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When Sam first suggested the cross-dressing, Dean thought he was joking.

But no. He should have remembered that Sam's sense of humor didn't exist.

"You said you almost got arrested in this town, right?" Sam asked. He had his face buried in the bedspread and his voice was muffled.

Dean turned up the volume on the TV. "That was a long time ago."

"It was eight months, man. They haven't forgotten that quickly. I mean, it's not every day somebody tries to steal the mayor's daughter's goat for nefarious sexual purposes."

"It's not like I could tell them I needed to sacrifice it!"

"So of course you came up with bestiality."

Dean shrugged uncomfortably. "It was on my mind. I read an article."

"In what, Penthouse?"

Goddammit. "No! It was, uh, the Washington Post."

Sam clearly wasn't buying it, but for once in his life he kept his damn mouth shut. He got up from where he was lying on the bed and went to rummage around in his suitcase.

"What are you doing," Dean asked, suddenly terrified that Sam had mugged a transvestite or something and was ready to whip out the tools of the trade.

"Going shopping," Sam said, brandishing his wallet. He snatched the car keys off the nightstand. "You stay here. I'll be back soon."

"Yes ma'am!" Dean said, and snapped off a crisp salute.

Sam came back about an hour later with two shopping bags that he wouldn't let Dean look into. "You don't need it yet," he said. "What time are we leaving tomorrow? New York always gives me hives."

"Whenever I feel like it," Dean said, and grinned brightly. "Carrollton's about five hours away, six if I drive slow, so we'll make it before nightfall."

"Whatever," Sam said.


Even though Sam had given every indication of being serious about the whole cross-dressing thing, Dean didn't really believe it until they checked into their motel in Carrollton the next evening.

"Stay in the car," Sam said. "I'll check us in, we can't risk anybody seeing you."

"What, you're suddenly James Bond? I'm coming in with you," Dean said, and started to get out of the car.

Sam grabbed his arm. "I'm serious, Dean. We need to do this job without the authorities giving us trouble, and I'm pretty sure they'll give us a lot of trouble if the perverted goat-napper shows up again."

"Fine," Dean said, yanking his arm away. "Go check in. But we're not done talking about this!"

"Somehow I'm not surprised," Sam said, and got out of the car.

Sam came back with a room key, and they grabbed their bags out of the back seat and went inside. Dean wandered around on autopilot, checking the window, flipping back the shower curtain. When he went back out into the main room, Sam had unpacked the two mysterious shopping bags and was starting to pull stuff out of them.

Dean watched in horror as Sam produced a skirt, nylon stockings, a brown wig, and - Christ on a crutch, was that a bra? He stopped paying attention after that, and flopped down on the bed to watch some TV. Maybe if he pretended none of this was happening, Sam would give up. Stranger things had happened.

"I want you to try some of this on," Sam said.

"God hates me," Dean said. "It's the only explanation."

"Maybe God loves you and wants you to have some new experiences." Sam tossed a pile of clothing onto the bed. "Here, put these on."

Dean poked at the pile with his foot. The skirt had little pink hearts on it. He made a face. "Look, Sam, seriously, I know you think this is real hilarious or whatever, but there's gotta be another way to do this. Dressing as a woman isn't exactly the first disguise that comes to mind."

"Well, yeah, but it's the only one that'll entertain me this much." Sam grinned.

Wearing tights would probably be a lot less of a pain in the ass than listening to Sam bitch about it until Judgment Day; and besides, Sam hadn't smiled this much since Jess died. Dean would do just about anything to get his brother to quit moping around all the damn time. Public humiliation? Bring it.

"Fine. If I do this, I don't want any arguing out of you for the next month. You hear me? Not a word! If I want steak for breakfast, all I wanna hear out of your mouth is, 'Can I pass you the ketchup?'"

"Okay," Sam said. His dimples were out in full force. "Now put the clothes on."

Dean went into the bathroom to change. He'd be damned if he let Sam see him try to put the bra on. Jesus, it had lace on it. And a bow. The empty cups drooped ridiculously on his chest. He pulled the shirt on anyway, and then the skirt. The clothes actually fit pretty well; the skirt was shorter than Dean would've liked, but Sam had bought a white cotton button-down shirt that was roomy enough to hide Dean's broad shoulders. He felt like the porned-up version of a Catholic schoolgirl.

"Quit fussing around and let me see," Sam called.

Pushy bastard. Dean shoved open the bathroom door. "I look like a hooker," he grumbled.

"I figure if this doesn't pan out, I can always sell you on the street," Sam said. He walked over to Dean, holding the wig in his hands. "Hold still."

Dean did his best not to fidget while Sam tugged the wig onto his head and messed around with it. Sam stepped back finally. "You look great," he said. "Very convincing." He grabbed Dean by the shoulders and made him walk over to the mirror above the dresser.

"I look like a man in a wig, Sam."

"You don't look like Dean Winchester, though. Anyway, I bought some lip gloss and stuff, that should help."

