Mink (minkmix) wrote,

SPN Fic: Isochronism 2 of 2 (Completed)

Okay, the ya yas are officially out. *smokes a cigarette*
It’s now back to “Indoctrination” …

Title: Isochronism part 1 - part 2 *Completed*
Continued in Sequel: Sam's Turn *Completed*
Author: Mink
Rating: NC-17 - Gender Swap
Pairings: girl!Winchester/OFC
Warnings: Edge of consent & monthly women's issues
Spoilers: General (for aired episodes only)
Disclaimers: SPN & characters are owned by their various creators.
Notes: Ratings and warnings are for the complete story, posted or otherwise.

The pool stick felt all wrong.

He should have expected that but for some reason he didn’t. It forced him to think of every weapon and blade he'd ever owned, things familiar to his hands as a kitchen knife. Hefting every weight and knowing the range of every motion he’d long since past memorized now redefined or utterly meaningless.

The 6 bounced off the corner pocket. The redefined part was pretty fucking humiliating. Not to mention frustrating. The guy he was playing with laughed a little into his beer. He was one of those guys that didn’t know when to stop broadcasting his amusement on the failure of others. That forced brazen smile whenever someone slipped up at their own expense, that fake laugh he made just loud enough so that he made sure everyone around heard it.

Guys like this were usually the kind Dean would have had a few words with, maybe even a little more. He’d never had a problem about having a problem with just about anyone if there was more than good reason. But not now. Gnawing at his lower lip, he fought every word that wanted to come out of his mouth. Every comment, every threat, every easy word to the tired but pretty waitress that was working the scattered tables and the bar.

When he had walked in all his intentions of forgetting his body and just acting human went right out the window.

He was used to the subtle changes in a nearly empty room when a stranger entered it. He’d been in enough late night dives to know when the door opened, everyone turned to look for various reasons. Was it the guy with the tab? The chick that always drank too much and danced by herself until someone took her home? A drive through? An old friend?

But when he walked in, he didn’t get the once over that he usually got. The looks settled, curious and open. Watching for where he went to seat himself at the bar. Turning and talking in low voices to their friends that were doing the same. Thankful that no ID had been asked for, Dean sank back a glass of harsh amber whiskey and decided to ignore it all and just play a few games on the old table he spotted in the back. In a way, he more or less fit right in. The old plywood floors, the dirty ashtrays, and the creaking bathroom door on a spring were what made these types of places a home away from home. This was a place where no one came dressed up or looking for anyone that was.

“You in the army?”

He almost laughed but he didn’t want this guy to think anything he did or said amused him in anyway.

“Just got out.” Dean spoke without thinking. Better explanation that anything he could come up with to explain why he looked like he just got back from a dykes on bikes rally.

Dean wondered if that quick glass of hooch was factoring into his spectacularly crappy game. Figured he’d put a twenty down on it. He watched the asshole with the threadbare ‘Patriots’ ball cap pocket it and ask him if he’d like to take another ride.

The way he said ride made Dean want to get back into a shower. Despite the ravishing saggy sweat pants he was boasting, alongside his boots that didn’t get much love even when he was the right person wearing them, this guy was looking at him like sex had just appeared in the image of... well, not much.

Dean glanced over at the leather jacket he’d cast off on the back of a barstool so he could play. He hadn’t really thought about the fact that he was pretty much wearing nothing but a T-shirt with nothing keeping his new found chest in any kind of control while he shot pool. Catching another look at himself in the mirror behind the bar he really had to hand it to some guys. It didn’t take much to get the boys started. Maybe it was just a matter of statistics. Dean seemed to be one of the three unattached females in the room. One was working. One was on the telephone. And that left the weird chick with no bra that just lost 20 bucks and was maybe good for another 40.

It had never really occurred to him what he could do in his body. There had never been any kind of visualization of any concept of what now someone else could do to it. It was like staring at the weird cross section diagram in that tampon box. He was sure it was all completely and horrifically possible but none of it pertained to him. Sam had been absolutely right when he said Dean had been ignoring it. He wasn’t just ignoring it. He was denying the very existence of it all.

Now in the presence of other human beings, he realized this could have repercussions.

