Chapter 1: separate
Maybe the fusion is caused by the magic. Or the music. Or the drugs. Possibly it is triggered by some strange combination of all three. It is hard to tell because the first time it happens, Sam is working his way through a garage-sale grimoire and Dean is working her way through some strange herbs that Bobby left behind in an old tobacco tin. The music is a nameless mixtape—an actual, old-school tape—that sounds ancient and scratchy enough to summon demons if you play it backwards at midnight. It hadn’t been midnight, though. That first time had been around four o’clock on a sun-stunned June afternoon.
Sam had spent the morning mowing lawns: the only summer job he can get until his next birthday and his learner’s permit. He was itchy with sunburn and bored with his own company, so he’d followed Dean up to the attic of the little frame house they were renting. She hadn’t paid him any attention, but she hadn’t told him to go away, either, so he’d stayed.
Dean had been sulking steadily for two days, since she’d been fired from waiting tables at the local fried chicken joint. (One of the patrons hadn’t kept his hands to himself, so Dean had threatened to knock him into next Tuesday. Things probably would have worked themselves out if the patron hadn’t laughed at her. But he had, so Dean had taken a swing, and, to hear her tell it, they’d never found all his teeth). She always had a few side-hustles, so Sam figured she minded the indignity more than the lost income. Now it looked like she would spend the summer working at the local garage, where she had to answer the phone and manage the coffeepot and never got to do anything interesting. She manifested her annoyance by ignoring Sammy and spending her afternoons slung out an old sofa that she dragged in front of the attic’s huge dormer window. She ran an extension cord up the rickety attic ladder to plug in the old tape-deck. The old rental didn't have air conditioning but, very occasionally, there was a breeze.
Sam’s sunburn is making him crazy. He peels off his t-shirt, tries again to concentrate on the cramped handwriting of the spell-book. “Hey, d’you think we could turn down the—”
Dean lifts a regal hand, the one with the smoky spliff. “Driver picks the music, Sammy,” she says, not even deigning to open her eyes.
Sam rolls his own eyes. Any minute, he’ll get up the energy to go back downstairs. If Dean is just going to be a brat…
He’s not sure how long it is before the music changes to something slow and jazzy. Dean rolls off the couch, nearly setting the floral upholstery on fire. She saunters over toward Sam in a cloud of fragrant smoke.
“Jesus, what is that stuff?” grouses Sam. “Isn’t it hot enough without you burning shit?”
“Dunno. Something Bobby left last time he was here.” Dean shrugs, her bare shoulders rolling in time with the music, one tank top strap slipping down her arm. “C’mon, Sammy. Dance with me.”
Sam huffs. “Let’s not and say we—“ He’s about to repeat a phrase he heard at school, one that had sounded really cool, cuttingly dismissive, when Dean runs her fingernails over his bare shoulders. It feels really good, just the right tingle of sensation on his sunburn.
“Come on, don’t be such a bitch,” Dean pleads, blowing a stream of smoky air into his face. Sam rocks back onto his knees to avoid her. She snags the old spellbook off the floor and when he stands and tries to grab it back, she slings her arms around his neck, sways against him as slow and jazzy as the music.
Dean has the book in one hand and her still-burning handrolled joint in the other; Sam can feel the heat of it, dangerously near his ear. He is just a little bit taller than she is, because he’s still wearing boots and she’s barefoot.
“Dean, get off! It’s too hot to—”
She starts chanting, just to drown him out, just to be obnoxious—she’s reading the grimoire over his shoulder, sing-songing the words in time with the music.
And it is hot. But not hot like a June afternoon in the unfinished attic of a little rental house in a town at the edge of the Great Plains. Hot like a warm bath. Hot and soothing, totally enveloping. With Dean moving against him and the air spicy with burning herbs, Sam just kind of wants to close his eyes for a moment and enjoy it. So he does.
Whoa. Sam hears the word but it doesn’t sound like Dean’s voice and he suddenly realizes that he doesn’t feel her against him anymore. He opens his eyes.
That’s what I said, jerk.
The attic looks smaller. Or—farther away? No: the few random bits of furniture—the sofa, that old mirrored cabinet—they are definitely smaller. The rafters, though. Those seem bigger. Nearer. It’s like Sam himself is taller…
The old cabinet catches his eye. It is a big, gaudy piece from the sixties, paneled with cloudy mirrors that make it too fragile to move. Sam has no idea how the landlord ever got it up the tiny attic ladder. And he has no idea whose reflection is in it now.
The reflection gets bigger as he stumbles closer. He is sure that he has never seen this person before. But, somehow, the guy looks familiar. The set of his shoulders. The slightly bow-legged posture. They remind him of Dean. Only, this person is taller than Dean. And there’s—there’s something about the jaw that is not like Dean at all. If anything, it reminds Sam of…himself.
He’s got your goofy ears, too, Dean says. And Sam is about to reply—his ears are not goofy—when he realizes that he can’t see Dean. That he can’t see himself. The only person in the room is this too tall hybrid and Sam is looking at its reflection through its own eyes.
“Where are you?"
Right next to you, bitch.
Sam is sure that he didn’t hear those words. That is, they didn’t come in through his—its?—ears. The words just formed in his head.
“This is so weird.” Those words, he said. He thought them, and then he watched them come out of the reflection’s mouth. The voice doesn’t sound like his, but it must be, because the thought was his.
Nuh-uh. I thought it first, says Dean, and that voice starts inside his head, but then the last few words are spoken aloud. By the body that Sam is inside. Which means Dean is in here, too. And the reflection’s hand is lifting, coming up to touch the mirrored glass. Sam did not tell his body to move, so when it steps back, he’s not expecting it. And he really is taller, with an unexpectedly high center of gravity: when his new, distant foot catches on the rug, he feels himself falling.
He wakes to a bright, bright light: Dean, shining a flashlight in his eyes.
“Hey, kiddo. Didja hit your head on the way down?”
Sam blinks. The feeling of relief at seeing his sister is so overwhelming it almost chokes him. Her words are just regular words, coming in through his ears, not echoing in his skull. And when he opens his mouth, it is his own familiar voice that says, “Don’t think so.”
“Ok. Me neither. Which makes sense, since it was the same head.”
“What?” Sam sits up. He's at least ten feet from the mirrored cabinet. He didn’t hit his head, he’s sure now, but he still feels kind of groggy, like he’s woken from a hag-ridden sleep. The slant of the light through the dormer window can’t put it much past mid-afternoon though. “How long was I out?”
“Just a few seconds longer than me,” Dean reassures him. “I woke up over there.” She points to the dim corner opposite..
“Where’s…?” Sam glances around the room, not sure what to call the strange third person. He can vaguely remember its reflection: hazel eyes, freckles.
Dean is staring at him like she’s wondering if maybe he’s concussed after all. “It’s gone.”
Dean shrugs. “We’re here. It’s us. Or we’re it.” She speaks slowly, like she’s trying the logic out in her mind. “Together, we become it.”
They call it fusing. Just between themselves—and who else would they tell? Dad is off on contracting jobs, a busy summer to guarantee enough money to make it through the fall hunting season. He stops by once a week or so to drop off research notes or pick up a tool or more salt. He’s there when Sam comes home from work two days after the first fusing. The Impala in the driveway, Dean in the kitchenette, and Dad looking through a file of old maps.
“Hey, Sammy. How’s the lawn business? Growing?”
“It’s good,” Sam says, shortly, not even acknowledging the terrible pun. He tries to catch Dean’s eye, wonders if she’s said anything about the events of the past week. But she is studiously avoiding his gaze.
“Nothing good on the garage sale circuit this time.” Dad often brings home little trinkets for Sam, just dumb things he finds on the road: oddly shaped buttons, out-of-print books. Sam doesn’t know how to explain that he’s too old for that. That nothing Dad finds at some junk shop is going to make up for the life they have to lead. “Anything interesting in that old book I found you last time?”
Sam realizes that Dad is talking about the grimoire that Dean had been holding the first time it happened, the time they’d fused. Of course, it hadn't really been a gift. Dad has just wanted Sam to skim it and decide if it was worth more time. Sam feels his annoyance curdle: he hates it when Dad treats him like some thankless research assistant.
Sam is tired and grimy with sweat and dirt because he works more than any kid his age should have to. He wants to take a shower. He wants to get out of the shower and find that his Dad is gone, back on the road with all his questions and his stupid junk, leaving just Sam and Dean and their quiet house. “No,” he says. “Nothing interesting.”
And just like that, without ever actually talking about it, Sam and Dean decide that fusing will be their secret.
They always do it in the attic after closing up the rest of the house so no one disturbs them. (That is more ritual than necessity. After all, who would disturb them? All the adults—Dad, Ellen, Bobby—are at least half a state away). In the long summer afternoons after the lawns are mowed and the mechanic has closed up shop, Dean portions out the weird herbal mixture that Bobby had left behind and Sam brings the grimoire from its hiding place under his bed. Then, when the right song starts, Dean will put her arms around Sam’s neck, a little awkward at first, shy as a bride. She lays her head on Sam’s shoulder and starts to whisper the words. They can’t be sure what, exactly, triggers the transformation, but by the end of the month, they know just how to make it happen. As long as they are chanting the incantations, swaying together on the right beat while the burning herbs fill the sunlit stillness, there comes a moment where everything goes soft and porous around the edges. When they open their eyes, they are gone. But it is there.
The fusion sometimes looks more like Dean, sometimes like Sam. It might wear Sam’s cutoffs, but be barefoot like Dean. Might have Dean’s freckles, but Sam’s too-long bangs. It is always taller than either of them, older somehow, like they’ve combined to become more than their individual selves. Over time, though, the fusion starts to look less and less like either of them, and more and more like someone new. And then, around the fourth of July, Sam opens his fused eyes, sees the reflection in the mirrors, and his hands immediately go to his chest. He has…they have…
Hmmm, Dean hums in the back of his head. Or maybe its Sam’s wonderment in the back of Dean’s head. But either way, it suddenly seems like a good idea to undo the buttons on their faded camp shirt.
We’re not wearing a…
Didn’t need one, Dean points out, and it’s true—she’s always been on the flat side, not an ounce of fat on her. So where did these sweet, soft (titties, Dean supplies, whisper tickling his brain) come from?
Sam shivers at the feel of his own finger circling one nipple, at the surprising new way it tightens and puckers. In the mirrored cabinet, his (tits! really, ‘swhat everyone calls ‘em) shiver, too, and that sensation gives Sam goosebumps.
Well, don’t just stand there, Dean says, sounding fondly exasperated, and Sam realizes he has been. Just standing in front of the mirror, too-big new hands cupping the curve of his too-big new…tits. He notices how firm they are. How the nipples kind of point in opposite directions. In the mirror he sees the fusion’s hand is easing down his flat belly, popping the button on his cut-offs. He’s soft down there. Fine hair. Wetness. The first time he accidentally touches his clit, his knees actually buckle. He ends up on the floor, long legs folded beneath him,
Look, Dean insists.
And Sam looks. There is a pinkish flush spreading across his tits. The old rug feels good on his skin, so he spreads his legs. Well, not his legs—he knows that, but he doesn’t feel it. Instead, he feels the faint tremble in his inner thighs.
Try inside, just the tip of two fingers. We—we like that.
We do, indeed. Sam has never even touched a girl, but that thought doesn’t surface until twenty minutes later, when he’s throbbing and shivering on the old floral couch, legs slick and ears buzzing with Dean’s rapid breaths as she coaches him to a third orgasm.
Chapter 2: together
They always fuse differently. Never the same body twice, but it always has some hybrid features. Less than two weeks later, Sam is standing in his fused form in front of the same mirror, looking at a cock that, thought his larger than his own, has a vaguely familiar curve to it. Yes! Dean cheers in the back of his mind. I’ve always wanted to try one of these!
She does try it—touches everywhere, knows just how Sam likes to keep a finger’s pressure right under the head, brings that body off in record time.
It is so intense that they…unfuse? Defuse? Sam finds himself sprawled out on the old sofa, slick with sweat and still feeling tingling aftershocks in his toes. Part of him wants to pin down the right word for ending a state of fusion; another part of him just wants to roll over and rut into the cushions. He can’t do either, though, because his legs are tangled with Dean, whose looking equally satisfied at the other end of the couch. She smiles at him lazily and he notices that her little nipples are hard under her thin old t-shirt, like she’s still feeling the effects of their fused pleasure, too. She give him a sly wink: “Wanna go again?”
The first few times they’d dissolved the fusion, they’d ended up on opposite sides of the room, tossed like ragdolls, like the survivors of an explosion. But now that they have some practice, they nearly always surface in a tangle of limbs on the floral sofa. Really intense orgasms dissolve the fusion bond, or sudden shocks, like the first time Sam had seen the fusion in the mirror and realized it was him (them? us!). It is Dean who has the idea of breaking the fusion by running the length of the attic and hurling their fused self at the dormer window over the couch. Every time, just as they leap, Sam will decide that, this time, it is not going to work. The fusion’s eyes will snap shut and, in the darkness, Sam will imagine the shattering glass, the fusion hurtling through the window, this body—bigger but still fragile, still flesh and bone and blood—tumbling down the slanted roof, breaking on the ground of their rented backyard. And then he’ll open his eyes and find his own body nestled on the couch, safe and sound, entwined with his older sister.
Yeah, shock-defusing is not fun. So Sam and Dean spend more and more time in their fused state. Whole afternoons that summer stay in Sam’s mind as a weird haze of smoke and sensation and music. When they fall asleep fused—drifting off on the couch, the summer sun from the attic dormer hot on their shared, bare skin—they always wake separately. Sam thinks it has something to do with dreams. He suggests this to Dean one day, after they have defused (using pleasure rather than surprise) and they are lying on the couch, too relaxed to untangle themselves.
“Maybe. But it’s weird: when we’re…you know. Together. I always feel like I’m me, but I can hear you, sometimes, in the back of my head,” offers Dean, her fingernails circling Sam’s sunburned back. At some point, they decided that skin contact makes the fusion happen more quickly, so now Sam pretty much sheds his shirt before he even climbs the attic ladder.
“That’s what it feels like to me, too!” Sam says. “But like I’m in charge and you’re the echo in the back of my head.”
“Huh,” Dean rests her check against Sam’s shoulder, thinking. But just when Sam starts to think he could stay like this all day, Dean peels herself off and saunters toward the attic steps.
