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Not Time's Fool

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Dean shoots the witch straight through the heart, but for some reason she's smiling as she hits the wall, her eyes fixed on his as she slides down to the ground, leaving a streak of scarlet on the white paint behind her. It's kind of creepy, the way she's grinning at him, mouthing something he can't distinguish, but then the light fades from her eyes and she's gone. Dean crosses the room and reaches down to check her pulse, and when her hand closes around his wrist and her eyes snap back open he very nearly screams even though it's like every bad horror movie ever, and he empties a whole chamber into her chest at point blank range. Her blood gets all over his shirt and splashes his face, splatters his lips and stings his eyes, but that's it, she's really gone now, and after a horrible, suspicious moment his pulse starts to steady and he turns his attention to the job at hand. He unties the two guys who were pegged to the floor in the middle of the circle. They're both pretty shaken up, stuttering their thanks as they stagger to their feet and casting resentful, terrified glances at the dead woman who lies in a growing pool of her own blood. Dean doesn't feel all that great about saving them, though, seeing as how they're both abusive assholes, and on the whole he doesn't think they'd have been any great loss to the world – but that's the gig: saving people, hunting things, killing monsters. Witches with human sacrifice as their sport of choice – that comes pretty firmly under the 'monster' heading, as far as Dean's concerned. Even if she seemed kind of picky about her victims.

He's busy helping the guys to their feet and getting them out of the room, and if he feels a little dizzy, a little amped, he doesn't think anything of it at the time.

* * *

Dean winces as he comes slipping back into consciousness. He feels like he went five rounds with King Kong the night before and then got stomped on by Godzilla on the way home just for good measure. His back hurts. His arms hurt. His chest hurts. Even his hair follicles feel raw and tender. Dean cracks open sore eyes and stares at the ceiling, and tries to remember just what flavour of ugly was responsible for beating the living crap out of him this time around. He hopes that he killed it really hard, whatever it was. From the way his head's pounding, Dean kind of suspects he may have been self-medicating with Bourbon again; and in retrospect, that may not have been the smartest idea ever.

It's a little after dawn, the thin light streaming through the cracks in the blinds to lie across the mushroom-coloured carpet in pallid stripes. Sam's still snoring gently, his bed criss-crossed with light and shadow. The wallpaper is pale green, decorated with shamrocks and jolly cartoon leprechauns. Seattle, Dean concludes after a moment. Seattle, on a tip from Ellen, and they'd been after a witch with a weakness for blood sacrifice. Only – that means that Dean didn't spend the evening getting beat up by a shape shifter or a werewolf or some other musclebound son of a bitch, and he's pretty sure he didn't have more than a couple of beers before going to bed, so what's with the way his whole body feels like it's been pounded into hamburger? He scrubs one hand gingerly through his sweaty hair and starts to sit up in bed, and that's when he really registers the difference. Took him long enough. Still, there's no missing the pull and sway as parts of his body start to shift in new and unexpected ways, while other parts of his body – well, they don't seem to be doing much shifting at all. Because they kind of don't actually seem to be there.

He probably looks pretty damn amusing at that moment, with his eyes bugging out and his jaw dropping, but Dean really isn't seeing the funny side as he stares down incredulously at his chest in the t-shirt. What he's seeing, in point of fact, is, quite unmistakably, a pair of breasts. Growing out of his chest.

“Fuck!” Dean says – and there's his second shock of the morning: a whole new vocal register. It's definitely more of a husky alto than a shrill little soprano that he's got going on, but the voice? Very much not a guy's voice. Not hisvoice. “What the hell?” he exclaims, starting to shift into serious freak-the-fuck-out mode as he shoves a hand down inside his boxer briefs and confirms for absolutely certain sure that some evil, magic-wielding scumbag has somehow stolen his dick. “No way! no fucking WAY!” Dean snarls, scrambling out of bed like that's somehow going to help, and reaching reflexively to the bedside table for his gun. He feels better when he's got it in his hand, even though there's nothing around to shoot.