“Whatta ya say?” The guy asked again, chalking his cue and smiling that overblown smile.

“No thanks.” Dean mumbled.

He had to go to the bathroom anyway.

Half way through the men’s room he cursed and backed out of it quickly. No one noticed, and he figured if they had no one would care anyway. It hadn’t occurred to him to bring any of the hundreds of supplies Sam had been kind enough to stock him with. Pissed off that the oversight might have to force him back to the motel, he was a little surprised and relieved when he saw there was a machine on the wall that took quarters. It was covered in pink flowers and shit so he figured for sure it was all about exactly what he needed. Looking around even though he knew he was alone, he put a few coins in, thinking how in the men’s john there was always a machine too but it was for condoms.

A tampon rolled out.

Scowling, Dean chucked it hard at the garbage can. He’d rather shove a rolled up newspaper down there than deal with that noise. Ducking into a stall he fumbled with his drawstrings, the urge to relief himself battling with the notion that he had to sit down. It was about then that he saw the enormous wad of cotton that he’d hatefully positioned in his underwear that day.

It was clean.

Blinking at it, Dean poked it thinking maybe somehow he had been fooled. Sam said the cycle had to go its course and it had only been three days? The book they’d found was vague of the length but it implied something more like a week. Sam had made the educated guess of precisely 7. Moon phases, mystical numerology, all that crap.

Standing up, Dean let out a small sigh, making and remaking a fist a few times. Bracing one hand on the wall he let his other hand move slowly down between his legs. He hadn’t touched himself since it happened. Not really. He hadn’t gone to the money shot of all money shots. Even when he showered he just passed roughly over it with a wash cloth and hoped for the best.

Slowly, tentatively, he moved a finger around the anatomy he knew fairly well from a very different perspective. He knew where to check if he was still bleeding. He shut his eyes at the feel of the sensation of something entering his own body. It was like having some kind of … open wound that never closed. It was so suddenly and incredibly terrifying that his own hand could push too far, that he would hurt himself—

He quickly withdrew his hand, panting and feeling his thighs shaking slightly. Studying his fingertips for blood, he saw none.

With a relief he hadn’t remembered ever feeling quite that profoundly, he ripped the giant pad away, the sound like some military adhesive off canvas. He was pretty sure you couldn’t flush the things without backing up the entire city’s water system but he quickly spotted a small trash can that had mysteriously toilet paper wrapped lumps in it.

“Huh.” Dean said.

Copying his predecessors, he was back out washing his hands methodically at the small pastel pink sink in no time.

It was past midnight and Dean knew that leaving his phone off for this long had now gone over the line of callous and right on into cruelty.

Truth be told, he was more than surprised Sam hadn’t found him already. Every time the door opened he figured it would be the tall angry form of his brother, maybe with a cocked shot gun ready to fire into the ceiling to make it all pleasantly circumspect. Sipping the good stuff slowly at the bar had been the most relaxing thing he’d felt in a real long time. The absence of ten metric tons of netted cotton between his legs brought a smile to his face. He was feeling buzzed and amicable enough that a phone call with Sammy wouldn’t be a bad thing at all. Even when Sam started yelling, Dean knew that just about nothing at all could ruin the fine even calm of his mood. Pulling out his phone, he hit the first number on his directory list.


“Christ, did the phone even ring—“

Where the hell are you? It’s almost 1AM.

“Don’t get your panties in wad.” As soon as he said it, Dean felt the laughter squeeze out of him, the back of his hand running across his eyes. Man, he was a little drunker than he thought he was. “Ev-Everything is fine. It’s A-Okay.”

You’re drinking. You’re at a bar? I checked every bar in this hole Dean, I checked—

“Didja check that thing that looks like a double wide trailer down on- on the other end of that Exxon truck stop? Because guess what, it’s not a trailer it’s a—“

Don’t fucking move. I’m coming down there.

“It’s not my bedtime yet Sam.” Dean said as he leaned back and stretched.

It felt good to feel all his muscles relaxed for a change. The knots in his shoulders were history. The vague agony that had nestled between his hips was gone completely. Swirling the amber fluid in his thick glass he wondered why anyone bothered with medications when it was so easy to just skip straight to the bottle.