“Dibs on the shower,” she calls over her shoulder. This is how their fusion sessions often end, with Dean wandering off for a shower, a nap, one of Dad's beers, and Sam left up in the attic. He’ll never admit it, but a few times, when he’s come back to himself half-hard and still thrumming with borrowed energy, he has been inclined to close his eyes and imagine just what is going on in that shower. Usually, he imagines their most recent fusion, but once or twice he's pictured another body, more familiar, with small tits and bowed legs.
Everything they know about fusing, they hash out by comparing notes and discussing theories on the old attic couch. For the first time in his life, Sam has no desire to research the topic or to ask any of Dad’s hunting buddies or even to call Bobby. This is just between him and Dean.
“What if things get…confused?” Sam suggests quietly one day. Dean sits crosslegged at one end of the couch and Sam worries his shoelace at the other.
“Confused how?” Dean asks, as though somehow sharing a fused form with a sibling wasn’t already about as confused as it could get.
“Like—half-girl and…” Sam trails off, waiting for Dean to laugh at him, tease him for being a worry-wart.
Instead, her eyes glitter. “That,” she breathes, “would be so fucking hot!”
It never happens, though. The magic, or whatever it is, has its own internal logic. Most of the time, their fusion is wholly and undoubtedly female. Sam speculates that it might be because Dean is older and has more psychic influence or because…
“Because…?” Dean echoes. She is curled up on the sofa, her head pillowed on Sam’s thigh. Their fusion has just dissolved in the midst of a very nice orgasm and they are both still buzzing with the sensation.
“Well, because I, uhm…think about girls. A lot.” Sam can’t imagine having this conversation with his sister six weeks ago, but that was before they’d been fused. Now he has to remind himself sometimes that she can’t always see every thought in his head all the time.
“Hmm,” Dean says, idly tugging at a thread from his cutoffs. She sounds just the way she does in his head when they’ve fused, amused and genuinely curious. And then she smiles at him: not taunting or teasing, but surprisingly gentle. “Don’t worry, Sammy. We’ll find you a nice girl one of these days.”
Their next fusion is male. And how. Sam can feel himself, half-hard, as soon as he meets the fusion’s reflected eyes in the mirror. Fu-uuck, Dean groans Already? How do you guys get anything done? And then, just as Sam’s hands start to open his tented jeans, No, wait!
Sometimes, when Dean thinks one thing and Sam thinks another, their fused body will try to process both directions at once. It creates an eerie, pins-and-needles feeling and that is what Sam feels in his fingertips.
“What?” he still talks out loud, even though Dean answers him in his head. Anything else is just too weird…and that’s saying a lot.
I want to go out, Dean purrs. I want to take this body out.
“Uhm, how about no?” snaps Sam. Their fusion is already very…excitable, Sam thinks (horny, Dean corrects, always ready to call a spade a spade). Everything feels more intense: the breath of air from the open attic window, the softly faded floral upholstery of the old couch, the binding of their mismatched clothes (Sam's cutoffs, now scandalously short, and Dean's old tank top). Sam cannot imagine a worse idea than letting this fusion out in the world, half-hard and with Dean whispering in the back of his head like a wicked angel on his shoulder.
The pins-and-needles feeling spreads up to his elbow. “Dean, stop!” Sam just wants to jerk off this magnificent dick in the privacy of his own attic. What is so wrong with that?
Compromise, Sammy, Dean teases, and for a moment, the pins-and-needles vanishes and Sam can fully feel the temptingly thick curve of his new cock.
“What kind of compromise?” Sam is already sure he is going to regret this.
Take him out, just for an hour or two. You can choose where we go.
So Sam chooses to go to work. Partially to make Dean bitch and complain, and partially because he really needs to mow the Baptists’ church lawn. Should’ve done it yesterday, but he had knocked off early because he’d wanted to spend the afternoon at home, fused with Dean.
The fusion is bigger and older and stronger. Dressed in Dad's old jeans and Dean's butchest t-shirt, they mow the front and side lawns and even the ground by the old cemetery in record time. Sam is just locking the old mower in the Baptist’s shed when he hears Mr. Beasley, the ancient caretaker.
“Do I know you, boy?”
Sam is struck dumb, but then he feels his tongue go pins-and-needs. He hears Dean’s lies rolling smoothly out of his mouth: “No, sir. I’m Sam Winchester’s cousin, uhm. Lowell." (Lowell? Sam thinks, but Dean doesn't even hesitate) "Sam had to go out of town—go help his Dad—and he asked me to fill in.”
Mr. Beasley is as old as dirt, and he didn’t get that way being stupid. He gives this tall young man a long glance, but doesn't even try to hide his suspicion. Sam can practically see him thinking. It’s true, this boy does favor Sam Winchester: same nose, same lanky gait. Looks like Sam might in a few years when he’s filled out a little. And Lord knows that boy’s daddy is good-for-nothing, liable to leave town at a moment’s notice. “Well, that’s mighty good of you to help out your…”
“Cousin,” Sam says, promptly, on board with the lie now. “Sam wanted to make sure the job was done properly,” adds Dean, piously, “what with Sunday services coming up.” Personally, Sam thinks that is going a step too far, but Mr. Beasley nods agreeably and advises him to get that mower in because it looks like rain.
Barely ten minutes later, Sam finds himself jerking off in the washroom of the Baptist vestry. Somehow the thrill of nearly getting caught out has inflames the fusion's perpetual (horniness, Dean finishes the thought). Sam's hips pump a half-familiar cock into his fist as Dean pants and pleads in his ear. He can feel tingles running up his thighs, coalescing into a firestorm low in his belly, and it is no use telling his brain that his body isn’t really his. So he keeps one hand on his cock and lets the other play and pinch his nipples. They’re nothing special, just a regular male shape, but he can feel Dean’s breath speeding up. “Thinkin about it?” he whispers.
Huunnhhhh? Dean whines, high and needy.
But Sam doesn’t have to say anything: after all, they are sharing the same brain as well as the same body and the same fantasy. Just the thought of a fusion with Sam’s cock and Dean’s little tits is enough to make Dean moan. The sound shivers up Sam's spine. Sam swears his sister comes a split second before he does—but of course, that’s impossible.
Sam's whole body flushes and flickers and burns. And then he's staring at his sister, her hair disheveled and her face blushing pink. Dean smiles at him, like the cat who got the cream. "Best one yet," she says, her voice so low and throaty that Sam feels his own cock stir, almost painful. She pushes the washroom door open with her hip, heads out into the summer evening. "And, Sammy? Next time," she calls, her voice floating back, "I pick where we go."
Chapter 3: trio
As luck would have it, the next time the fusion is male, Dad is home, half-drunk and angry at the world because his latest prey took a chunk out of his left calf and then escaped into another dimension. Living with him has been like walking on eggshells; waiting for the evening and a chance to sneak up to the attic with Dean has been the only thing keeping Sam sane. Surely Dean isn't going to expect to collect on the promised excursion with Dad downstairs?
But she does. In fact, Dean hijacks the fusion and the Impala—and refuses to tell Sam where they are going. Sam could try to fight it: he knows from their lazy afternoons comparing notes on the attic couch that Dean can feel the same pins-and-needles awkwardness if he opposes her. But he doesn’t. Partially because it wouldn’t be safe while the fusion is relying on Dean's muscle memory to drive. Also because they’d jacked off in the attic and Sam is still in that luscious, relaxed state where it is hard to really care about anything but how good he feels. He hadn't really been paying attention when Dean had pulled on a pair of Dad's jeans and the flannel shirt Sam had left at the bottom of the attic stairs. Sam's old boots are just worn enough to squeeze around the fusion's big feet. A walk. A nice walk in the summer evening. What could go wrong? Sam doesn't even think to object until the fusion picks up the Impala's keys from the packing box that serves as an end table. Dad is passed out on the couch, after a combination of cheap beer and painkillers, and Dean hisses shut up, Sammy, so Sam does.
They end up at the county fair, a rinky-dink little carnival in the next town over. It is not much to look at—some cotton candy, a midway that's seen better days, a dozen death-trap rides—but it is busy: packs of middle schoolers and groups of drunken students from the local land grant college. Sam sees one kid he sort of recognizes from freshman year but, of course, no one recognizes him. He's adept now at moving in the fusion's bigger, older body, doesn't even think about it until he realizes that a group of college kids has been eyeing him.
College girls. A sorority group, out with their frat-brother boyfriends, and looking for an extra to go up in the Ferris Wheel.
“We've got extra tickets,” one of the girls says. “Ruby's afraid of heights.”
“Oh, leave Ruby out of it!” adds another girl, tall and blonde. “She doesn't have to go if she doesn't want to! So, what about it?” she turns her attention to Sam. “Wanna go up? Oh, I'm Jess, by the way.”
“Uhm, sure. Thanks.” Sam says, reaching out to shake the hand she offers. She has a nice firm handshake and he likes how she defended Ruby. She smiles shyly when he agrees and he's so busy trying to decide if her eyes are blue that he accidentally introduces himself by his true name. “I'm Sam.”
“Sam,” Jess tries the name out. “Nice to meet you.”
The Ferris Wheel line snakes all the way down the midway, so Jess's group ends up wandering around while they wait. They eat hot dogs and share popcorn (Dean had the foresight to stuff her wallet into the pocket of the fusion's jeans on the way out the door). Sam wins a stuffed giraffe playing skeeball—say what you will about his upbringing, it has given him phenomenal reflexes—and Jess asks him to give it to a little girl who is crying because she dropped her ice cream in the sawdust. Maybe because she'd introduced herself first, her friends seems to have assigned him to her. So they walk together at the end of the group. Sam hears all about Jess's elementary education classes and how she joined the sorority mostly because it meant so much to her mother, but it's probably good for her because she can get really caught up in school work and...
“You don't talk too much, do you?” Jess asks suddenly. Sam realizes she's been monitoring him while he's trailed along after her, admiring her golden tan and silky hair. He feels himself blush. Usually, no one but Dean even notices him.
“Uh. Sorry. My sister always says I'm too quiet.”
“Oh, Lord, don't apologize,” Jess is as sensitive about his feelings as she is about Ruby's, or the little girl who lost her ice cream. “Just tell me if I'm getting boring, okay?”
“I'm not bored!” Sam says, and he means it. “I'm...actually, I'm really enjoying myself.” Distantly, he feels Dean smile smugly.
When they finally wend their way back to the Ferris Wheel, Sam is not entirely surprised to find that the group has organized itself so that he and Jess end up alone, seated next to each other after the rest of the group has already gotten into the ride. He suspects he is just the latest of a long line of strays that Jess finds and her friends indulge. The Ferris Wheel, old and rickety, takes an age to crank them up into the sky. Every fourth or fifth customer seems to have a problem with their tickets, necessitating a long, slow wait while the ride operator consults with the ticket-taker. By the second long pause, Jess has stopped talking. By the fourth, she's dropped her head onto Sam's shoulder.
As they creak up to the very top of the arc, the Ferris Wheel compartment comes to another stop, suddenly enough that the carriage sways and Jess reaches out to grab Sam's hand. He blinks down at their joined hands on the cracked vinyl upholstery. And when he looks up, Jess is watching him.
“You can kiss me, if you want,” she says shyly. Sam does want, it's what he's wanted since she first put her hand in his and said her name. He’s trying to think of how to say that, but before he can find the words, his fused body simply leans in and tastes her. Muscle memory, like driving the Impala. Only it draws on no memory Sam has ever had. This is all new. Jess’s mouth is warm and sweet, faint hint of sugary fair lemonade. The kisses get deeper and deeper as she curls into him in the swaying basket. He'd thought he was accustomed to the fusion's size, but she’s so tiny, fitting neatly the curl of his arm. This new, big body that sometimes seems to move on its own. Only when Jess breaks the kiss to lean into his shoulder, her breath hot on his neck, does Sam realizes he’s got his big paw of a hand cupped around her breast. Pinch, Dean breathes, but Sam is already doing it, pinching the girl’s hardened nipple and then soothing with the pad of his thumb.
“Oh!” Jess breathes, arching against him. When the Ferris Wheel jerks into motion again, they are both startled. At some point she’s thrown her long leg over his and his kisses have migrated down her throat to the neck of her t-shirt, the cleft between her breasts. (She’s bigger than Dean, Sam thinks vaguely, nosing where her nipple pokes through her bra, but smaller than some of their fusions). When the carriage starts to descend she lets out a little shriek, nearly slipping off his lap and he grabs her (big hands nearly encircling her little waist) and they laugh, breathless and aroused.
“Uhm,I have…er, my car…” Sam starts, before wondering if that’s too forward, if maybe Jess is one of those girls who likes to play hard to get. He can feel himself blushing again, and Jess can see it because she presses a hot kiss to the curve of his check. She slides back onto the seat next to him with maybe more wriggling than is strictly necessary. She puts her hand on his thigh—definitely closer to his crotch than she needs to be—and says, “just let me check in with my friends.”
Jess's friends are waiting when they finally reach the ground: hooting and hollering and teasing in a way that makes Sam suspect it hadn’t been a mechanical fault that had kept them aloft so long. Something in him—must be Dean, sassy and always comfortable with an audience—makes him sketch a jokey bow and that’s just the right thing to do. Suddenly, he’s one of the group: the sorority girls laughing in a flurry of blonde hair and tanned limbs, their boyfriends slapping him on the back. Someone is putting an icy plastic cup of beer into his hand and Sam takes a gulp. Jess has her own beer, pulls his arm over her shoulders. They walk around with her friends for another ten minutes, Jess sometimes subtly rocking her hips back to grind against his cock, Sam sometimes letting his hand drop off her shoulder to cop a feel. At the Tilt-a-Whirl, Jess declares herself far too drunk to ride and says she wants to have her fortune told instead.
“Ohh, me, too—” pipes up one of the other girls—the only brunette: Rosie? Ruby? Sam didn’t catch her name. But one of the other girls tugs her elbows and whispers something in her ear and when Sam and Jess separate from the group, no one follows. They wander to the dark edge of the lot, past the fortune teller’s tent. Sam wonders for a brief, mad moment what a true fortune teller would make of him. Most people on the carnival circuit are charming liars with a knack for reading faces but Sam is too much his father’s son to believe they are all frauds. It would be just his luck to run into someone with True Sight while in this fused form.
