now, as I was saying," the witch carries on conversationally, as though Sam isn't panting and dripping with sweat and Dean isn't writhing in pain. "Fairy dust isn't a stable element so I'm not entirely sure what you're going to turn into. Could be another mermaid, merman, perhaps. Or you could end up a were-creature, or maybe a nymph or a selkie. It really is impossible to say. Fae magic is just so terribly unreliable. Those jackalopes for example, they started off as a couple of Guinea pigs, literally. Would have been fine if they hadn't escaped and bred like damn rabbits. Now, this might sting a little, I’m sorry."
Before Sam has time to dwell on the insincere apology, the witch is standing right in front of him, eyes shut in concentration and muttering an incantation, then he blows a fine shower of dust in Sam's face that clings to his eyelashes and tickles at his nose. He feels the witch drawing a symbol across his heart and then the world slides right from under his feet. Sam only vaguely feels his body hitting the floor.
Dean is going to kill this damn witch. His death is going to be torturously slow and painful. And Dean is going to enjoy every single bloody second of it.
This is Dean's last thought before he follows his brother's lead and sags, boneless and heavy-headed, into a heap on the floor.
When he wakes up, his whole body is tingling, but at least as far as he can tell it's still his body. Still his stupid bow legs and scarred skin and calloused fingers. For a second he thinks, foolishly hopes, that the witch has screwed up, that just for once luck is on their side. Then he looks up.
Across from him Sam's body is rising from the floor as though it's being hauled up by invisible wires; his arms and legs twitching and stretching taut away from his body. His eyes are huge, frightened. And then, with a single deafening thunderclap, and a blinding explosion of light, he falls back to the floor, transformed, landing on his feet with a dazed expression. Dean stares slack-jawed.
The witch lets out a low whistle of approval.
Sam is... Sam is magnificent. Even through the panicked haze clouding his head, muddling his thinking, Dean is impressed. It figures that fairy magic would suit his brother. Jutting out of his head are pale ivory horns, but rather than looking beastly, they look beautiful curling out through the waves of his dark hair. His muscles ripple and his skin shimmers sun-soaked bronze. His legs are, okay, his legs are admittedly a little weird. They start off normally enough; thick thighs that taper down towards strong calves, but they're a little, make that a lot, hairier than normal. And instead of ending at Sam’s huge clown feet, they lead down to a sturdy, and sharp, set of hooves. It's weird but strangely enough not unattractive. Neither is the brown tail swaying from side to side behind him.
But despite the glossy tail and cloven feet, the most magnificent thing about Sam is, without a doubt, his dick.
Dean is a huge fan of his brother's junk in general. As a rule, a man's size is no indicator to the size of his dick —a lesson Dean learnt well in high-school thanks to several disappointing dalliances with football players and one enlightening experience with a compact little runner who had a dick that reached places Dean didn't know he had— but Sam, well Sam is the contradiction to that rule, with a dick as fat and long as his physique suggests. Now though, now his gorgeous dick has inflated to jaw-dropping, possibly jaw-breaking, proportions. It's grown so big that his boxers are lying in tatters around his ankles. Sam's balls are as big as tennis balls and his dick, standing fully erect, has to be at least eleven inches long and as thick as his wrist. Dean’s mouth suddenly feels like the Sahara desert, his ears burning hot.
"Huh!" The witch says, staring at Sam's impressive physique. "That’s new. I've never created a satyr before. I have to admit I'm impressed."
If Dean could form coherent words, he'd curse the asshole out. But he's so drained that speaking seems as far out of his reach as actually moving. He's saved from silent fuming when, without his permission, in a copy-cat of his brother's performance, his body rises from the floor, his arms and legs stretching away from his body, and head pulling backwards, forcing his throat into a vulnerable curve.
It's agonizing, like fire ants scratching through his skin, crawling through his flesh. The pain tears down his back, his bones cracking and muscles splitting. Every nerve bursting into white-hot flame. It feels as though he’s being ripped apart. Shredded from the inside out. If he had any control over his body he would be screaming. Or throwing up. Finally, when he thinks death would be a mercy, the pain disappears with an ear-popping roar and a blast of light that seems to explode from somewhere deep inside of him. Dean finds himself standing unsteadily, weak legged and disorientated. A rush of wind at his back.
"I knew it," the witch gloats, glee shining like madness in his eyes. "I knew as soon as I saw you boys you were something special. Good gracious, look at you. Just look at you."
Dean's eyes jump to Sam's stunned gaze before he dares to glance down at himself. He doesn't see anything startling. He doesn't have scales or fur. His feet are still feet. And his dick is still dick-sized and hidden away inside his panties. Maybe he looks leaner, his skin more tanned, a little shinier. He looks closer and yes, his skin is a glowing golden sheen and his freckles are almost sparkling. Sure it's strange but it could be worse. Then suddenly his stomach lurches and the room sways.
Dean jerks his head back up, throws Sam a startled look and mouths 'what the hell?'
"I think you're... you're... you're a fairy, Dean." Sam stutters, voice strangled.
Dean would like to tell Sam to take that ridiculous suggestion and shove it up his freakish ass, but sadly it would explain why he's hovering several inches above the ground. Dread churning in his belly, he twists his head and takes a look behind him. Wings. Shimmering like fine spun silk, silver and purple. Not lilac, definitely not lilac, just really pale purple. They vaguely resemble oversized butterfly wings. Dean stares at them mesmerized; unable to look away. Unable to control them either as they flutter wildly behind him, carrying him higher into the air.
"No, you don't!" The witch says, waggling his fingers and summoning Dean back down to the basement floor, something for which Dean is grateful, even if he'll never admit it. "I think we'll keep you grounded for now."
Dean is a fairy. With wings. A goddamn sparkly fairy. That can fly. It's a lot to process. Especially as his brother, the satyr, is staring at him with something akin to wonder on his face.
And then it occurs to Dean that he is a fairy. And fairies are magical. Which means Dean is magical. It sounds feasible, likely even; unfortunately he has no freaking idea how to use magic even if he does possess it. He tries wrinkling his nose Bewitched-style but the douche-head witch doesn't magically disappear. So he tries picturing the witch handcuffed and gagged, and concentrates really hard at making it happen. No joy either. Dean lets out a frustrated huff and feels his wings snap shut in irritation behind him.
That's when Sam seems to realize that he isn't tethered to the spot any longer either. He can move. And with a clatter of hooves and a bellowing roar, he advances on the witch, who immediately raises his hand to flick him away. Except, like a small but vicious guard dog, the dragon appears from around the back of Sam's legs, and jumps up at the witch with his knife-sharp claws bared and smoke billowing out of his nostrils.
With a surprised grunt the witch stumbles backwards, arms flailing in an effort to keep his balance. That’s all it takes for Sam and Dean to grab him. Except with new body parts, no weapons, and a fearsome miniature dragon tripping everyone up, the maneuver dissolves into more of an untidy scrum than a well-practiced take-down. In the end Sam all but falls on top of the guy to stop him from getting away.
Dean tries not to notice that his brother's erection hasn't wilted at all during the scuffle.