“Dean?” Sam sits up, blinking, and squints past the bands of sun in his eyes. “You okay?”

“No, Sammy, I am pretty far from okay right now,” says Dean, trying hard to pitch his voice as low as he can and horrified that the result is more Jessica Rabbit than it is the goddamn Batman. “Seriously – what the everliving fuck?” He's got his gun in one hand, and the other is kneading incredulously at one of his brand new breasts, as if this is going to make them vanish, and Sam just sits there and gapes for a good ten seconds or so while Dean yanks open the neck of his t-shirt and peers down inside it. “I've got boobs. I've – d'you see this? Sam? What the hell?”

“Dean?” says Sam again, his voice perfectly balanced between horror and hilarity. “Is that – are you – what – what happened here, Dean?” And there's something to be grateful for, anyway – Sam still knows he's him, chick voice and chick parts notwithstanding.

“I have no clue,” he says shakily, and just stares at his brother. “I don't – I – Sam, I got nothin'. I went to bed me, I woke up – Brandon Teena.”

“Oookay,” says Sam, nodding slowly and trying to look like he isn't completely spooked. “That's – well, there's got to be a logical explanation for this. Right? It's a spell or a curse or a – oh.”

Their eyes meet, as they both have the self same thought. “Crap,” says Dean, his heart sinking. “The witch.”

“The witch,” Sam agrees, with a little half-shrug. “Gotta be.”

“But – she's dead. I killed her already,” says Dean, feeling suddenly helpless. “How – I don't get it.” Sam is staring at his chest. He's been staring at his chest through most of the conversation, in fact, apart from the moments when his eyes dart up to Dean's face – not his eyes, mind, but his face – or down to flash a quick, panicky, skittering glance at the flat place where there really should be a bulge in Dean's underwear, or further down to ogle his legs incredulously. “Sam!”

“Death curse?” offers Sam, meeting Dean's eyes and looking thoroughly lost. “Maybe?”

“Shit.”

“Yeah – that's some pretty major hoodoo.”

Dean draws a deep breath, and then another, and can't help staring down at the way his chest inflates with each breath. “Sam, I'm standing here with no penis,” he says as calmly as he can manage. “I know that we're talking major hoodoo. This is about as major as hoodoo gets.” Dean makes a stifled want-to-punch-something gesture of frustration, and then points down convulsively at his crotch. “No! Penis!”

Sam nods helplessly, staring wide-eyed at Dean's crotch. “That's – I – that's pretty bad, dude.”

“Pretty bad? Pretty bad? Fuck, Sammy, Nair in the shampoo is pretty bad. THIS? This is fucking catastrophic! Apocalyptic! Rain of toads, sea of blood, Ann Coulter elected President of the United States, Metallica playing R&B in Vegas, end of the freaking world disastrous.” And, yes, this may be a little egocentric, but right now, as far as Dean is concerned, it's also absolutely true. Somebody has stolen his penis, for the love of God!

Sam frowns. “Well, no, I mean – Dean, we're not talking Lucifer walking the earth. You've got to keep this in perspective,” says Sam, and Dean stares at him for a furious, speechless moment and then launches himself at his brother and starts whacking him over the head.

“No penis, Sammy,” he snarls, punctuating each word with a smack. Sam twists under the covers, raising his arms to protect his head. Dean's breasts swing around really annoyingly and seem to make the whole punching process a lot weirder than it should be, and Dean is beginning to understand why women bother with bras, but smacking Sammy upside the head is, as it turns out, still quite a satisfying way of venting his frustration. Apart from the fact that Sam's just taking it, and isn't making any attempt to hit back. Dean stares in sudden comprehension.“Don't be so – oh my God, you chicken-shit little – hit back!”