Suddenly and unromantically, they run out of fairground. Sam still has half his mind on fortune tellers when he and Jess come upon an old wooden picnic table jammed up next to a tall chainlink fence. Beyond it is the parking lot and the lights of the old freeway. Jess laughs and says something about a scenic view before she turns to lean against the picnic table. Her fingers are still entwined with Sam’s; they've been holding hands almost since they stepped off the Ferris Wheel. And Sam is…not ready. He stands stock still for a moment, just looking at her, golden and shadowed, so different from Dean, the only other girl he’s ever really studied up close.
“Hey…how old are you?” Jess asks, suddenly suspicious.
Sam blinks. “What?” he asks, because he's taller and broader than some of her college friends. She must have glimpsed something young or vulnerable in his expression. He can’t think what to say next, but then he feels a tingle in his throat. He hasn’t felt Dean so distinctly all evening. They’ve been in sync so much that it is almost like he’s been alone in the fusion.
“I just. I guess I don’t know much about girls, is all,” Sam says, sounding exactly like an innocent hick, like the kind of endearing bumpkin you might meet at a county fair. He can practically see Jess’s worry evaporating, even though he hasn't actually answered her question. She tugs on their joined hands, pulling him against the table, against her.
“Coulda fooled me,” she whispers, her words kissing along his jaw. “Seemed to know your way around when we were on the Ferris Wheel…”
Sam’s blush is authentic, though how it transmits itself to the fusion, he’ll never know. “I haven’t done anything like this,” he protests, honestly enough, breathing the fruity smell of her shampoo. Such a thing as too honest, Sammy, Dean warns. “I mean, not with a girl I just met,” he adds, virtuously.
Jess seems to enjoy the idea of herself as a worldly college woman initiating a country boy who barely got past second base with his prom date. Before, her kisses were enough to make Sam forget he was in a goddamn Ferris Wheel. Clearly, she wasn’t even half-trying. Now she’s got her tongue in his mouth and she’s murmuring something about big hands as she puts his on her hips. He's only had one watered-down beer but he feels head-spinning drunk.
“Uhm, I like…” she starts between kisses, but Sam’s already got his hand under her shirt. He remembers how quickly she’d reacted before (remembers how once, in the attic, in another body, Dean’s voice had told him it was a damn shame boys were so ignorant about tits watch and learn Sammy). When he’s got her panting hot and practically melted against him, he nibbles her ear and slips one hand down to fidget with the hem of her little skirt. “C’n I touch you, sweetheart?”
“You’d better,” hisses Jess so Sam skims his hand up her smooth thigh.
Seem to know your way around, Jess had said, and Sam does. After all, he’s been studying all summer under his sister’s expert tutelage, so knows intimately how to touch and where to linger, when to speed up, when to go so slow that Jess makes sweet begging noises. Still, there’s always something to learn. Tonight, it’s the fact that bringing someone else to the height of pleasure can be even more enjoyable than experiencing it yourself.
Jess is shaking against him, so wet Sam can hear his fingers inside her, so needy she can’t form words, just desperate, mewling whimpers. When he finally brings her off, she actually bites him, teeth in the meat of his shoulder through his flannel shirt. She tosses her blonde head back and moans Jesus fucking Christ in a way that makes Sam think suddenly, sharply, of Dean. She clings, arms and legs wrapped around him, and he strokes her long hair back from her face until she stops trembling.
A long, lovely kiss and then Jess gives him a wicked grin and says, “My turn!” Again, Sam thinks of Dean.
Sam has half a mind to object as she sinks gracefully to the fairground grass. He’d be quite content to just stand there, cradling her, until the sun comes up or the fusion dissolves or Dad comes looking for his car. That would have been a mistake, though, because Jess’s cock-sucking skills are such that even Dean can’t find anything to criticize. Sam has vague, blissful impressions of wet heat and suction and fingers and tongue. Days later, alone in the shower, hand on his dick, he’ll summon a fractured memory of looking down to see Jess flip her blonde hair, purse her lips around the head of his cock, and swallow him down to the goddamn root. Sam comes before he can even warn Jess, orgasm flaming along his spine, distant lights of the fair dancing in his vision. She swallows and teases him with little kitten-licks until he drags her to her feet to seek his taste in her mouth.
When they catch up with her friends, Ruby looks at their meticulously straightened clothes (Jess’s skirt hanging precisely to her knees, Sam’s shirt buttons all done up) and asks slyly about the fortune teller. “Oh, you know,” Jess waves her hand. “Tall, dark stranger.” She winks at Sam over her friend’s shoulder and he remembers that this fusion has hair several shades darker than his own. A half-hour later, when the roustabouts start turning off lights and Jess’s friends start bitching about Monday morning classes, Sam recites his number for Jess to enter into this phone. He transposes four numbers and gives the area code for the east side of the county, as far away as possible from the one where their rental house resides. Realizing that he will never see her again—that outside of this one-night-only fusion, she wouldn’t recognize him even if they did run into each other—is so physically painful that Sam almost worries he’ll defuse right there in the parking lot.
Somehow, he and Dean manage to retain their fused form on the drive home, at least until Dean takes a run at the Township Population 1617 sign on the town limits.
“Dean!” Sam snaps, when he finds himself—really, himself—in the passenger seat and the Impala (miraculously) still on the road. “What are you doin—”
“Sammy!” mimics Dean. “I had to scare us into splitting up before we get home. Dad’s gonna be pissed about the car and you’ve gotta do your best puppy-dog face when I tell him how you just begged me to take you to the fair.” She reaches up to tilt the rearview mirror towards him. “Go ahead and practice. Wanna see me do Blue Steel? Hey!” she says when he grabs her arm. And then, “huh,” as she realizes what he’s looking at.
Sam’s fingers are clumsy as he unbuttons his flannel, pulls the sleeve down to inspect his own bicep. Sure enough, he’s got the same mark: a little bruise, just where Jess had bitten him.
He meets Dean’s eyes in the mirror. Maybe it makes a certain sort of sense: something of him, or of Dean, always seems to end up in the fusion—Dean’s freckles, Sam’s reckless hair—so why shouldn’t something that happens to their fused form be preserved even when they change back? Maybe this has always been the case and, snug in their attic, they’ve just never had any reason to notice.
“Told you we’d find you a nice girl, Sammy,” is all Dean will say.
Chapter 4: troika
Dean is grounded for the month of August for taking the Impala, confined to her room except when she's working at the mechanic's. Sam is not. Even Sam finds this unjust.
“Dad, it’s not Dean’s fault. I don’t have my permit and I asked her to—”
“This discussion is over, Sam. Your sister is the oldest and she knows the rules.” And when Dad uses that tone, the discussion really is over. His temper is even shorter than usual because, although his supernatural bite is healing, he’s out of booze. He can either send Dean out to the package store in town—and circumvent his own punishment—or he can go himself. And he doesn’t like either option, which has put him in a sour mood. Sam scowls, unsympathetic.
Sam slinks upstairs. He’s too old to avoid the obvious: Dad favors him, always has, even though Dean has been the loyal soldier. It’s Sam who gets little presents from the road, Sam who is asked to help with research. Dean who has to fetch and carry and tolerate Dad's ridiculous rules. He thinks he can vanish for weeks at a time and then come back and lay down the law like... Sam taps on Dean’s door. No answer. When he opens it anyway, he can barely see her under the tangle of bedclothes and laundry. (Dean insists there's no point to folding clothes and putting them away, just to get them out and unfold them again). The evening light slants in across the empty lot out back. In the far distance, he can see the patio lights at the old bar and grill on the county highway. It's an unfamiliar view; he's not in Dean's room often. They usually hang out in the attic.
“Hey,” he says.
And Sam has nothing to say to that. Wouldn’t make sense to apologize: going out to the fair had been Dean’s idea. But nor can he say Dad will get over it or any platitude like that. They both know its not true. He wishes he could offer her something to alleviate the boredom (a library book? the latest stack of research for Dad?), but he’s got nothing she wants. He hears the front door close downstairs. A moment later, the growl of the Impala’s engine. Sounds like Dad has decided to get his liquor himself. The warm silence of the long summer evening settles again.
It gives Sam a very dangerous idea.
“Hey, Dean. Wanna fuse?”
For a moment, there’s nothing. And then the bedclothes stir. Dean sits up. Her hair is messy and she’s still wearing her polo shirt from work. She should look pathetic. Instead, she looks mutinous.
“Can we go out?”
Sam hesitates for only a split second. It’s the only thing he has to give. “Yeah, okay. Wherever you want.”
For the first time ever, they don’t go to the attic. In Dean’s mind, it is entirely okay to leave the house fused with her younger brother through some poorly understood magical/pharmaceutical/musical process, but not okay to leave her room if her father has sent her there. Not for the first time, Sam wonders at the bizarre relationship between his only parent and his only sibling. Sam brings the grimoire from his room and Dean sets up the burning herbs and the music in hers. She taps the old tobacco tin to get out the final few flakes of dusty herbs. Neither of them say what both are thinking: if Bobby's mystery herbs are an essential part of the fusion, they've just used up the last of it. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the fusion ends up looking eerily like Dean herself. Or rather, like Dean might look in five years, with longer hair and bigger (tits, Sammy, for the love of God, call ‘em tits!). And as Sam studies the new reflection, he can feel his sister percolating, angry and dangerous.
In the attic, they have a store of clothes set aside for taking the fusion into polite society. Mostly Dad’s old jeans—long enough to suit the taller fusions—and Sam’s baggy shirts. But tonight, Dean locks her door and raids her own closet. She pulls out a skirt Sam has never seen, one that would be risky on his sister and is near scandalous on the mile-long legs of the fusion. She wears one of her own tank tops. No bra, no panties: there’s nothing in the house that would fit.
“Uhm. Dean.” Sam starts, not sure he even wants to get into it with his sister in this mood.
Driver picks the music, Sam, Dean says, as steely and determined as Dad had been a half-hour earlier. Then she picks up Sam’s boots, tucks some money inside, and throws them out her open window. Before Sam can object again, she his hoisting herself over the sill and shinnying down the porch roof the way she always does when she has to sneak out.
On the ground she tugs on Sam’s boots. The combination—flirty skirt, boyish boots—is kind of hot, Sam thinks, surprised by himself. He feels Dean’s annoyance surge, an itch under their shared skin, and tries to reign in the thought before he realizes that what is bothering Dean is exactly what had so annoyed Dad: they’ve backed themselves into a corner. Dean had insisted on going out. And now that she’s out, she has realized that there are only about four places she can go on foot at eight PM on a summer evening…and one of them is the Baptist Church where Sam mows the lawns.
Sam is about to suggest that they just go back inside before Dad comes back (after all, he can think of plenty of ways to occupy a half-hour with this hot, well-developed body). But then Dean tugs down her skirt—already halfway up her ass and why do men like women wearing these things, Sam can feel the thought as though it is his own—and sets off across the fields.
Sam can feel his stomach sinking. The only thing out this way, across two fallow fields and County Road 18, is the Oldetowne Bar & Grille. A bad idea at the best of times. A terrible idea when Dean is in one of her reckless moods.
The bouncer takes one look at Dean’s tits and doesn’t even ask her for ID. Her first drink has barely touched the scarred surface of the bar when a second appears beside it. Dean raises an eyebrow and the bartender points to a tall, beefy guy at the end of the bar. Not bad. Sam does the mental equivalent of slapping his hand across his mouth. That was not his thought! He did not just think that! Did he? He can’t be sure. Not in this body. Ever since they fused, this body has felt…different. Less predictable. More sensitive. Like it might follow his command…or it just might not.
For instance, when the big guy at the end of the bar comes over to sit at the next barstool, his meaty hand brushes the fusion’s shoulder and Sam means to flinch away but…he doesn’t. And when he says, “So, baby doll, what’s your name?” Sam can feel his own face smile and his own lips say, “Call me Sammy. All my friends do.”
Once, when Sam had been six and much given to crowing about his prowess at the checkers board, Dean had asked to speak with him privately. He remembers because it had been a very formal request. And she had treated him very formally, asking him to sit down at the old toolbench that had served for a dining table in that particular rental house. “Sam. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I think it’s only fair that you know. Uncle Bobby lets you win at checkers. Every time.”
In another kid, it would have been tattling. But from Dean, it was sincere: she truly was sorry to be the one to break the news about his lack of cherckers-playing talent, but she believed it was wrong that others were deceiving him. And it is with a similar sense of resignation that she explains herself in the bar, even as a man’s hand eases up from her knee. I’ve been letting you think you were in charge of the fusion, she confesses. Almost since the very first time. I just took over when you were out of your depth, but other than that…I didn’t really care, and most of the stuff you picked was good. Hell, some of it was great—that girl on the Ferris Wheel? Didn’t think you had it in you, Sammy! But I’m older than you, Sam, and I’m stronger. I’m tired of being told what to do. So tonight, I get what I want.
The whole time—first while Sam was listening and processing Dean’s words, and then while he was focusing his energy on getting his feet off the rungs of the barstool and out the bar door—the whole time, Dean has been carrying on a teasing conversation with the guy who bought her a drink. She’s leaning into him, whispering something in his ear. After the fairgrounds, Sam knows that that does to a man. Dean knows, too, of course. He can feel the man’s thick fingers on their thigh. Can imagine the flare of interest in the man’s eyes when he realizes that the woman drinking his alcohol is bare under her too-short skirt.
“’scuse me, then. Be right back,” Sam hears himself purring and, because he can feel Dean’s thoughts more intensely than ever before—fuck, she really had been holding herself back all those other times—he knows that she is headed to the ladies’ room. He knows, because Dean knows, because he has access to all of her thoughts now. He knows there’s a machine on the wall that dispenses condoms and he knows she plans to spend her last dollar there: she doesn’t intend to buy any more of her own drinks this evening.
She stumbles a little as she stands: the only effect Sam’s resistance seems to have on her. It is not nearly enough. Especially since the guy—Steve: Sam hadn’t heard him introduce himself, but Dean had, so he knows his name is Steve—takes the opportunity to steady her and ogle her tits at the same time.
This is a bad idea, Sam lectures his sister as they walk across the Oldetowne floor, but he knows his words will have no effect. He can’t help but notice that this fusion even moves differently, lighter and slinkier. Sam can’t decide if it’s because the hips are wider than their last, male fusion, or if it’s something Dean is doing deliberately.