The dragon puffs out a victory smoke circle and Sam grins in relief as the witch goes limp beneath him. Dean relaxes just a little, just for a second. He should have known better. The witch's submission quickly proves to be nothing but a feint. As soon as Sam shifts his weight, only the smallest fraction, the witch springs to life below him, and before any of them can react, manages to flick his fingers. Dean can only watch as Sam lets out a winded yelp and flies backwards, landing with a head-ringing thud against the concrete floor.
The witch smirks at Dean, his hand poised to flick again. "No!" Dean yells, his wings fluttering manically and body shaking with fury as he stares at Sam lying terrifyingly still on the floor, the dragon licking at his chin. Whether it's the damn glittery fairy dust flying from Dean's body, a fresh burst of determination, or sheer blood-thirsty anger, Dean doesn't know, but like he's being yanked on a fishing line, the room snaps out of view and he lands, on his ass, in a flurry of falling leaves on the forest floor, Sam at his side, with the dragon, wings flared and ears cocked, perched on top of his chest.
It takes a minute for Dean's vision to stop swimming, and for his stomach to return from where it's lodged in his throat.
"Sam," he exhales, once he's caught his breath. "Sammy, are you alright?" Pushing up on to his knees, Dean leans over his brother, nudging the bemused dragon off his naked chest. "Sammy?"
Sam's eyes flutter open. "Dean?"
"Yeah, Sam, you okay?"
Inhaling deeply, Sam blinks up at him silently for what feels like an eternity before finally speaking, "Shit, Dean, you're pretty."
"You better have a concussion, horse-boy." Dean stares suspiciously at Sam's eyes, even pulling up his eyelids for a closer look, much to Sam's consternation. His pupils look equal and normal, but let's be honest, Dean's not a fucking doctor.
"Goat." Sam wheezes cryptically, knocking Dean's hands away and heaving himself up onto his elbows.
His suspicions all but confirmed, Dean scowls and tries to push Sam back down. "Yeah, okay, definitely a concussion; just lay still for a minute, Sammy."
Sam rolls his eyes, wincing only slightly at the motion. "I mean I'm half goat, not horse. Satyrs are half-goat. Where the hell are we? What happened?"
"In the forest. I think I fairy-magicked us out of there. Just wish I knew how." Dean looks around, wondering whether they even teleported to the same forest they started out in. He hopes to hell they did. Surely he didn't have enough fairy mojo to blast them too far away.
Sam combs his fingers through his hair, picking out the stray leaves, and stops short when he comes across his horns. Cautiously he traces his fingers over the smooth curve of bone until he reaches the pointed end and his eyebrows just about reach his hairline. "What the hell?"
Dean snorts. "Oh yeah, you've got horns by the way, goat-boy." And call him immature because yeah, he is, but he just can't resist pointing out the obvious. "They ain't as big as that monster horn though."
Sam flushes red, and tries to cover his raging hard on, giving up only when he realizes his new and improved size and girth are making it a losing battle. "I can't help it, Dean," he hisses. "Satyrs supposedly had permanent erections."
"And pretty impressive equipment too," Dean notes, grinning impishly when Sam's dick jerks against his leg, apparently pleased to be the center of attention.
"Can we please stop talking about my junk? It's not helping any. We have bigger worries right now. Like finding our way back to the cottage and stopping that crazy witch."
"And changing ourselves back," Dean adds, climbing to his feet then helping a slightly wobbly Sam up too.
"Yeah," Sam grimaces as he whacks himself in the ear with his tail, totters precariously on his hooves and nearly topples over. "That might be a good idea. Although honestly, Dean, your wings are pretty. Maybe you should think about keeping them. They might come in handy. Y'know... if you didn't throw chunks every time you flew."
"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Billy Goat Gruff. At least my super powers got us out of there."
"You mean your glittery fairy dust got us out of there. You any idea exactly how that works? I mean do you just shake your sparkly ass and make a wish or—"
"My ass is not sparkly!" Dean refuses to even consider the notion.
Sam laughs. "Sure it's not, just like your ears aren't pointy."
"My ears?" Dean's hands fly up to his ears in horror.
"Aww, don't worry, Dean, they're adorable. They suit you. Actually, you pull off the whole pointy-eared, pocket-sized sparkly fairy thing remarkably well."
"I'm not pocket-sized," Dean grumbles petulantly. "You're just a giant freak."
Dean cuts off Sam's laughter, with an urgent shh. He heard something, he's sure; the crunch of twigs on the forest floor, the soft press of footsteps approaching.
"What is it?" Sam asks, eyes darting over their surroundings in quick appraisal.
Before Dean can answer, the rustle of leaves from a nearby clump of bushes makes it clear he's not imagining things. The dragon lets out a jittery huff of breath and darts for cover behind Sam's legs. His hairy cloven goat legs. That’s gonna take a while to get used to. Reaching for a gun that isn't there, Dean pushes himself in-between Sam and the approaching danger. His wings instinctually snapping out behind him, almost hiding Sam from view.
"Dean," Sam complains, swatting at Dean’s hip and trying to shove him out of the way. Dean doesn't mean to slap him in the face with his wings —they honestly aren't under his control— but he isn't going to apologize either.
The movement draws inevitably closer. Dean's skin prickles with goosebumps. If it's the witch they might be fucked for real this time. They have no weapons, no way to protect themselves and he still has no idea how this fairy stuff works.
Heart racing, Dean swallows hard, muscles tensing. Behind him Sam let's out a winded oof, as Dean's elbows connects with his belly; his own fault for trying to push past Dean again. The branches part. Dean stops breathing, his empty gun hand twitches. And then, with a silent regal step, from behind the bushes appears… a unicorn. A unicorn. Dean blinks.
"What is it, Dean?"
Dean steps aside to let Sam see for himself.
"Well," Sam says after a second’s silence and an incredulous blink. "I guess we found the unicorn."
"More like the unicorn found us," Dean points out, not taking his eyes off the creature. Or the lethal weapon jutting out of its head. He's starting to feel rather inadequate what with being the only one lacking in the horn department. The unicorn ambles slowly towards them. While it's not huge as far as horses go, more the size of a pony than a stallion, it's still a breathtaking sight; pure white from the tip of its spiralled horn down to the flicking end of it's glossy tail.
After a cursory glance, the unicorn ignores Sam and his dragon buddy completely, instead approaching Dean, eying him curiously.
"She seems to like you," Sam says, reaching out to touch the unicorn's velvet-soft hide. The unicorn skitters out of his reach, and butts Dean with her nose instead.
"Maybe she's scared of your giant horse-cock," Dean grouches, not overjoyed at being sniffed by a unicorn. Especially not when his damn wings are quivering excitedly in response showering them all in golden dust.
"You think your new bestie can lead us out of here?" Sam asks, not even trying to hide the smirk in his tone.
Dean gently pushes the unicorn away when her head drops a little too low, her horn coming dangerously close to skewering him. "How the hell would I know?"
The unicorn, as though she understands every word, responds by walking in a circle around the small clearing before settling down on the ground, her legs folded neatly underneath her, dark eyes blinking meaningfully at Dean.