Dean wasn't even touching that one. "So it's okay that I look like a cross-dressing prostitute instead of a sexy woman."

"Sure," Sam said. "A little transvestism never hurt anyone."

Dean pointed a finger at Sam's reflection. "Just cause I'm wearing a skirt doesn't mean I can't still feed you to the wolves."

"I'll keep that in mind." Sam watched Dean in the mirror for a moment. "Your chest looks dumb."

"Hey, you bought the supplies, genius."

"I'll think of something," Sam said. He chewed on his lip. "You'll need to shave your legs."

"Christo," Dean said.

"Shut up, I am not possessed! I'm serious."

Dean let his face convey his total horror and disbelief.

"Dude, you're wearing a skirt," Sam said.

"I could be one of those hippie lesbian chicks!"

"Uh, no," Sam said. He was trying to fight back a smile, that bastard, Dean could see his dimples.

Fuck. "I don't know how," Dean said, trying a different tack. "You'll have to do it for me."

But instead of backing down, Sam just said, "Okay."

Which was how Dean found himself sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, wearing his boxers and the girly shirt Sam had bought, his left foot resting on Sam's knee. Sam was setting out his weapons: a hot pink razor and a pink can of shaving cream.

"My legs are wet," Dean complained.

Sam ignored him. He squirted some of the shaving cream into the palm of his hand and smoothed it up Dean's calf, his long fingers brushing over the soft place behind Dean's knee. Dean shivered.

"Sorry, is it cold?" Sam asked.

"A little bit," Dean said, lying through his teeth. "It's okay." Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea.

Sam dipped the razor in the bowl of water he'd set out and drew it up Dean's leg. He was biting his lip, really concentrating on what he was doing, and - god. This was hardly the first time Dean had perved on his little brother, but it was really taking the kink factor to a whole new level. Who knew Dean would get off on having his legs shaved? But man, it was sure doing it for him - Sam's fingers skating over his skin, the cool brush of the razor, and Sam's other hand curled around Dean's ankle, holding him steady, and -

And Dean's dick was way too close to Sam's face for this train of thought to be a good idea. Dean closed his eyes and thought of road kill, and when that didn't do it, of the time he walked in on his dad having sex with Dean's first boss, a really butch auto mechanic who apparently hadn't been a lesbian after all.

Sam moved on to the other leg. Dean kept his eyes closed and inhaled through his nose, slow, measured breaths, trying to stay in control of himself.

"It's okay, Dean, I'm not going to cut you."

God, Sam thought he was scared. "Yeah, I know." His voice sounded rough. Dean cleared his throat. "So how do you know how to do this, anyway?" he asked, trying to distract Sam.

"I used to do it for Jess sometimes," Sam said quietly.

The implications of that were just. Whoah. "I'm sorry," Dean said.

"Nah, it's okay." Sam was quiet for long enough that Dean was surprised when he added, "I mean, if I avoided everything I used to do with her, I wouldn't be eating breakfast anymore, you know?"

"Yeah," Dean said, and boy, did that ever kill the mood. One point for him there, but minus one point for making Sam sad, so it evened out. He figured he was probably a few ahead for going along with this insanity in the first place.

Then Sam slid his hand along the inside of Dean's thigh and pushed up the hem of his boxers.

Holy fuck. "Aren't we done now?" Dean squeaked.

Sam looked up. "Of course not, I have to do your thighs."

"I think I've got the idea now," Dean said, his voice still embarrassingly high. "I can take it from here."

"Are you sure? I don't mind - "

"No, that's okay, I've got it."

"Your call." Sam shrugged. "Just make sure you don't forget the backs of your legs."

"I would never do such a thing," Dean scoffed.

Sam finally left the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Dean waited until he heard the TV turn on, and then let his head fall back against the tank of the toilet. He wished he knew another language; cussing in English didn't seem potent enough for the situation.

He got up after a bit to turn on the tub faucet. He could finish shaving his legs in the shower. And take care of another problem, too.

When he got out of the shower, Sam was gone, but he came back in just as Dean was pulling on his normal, non-transvestite-hooker clothes.

"Here's your boobs," Sam said, and held up a bag of bird seed.

"Um," Dean said.

Sam grinned. "I did some research." He grabbed the stockings from where Dean had let them fall on the floor. "Where's your lighter?"

"My duffel. Don't break it."

"I'm not going to break your lighter, Dean. Geez." Sam sat down on one of the beds and started messing around with the bird seed and the stockings.

Dean didn't want to know. "I'm gonna go get us some food," he said. "What do you want?"

"Chinese," Sam said. "Something with vegetables in it. No beef."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean said.

By the time he came back with a huge paper bag full of Chinese food, Sam had created two round sacks of bird seed-filled stockings, and had set them right in the middle of Dean's nightstand. There were little knots on them where Sam had tied the stockings off and burned them with the lighter.

"What're those for," Dean said.

"The nipples," Sam said. "Gimme my food."

Dean was really, really glad he'd picked up a six-pack. Sam wasn't getting any of it.