Tell me what you really think, Dean sighs. Those words should sound sarcastic. But they don’t. She is serious. And Sam has to admit that what he really thinks is that this bad idea is just a little…intriguing. Their current fusion is two inches taller than he is, but lighter, daintier. Fragile and feminine and Sam can’t help but wonder what a big guy like Steve could wring out of this form. He thinks about the carnival girl, Jess, and how he’d undone her just with his fingers. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious what it felt like from the inside. And it is not like the fusion is really him. Or Dean, for that matter. So maybe…
“You oughta reconsider,” a gruff voice says. Deep and familiar and, somehow, even in this body: a comfort. Sam knows who he is going to see even before he turns.
In the dark corner by the narrow hall that leads to the bathrooms: Dad, an empty beer glass in front of him.
“None of my business, but I just think you ought to reconsider,” Dad says. “Stepping out with that one.” He nods toward the bar, where Steve is watching.
“Definitely none of your business,” Dean says and Sam thinks for a moment that Dad will surely recognize that tone. But he doesn’t: a little drunk, maybe still full of Percocet, certainly not expecting to see anyone he knows here at the Oldetowne Bar & Grille. And, of course, he doesn't know them, not in this form, not with this voice.
Or maybe he does, because his smile is warm and tired and fond. Sam recognizes it. He feels Dean know it too. “I don’t come here often, but everytime I do, he’s sitting at that same space, chatting up someone new. He’s not to be trusted.” Another flare of familiarity: Dad is big on trust. He looks down at his empty glass. Then back up at Sam and Dean. “Got a daughter, not much younger than you. Old enough to have ideas of her own.”
Sam snorts. Or maybe that’s Dean.
That weary smile again. “Yeah, I’m not as patient with that as I maybe should be. But it’s mostly ‘cause I worry about her getting in over her head. Like I suspect you’re about to do. Lemme give you a ride home. If you decide you really want ‘im,” another derisive nod toward Steve, who is glowering now. “Well, I can guarantee you’ll find him here tomorrow.”
“Any trouble, angelface?” Steve has lumbered over and he’s talking to Sam, but looking at Dad, annoyed that someone might be trying to poach his evening catch.
A fizz of annoyance, but it is directed at Steve, not Dad. Dean hates it when people try to solve her problems. And she hates being called angelface. “No trouble at all, thanks,” she says, shortly.
“As the lady says,” Dad replies, after a beat. “Just thought she looked familiar, but it turns out we don’t know each other after all.” He stands, taller than Steve, and all muscle. He picks up his keys, slides a neat stack of small bills under his glass. “Have a nice evening.”
Steve waits until the door swings closed behind Dad. “Honey, I don’t think I like you talking to stranger men. Folks might get the wrong idea.”
Dean bats her lashes. “And what idea would that be, angelface? Back in a sec!” She turns down the narrow hallway toward the bathrooms, but she stalks right past them, right down to the end where a red EXIT sign blazes in the darkness. She hesitates for a long minute, her thoughts racing too fast for Sam to parse them, and then pushes through the door and outside.
Sam is disoriented in the warm August night. But Dean knows they are on the far side of the Bar & Grille, where the parking lot runs into the woods of an empty parcel of scrubland. She jogs toward the parking lot, Sam’s boot catching on the curb, spilling her onto the asphalt.
Large, warm hands are setting her upright and Sam knows his father even before he sees them.
“Where is he?” Dad growls, looking ready to pummel Steve into the cracked parking lot pavement.
“No—I just. I tripped. I've had too much to drink.”
“You sure?” Dad is gentler now, so gentle that all Sam can do is nod. He feels...not drunk, but certainly dizzy, the adrenaline jolt of falling on top of the dangerous thrum of daring that seems to run through this fusion like heartsblood.
“Well, then, that’s easily fixed.” Dad moves over to the hulking Impala, so easily that Sam suspects he’d used his beer to chase some painkillers that are just now kicking in. He pops the side door and returns with the first aid kit that has lived in the glovebox for as long as Sam can remember.
Somehow, Dean had known right where the car would be, had run right toward it. Sam leans against it car, feeling the metal still sun-warm through the ridiculous skirt. When fused, he is always super-aware of sensation and now he can practically feel the velvety-dark of the August night against his skin: bare arms, bare legs, just enough of a breeze to make him remember he has tits now, and no bra. He feels his lips move, hears the words: “I don’t want a band-aid. And I don’t want a ride home.”
“Whaddaya want, then?” Dad’s diction is a little slurry. Could be the meds, could be the way Sam’s pulse is thundering in his ears. He doesn’t know what he is going to say before he says it. He’s not even sure Dean knows. But he recognizes the words: “Well, you can kiss me. If you want to.”
For once, Dad doesn't object, lecture, or protest. That is the last clue Sam needs: he really doesn't recognize them. Instead, he looks into their eyes, searching and serious. And then he kisses Sam. His kisses are deep but gentle. He’s got Sam’s head cupped in one big hand, fingers in his hair. He’s talking, murmuring, but Dean is talking too, and Sam’s not sure who to listen to. Now Dad’s hand is warm on his thigh, another low on his back. The fusion is a few inches taller than Sam, and Sam is tall for his age, but Dad is bigger and that is—fuck, it just makes Sam want to melt into that broad chest.
“Eager, arn’cha?” Dad rumbles and he sounds fond and amused. A lot like Dean, actually, which might be why Sam is nodding automatically, his cheek against the familiar flannel shirt.
Sam’s hips come right up off the metal when Dad’s fingers touch him for the first time. It’s different from touching himself up in the attic: surprising, unpredictable, electric. “Forgot something, sweetheart?” And Sam has—forgotten that he’s bare under Dean’s little skirt. Embarrassment flames across his face and Dad sees it.
“Shh…” Dad’s fingers are thick and calloused and so good that Sam stutters, “D-daad,” when they touch his clit. It’s the wrong thing to say. He can feel Dad go suddenly still. Moron! Dean hisses, her voice thready and distracted.
“You—like that? That how you wanna play it?” Dad asks, after studying Sam for a long minute. And Sam nods, jerkily, not daring to open his mouth lest he say something incriminating. Dad studies him again and seems to take him at his word. “All right, then. If that’s what you want…”
Sam’s floating inside this body; between Dean’s knowledge and Daddy’s big hands, he’s not even aware of moving, but somehow he’s back on his feet again. He’s leaning on the Impala, bent over with his palms on the blank metal and his blood rushing to his head.
“All wet, sweetheart,” Dad mumbles, stubble against his ear, “so ready…” He is wet, and hot, but cold, too, when Dad hands go up his thighs and push the flirty little skirt up so he’s bare to the night. He’s tingling everywhere and maybe its arousal but part of it must be Dean fighting for control of their shared body. Amidst all of that, and the endorphin crash of running from Steve, Sam hardly realizes what is happening when he feels the thick head of Dad’s dick nudge his thigh.
Just relax. That’s right—push against…open. So good, so good for me, Sammy. Sam can hear Dean crooning to him, trying to calm him. But it’s too big—thick and deep and Sam has never been so open. Dad’s big hands are curled around his hips: he can’t move, can only arch his back and take it. One of Dad’s hands leaves Sam’s waist, skims up to cup his breast. No bra. “Naughty girl,” Dad mumbles, kisses the back of his neck. “So good… l’il girl…” Sam feels something break inside him. He thinks it might be Dean. Dad is murmuring, but Sam can barely hear him because Dean is moaning now, losing words—yes, yes, Daddy, Saaaam, more.
The fusion dissolves when Dad starts to move. He’s just—it’s so…it’s just too much. Sam remembers feeling like he’s going burst or tear or explode with pleasure. It must be that shock that throws him out of the fusion. Because suddenly he’s on the ground at the corner of the parking lot, scratchy asphalt under his palms. He’s so hard his cock is twitching against his belly in time with the heartbeat thumping in his ears. But when the thunder of his own breath and blood subsides, he hears something else. The squeak of the Impala’s suspension.
There’s a pleasant ache low in Sam’s belly when he stands. It’s good and he’s so hard that for a moment, he’s tempted to sink back down, give himself some relief. But he can see shadows moving at the edge of the parking lot, where the Impala is backed into the trees. And when he moves closer, he can see that something has gone terribly wrong.
Dean is where Sam was. Where they had been, fused. Which is to say, bent over the Impala, legs spread, taking every inch of their father’s dick. At first, Sam thinks he is somehow still seeing the fusion—but no, she’s too small, dwarfed under Dad, her body flexing with each of his thrusts, rocking up onto her toes. And he knows those sounds: those whimpery little moans, he’s heard them in the back of his head a dozen times this summer, on the couch in the attic when Dean was showing him how to please the fusion, how to please her. Even as Sam watches, Dad starts pulling her back onto his cock, grunting with the effort of it. Dean is trembling, keening, fingers of one hand scraping the Impala’s paint, fingers of the other pulling Dad’s hand up to play with her tiny tits. Finally, they go still, Dean's body pressed between Dad's and the Impala's for a long moment, Dad murmuring, nuzzling her ear as he soothes her.
Sam stands watching them, totally unsure of what to do. The fusion has never broken down like this. He doesn't...he can't... And then he can see his father realize that something isn't right. That the body curled under his has changed since he first touched it. And, being Dad, his mind goes immediately to one place: dark magic. Dad pulls back, reaching automatically for the knife he keeps in his ankle holster.
"Hey!" Sam hears his own shout before he even knows what he's doing. It is enough to get Dad's divide Dad's attention at a critical moment.
"Sammy?" Dad turns his head and Dean slips out from beneath him. She darts into the woods that run right up to the bar building. Dad's holds his hand up to Sam—stop, wait there—and goes after her, but Sam's sudden appearance has him confused and slow. Whereas Dean, Sam suspects, knows the fields between the Oldetowne and their rental very well, even in the dark. He's not surprised when Dad comes back empty handed. At least he's done up his jeans and fixed his belt.
"What're you doing here, Sam?"
Sam shrugs. Somehow, through some fusion magic, he's back in his regular clothes, looking just as Dad had left him. "I got worried," he says. "You'd been gone a long time. Dean thought you'd miss your meds." That is, in fact, something that Dean would worry about. Sam suspects both he and his father would be dead of infection twice over if they didn't have Dean to look out for them.
Dad's eyebrows draw in. "Where is your sister?"
And Sam lies for a second time that summer. "In her room. She's grounded, remember?" He puts a snide little twist in the words, because he and Dad had just argued recently and anything less would be suspicious. Dad knows Sam carries grudges like iron-plate armor: protective but goddamn heavy, too.
"Hunh." Dad says. He turns and scans the parking lot one last time before he unlocks the Impala. "Get in." He doesn't say anything else on the drive home. He goes slowly on the dark country roads. They have to go the long way, up past the railroad crossing, so Sam is not entirely surprised to see that Dean's window is lit when they finally reach the rental house. She must have cut across the empty fields straight to their back yard.
"Sam," Dad says just as Sam opens the Impala's door. He is looking up at Dean's window. "Did you—uhm, in the parking lot. Did you see anything else with me? When you first got there?"
A third lie. They are getting easier. This time, Sam infuses his voice with skepticism, the kind that suggests anyone might see things if they drink on heavy painkillers. "Nope. Why?"
"No reason," replies Dad. He opens the glove compartment and pulls out a pack of cigarettes.
Sam lets himself into the house and, knowing that Dad will be outside for at least ten minutes with his smoke, he takes the stairs two at a time. But this time, when he tries to open Dean's door, he finds she's locked it. "Dean? Dean—are you-?"
"'M fine, Sammy. Go t'bed."
"Bed, Sammy. We'll go somewhere in the morning, talk there."
Sam stands in the hall for a minute, head against Dean's door, in case she changes her mind. But she doesn't. He wants to remind her that she's grounded, wants to ask where they will talk in the morning that Dad can't hear them.
There is a window at the end of the hall, right near Sam's own closet of a bedroom. Looking out, Sam can see his father, still seated at the wheel of the car, cigarette glowing orange-red. Sam remembers being bent over that car, hot and bare and open and wanting. Did you see anything?, Dad had asked. Anything. Not anyone. He clearly suspected something supernatural, a succubus, a shapeshifter, a creature that tempted him to damn him. And who could say he was wrong?
Chapter 5: duet
It is barely 4:30 when Dad rouses Sam from bed. “C’mon,” he says roughly, “one bag. Move quick.” They’ve done this a half-dozen times, usually when Dad gets a lead on a hunt that can’t wait, occasionally when there are more bills than they’ve got funds. Sam doesn’t know what it says about him, but he can pack a duffel and skip town in under 30 minutes from a dead sleep.
But this time, something is different. This time, Dean is staying behind.
Sam is so sleep-sodden that he doesn’t realize this at first. He follows Dad’s rapid orders, ferrying salt and bullets to the Impala. He sees Dean is in the little kitchenette, slapping together sandwiches, but they don’t have a chance to speak. And when Dad slings himself into the driver’s seat, he is alone.
Sam waits until they reach the highway to see if Dad will offer an explanation. But he doesn’t. “Where’s Dean?”
“She’s staying behind. Got work, and the house.”
That will remain his father’s excuse: Dean had regular employment in the mechanic’s front office, and they had just paid their absentee landlord six months’ rent, so there was no point in abandoning the little frame house. Sam, on the other hand, just had a handful of casual lawn customers—“Dean can see to ‘em,” Dad decreed—and six weeks before he was expected back in school. It would make sense, except San knows John Winchester has never put much stock by regular employment. He’ll drive all night to stakeout a swampy, abandoned graveyard because he’d promised another hunter that he would, but he’ll leave an employer from one day to the next. There’s work, and then there’s real work.
Also, it soon becomes obvious that this is more than a six week job. They crisscross the middle of the country, up as far as Michigan, down into Texarkana, stopping in a libraries and healers’ and junk shops. It soon becomes obvious that, in addition to finishing up preparations for the autumn hunts, Dad is also investigating the possibility that a shapeshifter could take on a specific and familiar shape—not just a facsimile of a human, but a clone of one, particular human—and what that might mean, for the human who is cloned and the human who is targeted. He hadn’t gotten a good look in the Oldetowne parking lot, might not even have realized that the body he was enjoying had changed, but he knew something wasn’t right.