"Huh, looks like she wants to bunk down for the night," Dean says.
Sam nods. “I guess it is starting to get dark. Might be safer to set up camp."
Dean doesn't like that idea. Not at all. And when did they start taking orders from weird-ass horses? No. It's not happening. He may be a fucking fairy but he's still a hunter. A fucking awesome hunter. "No way, man; it's cold and we're pretty much butt naked, sleeping out ain't gonna be fun. We should have a look around at least. Get our bearings. See if we can make it back to the Impala."
Sam gives him that eyebrow-raised head tilt that translates loosely into 'you're a fucking moron, Dean, and I have no idea how we can possibly be related'. And yeah, Dean may be a moron but he's a stubborn one so eventually Sam agrees, reluctantly, to have a scout around.
With no idea where they are and an unknown amount of ground to cover, they head off in opposite directions. Sam, slightly warmer than Dean thanks to his goat-legs, heads north with the dragon at his heels, or his hooves, and his dick slapping hard against his thigh with every step. Dean heads south, pretending that the shiver rattling down his spine is from the cold, and not from the sight of his brother's hard body.
The unicorn closes its thick-lashed eyes with a derisive snort.
Dean counts his paces as he goes, careful to keep track of how far he's gone and leave a trail of markers to find his way back. The familiar trees and foliage confirms that they're still in the same forest at least, although the appearance of the unicorn did point to that already. The wildlife however, seems rather friendlier; squirrels popping out from tree branches to chatter at him and birds swooping down over his head, something which gets freaking annoying after a while.
It rapidly becomes clear that he isn't going to stumble over the Impala, or a big-ass signpost pointing the way back to the witch's cottage, before it gets too dark to see anything. So Dean turns 180 and heads back the way he came. A trek that takes longer than it should because, as Dean quickly discovers, counting footsteps isn't easy if your unruly wings insist on levitating you off the ground every so often for absolutely no good reason.
Sam is already back at the small clearing by the time Dean finally makes it back, pissed, grumpy, and swatting at a chirpy bluebird that's been following him for the past mile.
Sam looks up from where he's feeding broken twigs into a camp fire, and laughs at Dean's attempt to fend off the irritating little bird. Thankfully his rumble of laughter, even deeper than normal, is enough to frighten away Dean's feathery stalker.
"Shut it," Dean snaps, pointing at Sam, because he knows his brother and his supposed sense of humor too well. Deciding to change the subject sharpish, he nods at the impressive fire Sam's started. "How the hell did you manage that?"
"I paid attention when dad taught us survival skills."
Dean side-eyes him. He doesn't remember Sam enjoying their time spent traipsing around the woods with dad any more than Dean did. In fact Sam was usually the one complaining he'd rather be doing homework. Freak. Making fire without a box of matches or a zippo seems a little too marine survivalist for his book-brained brother.
Sam sets another few broken branches down on the fire, and shrugs off Dean's suspicious glare. "I take it you didn't find anything on your hike. Apart from a new friend?"
"No," Dean grudgingly admits, without a pout, because he doesn't sulk, whatever Sam thinks. "Nothing. I guess we should wait until morning to figure out what we're gonna do. Shit, this sucks! No clothes, no food, no water."
"Maybe if you shake your sparkly ass you could magic us up some supplies," Sam wiggles his eyebrows and grins, tapping the dragon's snout, which is almost poking into the edge of the fire. The dragon shakes its head and wanders off towards the unicorn.
From where it's lying at the other side of the small clearing, the unicorn lifts its head, opens its eyes and gazes at Dean with renewed interest, apparently waiting for him to perform some kind of magic trick.
Dean crosses his arms over his chest, his wings curling over his shoulders defensively. "I'm not freaking Tinkerbell," he huffs. "I don't know how it works, okay?"
Sam laughs, and the unicorn yawns, and lays its head back down with, what Dean is sure, is a disappointed whinny.
"It's fine, Dean. We'll survive out here. It's just for a few hours."
"You're taking this whole thing amazingly calmly," Dean notes, stomach tilting when his wings decide to scoot him a little closer towards the fire. Towards Sam. The damn things are a liability. He curls his toes into the earth when he lands, hoping to anchor himself.
"Well, there's no point in freaking out is there," Sam says, settling down on a grassy hump close to the fire, his tail flicking up into the air behind him. "I mean we've been in worse situations, right?"
"I guess," Dean grumbles, not sure where this calm and reasonable Sam has appeared from. Not that Sam is generally unreasonable, but Dean has to admit that he doesn’t feel all that calm himself right now. Not when he and Sam look like they've just stepped out of the gay-porn version of a Grimm Brothers fairy-tale. Hell, if another hunter tripped over them, shit, if Dad tripped over them, he'd shoot first and ask questions later. And if a civilian spotted them, chances are Sam and Dean's pictures would be splashed all over the front page of the Weekly World News. Yeah, Dean thinks, a little panic right now isn't misplaced.
"Hey, you okay?" Sam asks, all dark puppy eyes and earnest concern.
"Sure," Dean replies, brushing off his concern with a thin approximation of a smile.
Sam eyes him doubtfully and pats the ground beside him. "Why don't you come and sit down beside me. For warmth."
It's a sensible suggestion especially when Dean's skin is pebbling with the cold, but for some reason he hesitates. Maybe it's a looming wing-fueled panic-attack or maybe it’s the giant erection waving in his direction, but Dean's nerves are rattled.
"Come on, Dean," Sam coaxes. "You're gonna freeze your ass off."
Wings fluttering anxiously behind him, Dean grudgingly edges around the fire, and sits on the grassy hump near to Sam. Not near enough for Sam's liking however. With a huff, he throws his arm around Dean's shoulders and tugs him against his side, careful not to knock Dean's wings.
"I don't know why you're acting like a blushing virgin all of a sudden," Sam snorts, his hand settling into the curve of Dean's waist. "It's not like you've never seen me naked before. Or you know, stripped me naked and begged me to fuck you senseless. You're the one wearing those slutty panties for god’s sake."
"Screw you," Dean mumbles, sinking into the warmth of Sam's side. "This is some messed up shit, alright? I'm allowed to freak out."
"We'll fix it," Sam says confidently. "First thing tomorrow."
"Sure we will," Dean rolls his eyes. "No problem. You and me, a pair of Disney rejects, against a freaky demon-fairy-witch hybrid."
"It'll be fine, Dean. We've got a dragon and a unicorn on our side. Plus you've got sparkly superpowers and I've got kick-ass horns, a tail and a ginormous dick. What could go possibly wrong?"
Dean can feel Sam's ridiculous grin beaming at him and has to bite his bottom lip to hold back a grin of his own. "You're an idiot."
"Yeah," Sam says, brushing his lips against the crown of Dean's head. "You know what else I am?"
Dean feels Sam's hands slipping down towards his thigh and suspects he knows the answer.
"Really fucking horny," Sam breathes in Dean's ear, confirming his suspicion.
"Sammy," Dean shivers when Sam nibbles gently at his earlobe. "Maybe we shouldn't—"
"Come on, Dean." Sam wheedles, his thumb rubbing across the elastic waistband of Dean's panties. "You look hot as hell and I've been walking around with this giant boner for hours."