“Dean,” protests Sam, grabbing for Dean's wrists, and somehow Sam seems to be even bigger than usual, which is wildly annoying, and then Dean realises that he's probably gotten smaller now. Six foot is pretty tall for a girl, after all. Just what he needs. Fanfuckingtastic.

“Oh my God, what – you're not going to fight back because I look like a girl? What is this bullshit? You hit girls, Sam.” Dean tries to knee him in the crotch, but Sam knows him too well.

“Evil girls,” Sam protests. “Demon-possessed type girls, or, you know, otherwise evil ones. Not normal girls.”

“I'm not a normal girl, jackass!” yells Dean, beside himself with rage. “I am your big brother, and I can still put you over my knee and give you the spanking of your life, you snotty little bastard.”

“Yeah – not so much, actually,” says Sam, grinning up at him. And to Dean's absolute fury, it seems that this is the case. He hasn't really taken on board until now quite how very big Sam is, but it turns out that Sam? Is very big indeed. And in outrageously good shape. And Dean, although he's seven kinds of badass, is decidedly off his game, between the lingering shock and the fact that his balance is different, and his height seems to have shifted by a good four or five inches, and he's got these freaking breasts flying around in his t-shirt like a bagful of frisky puppies, and, damn, this is just the shittiest morning ever. Dean eventually stops flailing and just glares at Sam.

“You suck,” he says, panting, and his voice hitches slightly.

“Yeah, well,” says Sam, looking apologetic. “I learned from the best.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.” There is a slightly shaky pause, and Dean's still straddling the covers, and Sam's still holding onto his wrists pretty tight and eyeing him with a mix of wariness and sympathy. “Dean – it's going to be okay. I mean – I know this is pretty damn weird, even for us, but it's going to be okay. We'll fix this. Think of it as an adventure.”

Dean blinks. “An adventure. An adventure in dicklessness?”

“Oh, come on – don't tell me you're not already planning to hit a lesbian nightclub, Dean, because we both know that you totally are.”

Dean has the grace to blush a little, because, yes, okay, he may have already had that thought. “Well,” he says, ducking his head. “C'mon, it's not like a guy gets that kind of opportunity every day.”

“Exactly. This is an opportunity. A walk on the wild side. You can totally handle this. It'll be okay. We'll deal. There's nothing to be scared of.”

“I'm not scared,” Dean snaps automatically. “Just 'cause I've suddenly got a pussy, doesn't mean I've just turned into one.”

“Of course not,” agrees Sam.

“Just so we're clear,” says Dean, sticking his chin out pugnaciously. It's going to be okay, Dean tells himself. It's not like Sam's in danger, or anything – at least this time the weird-ass magical shit has happened to him, not to Sammy. It's all going to be fine. They can handle this. Nobody's dead, nobody's fatally injured, nobody's possessed. This is just a temporary weirdness. It's all fine. He's fine.

* * *

He is fine.

This is a bit of a surprise, since Dean has been kind of supposing that he looks pretty much like a guy with tits, but according to the bathroom mirror he is, in fact, a total fox. He would totally do him. Kinda dykey looking, with the short short hair, but not in a bad way. He can totally rock the stark haircut, because he is just that fucking pretty, as it turns out, and the short hair simply emphasises it. His mouth looks the same, and his eyes are the same, and, in fact, really his face is very much still his face, it's just – finer. Narrower jaw, cheekbones more clearly defined, nose smaller, in fact everything a little smaller and more delicate, but still recognisably Dean. He looks quite a lot like his Mom, actually, if she's had her hair cropped guy-short. He's standing in front of the mirror in just the boxer briefs now, taking in the strange new curve of hips and the tapering waist, trying to get used to the narrower shoulders and the breasts – don't forget the breasts. They're not huge, by any means, but they're definitely breasts. He likes them. He doesn't much like having them on him, other than for the pleasure of easy access (which, to be fair, is pretty fucking awesome), but they are, in his opinion, pretty good breasts. He's spent quite a lot of time playing with them, actually, and he's beginning to wonder how women ever manage to get any work done when they're walking around with their very own pairs of breasts right there all day.