Sam calls Dean, every few weeks. There’s not much to say: the house is fine, the job is fine. No details, and she never calls him. In late October, they stop traveling so much, set up camp at a place Dad knows, the Roadhouse. It is eerily like the Oldetowne Bar and Grille, though Sam doesn't say that. He and Dad never talk about that night. Ellen, the woman who runs the place, insists that Sam go to school, says he and Dad can stay in the back room only as long as they're not bringing truant officers to her front door. So Sam gets on the school bus every morning with Ellen’s daughter, Jo. She’s a few years older than he is, but they’re in most of the same classes because Sam takes placement tests in lieu of submitting transcripts from the old school. It doesn’t really matter: Sam’s tall for his age, looks older than he is, and he’s always been a good student.
He doesn’t really make any other friends, but that doesn’t matter either. Dad is not even close to finding the truth—Sam has subtly steered the research away from anything even remotely like fusion—and when it becomes clear there was no shapeshifter, surely they’ll go back to Dean. For now, it is enough to catch the bus in the morning and spend the evenings with Jo, doing homework together in her room while Ellen runs happy hour in the Roadhouse downstairs.
Not long after Thanksgiving, just as Dad is starting to make noises about moving on, they are in Jo’s room analyzing Hamlet for junior year English when she plucks the paperback out of Sam’s hand, climbs into his lap, and kisses him. Sam kisses her back—it’s almost automatic, he half-expects the tickle of Dean’s thoughts in his mind before he remembers that he is in his own body. That makes him hesitate, but just for a second. Then, he kisses down Jo’s throat and rests his large hands on her hips. Why not? Jo’s always been nice to him, and he thinks she’s lonely. (Rumor at school is that Ellen has scared off every boyfriend Jo’s ever had, and Sam believes it.) Besides, with her long legs and blonde hair, she reminds him a little bit of Jess, the girl from the fairgrounds.
Squeezed into her twin bed, Sam is a little surprised to find he still remembers how to touch a girl. When Jo starts to make breathy little begging noises, she bats his hands away, magics a condom from somewhere, and eases it on with trembling fingers.
“Have you ever…?” Jo ask gently. Sam lifts his eyes from her breasts—he wants to put his mouth on her there, and without Dean’s little voice in his head, he’s not sure if he’s allowed to.
“Uhm, yeah,” Sam says, and between Jess and the fusions, it feels like the truth. “Yeah, kind of.”
He’s nervous at first—he remembers the night before they left, bending over the Impala in that dark parking lot, the overwhelming sense of fullness that had made him panic. Dean hadn’t panicked, thought, and Jo doesn’t either. Maybe it’s something girls just know about? Jo simply leans into him, tips her hips a certain way, and lets out a long, wavering breath as he pushes into her wet warmth.
That first time doesn’t last long. Almost as soon as Sam is all the way in—and fuck, it is deeper than he’d imagined, sweeter, his head drops to Jo’s breasts and for a moment he can barely breathe—he has to move. And once he starts moving, Jo puts her hand on his back, then cups his ass and shows him a rhythm that has them both shuddering in minutes. The first time Sam comes, he doesn’t even have the presence of mind to roll of Jo, just sort of collapses, half on top. She winds her legs around him and nuzzles his hair, still pulsing around him, and soon he’s half-hard and they can go again. Jo has to take care of the condom when they finally pull apart, slick and sweaty. Sam’s pretty sure his limbs will never work again, never mind his fingers. Jo comes back and perches on the edge of her own bed, looking down at him. She brushes his hair out of his eyes, almost maternal. “Where’d you learn to do it like that?” she asks, because she’s a smart girl. And Sam is pleasantly aching everywhere; he wouldn’t even know how to start, so he just shrugs.
There are a few more times—Jo’s bedroom mostly, though the most memorable takes place in the old barn at the edge of Ellen’s property. Sam has Jo laid out in the cool but sweet-smelling hay, fingers getting her ready (“need more,” she’d whined, bossy, “you’re big,” and he’d blushed because he hadn’t realized). She’d guided him where she wanted him, her fingers in his hair. He’d ducked his reddened face down to meet his own fingers and, because they were alone, half a mile from the Roadhouse, she’d made a pleased, needy whining sound when he tasted her.
Sam had known that sound. And not from Jo, who was always careful to muffle herself against a pillow or Sam’s shoulder. Dean had made that sound. In the parking lot of the Oldetowne Bar and Grille. With—with Dad. Who must also…Sam is too aroused to be horrified: who must also be big. Dean had liked it. She had enjoyed Dad the way Jo, flushed and begging, is enjoying Sam now. Later, lying in the hay with Jo, just beginning to feel the mid-Western cold in his extremities, Sam will wonder if Dean had taken the fusion and gone looking for exactly what she’d found in that parking lot.
Sam is still wondering a week later when, Dad suddenly decides they’ve got to go see Bobby, consult him on something. They leave in the early morning again and cross the state line just about the time the high school bus is pulling up to Jo’s stop. There’s no school out by Bobby’s junkyard. “Don’t worry about it,” Dad instructs. “Truant officer won’t even have time to know you’re here: two weeks, I’ll need you to go back to Millersville.” Sam feels a thrill shoot through him: that’s the town with the frame house, Dean’s town.
Dad looks at him, surprised by his enthusiasm. “Rent’s due in January,” he says, never mentioning Dean.
But Sam wasn’t raised a hunter for nothing. He spends his two weeks at Bobby’s listening and once, when Dad goes into town with Bobby to look at carburetors, Sam smuggles his journal out of the Impala. He ducks into Bobby’s workshop to read it, squinting in the light from the little window over the workbench. It seems Dad hasn’t found anything to suggest that the girl he’d fucked in a dark parking lot had been a supernatural being. Which means…what? Something about the experience still unnerves Dad, Sam can tell from the sheer number of pages devoted to the topic. She looked like someone I knew, once. But she was...maybe twenty, twenty-two? Too young to have ever known me, Dad had written, and Sam can’t help but wonder if some part of his father had been drawn to the fusion because she had looked like Dean.
He lets his eyes wander as he considers this, resting them from the work of deciphering the journal, and his gaze falls on something that is familiar and unexpected, like the fusion must have seemed to John Winchester. A small glass jar with a peeling label that says MacComber’s Boullion is sitting with several others on a shelf near the grimy window. The other containers hold nuts and bolts and screws, but this one holds tiny dried leaves that Sam thinks he recognizes from the old tobacco tin whose contents Dean had burnt during their fusion rituals. Abandoning the journal on the workbench, Sam carefully unscrews the jar lid. The fragrance—dusty, lemony, indescribable—is the same: he can close his eyes and practically taste the smoke, feel the old couch upholstery, smell Dean’s hair. His hands shake as he fits the lid back on. Sam had thought they’d used the last of the herb during that final fusion. He’d just assumed that, without it, there would never be another opportunity. Of course, he’d told himself that this was for the best. Look at how things had turned out last time! But now, holding possibility in a recycled jar, he knows he was lying. There’s a piece of old masking tape on the back of the jar, a homemade label with Bobby’s chickenscratch handwriting. The mystery herb is called twinweed.
Less than a week later, Sam sees the familiar Millersville population sign. He breathes a sign of relief. The Impala drives like a dream, but he won’t have his learners permit for more than five months, so he’d driven the backroads from Bobby’s with a nervous tingle in his stomach that was only partly due to the thought of seeing Dean again. Dad had stayed with Bobby. He said it was because he still had some research to finish. Sam knows it is because he is still trying to accept that the being in the parking lot wasn’t a phantom, was what she appeared to be: a girl who attracted him because she looked like his daughter. (The fact that she was his daughter, for at least part of the time, is something Sam can't imaging explaining to him). So Sam drives back on his own, with rent money for the next six months tucked into his duffle next to the jar of twinweed he’d stolen from Bobby.
The little rental house looks just as he left it. The day is one of those bright winter ones that you get sometimes in the mid-Western flatlands: sun pouring everywhere but warming nothing. Sam parks and waits for a moment, half-expecting Dean to come to the door, summoned by the familiar Impala engine. He knows she’s home: it’s two o’clock on Sunday and the rickety third-hand Jeep she uses to drive to work is parked under the bare crabapple tree.
The door is unlocked, as everyone’s is in this town. Unlike everyone else’s house, though, there are sigils painted discreetly on the lintel, salt in the cracks of the old floorboards, even a little round evil eye amulet Dad had picked up in his travels and brought back for Sam. “Can’t be too sure,” he’d said, tacking it to the wall by the door. Sam touches its cool blue glass as he enters. Better protection than any key. The house seems smaller, a little dustier but otherwise unchanged.
“Dean?” he calls? “Hey, Dean?”
The silence of the house settles around him and Sam realizes that he knows where his sister is. Where she must be. Where else could she be?
He drops his duffle and closes the door behind him. After a second of hesitation, he slides the deadbolt across. Then he starts up the stairs to the second floor. Sure enough, the attic hatch is open, the ladder pulled down to the hallway. Sam has grown in the five months since he’s left this house: the ladder creaks under his weight in a way that it didn’t before, and he has to turn to fit his muscled hunter’s shoulders through the hatch to the attic. Like being in a fusion body, he is weirdly aware of how small and fragile the house seems. But the attic itself hasn’t changed. The big dormer windows illuminate the center, the mirrored cabinet winks from the shadows under the eaves. And Dean is waiting for him, curled up on the flowered couch.
“Dean! Didn’t you hear m—” The words dry up as Dean stands, pushing herself up from the old sofa. “Oh.”
Oh, shit, is what Sam is thinking. Or, perhaps more appropriately, oh, fuck. But the words die in his mouth as Dean rests one hand on her swollen belly. Sam may have been dragged up motherless and uncouth, but even he knows you shouldn’t swear in front of a baby.
Chapter 6: twins
Dean’s face is stubborn and proud, daring Sam to say something. Her hair has grown out, curling gently the way it always does when she doesn’t keep it clipped short or tied up. She’s wearing jeans and thick socks, an old flannel shirt that must be Dad’s, given how she’s got the sleeves rolled up, how it drapes over her round stomach.
Sam takes in all of these details without quite putting them together. it's been five, almost six months since he last saw her. Since the last time they fused. Since that night in the parking lot. This is why she's been so distant lately, why she hadn't called and at least badgered Dad about making sure Sam was back in school in September.
He’d probably stand there all day, staring, if Dean didn’t give in and take pity on him: “C’mere, Sammy.”
He walks to her, feeling big and clumsy. Comes to a stop a step too close. He’d been about to hug her. He’s not sure how—she’s so…
So she hugs him, reaches up on her tiptoes, puts her arms around his neck and pulls him down to her. He can feel the heavy swell of her belly between them. He finds that he doesn’t want to let her go.
“My,” she says teasingly, stepping back to appraise him. “How you’ve grown.”
“Dean. How are…uhm, I didn’t,” Sam can’t decide what he wants to say first. So he takes a breath and asks for what he wants the most: “Can I…?”
Dean nods. She even undoes the first few buttons on the flannel shirt herself, before Sam summons the courage to reach for them. He goes slowly. It’s been months since they’ve seen each other. Longer still since he’d first started wondering about what this would be like. He is in no hurry now.
Sam used to know this body almost as well as his own, having seen its components on a dozen fusion forms, having thought about it more than a brother should. There had never been an ounce of fat on Dean; she’d never even needed a bra. Now, when he undoes the center buttons of the softworn flannel, Dean’s breasts spill out, fuller and softer but with the same dark little nipples. When the fabric falls open, revealing the big globe of her belly, he puts his hand on the tautly stretched skin and hears her breath catch. He remembers her sweet breathy moans, how she’d sounded in the parking lot, little begging sounds. He remembers how his father had sounded, too, those hoarse grunts as he’d poured himself into her. Had she conceived that night? Has anyone touched her since?
“Dad’s baby,” Sam says, and Dean nods as though he’d asked a question.
“I was on the pill, but.” She shrugs. The fusion wasn’t.
Sam should ask about practicalities—is she sure about keeping the baby? A boy? A girl? Has she told anyone who the father is?—but, again, one question seems more important than any other.
“What does…what does it feel like?”
Dean takes a deep breath; Sam sees her luscious breasts grow with it. “Oh, Sammy,” her hand finds his, presses his palm to her roundness. “It’s amazing. It’s, it’s like being fused,“ she looks at him, eyebrows raised to convey the significance, "Fused all. The. Time.”
The last words come out like a groan as she surges up against him, licking a kiss into his mouth. Sam gets his fingers tangled in her soft curls as he tries to tip her head to him, even as Dean is pulling his henley over his head, and Sam wants to kick off his boots. They end up breathless and laughing in a pile on the old sofa, the way they’d landed so many times after their fusions had dissolved. Dean is on top and she catches Sam’s eye before deliberately laying her hand on the bulge in his jeans. Sam’s hips snap up instantly, forcing himself into her touch.
Now it is his turn to groan. “Jesus, Dean!”
She strokes him, bringing his cock out from the tangle of his clothing, and Sam turns his head to nuzzle her chest and mouth one of those little nipples that have teased him for so long.
“Oooh, Sam,” breathes Dean. “Sammy, have you…?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Sam grunts, roughly. What is it about him that strikes girls as so innocently virginal? He smiles against Dean’s tit: maybe it’s that he was for so long. Thanks to the fusions, he knows so much more about girls and pleasure than his personal experience warrants. They’re not at the fairgrounds now, not in the Roadhouse.
“What’s so funny?” Dean asks, squeezing his balls in a way that gets his attention.
“Nnngg—nothin’. Nothin’ funny,” Sam pants: she’s jacking him harder now, making him harder. Dean hasn’t forgotten what she’d learned from the fusions, either.
She lets him go—Sam growls with frustration—when she stands to shimmy out of her jeans.
Fuck, she’s gorgeous. Sam thinks he might have said that out loud, given then shy way Dean ducks her head. And he really shouldn’t be cursing in front of the baby that has given her that lovely, moon-round belly, those soft, heavy tits. Sam slithers off the couch, onto his knees. He’s pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to her thighs, nosing into the hair under the swell of her stomach. Groveling, begging. His dick is throbbing in time with his fucking heartbeat. He can feel it twitching, sticky against his own flat stomach.
“Can we—please, I want…” He doesn’t think he can finish the sentence.
Dean smiles down at him, ruffles his hair like he’s just suggested some silly but innocent pleasure—waffles for dinner, ice cream for breakfast. “Don’t see why not. Damage is done.”
Damage? What—oh, Sam realizes fuzzily, she means she’s already pregnant. Five-six months gone. Sam can’t get her more pregnant…but the thought alone makes him flop backwards, the cold floorboards chilly on his overheated skin.