Dean's dick jumps inside his panties when Sam's fingers tease just below the gold edging. "Sam," he chokes out. "We can't. I mean not here. We don't have anything. No lube or... or… anything... and—"
Sam nuzzles at the sensitive patch of skin behind Dean's ear and brushes his long fingers across Dean's lace-covered dick. "And," Dean stutters, struggling all of a sudden to maintain his train of thought, "And your dick is fucking huge. It's never gonna f... fit."
Sam's huge hand cups Dean's balls through his panties and Dean has to fight against the instinct to spread his legs.
"Don't worry," Sam breathes in his ear. "I'm not gonna hurt you. Trust me."
That's dirty pool and Sam knows it. Dean trusts his brother like he trusts no-one else.
"Come on, Dean. I'll eat you out until your tight little hole's all sloppy. Finger you open real slow. Until you're begging for more." The ridge of Sam's knuckles graze over Dean's erection, a light tease over straining lace. "Just imagine how good this cock will feel in your ass." Dean shudders as Sam scrapes his teeth down the side of his neck. Nips at his ear then flicks his tongue across the hurt. "Imagine how deep it'll go. How wide it'll spread you open, fill you up. How hard I'll be able to—"
"Okay!" The word bursts from Dean's mouth in a rush of breath, needy, anxious. Fucking Sam and his dirty fucking mouth. He knows exactly how to get Dean revved up. "Okay, just… just go slow, alright."
Sam's mouth is on Dean's in an instant. Claiming and unforgiving. His tongue a persistent press against Dean's lips demanding entrance into the heat of his mouth. Dean complies unresisting.
They kiss until Dean's lips sting and his neck aches with the awkward angle. Sam's dick, swollen, purple-headed, and already leaking fat drops of precome, is slapping against Dean's leg. Sam shoves at Dean, knocks him roughly to the ground, pushes him onto all fours, knees in the dirt and fingers grasping at the brittle remains of dead leaves. Dean feels the pinch of elastic against electrified skin as Sam peels the panties down over the curve of his ass, letting the embarrassment of black lace fall around his knees. Dean mumbles curses into his shoulder as all the blood not in his dick rushes straight to his face.
Sam's huge hands span Dean's waist, a steadying grip as he mouths a trail of wet kisses down the hollow of his back.
"So hot, Dean." He gasps against Dean's skin. "I wish you could see yourself. So fucking pretty."
Dean can only groan and shudder at the insistent press, smack, of Sam's oversized dick against the back of his legs as Sam's mouth inches down toward his ass. The dizzying prospect of his brother's tongue against his hole is enough to make Dean wriggle his butt like a twink porn star.
Sam grabs Dean's ass, fingers pressing bruise deep into shimmering skin, spreads his ass-cheeks wide enough to make Dean blush bright, and noses at that secret whorl of puckered skin. Dean goes rigid, muscles frozen in heady anticipation, air caught somewhere in his throat, nowhere near his lungs. The first broad swipe of Sam's tongue is a tease, the second a promise. Then Dean's shaking as Sam devours him. Desperate keens escaping from his lips. Sam's tongue delves deep inside him, licking and sucking at places he shouldn't even know exist.
Embarrassed, as always, at how big a slut he is for his brother’s tongue in his ass, Dean finds himself pulling away and pushing back in equal measure. Sam ignores his wriggling, keeps on going, holding Dean's ass cheeks apart and eating him out for what feels like hours until Dean's a trembling mess, his hole dripping wet and needy for more.
Dean hears, feels, Sam spit at his hole. Shudders at the humiliating dirty-wrongness of it even as his cock slaps against his squirming belly. Another filthy glob of saliva and Sam's finger is sinking into him. Sliding easy into spit-slick heat. Two fingers, Sam's tongue easing the way. Three and Dean is whining, face hot, skin prickling, ass too full and yet not nearly full enough. Sam's fingering him just right. Finding that perfect spot every damn time. Pulses of pleasure throbbing at the base of Dean's spine.
"Whoa, Dean," Sam's voice breaks through the crackle in his head, and the fingers in his ass disappear fast and cruel. Sam presses down on Dean's back with an urgency that makes Dean grumble low in his chest in complaint.
"I know I'm good, man, but you need to stay on the ground." Sam chuckles.
Dean twists his head around to glare at Sam, unimpressed at the interruption. Let’s out an alarmed squeak when he realizes he's hovering several inches above the ground. His wings fluttering humming-bird quick, shedding golden dust and trying to spirit him away. He'd rather let Sam's tongue do that.
The shock at finding himself airborne is enough to send him dropping to the dirt with a knee-numbing thump. Sam huffs a laugh at Dean's disgruntled grunt and curls his fingers possessively over the bony jut of Dean's hip. The strength in his grip a reassuring ache.
An overachiever in every aspect, Sam somehow manages to keep Dean pinned down —hand clamped around his hip, tail curled around his thigh— at the same time as working him open and eating him out until it feels like he's already creamed a load deep inside him, spit leaking down the inside of Dean's thighs, dribbling over his balls. Dean's breath is ragged, his dick threatening to blow without so much as a hand on it.
"You ready, Dean?" Sam asks, nudges thick finger-pads against that spot buried deep inside him. Spits again skin-crawling wet at his already sloppy hole. "Think you can take my dick now? Huh, Dean, want me to split you open on my cock?"
Fuck, yeah, Dean wants Sam’s dick inside him. Needs it. Now. Needs it fucking yesterday. Doesn't care if it burns. If it breaks him apart.
And it does. Stings like a motherfucker. Stretches his hole almost fist-sized wide.
Sitting spread legged on the grass mound, Sam turns Dean around and hauls him into his lap, pressing a flurry of kisses across his shimmering chest. The coarse hair on Sam's beast-thick thighs bristling against Dean's skin, his tail skimming down Dean's back.
Dean tangles his fingers in Sam's hair, finds himself caressing curled horns, smooth and cool under his over-heated skin. The come-slick head of Sam's dick nudges at his taint before finally pressing into his hole. Dean bites down into the meat of Sam's shoulder to muffle his scream. Spit and precome are no substitute for lube and Sam's dick feels baseball bat thick as it presses inch by thick inch inside him. The pressure is too much, the pain enough to make Dean's erection wilt.
Sam's kissing the tears from Dean's cheek by the time he's fully seated in Sam's lap, and Dean is convinced that he can see the bulge of Sam's dick in his belly. If it wasn't so uncomfortable it'd be hot as hell.
"Relax, Dean," Sam groans. "Know you can do it. Take it. Take all of me. Come on, baby, just relax."
"Don't call me baby," Dean grumbles at the nickname. His wings, drooped limp over his back, ruffling up in irritation and sprinkling them both in glitter.
"Fuck," Sam's eyes flutter shut and he groans unsteadily into Dean's throat. "Fucking beautiful, Dean. Jesus." And Dean can feel another spurt of precome shoot hot and thick inside him.