Dean had to give Sam credit: the bird seed boobs were pretty realistic, and the make-up did help, even though his masculinity would never recover. They tested the costume the next morning, at the truck stop near their motel. Dean followed Sam into the diner, and every trucker in the place turned around to stare. Dean tugged at his skirt. At least Sam had bought him flip-flops instead of high heels, so he didn't have to worry about tripping and falling on his face in front of God and man. Someone wolf whistled. Dean was torn between being relieved that the disguise worked and wanting to die.

He turned to Sam for support, but Sam was biting his lip and looking way more amused than the situation called for.

"Damn it, Sammy!" Dean hissed, and smacked his brother on the arm. "You're supposed to be defending my honor!"

Sam made a choked noise that sounded suspiciously like laughter. Little punk.

Their waitress was super hot, of course. Dean sat up straighter in the booth. "I'll have some coffee and two fried eggs, sugar," he said. Sam kicked him under the table. "Uh, I mean - " he cleared his throat and pitched his voice higher - "two fried eggs and some toast. Please." He did his best to look harmless.

If the waitress raised her eyebrows any higher, they'd disappear into her hair. She took Sam's order and scooted away from the table.

"Nice work," Sam said, covering his mouth with his hand. His eyes were all crinkled up.

"Fuck you," Dean said. He shifted in his seat. The vinyl on the bench was sticking to the backs of his thighs. He hunched over, feeling dumb and self-conscious. He couldn't believe he'd let Sam talk him into this.

Dean sulked all through breakfast. Sam ignored him completely and spent the time flipping through Dad's journal. At least Dean's eggs were good.

Sam finally looked up when the waitress came to clear their plates away. "Thanks," he said to her, and to Dean, "Let's go check out the morgue after breakfast."

"Um, what?" Dean said. "I thought it was Town Hall."

"It is," Sam said. "One of the janitors died there last night." He showed Dean the front page of the local paper. "They're saying it's a heart attack, but..."

"Jesus. Three deaths in Town Hall in the last six months and nobody's worried about it?"

Sam shrugged. "The mayor's talking about better health insurance for employees."

"Yeah, like that's going to help once you're dead."

"So let's make sure nobody else dies," Sam said, and got up to take care of the check. Dean left five bucks for the waitress, which would hopefully lessen the blow of being hit on by a transvestite.

The town was small enough that they left the Impala in the motel parking lot and walked down Main Street toward the morgue. It was hot as hell. Dean hated the fucking summer. They passed a man on the sidewalk who smiled at Dean and said, "Good morning." Dean grunted in response. When it happened again he didn't think anything of it, but the third time, Sam leaned over and whispered, "Dude, they think you're hot!"

"Shut up, I know," Dean said. Fucking Sam.

At the morgue, Dean managed to produce some fake tears and passed himself off as the janitor's grieving niece. Sam made a good doting boyfriend.

"I just can't believe he's gone!" Dean wailed. "I never even got to say goodbye!"

"There, there, sweetie," Sam said, patting Dean's shoulder.

Mike, the morgue attendant, looked sympathetic. "Would you like to - I can show you the body, if you'd like, if it wouldn't be too upsetting - "

Dean widened his eyes. "Oh, could you?" he breathed. He stepped away from Sam and wrapped his hand around Mike's upper arm. "I'd be ever so grateful..."

"S-sure," Mike said. "Just let me, uh, get my keys." He vanished into the back room.

Sam started laughing.

"Shut up, bitch!" Dean punched him on the shoulder. "Don't hate on my acting skills."

"'Oh Mike, you're so strong and manly, let me massage your biceps for you!'"

"I'm sending you where the sun don't shine," Dean threatened, and then smiled sweetly at Mike as he reappeared.

"Uh, follow me," Mike said, and Sam and Dean trailed after him.

Dead bodies were never pretty, but this one wasn't bad, as far as corpses went. He didn't have any missing limbs or maggot-infested wounds, anyway.

Dean sniffled dramatically. "And - and he didn't suffer? It was quick?"

"The coroner said it was a heart attack," Mike said. "His arteries were pretty clogged."

"He was such a good man!" Dean sobbed.

"I need to get her out of here," Sam said to Mike. "Thanks for all your help." His hand landed on the small of Dean's back, huge and warm.

"Any time," Mike said. He showed them to the door.

"Get off me," Dean snapped as soon as they were outside, and shoved Sam's arm away.

"It's just acting, Dean, you don't need to be so touchy," Sam said, and of course he was smirking. Goddammit.

Dean ignored him. "I think the heart attack's legit," he said. "No signs of a struggle, no physical damage."

"Yeah," Sam said. "Maybe whatever it is scared him to death?"

"Maybe." Dean was skeptical. "C'mon, I want to go talk to the library, see if we can dig up anything on the other people who died."

"What? No, let's go to Town Hall next. Maybe there's some trace of whatever it was that killed him."

"Sam, I am wearing a skirt! No arguing!"

"But - "

"No! You agreed!"