Eventually he peels off the boxer briefs and grimaces at the place where his penis definitely isn't. Not that he looks bad – objectively, it's a great body: firm, and toned, and curvy, and thoroughly lickable. It's just – not Dean's body. Sure, it's a body he'd love to be inside – just, not this far inside.

Too fucking weird. His whole life is just crazy weird. Lucky rabbit's feet, demon chicks inhabiting his brother, evil Santas, suicidal teddy bears, slow-dancing aliens, and now this – nobody in their right mind would ever believe the crazy shit that Dean's seen. Still, Sam's right: it's not like either of them is being tortured or pursued by hellhounds right now, so there's always that. Dean sighs, and pulls open the shower door, and goes to have a shower.

When he emerges twenty minutes later, pink-cheeked and speckled with water droplets, he is a big fan of the high pressure massage setting on the shower head. Oh yeah. Turns out that orgasms? Different, rather startlingly different, but still a great way to start the day. So that's cool. He's feeling kind of weird about the unshaven armpits and the hairy legs, which he's never found a turn-on in a chick, but he's just not ready to do anything about them at this point, because he's going to be back to normal real soon, and then he'll feel like a total jackass if he's shaved his legs and his armpits and all that crap. So – hairy hippychick look it is. And, hell, it's not like he's going to be wearing skirts any time soon, or getting up close and personal with anyone, so who gives a damn? He's busy turning over options as he towels himself dry; gotta talk to Ellen, obviously, and then if she doesn't have a quick fix they can call up Bobby, because he's pretty much Yoda when it comes to mystical shit, and then they'll see what it takes to undo the spell, and it's all going to be fine. He wraps the towel around his waist on autopilot and heads out into the bedroom, trying to figure out how to explain this one to Ellen in a way that isn't going to make him sound like a total freaking idiot.

“Dude! Nakedness!”

Dean's head snaps up at the scandalised tone in Sam's voice, and he registers the fact that Sam has spun around to face the wall, and then he looks down at his rack and gives a little snort of laughter. He has so not adjusted to his new body yet. “See anything you like, Sammikins?” he asks with a leer, as he pulls the towel up and tucks it in around his chest, girl-style.

“Dean!” says Sam, his voice shaking. “This is just – seriously, I'm not comfortable with this.” He's still staring at the wardrobe, and Dean can see his blush right round to the back of his neck, which is just hilarious.

“Pussy,” says Dean, amused by how much dirtier it sounds in his husky girl-voice, stepping up close behind Sam and enjoying the way that Sam jumps at the sound. It is really, really galling to have the little bastard suddenly another four inches taller than him, and he's going to make the most of any advantages he's got at this point. “I have an awesome rack.” He makes it into a purr, and Sam makes a small sound of distress that just cracks Dean right up.

“You have – you – Dean, have you any idea how messed up that sentence is? I don't know where to even begin!” Dean considers this, and then pinches Sam's ass and is thoroughly gratified by the way the guy shrieks and jumps, but apparently that's enough, because then Sam's turning around to face him, scowling – and, Jeez, Sammy is big. Like, Redwood-big. Godzilla-on-stilts big.“I mean it, Dean – cut it out!” He's kind of wild-eyed and pissed looking, end-of-his-tether looking, and usually that would be Dean's cue to go that extra mile to infuriate him, but right now Dean's feeling pretty freaked and skittish himself. “Seriously,” says Sam, shakily, trying to smile but not quite managing it. “I'm going to either need a counsellor or a really large bottle of whisky very, very soon.”

“Whisky,” says Dean easily, crouching down beside his bag and pulling out some clean underwear and a new shirt. “Choose whisky. Quacks are for losers.” But he stops trying to freak Sam any further out, at least for the minute.