Maybe it's the fairy glitter, or maybe Sam's balls are filled with fucking magical jizz, Dean doesn't know or frankly care, but suddenly the pain eases and the too-much press against his insides is nothing but eye-crossing pleasure.
"Yeah," he moans into Sam's hair. "Yeah, do it, Sammy. Move. Fuck me. I'm ready. Come on. Do it."
Sam doesn't argue. Thrusts up into Dean with a growl, his fingers digging pits into Dean's waist, keeping him grounded. It’s a blur after that. Sam taking him hard. His hips slamming up in a relentless rhythm. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh echoing off the trees around them.
Dean’s filled in a way he’s never been before. Consumed and swallowed whole by his brother. He imagines it must be what it would feel like to have a fist punching into his hole, breaking him open, ruining him forever and that’s not something he ever dreamt he would want. Not outside his darkest fantasies. Yet, his dick is rock hard and pussy-wet, slapping against his belly as Sam bounces him on his lap.
When Sam's orgasm hits it’s with a roar. His head thrown back and muscles snapping tight. Fingernails splitting Dean’s skin. Dean feels the hot pulse as Sam comes inside him, spurt after spurt filling him up, swelling his belly. Dean comes just a second later, squeezing his hand in-between them, one touch to his dick enough to have him shooting his release, his hole clamping down on Sam’s huge cock and milking the last of his come deep inside him.
They come down from the high slowly. Both breathless and shaking. Sam mumbling apologies into Dean’s skin as he thumbs over the scratches sluggishly seeping blood.
Sam eases them both gently on to the ground, sliding his dick out of Dean’s ass with as much care as Dean will allow. “Jesus,” he exhales, wiping away some of the jizz streaming from Dean’s hole. “That’s fucking—“
“Gross,” Dean finishes, wrinkling up his nose.
“Hot!” Sam corrects. “It’s fucking hot.”
“Yeah,” Dean gripes. “I’m gonna be pooping come for a month.”
Sam flicks the pointy tip of Dean’s ear. “Don’t ruin the moment, asshole. That was the hottest sex we’ve ever had.”
“Hotter than the threesome in Wichita?”
“Yes,” Sam growls, biting at the hinge of Dean’s jaw.
“Hotter than the time in New Orleans?” Dean wiggles his eyebrows. “With the handcuffs?”
“Yes,” Sam laughs, slapping Dean’s ass cheek.
“Hotter than the time we went undercover at that club?”
“The time you wore black eyeliner and lip gloss?”
“And sucked you off in the bathroom? Yeah, that time.” Dean sighs happily at the memory.
“Yes, Dean,” Sam confirms, after a second’s consideration. “Hotter than that.”
“Huh,” Dean says. “What about—“
“Dean?” Sam says, rolling onto his back and dragging Dean down on top of him, winding his tail around Dean’s ankle to ensure he doesn’t float away during the night.
“Yeah, Sammy?” Dean asks, unable to resist pressing a kiss to the mole beside Sam’s mouth. And another to the one beside his nose.
“Shut up and go to sleep.”
Sam wakes to Dean snuggled against him. Head pillowed against his chest, feet tucked below the warm fur of Sam's satyr calves. His wings for once motionless, a delicate cocoon curled around them both.
As much as Sam would gladly lie there forever, the sun is pretty damn insistent about rising. And they do need to haul ass if they want to find the witch before he finds them. Still, he steals a minute to watch his brother sleep, grabbing the chance to stare while he can. Dean is beautiful. Truthfully, Sam has always thought —dirty, bad, wrong thought— that Dean was beautiful. But now he's something else. Ethereal. Exquisite. Spellbinding.
Sam has struggled to keep his eyes off his brother ever since the witch's spell blasted them back at the cottage. Whereas the spell twisted Sam into half beast, half man, made him taller, and stronger, hornier, it turned Dean into something extraordinary. Glowing golden skin and gossamer wings. Freckles that actually sparkle. He looks younger, innocent. And not just because he seems to have shrunk at least a foot, not that Sam's been stupid enough to mention that. His hair is fairer, and his eyes brighter. His voice light, like music dancing in Sam's head. His skin silky-soft under Sam's rough fingers.
Sam loves his brother, always has, always will. And not in a way that makes him a good or decent human being. But seeing him like this makes something dark inside of him want to lock Dean away and keep him safe. Keep him from the world. Keep him to himself. It's a ridiculous urge, not least because Dean—
"Hey, what the fuck are you staring at, Mister Ed?"
—because Dean is still very much Dean, his jackass older brother; crass, grumpy —especially first thing in the morning before coffee and food— and generally as irritating as hell.
"I'm not a horse," Sam says, not for the first time, and knowing Dean, not for the last either. “And I was just wondering if you'd still be able to suck my dick. Nothing like a blowjob to start the day."
Sam jerks upright laughing through the pain of Dean's bony elbow jabbing into his ribs.
"Your donkey-dick ain't going anywhere near my mouth," Dean snaps, but he eyes Sam's dick speculatively, as though he's trying to work out the math. Honestly, Sam doesn't think Dean would manage to take more than the head. That's not to say he wouldn't mind watching him try. Unfortunately they really don't have the time. Not with a freaky powerful witch probably already auctioning off their body parts.
Sam kicks dirt over the dying embers of the fire while Dean disappears behind a tree to take a piss and then searches for his panties. He pulls them on, studiously ignoring Sam's eye-roll; seriously, they don't do much to cover Dean's junk, and it's not like Sam is any better off; his dick waving in the wind, half-hard. It's quite freeing actually, letting it all hang out. And let's be honest, it's not like his monster-sized dick would fit into a pair of boxer briefs comfortably anyway.
"So," Dean says, looking around. "Which way?"
Just at that the unicorn climbs elegantly to its feet, shakes it's mane, snickers a put-upon whiny, and starts walking. The dragon following behind like a scaly lap dog.
"That way?" Sam suggests.
"Sure," Dean shakes his head. "Let's follow the unicorn. Why the hell not?"
Sam trails after Dean following the dragon and the unicorn on a winding path through the forest. Sam’s cloven feet skipping easily over the uneven terrain now that he's gotten used to them. And managed to get his tail under control. Not so much his dick which is brazenly lusting after Dean's pretty panty-clad ass.
As well as giving Sam a front row seat to the wonder of Dean's perfectly-shaped butt, walking behind his brother also gives Sam an idea of how Dean managed to survive the previous day's traipse through the forest unscathed despite his bare feet. His wings gently carry him up into the air whenever anything perilous threatens to get in his way; a twisted root peeking out of the ground, a half-hidden ants nest. They even skip him over a patch of stinging nettles. Sam doesn't think Dean realizes it's happening most of the time. It's probably just as well.
Bestowing wings on a guy terrified of flying is pretty damn ironic. And hilarious.
The unicorn, as Sam somehow knew it would, leads them straight back to the cottage, stopping just as the tumbledown building comes into view.
"So, Bambi, any ideas?" Dean stops by the side of the unicorn, patting its flank in an awkward thank you.
"I'm not a deer either, Dean." Sam sighs. "I'm a satyr. Okay? A satyr. Not a horse. Not a deer. Not a freaking moose."