Sam crossed his arms. "Fine. But I'm still right."

They asked directions from a guy who kept trying to look down Dean's shirt. The public library wasn't far away, just a few blocks. The guy offered to give them a ride, but Sam turned him down flat, because he was a mean, awful person who didn't want anyone else to have fun.

The library was not helpful. It smelled like mildew, and the reference librarian was really old and kept shooting them the evil eye over the rims of her glasses. Dean wanted to flip her off so bad his middle finger was twitching.

They found the obits right away: an aneurysm and another heart attack. The newspaper articles didn't have much to add.

"Oh look," Dean said, "the woman bred corgis. You think that's a clue?"

"Shut up."

Dean squirmed around in his chair. His bird seed was drooping. "Dude, my bra came unhooked."

"So hook it back."

"I can't reach it! Do it for me."

"What, through your shirt?"

"You can stick your hands up there, there's room." Dean fluttered his eyelashes.

Sam heaved an enormous, put-upon sigh, but he did it: slid his hands underneath Dean's shirt and up his back, pulled the two ends of the bra together and hooked them. Then he moved his hands around to the front and readjusted Dean's tits.

And Dean thought the librarian had been cranky before. "Quit fondling the goods, Sammy."

"Hold on, the underwire's crooked," Sam said, still fumbling around under Dean's shirt. Dean was convinced that this had crossed the line into gratuitous touching. Sam's fingers were callused at the tips, and they were finding every sensitive spot on Dean's chest, including some he hadn't known existed.

Sam finally withdrew his hands. The librarian doddered over to their table and asked them to leave. "This is not a place for sexual encounters," she said sternly.

"We'll try harder in the future, ma'am," Dean said in his regular voice, and only managed not to die laughing at the look on the librarian's face because Sam was pinching him like a little girl.

"Goddammit, Sam, that's gonna leave a mark!" he said as they left the building. He propped his foot on the low retaining wall and examined his leg in the sunlight. Fucking Sam had drawn blood; there were two red crescents on the soft skin right above his knee.

"It's not that bad," Sam said. He touched two fingers to the cuts and wiped the blood away. "Want me to kiss it better?"

Um, yes. Sam would probably do it, though, the mood he was in, and Dean didn't think he could control himself. Getting arrested for public indecency was not on his agenda for this town.

"Fuck off," he said instead, manfully reigning in his urges.

"Whatever," Sam said. "Anyway, I was right about the library, so can we just go to Town Hall now?"

"Let's get some food first. I'm starved."

Sam looked at his watch. "Fine. There's an Italian place right down the street."

Dean hated Italian, which Sam knew - too much pasta and tomato sauce, it was basically immoral - but he was too hot to bother arguing. Sam was surly over lunch. Dean didn't even try talking to him. He chatted with their waiter instead. When the guy asked for Dean's number, Sam suddenly came back to life and asked for the check.

"Way to ruin all my fun, man," Dean grumbled as soon as the waiter was out of earshot.

"You're not really a woman, Dean!"

"Believe it or not, Sam, you don't have to be a chick in order to have sex with a man."

Sam sat back in his chair, his ears turning a little pink, and Dean thought, Gotcha.

They left the restaurant and headed for Town Hall. Sam was walking really fucking slow and wouldn't hurry up. Whatever, getting Sam to talk about whatever was bothering him on any given day was like trying to pull teeth with a pair of tweezers. He could sulk if he wanted to, Dean didn't care. He sauntered down the sidewalk alone, trying to swing his hips like girls did, but it just felt ridiculous.

Truth be told, Dean was kind of starting to enjoy this whole thing. He'd never in his life been opposed to getting attention from men, and the admiring glances he kept getting were going straight to his dick. So what if they thought he was a woman? What they didn't know wouldn't hurt them.

He stopped to examine himself in the window of an antique store. He was pretty cute, actually. Still kinda manly-looking, but whatever. His skirt was too long. He rolled up the waistband until the skirt barely covered his ass. Yeah, that was hot.

Sam was still lagging behind. "You coming, Sam?" Dean asked, looking over his shoulder to see if his brother was following him.

Sam was just standing there, watching Dean with a look on his face like - like he was -

Well, how about that.


"We're reporters," Sam said to the skeptical-looking clerk at the front desk. "We're doing a series on the founders of small towns, and we'd like to take a look at your records, if you don't mind."

"What paper did you say you were with?"

"The Washington Post," Dean said, and smiled.

"Can I see some ID." The clerk lady snapped her gum.

Sam pulled a fake press badge out of his wallet and handed it to her. She stared at it for way longer than was necessary. Dean was about to leap over the counter and tear it out of her hands when she finally gave it back to Sam.

"Records room's down that hallway on the right, got a big sign, can't miss it. I'll buzz you in."

"Thanks a bunch," Dean said.

The door clicked shut behind them. "Okay, so where'd this guy bite it?" Dean asked.

Sam pointed down the hallway to where a yellow police line was stretched across the door to the men's restroom. "Take a guess."