Dean follows him down, straddles him, her knees outside his hips, her babyswollen stomach hanging down. He can’t even see her cunt—twinweed doesn’t mean actual twins, but she's big enough. Sam feels her wet pussy kiss the thick purpled head of his cock, once, twice. His hips squirm: holy hell, he wants to be in her, to share her body again.
“Shhh, I got ya, Sammy.” Deans words make him aware of the noises he’s making, barely stifled whimpers. He can remember the sounds she had made, in the dark summer night with Dad. He wants to hear her make those sounds again.
She reaches between them, arm curving around her belly, and helps him to open her, to slide in. She arches, canting her tight hips, thrusting her belly forward, as he pushes all the way to her core. You’re big, Jo had said, but now Sam is really feeling his size. Dean is so tight, so full. Her eyes go wide and her breath speeds up as he works his way in. Her hand slaps down on his chest once, nails digging into the muscle there—“Oh. Oh! Sammy…”—and he freezes, gives her a moment to adjust. Sam has to close his eyes, can’t watch her bite her lip at the stretch of his cock. When he finally feels her belly touch his, when he’s as deep as he can go, he lets his lashes flutter open.
She glows in the winter sunlight, one hand on the firm, pale curve of her belly, the other cupping a generous breast. She’ll be full with milk there someday soon, Sam thinks randomly, and he groans as Dean starts to ride him. Already she’s too big to move much. (“Baby takes after you, Sasquatch,” Dean will tease when she hits eight months and is so obscenely enormous that neither of them can keep their hands off her belly.) It should be awkward, but it is not: they know each other’s bodies and preferences so well. A pull in Sam’s hips make him lift up just as Dean is grinding down. Somehow, he senses that he’s thick enough that her clit is exposed when she’s stretched around him, so he squeezes her ass and lets her rock against his pubic bone. Her breath starts to hitch and she orgasms quickly: strong wet contractions around his whole length, from root to sensitive tip.
“Don’t, don’t stop,” she gasps, shaking and stuttering. “Come quick…these days. C’n go…again.”
Sam almost comes himself, knowing that. The only thing that stops him is Dean grabbing his hand and pulling it to her belly. She holds it just under her navel. “Feel that?” she says, delighted. “He’s kicking!”
Sam doesn’t feel anything but her hot, taut skin under his rough palm, but her words send his hips into overdrive. “S’a boy?” he growls, thrusting up, making her tits bounce.
“Clinic says, ugnh... Yeah, yeah, Sammy! Clinic—couldn’t tell,” Dean’s voice goes thready when he’s pushing deep inside her, like his big cock isn’t leaving any room for air. “But I think. Feels like. Boy.”
Like being fused, all the time, Dean had said. Sam tries to imagine what that would be like, having some other consciousness in you, knowing you. With Bobby’s twinweed, could he experience it? But he can’t concentrate on metaphysics, not with the ravenous way Dean’s pussy is clenching around him.
“Got rent money,” Sam grunts, bracing his heels on the floor so he can drive up into Dean with all his strength. He cups her tits in his hands, thumbs the nipples, remembers how she’d always complained that too many guys ignored them. “Couple thousand. Could sella Jeep. Skip town inna Impala, just us. ‘N go somewhere. Getta job, raise th' baby.” He’s high enough on pleasure to think it could work. He's tall, looks old for his age and Dean, with her longer hair and big belly looks young and innocent. Who wouldn’t believe they were two high school sweethearts who had run away together when the condom broke?
“Yeah?” now Dean’s words come out between little whimpers, sounds Sam recognizes from the parking lot. Sounds Daddy had pulled out of her when he’d put the baby in her. She’s bucking against him, won’t let him pull out, greedy for every thick inch. “Yeah, you wanna. Tell ev’erone. You’re the daddy? Knock me up ‘gain? Give ‘im. A, a baby brother?”
Sam comes so hard his hips snap up off the floor, lifting Dean, belly and all. He can hear his savage shout, hear Dean laughing and coming and shaking with it as he spills. Fuck, maybe he does. Maybe he does want to be inside Dean, put his baby inside her, fill her and share her forever.
“Nooooo,” Dean moans, pouting, knees gripping his hips when starts to slip out. “Stay in me. Missed you inside me.”
Sam is sensitive, almost sore. Dean’s wrung every drop out of him, but he can’t deny her. She’s soft and hot and so, so wet. She leans over him, puts her hands on either side of his head, lets him lick and mouth her tits. He runs his hands over her back and sides, appreciates how big she’s really gotten, how Dad’s baby is stretching her. At some point, his cock half-thick again, his playful nipping becomes a true suckle. He can feel Dean relax into it. She cradles his head to her breast. Her hips start working in time with his mouth.
“Mmm,” Sam hums around an engorged nipple, unwilling to let it go.
Dean sounds sleepy but her hips never miss their rhythm. “Feels good, Sammy.”
The orgasm, her third, is long and slow, waves of sensation lapping up from Sam’s toes as Dean tightens around him and starts to tremble. This time, Sam thinks, he can feel the baby move inside her.
Chapter 7: quadruple
Because Vespera328 asked for more and I believe comments should be rewarded
In the end, they follow the plan Sam outlined almost exactly: close out the Millersville lease to keep the rent money; sell one car and everything that won’t fit in the other; use the proceeds to support the fiction of being two crazy-in-love high school sweethearts whose families threw them out when the condom broke. But there’s one critical difference: Sam sells the Impala, not the Jeep.
Dean is livid; she loved that car. It’s the cause of their first fight, and she sulks all the way to Kansas, a storm cloud in the passenger seat. She relents, eventually, gracelessly (“’kay, fine, Sam, but you owe me…”). She has to admit the logic of it: selling the distinctive Impala simultaneously brings in more money and makes it much harder for anyone to trace them. Their first make-up sex—on the cheap futon in their sublet studio apartment above a garage near the University of Kansas campus—is phenomenal. Sam gets Dean’s legs over his shoulders and pounds her into the second-hand mattress until her vocabulary is reduced to three words (“fuck, oh! Sam—Sammy! Fuck!”). He has no regrets, none at all.
What Sam does have are two university jobs, both secured with false documents that will also make it harder for Dad to hunt them down…if he even wants to. Sometimes, during boring early morning shifts in the dining halls, Sam tries to figure out how long it will take Dad to realize he and Dean are on the run. Could be months, even a year if he’s not motivated to look too hard. After the breakfast shift, Sam leaves for his regular work day doing basic computer maintenance for the IT department. It is mostly networking printers and helping people who have forgotten their passwords. Even work study students don’t want the job, but Sam thinks it’s perfect: no one pays attention to the guy who fixes the printer and after six months, he’ll qualify for tuition reimbursement. Bit by bit, he could work his way to a college degree, without ever having to answer awkward questions from his colleagues. Dean picks up shifts at coffee shops. Lawrence, like every other college town, seems to have one on ever other corner. Her job comes with enough health insurance to cover prenatal vitamins from the low-income clinic, so Dean tries to keep her bitching to a minimum. Between the two of them, they make enough for the studio rent, rice, beans, burner phones, and a tank of gas every other week. They’ve done more with less, growing up with Dad.
There’s absolutely no extra money for entertainment of any sort, which is fine because all Sam wants to do when he’s not at work is crawl into bed with Dean. Of course, the floor works, too, in a pinch. Or tipping her against the little kitchen island so she has to go up onto her toes when he thrusts all the way in, her fingers scrabbling at the cracked linoleum tile, her growing bump on the counter. His favorite is coming home from work to find steam leaking under the bathroom door. Dean had negotiated a deal on the utilities because the rental bathroom hasn’t been updated in forever. Instead of a modern shower, it has an enormous old cast-iron tub. It is, as the IT department would say, “a feature, not a bug.” More often than not, Sam will find Dean there after work. She is getting bigger and achier just as the Midwestern winter is getting darker and colder. He’ll give himself a minute to stand in the doorway and admire her gravid form, her steam-flushed skin, buoyant breasts. “Hey, baby,” he’ll say, and Dean will make a face and they’ll both pretend the endearment is directed to her swollen belly.
Then she’ll lean forward, cradling that belly, so Sam can strip off his clothes and ease into the hot water behind her. They can fit, bump and all, as long as Dean sticks her feet over the rolled edge near the taps. This puts her ass squarely on Sam’s groin. Since he’s pretty much been half-hard since he opened the door, Sam always takes this as a license to do some teasing of his own. He can’t get over her tits: her little nipples have blossomed into rubbery buttons whose texture changes subtly, requiring new exploration every day. Sam’s fallen asleep more than once while sucking them. He’s both stimulated and disappointed at the thought of having to share them soon.
When Dean’s hips start writhing, sending bathwater lapping against the tub walls, Sam slips a hand down between her legs. She always feels too tight, even when she says she isn’t, says she’s ready. Sam remembers how panic had welled up inside him when they’d been fused during penetration. He’d been sure Dad would rip him apart. In this, at least, Sam is his father’s son: Jo had needed three fingers to take his cock comfortably. Sam insists on at least two with Dean, no matter how she begs. After all, her hips feel almost fragile under the stretch of Dad’s babies.
Oh, yeah. Babies. The twin in twinweed is metaphorical, a reference to how closely it can join people’s consciousnesses when they eat or smoke it. The twins in Dean’s womb, however, are not metaphorical. At all. Sam can see them flexing subtly under Dean’s skin sometimes when he’s gotten her really worked up.
Dean had known well before Sam had shown up in the Millersville attic: “they do scans, moron!” she’d said, delighted by his shock, when he’d looked at last month’s sonogram and gasped like he didn’t know anything about human biology. He’d driven her carefully home from that appointment with his hands shaking on the Jeep’s steering wheel; his fingers had tingled like when he and Dean had fought for control of the fusion. They’d barely made it into the apartment when he gotten first his hands and then his tongue on Dean’s belly. Head between her legs, he’dve sworn she fucking tasted different, now that he knew why she was so big. Now that he knew how full she really was.
“Love you,” he’d moaned that day, licking the words into her cunt, the ripe wet cunt where his father had put two babies who would never have to be alone because they would always have a sibling. “I. Love. You.” He loved how brave and matter-of-fact Dean was, loved how she went for what she wanted, how she teased him about the most serious things. She’d known about the twins and hadn’t told him, both to mete out the shocks and so she could glory in his surprise. And yes, he loved how she grabbed his hair to angle him where she wanted him, how shamelessly greedy she was about pleasure. How shamelessly greedy she let him be. Two orgasms later, when his cock was soft inside her, she’d thumbed her own nipple until he’d felt her tighten around him. She’d put his palm just under her navel. “Baby A,” she whispered when her arousal made the baby kick. Then she’d moved his hand up to the left—another distant ripple. “Baby B.”
Now, a month on, Dean’s even bigger, so gloriously fertile she’s almost bursting even with four weeks to go. “How’re my boys today?” Sam asks, kissing Dean’s bare shoulder as he draws her onto his dick in the bath.
And Dean stretches around him and groans, low and filthy, “Good. Really good.”
Sam is never tired of her, never too tired for her, but he is tired. He’s been taking on extra shifts to pay for the cribs they have on layaway and to sock away some extra money. College applications require a lot of paperwork and good forgeries don’t come cheap. He’s tired and it’s enough to wrap his arms around his sister, trace her stretchmarks with his fingers, and then tease her clit until she comes around him. There’s no reason to bother with condoms so he can feel every hot, slick inch of her. These days, Dean is both voracious and achingly sensitive, almost always on the knife-edge of climax. She hooks her feet over the rim of the tub and comes again, her hips so tight that Sam barely has to move.
They stay in the water (kissing, talking, touching) until it goes lukewarm. Then Sam chivvies Dean out. She’s huffs and rolls her eyes and calls him a mother hen, but it won’t do to have her catching a chill. Every night, she kneels next to their futon, obediently rests her head on crossed arms. Sam kneels behind her, works the heels of his hands down her spine and into her hips, unknotting the muscles there. One of the midwives at the low-income clinic had given him strict instructions and a list of YouTube prenatal massage video tutorials from. Sam had nodded shyly as she'd talked, ducked his head, couldn't meet the midwife's eyes. Dean says he'd blushed to the color of a stoplight. The midwife had thought it was because he was just a young husband who was still overwhelmed by the whole pregnancy-and-childbirth thing. In fact, it was because, when the midwife had explained how Dean's young body was "stressed" by the weight of two big babies, Sam had a sudden, crystal-clear vision of his sweetly moaning sister bent over a car, thrusting her hips back to take their Dad's thick cock. He thinks about that now as he kneads the tightness from Dean's back and she whimpers wantonly in relief. It's just him and Dean now, playing a part for her coffeeshop coworkers and the clinic staff. He forgets sometimes that he hadn't put those babies in her. Forgets until he doesn't, until all he can think about is how small she'd looked under Dad, how eager she'd sounded as he'd filled her.
Sam has to admit, the massages work: Dean is very flexible for her size, as he has good reason to know.
Dean wears a giant old flannel nightgown to bed. It makes her look deceptively virginal…at least until she unbuttons the top so Sam can suckle. He blushes at how matter-of-fact she is, and Dean laughs and strokes his warm cheek: “C’mon—you know how they get!” So he buries his face in her tits and she strokes his back soothingly. He’s almost asleep when she nips the rim of his ear.
“I wanna try the twinweed again.”
Sam raises his eyebrow. Dean’s been positively virtuous the last two months, not a hint of anything supernatural or tempting: organic vegetables and no caffeine and she’d even insisted that Sam switch their laundry detergent for something all-natural and healthy. Sure, he’d tucked the pouch of twinweed into their medical kit before leaving Millersville, but that was just habit. When you grow up on the road, hunting, you don’t throw anything away without good cause. Sure, he’d daydreamed about fusing a few times, but it hadn’t seemed fair to mention it, not when Dean was being so generous with her body. Sam had more than enough to explore. Still, he can’t say he isn’t tempted.
“Yeah? You sure?”
“Wanna. One last time, before the babies come.”
Chapter 8: all together now
Sam wakes up the next morning already half-hard in Dean’s fist. She doesn’t sleep long these days, babies pushing on her bladder, and she likes to coax him to wakefulness. She dives below the covers as soon as she sees his eyes open properly. Big as he is, she swallows him down nearly to the root, then eases back up to kitten-lick his cockhead. Dean’s blowjobs are masterful and just for Sam: she hadn’t done this with Dad—Sam gets jealous wondering where she learned it.