"Okay, okay, cool your hooves, Sammy." Dean smirks unabashed, and unbearably pleased with himself for someone with sparkly wings and a hair-trigger fairy dust problem. "I'm just teasing. No need to get your tail in a twist."
Sam flicks Dean's ass with the whip thin end of said tail, grinning broadly when Dean yelps and jumps, showering them both in glitter.
"Not one freaking word, Sammy." Dean points his finger at Sam before he can say anything. "So, what are we gonna do?"
Without weapons of any description their options are limited. Plus there's the fact that the witch has to be expecting them. Sam's strong and quick, but he's not indestructible. And Dean, Dean has wings and magic that he has no idea how to use. They're probably screwed. But then they've been screwed before. They just need time to come up with a plan.
The dragon, unfortunately, doesn't realize this or has no faith in Winchester plan making skills. Nudging the gate open with his nose, he tramples through the garden and around the back of the cottage. In silent agreement, Sam and Dean follow, jumping over the fence and running around the back of the cottage just in time to see the dragon nosing its way in through the cat-flap.
"What now?" Sam asks, tail swatting at a fly buzzing around his ear.
Dean hitches his shoulders and grins. "Guess it's time to burn witch, burn."
Sam rolls his eyes at his brother's bravado. But he follows him all the same.
The cottage door is unlocked. This doesn't ease the growing swell of unease in Sam's gut. The feeling that they're walking straight into a trap. Saving the witch the effort of finding them.
Everything in the cottage is the same. The same warmth and the same funky smell. There's no sign of the dragon.
"You think our clothes are around here somewhere? I'm kinda sick of freezing my ass off, and I wouldn't mind finding my boots about now," Dean asks, wrinkling his nose up at the dubious state of the kitchen. On second look it does seem to be even more disgusting than it was before. Pans on the stove dripping noxious liquids from their over-flowing edges. Jars of ingredients, herbs not eyeballs as far as Sam can see, toppled over on the counters, and spell books heaped in precarious piles.
"We've got bigger worries right now than finding your boots, Dean," Sam points out, making his way towards the door that leads to the rest of the house, stopping only to pick up the biggest knife he can see lying around. The basement, he suspects, is where they need to go.
"That's easy for you to say, Pokey. I'm probably gonna catch something nasty off this floor." Dean warily pokes his bare toe at a sticky puddle of something for emphasis.
For knowing Dean as well as he does, sometimes Sam doesn't understand him at all. "Seriously, Dean, I've seen some of the girls you've banged. You aren't normally concerned about picking up communicable diseases. Stop whining and find something that might just kill a witch."
"Hey, asshole," Dean hisses, stepping over what looks like a pile of rabbit droppings, and grabbing an iron skillet from the counter top. Sam's not sure what exactly he's planning on doing with it. "I haven't picked a girl up in over a year, and I've never been dumb enough to stick my dick anywhere without protection. Anyway, I'm not worried about catching a dose of crabs from the floor, I just don't want to suddenly turn into something freaky-er."
"Aw, that's cute, you like being a pretty fairy, Dean?" Sam teases his big brother.
"Well, it's better than being a horse," Dean bites back. "Or a goat. Or, I dunno, a freaking frog."
"You. Are. Weird."
Dean scowls, his wings snapping grumpily behind him, almost knocking over a jar of raisins, —no, not raisin, dead flies, yeugh— on the table.
"Look, just relax, okay. I'm sure your sparkly wings will save you from stepping in anything too nasty," Sam says, turning towards the door that leads into the hallway again, carefully pushing it open and peering around the doorframe to check that the coast is clear.
"It's alright for you; you've got frigging hooves. I'm probably gonna end up turning into a freaking rat," Dean mutters.
"Oh I wouldn't worry about that, sweetheart," the witch says, walking through the door from the garden, slamming it shut behind him and locking it with a flick of his hand. "I've got much grander plans for you."
Sam spins around, heart leaping into his throat. Dean does the same, his wings whipping up a breeze that blows Sam's hair into his eyes. The witch stands in front of the doorway, lips curved in a slimy grin, hand held out in front of him.
"Well, if it isn't the wacko witch of the West," Dean smirks, brandishing the iron skillet like a shield. "What, you gonna cut us up for body parts? Just like those poor kids you killed? I wouldn't call that grand. Batshit crazy. Maybe even psychotic. But not grand."
The witch flicks his hand, and Sam knows before he even attempts it that he's not going to be able to move. Can feel the magic dragging him down, rooting him to the floor.
"Oh, don't you worry, pretty boy. I'm not going to kill you. Not anytime soon." The witch flicks his hand towards Sam again and the knife flies from his grip, embedding itself in the opposite wall with a dull thud. "You're far more useful to me alive."
Another flick and the skillet in Dean's hand drops uselessly to the floor, narrowly missing his bare toes.
"You see," the witch continues, stalking towards Dean. "As talented and powerful as I am, the one thing I need to maintain my little business venture is magic. And fairy dust is premium grade magic. The best there is. And not easy to come by."
Bile rises in Sam's throat watching the witch prowl a predatory circle around his brother. Dean's frozen still, his wings flared wide, a beautiful canvas of color behind him. "And let me tell you, it's not often a source drops right into my lap. And such a beautiful one too."
"Fuck you." Dean spits. Sam can see the fury burning in his eyes, the tight pull of muscle as he strains against the witch's hold.
Laughing, the witch wanders across to the stove where he stirs a saucepan of green bubbling liquid. "I already told you sweetheart, that's not going to happen. But, I promise you, once you see things my way, I'll be screwing you plenty. I mean, how could I resist? Look at you in those sexy panties." While he's speaking the witch ladles some of the contents from the pan, a thick glutinous concoction the color of seaweed, into a glass teacup.
"Now this mixture, in case you're wondering, well, it's going to make you nice and relaxed. And possibly a little suggestable." The witch hesitates and shrugs, walks back towards Dean with the cup in his hand and a nasty grin pinned to his lips. "Well, no, that's a lie actually. What it's going to do is turn you into a perfectly biddable pet. My biddable pet. You'll let me do whatever I want to you. Chain you up, scrape the dust from your skin, drain the essence from your blood. Spread your legs and let me fuck you like a good little toy."
Sam growls, a thunderous rumble deep inside his chest.
"Never gonna happen, motherfucker." Dean snarls. "I've been roofied before. Didn't like it much. Not gonna happen again."
The witch blows across the surface of the steaming mixture and sets it on the table. "You're not going to have any choice, pretty boy. Once it cools down, I'll tip my potion right down your throat. And if you don't let me, I'll simply find the biggest syringe I own and push it straight into your bloodstream. And that won't be pleasant. It's a shame you know," the witch continues, stepping back in front of Dean. "For you, that is. If you had any idea how to harness even a pinch of the power you possess, you could have escaped forever. Lucky for me you're nothing but a halfwit with a deliciously pretty face."