There was nothing in there, though - no EMF activity, no sulfur, no blood splatters on the walls.

"Shit," Dean said.

"Tell me about it. I don't know, man, it's really starting to look - "

The door swung open. Sam and Dean both whipped their heads around.

It was the mayor. Dean closed his eyes. If the dude recognized him, that was it, they'd be drummed out of town or arrested. Possibly both.

But the mayor just gave Dean a stern look and said, "Miss, this is the men's room."

"Uh, right. Must've taken a wrong turn." Dean showed the mayor every one of his teeth when he smiled. He grabbed Sam's arm. "C'mon, uh, Jacob, let's get going."

"That was close," he said to Sam.

"Who was that guy?"

"The mayor. I thought for sure he was going to recognize me, man, it would've been awful."

"I told you this disguise would work."

Dean smacked the back of Sam's head. "Looks like we'll have to come back after nightfall. Good thing, too, I was ready to kill that bitch at the desk."

"She was just doing her job, Dean."

"Yeah, whatever." He waved cheerily to the desk bitch on their way out. She didn't look up.

They went back to the motel and Dean fell asleep watching TV. When he woke up, late afternoon sunlight was pooling across the carpet, and Sam was sitting on the edge of Dean's bed.

"Whattimesit," Dean said.

"Almost 6:00. You should have taken off your wig, it's all messed up now."

"Whatever, I'll look rumpled and sexy."

"You wish," Sam said.

Dean sat up and was straddling Sam's lap before Sam could do more than let out a startled squeak. He wrapped his arms around Sam's neck, stroking the smooth skin hidden by Sam's stupid long hair. "Are you saying you don't think I'm hot?" he breathed in Sam's ear, pitching his voice low and smooth.

"No," Sam said. His hands came up to clutch at Dean's hips, warm even through the thin fabric of the skirt.

Dean chuckled. "That's what I thought." He set his teeth in Sam's earlobe, gently, and trailed wet kisses down the side of his neck. Sam's hands flexed, but he wasn't making enough noise. Dean nipped at his Adam's apple. There - Sam moaned, low and broken. Christ, that turned Dean's crank so hard. Sam let his head fall back, and Dean bit him again, and Sam moaned again -

And Dean pulled back, and stood up. Sam's eyes flew open. "Let's get some food before we break into Town Hall."

"I - what?" Sam said, and looked so distraught that Dean literally had to bite his own tongue to keep from laughing.

At dinner, Dean kicked off one of his flip-flops and stroked his toes up and down Sam's leg until Sam reached under the table and grabbed Dean's foot. "Fucking stop it," Sam hissed.

"That's not what you were saying earlier," Dean said.

Sitting there in a crappy diner in a crappy town in rural Ohio, wearing a bra that was probably going to leave scars and watching his brother stew in his own juices, Dean had a revelation, sudden, unexpected. Nobody knew that he and Sam were brothers. Everyone probably thought Sam was his boyfriend or his sugar daddy or something. Dean could do anything he wanted.

"Hey," he said. "C'mere."

"What, is there something on my face? I stopped falling for that when I was six."

"I wanna kiss you," Dean said.

"Oh. Um. Oh." Sam went a little pink around the edges, but he didn't look away.

Dean leaned forward. "Try not to freak out," he murmured, millimeters away from Sam's lips. He licked the corner of Sam's mouth, slow and dirty, using just the tip of his tongue.

"Fuck," Sam whispered. He cupped Dean's face in his giant hands and brought their mouths together. Dean grinned into the kiss. Sam tilted Dean's head a little, changing the angle, and Dean let him; he let Sam take charge, let Sam lick into him, hot and hungry, his tongue swirling patterns on the ridged roof of Dean's mouth. Christ, it was almost too much. Dean's heart was racing, his palms were sweaty where they gripped the edge of the Formica tabletop. And Sam was relentless, he -

Their waitress cleared her throat. Dean pulled away, startled and a little guilty; but the woman was smiling as she set their plates down.

"Enjoy your meal," she said.

"Um. Thanks," Dean said. He reached up to adjust his wig, then reached down to adjust his dick.

Sam was pink clear down to where his neck disappeared into the collar of his shirt. Dean wanted to strip him down right there in the diner and find out exactly how far that flush extended.

"Are you going to eat your pickle?" Sam asked. Dean rolled his eyes.


Breaking into Town Hall was a simple matter of picking the lock on the front door. Dean made Sam do it. "I might break a nail," he explained.

"Dean, once again, I think you're losing sight of the fact that you are not actually a woman."

Once they were inside, Sam pulled two guns out of his backpack and handed one to Dean. "You take that hallway, I'll go down to the right; meet back here in ten."

"Since when do I take orders from you?" Dean asked, but he didn't have a better plan, so whatever.

Dean buzzed them in with the button behind the desk and took himself down the left-hand hallway. It was really fucking dark. He kept his gun in front of him and his ears wide open for the sounds of janitors or bloodthirsty demons.