Sam can’t see his sister under their motley collection of thrift store blankets, but he can feel her smile around him when he lets his legs fall open wider. She teases his hole as she works her way down again. Sam is too sleepy and warm and comfortable to tense up. Her fingers are slick but warm—she’d prepared while he’d been sleeping, and that idea is so hot that Sam just breathes deeply and lets her nudge her finger in.
Some days and some angles, Dean can’t quite reach Sam’s prostate. But that morning she gets a fingertip on the rough little spot so unerringly it’s like he’d drawn a map. When he’s inside her, he comes quickly and so hard it leaves him breathless, like falling off a cliff, like jumping into freezing rapids. But like this—kisses on his thigh, hot breath on his leaking cock, a stretch that is a little easier each time—he thinks of how, the first time, in Millersville, she’d gasped and begged and told him not to stop, that she could go again and again. He spurts half on Dean’s enormous stomach and half on his own. He must have been moaning because he’s sucking on two of her fingers. She’s slithered up his body, filled him from both ends, her babyweight a delicious anchor. He gets loud, sometimes.
“Work,” Dean says, kissing his forehead.
“Hunh?” Sam’s tongue feels thick.
“I’ve got work,” Dean repeats primly. “And so do you.” She slides out of bed, still freakishly graceful despite the distended belly Dad gave her. He watches her cross the room, her breasts soft enough to wobble, her stomach so full it’s taut. At the door, she bats her eyes innocently. “Dibs on the bath.”
Fuck it—that’s why she hadn’t just ridden him into the mattress. Because it’s Thursday: they both have early shifts and somehow, once he’s inside Dean, Sam is incapable of leaving her. Sam rolls into his pillow and groans in frustration. Desire throbs at the base of his spine. How in the world is he going to make it to quitting time?
Sam leaves the house that day so distracted that he forgets his phone and his lunch. He has to stop in two different campus bathrooms before noon to jerk off to the idea of Dean filling out her ridiculous coffeshop uniform. It’s more than just blue balls. He’d assumed that fusion was something that belonged to their long, lazy summer in Millersville. It just wasn’t something he was going to experience again, and he was fine with that: wouldn’t trade it for what he could experience now—a life shared with Dean, grown bigger and hornier every passing day. But then she’d raised the possibility that he could have both…
He’s memorized Dean’s coffeeshop schedule and makes it until exactly 2:15: ten minutes after she clocks out. Then the thought of her returning to their apartment, kicking off shoes that she can’t even see over her round stomach, giving that unconscious little moan of relief like she always does when she unclasps her maternity bra…well, Sam leaves a barely coherent note for the other IT assistant and clocks out.
Sam can hear the music faintly as soon as he gets out of the Jeep, but it’s not until he climbs the rickety garage apartment steps and opens the door that he gets a whiff of a dry, slightly spicy smell: twinweed. The bundle of dried leaves and twigs that Sam had smuggled out of Bobby’s workshop is burning in an old saucer on their scratched up coffee table. Dean has lit the whole thing, at least twice as much as they’d ever used when fusing in Millersville. She’s standing in their tiny galley kitchen when he bursts in. Her bra is thrown over the back of the sofa, her shoes kicked into the corner.
“Dean.” Damn, Sam thinks, his own voice sounds desperate.
“Jeez, I thought you’d never get here. Come get the book—I can’t reach that far anymore.”
They’ve hidden the grimoire behind the refrigerator, the only substantial piece of furniture in their flat-pack sublet. Sam shimmies it out from behind the coils and hands it to Dean. She props it open on her stomach…which Sam finds so unexpectedly sexy that he has to pull her to him so he can wrap his arms around her heavy midsection. He tries to remember how, months ago, she’d danced with him in the attic in Millersville, slim and tomboyish. Now he can barely get both arms around her.
“Mmm,” Dean arches back against him with a smile. She loves having his hands on her belly, even when he’s not doing anything. Then she starts to chant the words of fusing.
Sam feels the fusion happen this time, even before he opens eyes that he doesn’t remember closing. He senses new weight, a tug in his lower back, a pressure that concentrates sensation in his hips, a tightness that spreads across his chest.
The tenant from whom they are renting the apartment had tried to make the little kitchen look larger by putting a full-length mirror at the end, so the first thing Sam sees when he does open his eyes is his fused form: taller than Dean, but with her green eyes under his own sandy, shaggy hair. And under Sam’s University of Kansas IT department uniform polo shirt: a luscious and undeniably pregnant belly.
“Ohhh, fuck,” Sam sees his mouth forming the words. He hears them: his voice, but higher, more feminine. Then he has to lurch to the sink and gag against a wave of nausea that wells up out of nowhere. He misjudges his new lowered center of gravity and nearly cracks his head on the kitchen cabinet. Shhh, it’s nothing—it happens sometimes, especially at the beginning, Dean murmurs calmingly. Just take deep breaths and don’t think about…
“Don’t think about what?” Sam demands.
Not gonna tell you. Then you’d think about it. Deep breaths!
Sam already feels the sea-sickness abating. His deep breaths suck in air redolent with burning twinweed and the abrupt nausea is slowly being replaced by…
Yeah, then there’s this. All the time.
Sam is deeply, corporeally aware of…his nipples. Aware of them as distinct, nerve-laced parts of his anatomy. He knows without looking that they have hardened into little bullets under his polo. And they are somehow directly connected to his cunt (the word pussy never crosses his mind while he’s in this fusion, though he doesn’t notice that until afterwards and he’s never sure what that means). He’s moving his pelvis against one of the mismatched counter stools…he’d almost say humping it, except his stomach is too big for the stimulation he craves. The feeling, this all-consuming feeling: lust. It courses through this new body like electrified blood. He can’t even look at their ugly, patched together sublet without seeing the sexual potential: the fridge makes him want the bite of ice cubes on his sensitive nipples, the counter is just a surface to be fucked on, the bananas in the fruitbowl, bought because Dean needs potassium…
And, flickering into his consciousness like fireflies at night…Adam. Ben.
“Baby A,” Sam whispers. “Baby B.” He holds his belly with both hands and feels a distinct internal shifting each time he thinks of them.
Yeah. I…kinda gave them names. Dean’s voice in his head sounds almost bashful, like she’s worried he would tease her about this. I hated how the clinics just labeled them with initials.
“I love you,” Sam says—to his sister, to her children. That’s not the lust talking; that’s the truth. He can feel the babies as his sister must, and he understands that, of course, she had to name them.
Love you, too, Dean replies.
Awareness of the babies fizzles out. They come and go, Dean explains. Sam is more aware of the rounded heft of his belly with every minute, but he understands what she means: their consciousnesses have moved out of synch with the one that he and Dean are sharing. The warmth and life that was Ben and Adam ebbs and the humming, tingling lust returns, distracting as an itch. Sam recognizes it: it’s what he feels in his balls when he overcomes Dean’s tightness and sinks into her depths, what she can coax out of him with two fingers and a lot of lube. Not an orgasm, but the irreversible need for an orgasm.
“Jesus,” Sam hears his word drag out like a moan. With the babies gone, he is simply swamped by the need for touch: outside, inside. Everywhere. Now he understands why Dean needs a mouth on her tits to sleep at night. How she can bring herself off twice in the hot bathwater while she’s waiting for him to finish work, and still be tight and needy when he shows up in the doorway. (Ha, Dean laughs in his head. Twice? Try four times last Tuesday: you were late and I wanted you so bad...) What he doesn’t understand is how she gets through the rest of the day. He’s been in this body for less than five minutes and he’s already so wet he feels slippery.
Two fingers, three, aren’t nearly enough, but the way he has to curve his arm around his own belly makes Sam’s hips jump, which seems to set off a series of reverberations throughout his whole body. This belly is not as big as Dean’s, proportionally. As usual the fusion itself is a few inches taller, pelvis a little wider. But something about being so large, about having been filled to swelling: the very idea is so erotic Sam can’t even be bothered with the fact that there's not really a pregnancy, just a fused form that is an odd mash-up of himself and Dean. The last few weeks, the size of Dean’s belly, the way she’d started to waddle, the way her breasts wobble when he drives into her, had made Sam wild. Once, in the bath, she’d turned on top of him, sleek and wet, and he’d rubbed himself off against the curve of her belly—come untouched, just from the feel of her stretched skin and the memory of how his father had spilled himself into her.
Sam has three of his own fingers inside his cunt (Yeah, yeah, more, c’n take it—Dean reduced to a murmured chant in the back of his head) when the doorbell rings.
The sound startles him out of his lustful daze. He literally cannot think of a single person who knows this address. He hadn’t even realized that the doorbell to this shitty apartment even worked. He waits, feeling himself throb around his fingers. The bell chimes again.
“Dad?” The word sounds like begging even to Sam and he wants to bite his tongue as soon as it slips out. But a part of him thinks, if he had a second chance, knowing what he knows now…well, the fusion wouldn’t split. Not this time: he’d open his legs, his needy, empty hole and… “Dad?!”
“Uhm. No. It’s me. Cas. From work?”
“Oh. Uh. Hi,” Sam calls, his mind racing. Cas? The only other full-time technology assistant employed by the IT department, Cas, like Sam, is a bit of a misfit in the department. He’s older than Sam by a few years, but strangely unworldly, almost naïve in some ways. Sam has the vague sense that he was raised in a privileged, sheltered household—mentions of a doting, absent-minded father, of servants, of a religious upbringing. And then he’d been cast out. Sam wasn’t sure of the cause, only that Cas didn’t seem to hold it against his father. If it hadn’t been for Dean, if they hadn’t been on the run, Sam thinks he would’ve liked to get to know Cas.
“I got your message. I made HR give me your address. Do you—need anything? Uhm. Sam?”
“Yeah?” Sam’s tries to remember, though anything before this lust-crazed body seems flimsy as a dream. He’d left a note about finishing the psychology department server refragmenting. Nothing that would require a house call. You also left your phone when you went to work… Dean observes coyly. And Cas’s number would have been in the phone. Sam can only imagine what trouble Dean might get to, left to her own devices with his phone and her own over-active imagination. Especially if she’d been half as desperate as he feels in this fused form. “What did you say?” he hisses. Might’ve mentioned an emergency….
“I said…” Cas, of course, has no idea that Sam is talking to himself. Well, not himself. His sister. With whom he is sharing a single corporeal form. A heavily pregnant, stupidly horny form. “Actually, maybe you could just open the door? So I know everything is OK?”
Cas is exactly the sort of sweet Good Samaritan who would race across town to check up on a work colleague he barely knows. Sam feels a moment of shame for leaving him out in the cold. Also, based on what he knows of Cas’s work ethic (“any job worth doing is worth doing right, Sam”), he suspects Cas has a rigid code of morality that will prevent him from leaving the apartment until he sees that there is no emergency with his own eyes.
“Everything’s fine,” Sam starts to make his way to the front door, but has to stop midway. He thinks for a moment that he might just orgasm right there in the middle of the living room floor. He’d miscalculated how fucking sensitive…. Extra blood flow, Dean whispers breathily, like she’s feeling it, too. The fusion is taller, but its center of gravity is lower: Sam feels like he’s swaying when he walks, like he’s flaunting how round, how fertile he is. Nnngghh. He could lay right down on the sofa, next to the still-burning twinweed that started all of this, and just—
Now Cas is sounding anxious so Sam powers through, forcing himself across the room. He is a touch breathless when he pulls open the door, and not just because he’s carrying so much weight.
“Oh!” Cas sounds surprised. “You’re. Not Sam.”
“No. I’m Sam’s, uh, cousin,” they go with the old lie that had fooled Mr. Beasley, but Sam can tell from the tingle in his tongue that Dean had wanted him to say sister. She’d wanted Cas to look at her with those wide surprised eyes and think he was seeing Sam’s sister. He realizes that he is only wearing his IT work shirt (long on the fusion, but not that long) and the voluminous kimono that Dean has worn around the house since she started outgrowing the clothes she stole from him. “De—Delia,” Sam finishes.
“And you are. With child.”
Sam doesn’t know where Cas gets these old-fashioned phrases, must be that religious upbringing. But at least he doesn’t try to touch. It makes him crazy when complete strangers touch Dean’s belly, although Dean loves it, preens. (And Sam is beginning to understand the appeal: this fusion’s very skin is hungry for touch).
“Yeah. And Sam had to, uhm. Leave. To do something,” Sam feels clumsy talking about himself in the third person. Yeah, good story, bro, Dean mocks and Sam wonders if she thinks she could do better. Rhetorical questions don’t translate telepathically so before he knows it, she’s taken over.
“He worries about me being alone,” Dean concludes innocently. “Since I’m just visiting for a few days and, obviously, I’m…” she waves a hand at her belly.
“Close to your time?”
Sam can’t decide if that’s a weird thing to say, or just a weird way to phrase it. Sometimes, Cas sounds like he was raised by aliens with an English-language phrase book.
“So, d’you wanna,” Sam puts a hand on his belly—some lizard part of his brain wants Cas to look, to admire. It’s a mistake: his own touch makes him ten times hungrier. “Do you wanna come inside?” In the back of his head, Dean sniggers.
Chapter 9: full term
Cas obediently steps into the apartment. He shrugs off his trench-coat and lays it over the back of the sofa. Someday, Sam decides, I will get the story behind that garment: it always makes him look like a Midwestern insurance salesman instead of a college student. “What a lovely home,” Cas says, his eyes glancing over the ragged couch and the brick-and-board shelves. He sounds…sincere. Well, Cas is probably always sincere, but he sounds like he can somehow see Sam cursing over the Ikea furniture and Dean burning oatmeal and both of them laughing and singing along to the radio and kissing and… Sam would swear the strangest look comes over Cas’s face when his gaze reaches the bathroom door. He half-expects some evidence of all the things he and Dean have gotten up to in that tub—but, no, Cas has just noticed the saucer of twinweed on the coffee table.
“Is it wise to burn incense in such quantities?”
“Oh, that. I. Uhm. My doctor recommended it.” Not for the first time, Sam is impressed with how quickly and convincingly Dean lies.
Cas moves closer to examine it. Sam almost warns him away. Fusions are always physically demanding, but this fusion is insatiable in a new way (even now, he’s admiring the curve of Cas’s ass under his khakis). Maybe that is because Sam hasn’t fused in so long, or perhaps it’s because this fusion is pregnant. Or—for the first time, occurs to Sam that the quantity of burning twinweed might be acting like some sort of aphrodisiac. It does have a way of making everything seem smudgy and attractive and possible. Certainly, Cas seems entranced by the burning leaves, unable to look away from the smoking herb.