Dean hisses angrily through his teeth as the witch runs a fingernail down the sharp cut of his cheek bone. The witch sneers, tap taps the side of Dean's head "Now, gorgeous, don't strain yourself. You're trying to figure it out, aren't you? How to utilize the magic pulsing through your body? Shall I tell you a secret, hmm?” The witch pretends to consider. “It's all tied into your emotions. Sure, if you wiggle that gorgeous butt you'll shower us with precious fairy dust, but for you to use it, well that requires something else. Excitement. Anger. Fear! And of course focus. I can't imagine that's something you possess much of."
"I dunno," Dean grinds out. "I'm pretty focused on killing you right now."
The witch laughs, circles behind Dean, his fingers skimming reverentially over the surface of his wings, grinning when they come away coated in a fine layer of golden dust. "I'm sure you are, sweetie. Unfortunately it's a little too late."
"You know what they say; it's never too late." Dean Winchester, never knowingly without a snarky comeback. Sam suspects Dean's trying to keep the witch's attention on him. Trying to keep him talking, playing for time in the hope that Sam can figure a way out of this mess.
Unfortunately, it doesn't matter how hard Sam pushes against whatever invisible force is holding him prisoner, he can't even twitch a finger. His heart thudding in his frozen chest starts to feel like a ticking clock, counting down the seconds to disaster.
"This time, I'm afraid it is too late, sweetheart." The witch chuckles, before turning towards Sam. "You can struggle all you like, darling, but even with your strength you won’t break through my binds."
"Well, I can try," Sam smirks. The witch's gaze turns assessing, staring at him like a butcher studying a side of beef.
"Hmm, I forgot just how tall you were. I'm not sure the cage I prepared is quite big enough. I'm afraid it may be a little cramped in there. Not to worry, it's not like you'll be leaving a Trip Advisor review is it? And I imagine once I saw off those horns it'll be a tad roomier. Perhaps I'll dock that scruffy tail too. Yes, that should help."
Sam swallows hard, carefully schools his expression and hides the panic buzzing beneath his skin.
"Don't you fucking touch him," Dean growls. At least Sam thinks he's trying to growl. His voice doesn't have the same raw throaty rasp as normal.
"Don't you like to share, sweetie?" The witch might be talking to Dean but his eyes are like knives on Sam's skin. "That's too bad, because your charming boyfriend here is proving rather popular on my website. Do you know how many spells call for a sliver of Satyr horn? The hair from the tail of a creature half beast, half man? Or, and this is just wonderful, Satyr semen."
Dean almost chokes on his disgust, an angry flush climbing up his neck.
The witch quirks his lips, cruel delight glinting in his eyes. "It's a little distasteful perhaps, but trust me, Viagra has nothing on Satyr spunk. If you know what to do with it of course."
Sam is grateful that he hasn't eaten for a while. He suspects that if he had food in his belly it would be reappearing around now.
"You're one sick son of a bitch, you know that?" Dean spits. And for a second Sam thinks that he sees a flicker of color, a twitch of wing.
"Be careful now, darling," the witch winks at Sam, and flicks his hand. "You don't want to piss me off. Not when I could snap your boyfriend's neck with a click of my fingers." Suddenly it feels like Sam's lungs are shriveling inside his chest. The air squeezed from them. And then abruptly he's on his knees, the witch standing over him, hand aloft. The room sways and tilts around him. It feels as though he's made the mistake of trying to match Dean shot for shot of tequila again.
"Stop it," Sam hears Dean yell, the plea almost drowned out by the roaring of blood in his ears. "Stop it, please. Just leave him alone. I'll do whatever you want. I swear. Just... fuck… Sammy!"
Dark spots blink in front of Sam's eyes, inky blackness that spreads, crowding out his vision until the only thing he can make out, like a prick of light at the end of a long tunnel, is the witch's face staring down at him. Dean screams desperately, a world away. "Sam!"
Then Sam finds himself back-flat on the ground, his breath coming in rib-grinding rattles.
"Are you going to play nice now?" Sam hears the witch say. He tries with supreme effort to open his eyes, eventually succeeds and sees the ceiling spinning far above him.
"I'm going to kill you, dick for brains." And that's Dean's voice. "No one messes with my brother."
"I’d like to see you try, pretty boy. Hold on. Your brother? Well that's.... really? Your brother? Regardless, that doesn’t… no, but seriously, your actual brother, how does— “
The roar in Sam's ears subsides, his vision steadies and breath returns, just in time to hear the witch bellow in rage. Tilting his head up he sees the dragon, its teeth buried flesh deep in the man's leg, jaws clamped tight like a bear trap.
Finding himself free to move, Sam slowly rolls over onto his knees, pushes up onto his hands and then watches, open mouthed, as Dean's wings flare above him. "You think I can't focus? Just watch me, douchebag."
Dean's whole body seems to shake, his wings sweeping in a furious curve, a dusting of sparkling gold falling down around him. The dragon releases the witch just as Dean, Sam presumes, sends the man crashing into the wall, pinning him in place with a look, dark eyed and violent, that sends chills trickling down Sam's spine.
Climbing unsteadily to his feet, hooves, his tail helping him balance, Sam watches Dean and the witch face off. Neither spares him a glance, their eyes locked in battle.
"You won't kill me. You don't have the power," the witch sneers.
Dean raises his eyebrow. "Man, you just told me I have all the power." His wings snap out behind him as if to prove it.
"Possibly," the witch replies. "But you certainly don't have the skill."
Dean nods thoughtfully and steps back towards Sam, his eyes never flickering away from the witch. "You might be right," he agrees. "But I do have a unicorn."
A quiver of wings behind him, an almost constipated expression on his face, and suddenly the door bursts open, lock cracking and wood splintering. A blast of cool air hits them all. The unicorn crashes into the kitchen, hooves clattering as she gallops across the floor, head down.
"No!" The witch’s roar is abruptly cut off with a gurgle. The unicorn's horn speared through his chest, blood blooming through his shirt. He looks almost surprised, his eyes blinking wide, then flashing black, before the life drains out of them altogether.
"Holy cow," Sam exclaims, watching the unicorn step backwards, her blood smeared horn sliding out of the witch's chest with a stomach-churning squelch.
"Unicorn, Sammy, not cow," Dean winks.
"How did you even do that?" Sam asks, shaking his head at Dean's awful attempt at a joke.
Dean grins, his wings fluttering behind him, skipping him across to Sam's side. "I guess I'm just magical, Sammy. You okay?"
"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine. Apart from the whole still being a Satyr thing obviously."
Dean's grin falters. He looks back towards the witch lying in a slumped heap on the floor. "Huh, yeah. You think he's not really dead?"
Sam thinks back to the blood seeping from the witch's chest, the lifeless expression on his slack face. "I'm pretty sure he's dead, Dean."
"So you think we're stuck like this?" There's definitely a hint of panic in his brother's voice.
"Well, I think we might need to call Bobby." Sam's suggestion meets a groan from Dean.
"We don't need to tell him I'm a fairy, do we?" Dean glares at the sly smirk on Sam's face. "Well then, I'm telling him you've got a donkey cock."