A scratching noise came from above him. Dean's arms shot up, his gun aimed at the ceiling. He didn't see anything there, but he'd definitely heard it -

Something fell onto him and bit the top of his ear. "Ow, what the fuck," Dean yelled, and grabbed it off his head and threw it at the wall.

Sam came barreling around the corner, eyes wide.

"It's okay," Dean said quickly, "I'm okay."

"What the hell happened?"

Dean pointed at the little mangled body lying on the floor. "It's fucking imps. They've got an imp infestation. Fucker jumped down on me and bit my ear."

"I bet they're living in the ductwork," Sam said.

"Damn it! What a pain in the ass! It's going to take us forever to root them out of there. Christ."

Sam shoved his gun into his pants. "It's not that bad, is it? I mean, imps? It's not like they're dangerous."

"They're irritating as hell, though. Me and Dad wiped out a colony of them down in Arizona one time. Took us three days."

"Well, shit," Sam said.

"Pretty much, yeah. Looks like you were right about the deaths, though. Old guy, weak heart - hell, it scared the shit out of me."

"Did you just admit that I was right about something?"

"Whatever, Sam! Go find a ladder. We'll kill all the ones we can find and leave rat poison for the rest."

"Shouldn't we kill all of them?"

"You really want to be crawling around in the ceiling for the next week? Rat poison's good enough."

It took them most of the night anyway. The imps were really fucking hard to catch, and they had sharp little teeth; it was like getting bit by really big mosquitoes with even bigger attitude problems. It was easy enough to snap their necks, but Holy Mother of God there were a lot of them. Their beady little eyes glittered in the dark, and they chittered mockingly at Dean as he crawled around trying to grab them. Fuck, he hated imps.

"You see any more, Sam?" Dean yelled down the duct, sometime around 4:00 in the morning.

"No," Sam called. "I think that's all of it. We can burn them in the lot behind the building."

They hauled out three enormous canvas bags full of tiny little imp bodies. Dean took great pleasure in dousing them with gasoline and setting them on fire. The imp bites he'd gotten were already starting to swell up.

After the fire burned down, they went back inside to get their stuff. Sam went to put the ladder away while Dean crammed everything else into Sam's backpack. He was sweating and filthy, his knees so dirty they were almost black. He went to the bathroom to wash up.

He had his leg propped up on the sink and was scrubbing at his knee with a wet paper towel when he heard Sam calling his name in the hallway. "I'm in here, Sam!" he yelled.

Sam pushed the door open. "What're you - oh."

"Got a little dirty," Dean said.

"You know, I can see up your skirt."

Dean grinned. "Like the view?"

"Is that - Dean! You're wearing my underwear!"

"Yeah, I gotta say, tighty-whities work a lot better under a skirt than boxers do."

"Dean! Eww!"

Dean set his foot back on the ground and threw the paper towel in the trash can. "Baby, I'm planning to have my dick inside a few more places than just your underwear."

Sam turned bright red, and then he grabbed Dean and shoved him up against the tiled wall, his hands on Dean's shoulders. "God, you just say stuff like that," he said, and kissed Dean, open-mouthed, slick and heated. Their kiss in the diner had been slower, more measured; there was no finesse to it this time, just Sam losing it, making little noises in the back of his throat as he worked his way into Dean's mouth.

And god, Dean sure wasn't complaining. He settled his hands at Sam's waist and kissed him back, sweeping his tongue over Sam's upper lip. Sam leaned into him, pressing him into the wall, sliding a knee between his legs until their hips were snugged together, Sam's thigh pressing right where Dean wanted it the most. Dean rocked against him, grinning against Sam's mouth when he moaned.

Dean pulled his mouth away to gasp for air. He was breathing harder than he'd thought. "So what's the deal, Sam," he panted, "this cross-dressing shit turn you on?"

"No," Sam said, leaning in again, his breath puffing warm against Dean's lips, "just you." Dean set his teeth in Sam's lower lip, tugging it down, and Sam opened willingly for him, his tongue pressing hot against Dean's own.

Sam slid a hand beneath Dean's skirt and pressed his palm to Dean's ass, pulling Dean tighter against him, rubbing their cocks together. It was too much; Dean had been wound up since their little encounter in the motel room earlier, and he was way too close to coming in his - well, in his skirt. He'd lost control of the situation and hadn't even realized it.

Time for drastic measures. He slipped an arm behind Sam's shoulders and flipped them around, pinning Sam to the wall, and dropped to his knees. The floor was cold beneath him, and his bad knee would not be happy in the morning, but he didn't even care, he just wanted to get his hands inside Sam's pants.

"Oh my god, Dean," Sam groaned. His head thunked against the wall.

"You want it?" Dean asked teasingly, his hands working at Sam's belt buckle.

"Um, yes," Sam said. His hands landed on Dean's head, cradling his skull, and Dean thought about shrugging him off, but he figured if Sam didn't behave himself, Dean could always give him a black eye later. Nothing like a little affection between brothers.