“Cas?” No response.
“Uhm. Cas?” This time, Sam reaches out and tap's the man's shoulder. Cas startles, then blinks lazily at Sam.
“My apologies. I’m feeling a little…” His words wander away. He drops clumsily onto the sofa without asking, which is maybe the most forward and uninhibited thing Sam has ever seen him do. His pupils are large and dark, dilated. A loopy smile crosses his face.
“Delia!” He says, like he’s just noticed the fusion standing there.
Oh, God, what a light-weight! Dean chortles. Oooh, I want him, Sam. You still owe me for the Impala. Please, let me have him. I want him!
Sam tries to think of excuses, but Dean is talking over him: doesn’t he look like he could use it? It’s not like he’ll ever have to meet your ‘cousin’ again! He has kind eyes. C’mon, he’s high as a kite—he’d love it, you know how good I am. And you’re curious, right? Gotta be. Not gonna wimp out this time, are you?
It’s true; it’s all true: Sam is curious, has been since that night in the parking lot. And Cas does have generous eyes. One kiss, he instructs Dean, already leaning down to Cas’s mouth. He half-expects the man to push him away, to jump up and deny the hunger Sam can see. But Cas’s lips open to Sam’s tongue, he’s shifting on the couch, making space for the fusion to sit.
Sam groans into Cas’s mouth. The relief is so good: he hadn’t realized how deliciously heavy this body was was until shifts the weight off his back. Cas is mouthing along his jaw, one large hand on the dome of his belly and Sam feels small for a moment. It’s a new feeling and he likes it, but he needs more. Show him, Dean pleads, already sounding desperate, show him what we want, Sammy. And Sam does, twining his fingers with Cas’s and tugging them down over his protruding navel, down between his thighs. Cas bites his earlobe, murmuring something about a green couch and rafters made of pine. Couch is blue, Dean mutters, and Sam is about to explain the Song of Solomon when he feels Cas touch his cunt for the first time.
Sam has never thought about it, but if he had, he would’ve said Cas probably didn’t have much experience. Maybe he’d slow-danced with a girl from another religious school once or twice, perhaps copped a feel at a tent revival. And Sam would have been wrong. Because Cas is unbelievable. He plays Sam’s body like an instrument, fingers first and then tongue gentle and relentless at the same time, coaxing him toward a crescendo and then holding it off impossibly long, until Sam’s hips are squirming, his belly trembling. Sam can’t imagine where Cas learned so much about women’s bodies. He wails when Cas moves his tongue away from the fingers he has stretching Sam’s hungry cunt.
“Shh,” whispers Cas, lips slick, “Look!” and he nods to the kitchen.
Sam, head lolling, catches sight of himself in the mirror. Dean’s kimono has come open, the university polo shirt ridden up over his swollen belly, one breast spilling out. With his face flushed and his hair disheveled and his legs hitched up on Cas’s shoulders, he looks like he’s about to give birth. The moment the thought crosses Sam’s lust-fogged brain, Cas blows a cool stream of air right across the clit he’s been mouthing for five minutes: Sam’s whole pelvis turns to liquid fire.
He’s vaguely aware of Cas brushing his hair out of his eyes, easing the twisted clothing off him. The sweet cool of the twinweed-scented air on his over-heated skin makes Sam spasm and shake and moan all over again. Cas chuckles indulgently and holds him, strokes his belly, tantalizing circles that start at Sam’s overstretched hips and work inwards.
By time time Sam has regained feeling in his extremities, Cas has worked his way in to Sam’s bellybutton (Dean’s had popped two weeks ago and Sam thought he’d explored it fully, but Cas is showing him otherwise).
“I love this part on humans,” Cas says thoughtfully. “Like a third nipple. Not that your other two are lacking in any way,” he says, continuing as though he’d sensed that Sam was aware enough to listen. “Your stature is like a palm tree, and your breasts are its clusters.”
There’s something about that sentence that Sam should object to: on humans? a third nipple? clusters?! But before he can organize his thoughts, Cas has brought his hands up to the section of Sam’s anatomy that he was complimenting and Sam realizes Dean’s right: guys don’t pay anywhere near enough attention to… tits, Dean groans, coming out of her own pleasure-stupor to finish the thought. Mmm, fuck, what’d I tell ya, Sammy, tits’re the best…
Cas certainly thinks so: he’s squeezing Sam’s like ripe melons and murmuring something about twin roe deer. He pinches Sam’s nipples: a pleasant pull all the way down Sam’s spine and then there’s a sudden easing of a tension Sam didn’t even know was there. Instantly, droplets are beading at the tips of Sam’s thick nipples.
“Ahh, Delia,” Cas shifts gently so he can slip an arm around his neck and lap the milk as it starts to flow. “Honey and milk are under thy tongue.”
Sam can feel each suckle straight through to his toes. “Has this…have you…?” he can’t even form a full sentence, but Dean knows what he’s saying. Not yet, not yet—you’d know. Oh, God, can’t wait…
“As I said,” Cas thinks Sam is talking to him and how could Sam possibly explain? He nuzzles the valley between Sam’s breasts before tenderly mouthing the other nipple. “Your time draws near.”
Sam supposes that, just as the fusion is a little older, more developed than either himself or Dean, maybe this body’s pregnancy is further along. Well, not really a pregnancy: Sam can’t sense Adam or Benjamin anymore. And why should he? This fusion is not actually Dean, not wholly. And Dean hadn’t even been fused when she’d conceived. This belly is like that bruise that once traveled between the fusion’s reality and their own, a physical marker that only seems real. Sam rakes his fingers through Cas’s thick, dark hair. The insane pleasure of Cas’s mouth is about to bring him another orgasm (“Come quick…these days,” Dean had told him once. And how.) Could that sent him into labor? Could his waters break, right here, right now, as he rocks himself against Cas’s thigh? Is that even poss—
“Stop thinkin’ so much,” slurs Dean, dizzy with enjoyment. “Jus’ want him inside.”
Sam realizes that’s he’s said these world aloud only when Cas releases his nipple and looks at him, studying, as though he can see the person (people) below the fusion. Sometimes, especially when they are both on the edge of climax, the veil melts and Sam feels his consciousness and Dean’s become one. She is more than the voice in his head, and he is more than the voice in hers. They live in each others’ bodies.
“Do you mean that?” Cas wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, charmingly unselfconscious. “You are very dark and lovely, Delia. Will you have me?”
Sam is sprawled out huge and heaving and desperate, but it feels like a formal proposal. So he thinks about it. As the nascent orgasm ebbs a little, he can feel Cas’s eager cock against his thigh. He remembers how it had felt to be at the mercy of one, even briefly. He’d been sure Dad’s dick would split him in half that time, when he hadn’t been nearly as full as he is now. And look where that had led them: a little apartment, a mediocre job, a second-choice car…Dean in his bed every night heavy with twins. “Yes.” Hell yes.
Dean likes to be on top. She says straddling Sam eases the tightness in her back, lets him in deeper—and now that Sam has the extra weight on his hips, he can see the appeal. And he’s not complaining: when she rides him, he’s got full access to her breasts and belly and clit. If he had to choose, though, he loves plain old missionary, her belly between them, his cock curving to rub that sensitive place inside her. But now…
Knees, Dean orders. Get on your knees.
Sam obeys. Fuck, he feels positively lewd kneeling on the couch: he has to spread his legs so wide to balance the weight of his enormous belly. The brush of the upholstery against the lower curve of it feels intensely erotic. That new-fused skin has literally never been touched, not until Cas steps behind him and slips his hand from Sam’s hip to his front, gives him a little push to make him arch his back and show his cunt.
Sam imagines, not the old couch, but the smooth metal of the Impala under his hands, still warm from the day’s sun. This is how Dean had their father: she’d bent over and given herself to him and she’d wanted him to fill her and he had. Sam is sure of it now, he feels Dean’s memory.
Oh, God, oh, he’s big, this is gonna be so good—lemme, please, I want…Dean is moaning in his ear and Cas is talking, too, something about “calamus and cinnamon.” Sam can’t answer, he honestly cannot catch his breath: he is breathless with desire, he wants—he wants Cas—he wants, inside… Cas kisses his shoulder, and then the thick cock is between his slick thighs. Too big, too much. Sam remembers the dark parking lot, the stretch, the pull: he tries to twist away from Cas’s dick, but he’s round now. Round and heavy and Cas is thumbing his clit and squeezing one breast and Sam can feel himself opening, opening.
Sam feels a distant flicker of panic, but over it he hears Dean (Yeah, yeah, like that, jus’ like that) coaxing, the way she does when she’s trying to slide a second finger into him. And—well, Sam knows how to do that. Knows how to imagine himself back in their little futon bed, warm and relaxed from one of Dean’s spectacular blowjobs. Sam knows how to relax the muscles of his back, knows to illogically push against the pressure, knows that sometimes it helps to pinch his own nipples.
Not the same, Sam grunts—and he can’t tell if he said it aloud, or just to Dean. Either way, Dean hears him: Almost the same, it’ll feel so good, Sammy, I promise, I promise, just…
Sam never learns what Dean’s suggestion is going to be, because that’s the moment when Cas’s delicious cockhead pops into Sam’s fused cunt. The climax is like tsunami: Sam is utterly swamped with pleasure. Distantly, he can hear Dean howling with it. Cas is panting against his ear—“yes, yes, Delia, a fountain of gardens, a well of living waters”—and Sam can’t formulate the words to beg him to keep going, to keep moving, deeper, deeper, more. Somehow Cas knows, knows to grab Sam’s jerking hips and hold him still until his cock reaches that sweet spot that sends him over the edge again (“Come quick…these days. C’n go…again.”).
After that, Sam can’t imagine being anything other than open. He can feel the whole channel of his cunt throbbing against Cas’s length, but he’s bucking back, asking for more. His tits bounce, slapping against his belly each time Cas pumps a little harder. That keening noise must be him. It must be, because he can hear Dean, recognizes her thready, fucked out whisper, the one that means she’s barely had time to breath between orgasms: He’s not so thick as you, but he’s longer’n Daddy. Sam is about to say Cas is plenty thick for his first time, but Dean is still panting: Let ‘im in, Sammy, let ‘im all the way in. We like that.
Dean is always right about what they like, when they are fused like this. She always knows what feels good, and how much is too much, and what they can take, even when Sam doubts himself. So he arches his back and widens his knees and sneaks a glance over his shoulder at Cas. The twinweed is affecting him even more than it is affecting Sam: there’s just a thin rim of color around his dark pupils. His eyes are glazed and distant, mouth moving like he’s praying. Cas may look like he’s a million miles away, but his body is very present. His hips are moving in firm figure-eights, deeper with each pass, making Sam’s breath hitch each time, his cockhead sawing against that sweet spot.
Almost, almost… Cas is slick with sweat, barely aware, but Sam just needs another inch, fuck: he’s too babyheavy to get just the right angle. “More,” Sam gasps. “More, please, more.” And Cas, slave to some magic that he doesn’t even understand, obediently thrusts three more time, grunting, as deep as he can go, his whole trembling body plastered against Sam’s back, arms coming down to cradle Sam’s swollen stomach. Sam can feel every inch of him, inside, against the fusion's very womb, when he finally starts to twitch and leak and come. He can feel Dean, too, feel the way she orgasms nowadays, so full and sensitive, one wave leading into another until they are all subsumed.
There is a delectable ache in Sam’s low back the next morning. He’s aware of it before he even opens his eyes, just as he’s aware of a faint disappointment when he runs a sleepy hand over his midsection and finds it…flat as usual. He dreamily remembers turning under Cas, wrapping his legs around the boy’s skinny hips and kissing him until they’d both stopped shaking. Cas had dozed and suckled and stroked, murmuring Biblical verses about an enclosed garden. He'd looked surprised and gratified when his Delia, heavy with child and near to her time, had climaxed again and then again. At some point, when the twinweed had burnt itself out and Sam had begun to worry about the effects wearing off, he’d reluctantly gotten the strange college kid onto his feet. Still high and confused, but looking supremely satisfied, Cas had tugged on his clothes and stumbled out the door.
“Then we took a bath,” Dean interrupts. “Just us. Nearly drown ‘cause you couldn’t keep your hands off that body...”
Sam’s eyes snap open. His sister is sitting up next to him, nested in the blankets.
“What? We've shared a brain. I know what you’re thinking,” she laughs.
Sam moves his hand to touch her. Strokes her thigh. Cups her belly. He’s waking up. He remembers the bath now, how it had felt to move wet hands over his own slippery, stretched skin. At some point after that, the fusion had dissolved and they’d dragged themselves to bed, exhausted with pleasure. He can see one dark aureola through a gap where Dean’s nightgown is mis-buttoned.
Milk, Sam recalls. Cas had—he’d put his mouth on…he’d put his cock …he’d made Sam beg, like Dean in the parking lot, made him beg for more when he was already so full. Sam absentmindedly thumbs Dean’s bellybutton. She sighs and Sam can see her nipples start to pucker under the flannel. He knows what that’s like, now, to be so bursting with sensation.
“Hey. Hey, Sammy?” Dean shoves aside a blanket and stretches out next to him, her belly between them. She puts her hand on his, on her stomach, on Adam and Ben. Sam had felt them, had carried them, brief but unforgettable. (Close to your time, Cas had said. And maybe that was just the twinweed high talking, because Cas couldn’t possibly know…but Dean’s contractions will start precisely one week to the hour of Cas’s visit, just after Sam finishes fucking her in the tub.)
“Yeah?” Sam forces himself to concentrate on his sister’s face and not on his memories of their last, best fusion.
“It was good, right? You…liked it? I mean, even if we had more twinweed, we’d never get that fusion again, so no one’ll ever—”
“I liked it,” Sam interrupts to reassure her. “It was good. It was…amazing.” He thinks about what it had felt like to carry the twins, even briefly, to let someone into his body in every sense. “You’re amazing.”
“Mmm,” Dean rolls over, dragging Sam’s arm along, so that she can grind her ass against his wakening erection while he plays with her breasts. They save this for Saturdays: with Sam supporting her back, Dean can tip her hips just right and hold Sam for hours, milking him and then letting him rut himself back to hardness and starting all over. “Mmm, yeah. Told ‘ya so.”