Sam slips his arms around his brother's waist, winds his tail around Dean's thigh tugging Dean in towards him. "We don't have to call him straight away." Sam offers, nuzzling into Dean's neck, and licking at the soft dip of skin above his collarbone. "You were fucking hot before, y'know. All powerful and protective. Sexy as hell."
"Sam," Dean whines his complaint, arching his neck to allow Sam greater access at the same time. "Here? Now? Really?"
"Hmm," Sam swirls his tongue up the hollow of Dean's throat, thrusts his hips and nudges his erection against Dean's belly. "Why not?"
Sam nips at his brother's jaw and Dean shivers in his arms in response. "Because," he gasps, "because dead witch and... and... filthy floor, and a furry freaking audience."
Sam swallows up Dean's objections with his mouth. Lips sealed to his brother's pout. Tongue licking away his last breathy complaints until only delectable whimpers remain. The unicorn clomps back outside with a derisory whiny and dismissive tail whip.
Bobby, predictably, kills himself laughing. When they eventually get round to calling him that is. Turns out the witch has quite a cozy bedroom hidden away and a very bouncy, relatively clean, bed. Dean might not be able to suck Sam's enormous dick even half way down, but that doesn't matter because he sure enjoys trying, and Sam enjoys lying back and letting him. And holding him down and fucking him boneless afterwards. And then again twenty minutes later. And possibly repeating the whole thing once again.
So they don't actually call Bobby until later on that afternoon. Sam can't even find it in himself to feel guilty. Not at the fact it takes them so long to call, and not at the fact that Dean can barely walk by that point. Rivers of come still trickling down the backs of his thighs as he talks to Bobby on the phone, red-faced, exhausted and smelling like sex and Sam's sweat. Sam barely hides a proud grin and puts it down to his new animalistic sensibilities, and his brother's magical ass.
Once he recovers from his laughing fit, Bobby does offer several suggestions of how to reverse the witch's spell. There's no altar, the witch was not gleaning his power from any demon, so altar-destroying is a no go. They do find an ancient, disturbingly human skin-like covered, spell-book hidden in his bedside cabinet. And a delicate crystal locket that contains a few glittering particles of silver dust and some neatly tied strands of sunlight-gold hair. They place both things on the witch's cold corpse and with a little encouragement from Sam, a final shimmy of fairy dust from an unamused Dean, and a splash of lighter fluid, the dragon demonstrates just how easy it is to start a fire.
The reversal of the spell happens more or less the same way they changed in the first place. Bright light, nerve-shattering noise and involuntary levitation. Thankfully, slightly less pain.
They end up standing in the smoke-filled remains of the kitchen; a naked Sam, a panty-clad Dean, the crumbling charcoally remnants of the witch, and a very confused lop-eared terrier. The stunned silence is broken by the sound of a donkey braying a very loud and unhappy hee-aw.
Thankfully, the discovery of the witch's bedroom had also lead to the discovery of their clothes, weapons and the contents of their pockets, so Sam and Dean don't need to make the long trek back to the Impala with only a pair of panties between them. They do have a scruffy terrier bouncing at their heels, and a morose donkey following them. And a fat goldfish (previously a mermaid) in a water-filled Tupperware container.
Dean complains all the way back to the car, mainly about being hungry, occasionally about the donkey braying in his ear, and continually about how sore his ass is. Sam kind of misses his tail.
"Did you hear me, Sam?" Dean snaps.
And no he didn't because if there's one thing being Dean Winchester’s kid brother has taught Sam it’s how to block out irritating noise.
"What?" Sam snaps back, because it's not his fault Dean's decided to be a ginormous jerk ever since his wings disappeared.
Dean stares at him over the roof of the car. "We're dropping off the mutt at the pound and calling the local cops to deal with the mess back there. And if that thing sheds in my baby you'll be licking it clean."
Sam scowls. "We drop the dog, that saved our asses by the way, off at the nicest no-kill shelter we can find. Along with a donation if we need to. And what about the donkey and the fish?"
Dean narrows his eyes at the fish bopping its nose against the inside of the box in Sam's hands.
"We are not flushing it," Sam rages, reading his brother's mind. "It was a mermaid, Dean, it deserves a little respect. And that donkey killed the freaking witch. Are you really just going to abandon it here?"
"Fine! Jesus!" Dean throws his hands up in the air. "We'll make some calls. Find a home for the goddamn goldfish and stinking donkey, alright? Happy?"
"What the fuck crawled up your ass?" Sam asks.
Dean thunks his head down on the roof of the car. "Nothing," he mumbles against the paintwork.
The donkey noses at his butt. Dean slaps it away.
Sam waits patiently.
"I miss them."
"You what?" Sam asks, because he can be as big a dick as his brother when he feels like it.
Dean glowers at Sam across the roof of the car. "I miss them, okay!"
"Miss what?" Sam asks in faux confusion. He knows damn well what because he feels the same way; off-balance.
Dean sighs. "My wings. They were… they were kind of cool."
"Yeah, they were." Sam agrees, trying not to laugh at his brother's pink-eared confession. "But they would have made driving real awkward."
"I suppose." Dean agrees, grudgingly, absentmindedly petting the donkey's velvety ears.
"And if my dick stayed that size forever your ass would have been ruined."
Dean rolls his eyes and snorts. "Well, that's true. God knows I can barely walk as it is. Fuck, I could use a drink."
Sam huffs a sympathetic laugh. "Yeah, me too. Come on, drive us back to town. Once we find somewhere to leave our friends, and phone the cops, we'll put a bit of distance between us and Spookyville, find a decent motel, grab a pizza, and a bottle of Jack and get trashed."
"Sure," Dean sighs. "Sounds like a plan."
"And then I'll prove that I don't need a super-sized dick to rock your world," Sam swivels his hips and grins.
"Dream on, loverboy," Dean snorts. "Your dick ain't coming anywhere near my ass for at least a week."
"Aw, baby, don't be like that." Sam pouts, flutters his eyelashes ridiculously.
As Sam hoped, Dean laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners and the bridge of his nose wrinkling. "You're insane, horse-boy."
Sam translates that easily from Dean-speak, into 'I love you, Sammy'. After all these years he's a master at reading his brother. "Right back at ya, Tinkerbell."
"Come on, let's get the hell out of here." Dean pats the top of his car, and when he turns back and pats the donkeys nose with the same kind of affection, Sam knows better than to comment. "You got Fido?"
"Yeah," Sam says looking down at his feet where the dog was humping his ankle just a second ago. Except he's no longer there.
And then there's the distinct sound of water trickling down metal. Or rather pee trickling down shiny black paintwork.
"What was that?" Dean's head snaps back towards Sam, sharp enough that his neck is going to feel the twinge later. His voice hitting new levels of high that even fairy Dean couldn't reach. "Did that mutt just piss on my baby?"
Sam wisely says nothing. The dog sniffs happily at the dark stained paintwork then hearing a rustle in the undergrowth darts off in pursuit of a... guinea pig. The goldfish poops in the water. The donkey brays its discontent at being ignored or possibly just at being a donkey again and clamps down its rather big and sharp teeth into Dean's ass cheek.
Dean's yell echoes through the forest. "Fucking asshole witches!"
Thank you for Reading!