Dean got Sam's jeans open and tugged them and his underwear down toward his knees. Dean's mouth was watering a little. He swallowed, convulsively, and wrapped his hand around Sam's cock. It was warm, pulsing slightly. He ran his tongue up the underside, following the path of the long vein.

"God, Dean, don't tease," Sam begged, his hands clenching and unclenching on Dean's head.

"It's only teasing if I don't follow through," Dean said, and ducked his head to take the head of Sam's cock into his mouth.

Even on his worst days, Dean loved sucking cock, and this was something else entirely: Sam's long body stretched out at Dean's mercy, his head thrown back, his hands stroking gently through Dean's hair. And Christ, the noises he kept making, little hisses and choked-off moans that were going straight to Dean's balls. He reached a hand down and pressed it against his dick, not trying to get off, really, just relieving some of the pressure.

"Oh, man," Sam breathed, and Dean looked up to find Sam staring down at him, lips parted. It sent an electrical shock right through him - the thought of Sam just standing there, watching his cock disappear down Dean's throat - Jesus Christ. Dean moaned, and that was apparently it for Sam; he tensed up and came in Dean's mouth, gasping obscenities.

Dean pulled back, watching as Sam tried to pull himself together. He was flushed and vulnerable-looking, his face wide open in a way Dean hadn't seen for years. Dean tucked Sam back into his pants and zipped them up again, giving his brother time to rejoin the human race.

"Shit, Dean," Sam said finally, and reached down to help Dean to his feet. He pulled Dean into a kiss, licking the come off Dean's mouth where he hadn't managed to swallow all of it. Dean wrapped a hand in the front of Sam's shirt and tried not to let his legs collapse beneath him.

"Are you - did you - " Sam reached between Dean's legs, but Dean grabbed his wrist to stop him. He was still desperately turned on, but he had bigger plans than just a quick hand-job in the Town Hall men's room.

"Let's go back to the motel," Dean said. "I want you to fuck me."

Sam swallowed audibly, turning red all over again. "I. Yeah. Okay."

"Okay," Dean said, but they stood there for a few more moments, just staring at each other, before Dean shook himself and moved toward the door.

They walked back to the motel in silence, not touching at all, and Dean was pretty much convinced that Sam was going to chicken out, but once he locked the door behind them, Sam was on him in about two seconds flat. They tugged frantically at each other's clothes, a little clumsy in their haste, and yeah, yeah, this was exactly right, this was exactly what Dean needed.

And then Sam couldn't get Dean's bra unhooked.

"I can't believe you," Dean yelled, torn between amusement and horror. "Just pull the little clasp thingies apart!"

"I'm trying!" Sam yanked at the bra, clearly not even making that much of an effort, and Dean finally batted his hands away and did it himself. He shucked off his skirt and underwear while he was at it, and tossed it all over into the corner of the room.

When he turned back to Sam, the bastard was laughing at him. "You fucker," Dean said, "you did that on purpose!"

"You looked so mad!" Sam said, practically giggling.

"Yeah, laugh it up," Dean said, and got right up in Sam's space, walked him backward until Sam's legs hit the side of the bed and he tumbled down onto it.

Dean stood there and watched him: Sam, breathless and happy, and Jesus, Dean would do anything to keep that look on his face, anything at all.

Sam reached up, then, and tugged Dean down onto the bed with him. "Hey," Sam said, smiling, and kissed him. Dean wrapped his arms around Sam as best he could, lying there sprawled half on top of him, and just held on.

They kissed for a long time - the kind of slow, languid making out Dean hadn't done since high school. They kissed until Dean's mouth was sore and swollen. He was aware of his cock tracing sticky patterns on Sam's hip, but only dimly, like it wasn't that important. He felt drugged, stupid. All he could think about was the wet glide and pull of Sam's mouth under his, the way Sam sucked at his tongue like he was discovering something.

Sam pulled away, finally, panting. "I wanna - can I - "

"Yeah," Dean said, "yeah, do it, I want you to." He rolled off of Sam, draped an arm over his eyes. Shit, he couldn't think, he couldn't move. "I've got. There's stuff in my duffel."

There was a pause. "I, uh, haven't done this before," Sam said.

"I have," Dean said. "It's okay."

Sam got off the bed, and Dean heard him rustling around. Dean rolled over again, onto his stomach, and rubbed his cock aimlessly against the bedspread, waiting. He was so turned on he could hardly breathe. His skin felt too tight.

"Hurry the fuck up, Sam," Dean said. He turned his face to the side, catching a glimpse of Sam as he bent, naked, over Dean's duffel bag.

He heard Sam laughing, and then the mattress shifted as Sam climbed back on the bed. Sam snapped the lube open and fumbled around with it, cussing to himself. Dean thought he was going to die, he was ready yesterday, and Sam was taking so fucking long, as usual, he couldn't even have sex right -

And then Sam laid one of his hands on Dean's lower back, right above the base of his spine, and his other hand dropped between Dean's legs, slick fingers rubbing behind Dean's balls and then further back, oh god -

And Dean opened his mouth to say Fuck, just like that, yeah, but all that came out was a moan.

Sam laughed softly. "I guess I'm doing it right, then," he said.

Dean couldn't answer. Sam was stroking into him with careful, steady motions, and Dean had been wrong earlier, this was what he needed, over and over again for the rest of his entire fucking life. Sam's hand on his back was the only thing keeping Dean anchored to reality. He pushed his ass back against Sam's fingers, wanting more, shifting his hips for a better angle; and then he found it, and Sam was hitting that perfect place, pressing his fingers right up against it. It was too much, too overwhelming; Dean felt his balls tighten up, his body start to shake.

"Sam," he croaked out, and then he was shuddering on the bed, speechless, blind, completely wrecked.

The first thing he felt when he opened his eyes again was Sam rubbing his back in long, soothing strokes.

"You back with me?" Sam asked, sounding amused..

"Jesus, give a man some warning," Dean said. "I coulda stroked out."

Sam laughed. "I'll keep that in mind," he said, and pressed a kiss between Dean's shoulderblades, tender and undemanding.

"I want you inside me," Dean said.

He could almost feel Sam blushing. "Are you sure? I mean, I don't - "

"No arguing, remember? For a month."

"Right," Sam said. He sat back, rustled around a bit. Dean heard him fucking around with the condom wrapper and lube. He closed his eyes again. He felt wrung out from his orgasm, dazed and stupidly happy, ready to take whatever Sam wanted to give him.

Sam finally got his shit together and ran his hand up the inside of Dean's thigh, spreading his legs apart. "Okay?" Sam asked, and Dean said, "Would you just do it already," and then Sam's dick was nudging up against him and pressing inside in one long, smooth stroke.

"Ohhh," Sam breathed, and started to move, his body a warm and solid weight along the length of Dean's back as he ground his hips against Dean's ass, pulling out almost all the way before thrusting back in. "God, you're so tight," Sam muttered, mouthing at the back of Dean's neck and along his shoulder.

It felt amazing. Dean shuddered all over. He was way too wiped to get it up again, but Sam's cock was hitting every good place inside of him, and all he could do was fist his hands in the bedspread and gasp.

"Harder," he heard himself saying, barely aware that he'd opened his mouth.

Sam groaned and moved faster, really thrusting now, muttering incoherent nonsense against Dean's neck, and Dean rolled his hips back to meet Sam's and watched as things sparked behind his eyelids. He could do this forever. Nothing existed in the world but Sam's cock inside his ass, the rough cloth of the bedspread beneath his cheek, Sam's weight pushing him down into the mattress, and Sam: Sam, who was crying out now, his thrusts going ragged, losing the rhythm.

"Sam," Dean said, testing the sound of it, and Sam jerked against him as he came and cried, "Dean, Dean," like it was the only word he remembered how to say.


Sam pulled out of him after a while, rolled off the bed. Dean sat up and watched him toss the condom out and go into the bathroom to wash up. Dean followed, crowded Sam up against the sink, jostling their elbows together.

"Hey, watch it!" Sam said, laughing, and shoved at him.

"You take up too much damn room," Dean grumbled, and smacked his ass. Sam yelped, grinned, and leaned in to press a kiss to Dean's mouth, all sweet and unhurried.

They broke apart finally. Sam looked way too please with himself. Dean raised a questioning eyebrow.

"You totally jerked off after I shaved your legs, didn't you," Sam said.

"Okay, maybe," Dean admitted.

Sam laughed. "You kinky bastard."

Dean smacked his ass again and said, "Get out of here!" Sam flipped him off, but he went, and Dean finished cleaning up in peace.

It didn't take him more than a couple minutes, but by the time he turned off the bathroom light and went back into the main room, Sam was burrowed under the covers. The sun was just starting to come up, casting a pale gray light into the room. Dean closed the blinds and climbed into bed with Sam.

Sam made a little snuffling noise and rolled over, throwing an arm over Dean's waist. Dean wasn't really a cuddler, but he was too tired to protest, and Sam was so warm. Dean closed his eyes.


He woke up slowly that afternoon. He was warm and sleepy and didn't feel like moving. Finally he stretched out one arm, reaching for Sam.

Sam wasn't there. The sheets weren't even warm anymore; all of Sam's body heat had leached out of them. Dean sat up in bed. Sam's shoes and wallet were gone.

Dean flopped back down. Fuck. He should have expected this. Sam had freaked out. He would pretend like nothing had happened, and Dean would have to pretend right along with him, act like he didn't care one way or the other what Sam did, like -

The door opened. Sam came into the room, smiling, a paper bag in his hand.

"I bought muffins," he said, toeing off his shoes. "You want one?"

"Sure. Okay," Dean said.

Sam dropped the bag onto the nightstand and climbed back in bed. "Shove over," he said, and then, "You were worrying, weren't you. You thought I freaked out."

"Naw," Dean said. "I knew you'd be back."