You’re a freakin’ jerk Dean.

Dean lost his smile when he heard that sound in Sam’s voice again. That real fear. The kind that never came out unless he was really there. Really feeling it. He thought again about how Sam must have found the open window in the bathroom and it didn’t seem as satisfying as it did before. It felt a little cruel. Like the hour.

“Look, I told you, I’m fine? Just-just go to bed, this place is gonna close up soon anyway—“

I’ll be there in five minutes.

“Sammy, wait—shit.”

The phone was dead. Dean was about to dial him back. Let him know that the double wide trailer at that Exxon station really was a trailer and that he was practically on the other side of town at a dive that sat alongside a boarded up pawn shop. It was right after a dip in the road and behind a railroad bridge. Easy to miss if you were in a car. Easy to find if you’re walking and could hear the music.

Resting his elbows on the bar, he started softly laughing again in a dazed disbelief before he could help himself. Oh Jesus, was Sam gonna be pissed off. Like kick in a car door pissed off. Like rip off a rear view mirror and toss it into the back wind shield pissed off.

Sobering a little, he decided he should probably call his brother back.


“Huh?” Dean didn’t see or hear the woman sit down next to him.

She smiled a little, wetting lips that were already a pretty pink tinge from some kind of lip gloss.

“I left my boyfriend home tonight too.”

Dean stared at her for moment until he made the connection that she had been listening in on his phone conversation. It figured he sounded like he was talking to his pissed off boyfriend. The thought made him smile again, the laugh he wasn’t used to hearing, light and kind of nice coming out of him easily as it ever did.

“He works out on the rig, ya know, most of the month?” She went on. “Comes home, all he wants to do is sleep and watch fucking NASCAR.”

He liked the shape of her face and her wide set milk blue eyes, there was something about it that made him think of old classic beauty. It reminded him of old paintings of porcelain colored women sitting around in those dresses. She didn’t have fancy ringlets of hair pooled on top of her head though. It was bleached and short, the dark roots showing on purpose. With a flick of her tongue, she wet her mouth before bringing her beer bottle back up to her lips.

Dean swallowed when he saw her tongue ring.

“T-That sounds…” Dean cleared his throat, suddenly at a loss of anything to say. “….sounds like more fun than a clown on fire.”

Dipping her chin down to swallow her beer and laugh at the same time, she gently swatted his shoulder.

“Yer funny.”

Her bare shoulders shook as she laughed again, and Dean felt his mouth fall open just a little bit when he realized he knew that sound and that look. This chick was flirting. With him. Like this. He knew whatever he was blathering out of his mouth was the most unfunny shit that this bar had probably ever witnessed. But he knew bait in a bar when he saw it and it was staring right at him.

The rush of heat to his face and more importantly where he usually expected it, was so fierce and unexpected he almost dropped his whiskey glass. Flustered, he tried to extract himself from the situation.

“I- I gotta go? Boyfriend at home, you know how it is—“

“You got a ride?”

Dean had probably never felt more confused at that moment than he had in his entire life. The conception, the very idea of this body doing anything other than disgust him hadn’t seemed like an even remote possibility. Dean shifted uncomfortably when they both stood and she was about a half a head taller. He dragged his jacket over his shoulders and made to follow her out the doors.

He heard the guy he’d played pool with made some kind of noise. Some vague exhale of repugnance behind their backs. Anger came back to a roiling simmer, the agony of not being able to walk up to the dude like he wanted to and scare him a little by doing nothing at all. Despite all the books and all the lib, he didn’t care what anyone said, the sexes were as far apart as the planets.

Sam was right. He wasn’t exactly the same person anymore. He dragged his hands through his hair and gripped the ends for second. Why had he drank so much? It didn’t seem like anymore than he usually would have downed on a particularly festive night, but he felt like he was on his way to being completely tanked. Stumbling on the last step at the bottom of the uneven stair he looked around.

The night had gotten colder.

There were only three cars in the weed choked parking lot and hers was the furthest, just behind the sweeping low branches of a weeping willow. When he got a look at her car he made a surprised face she couldn’t see. Last year’s version of the Chevy Impala didn’t look much like the ride in her glory days, but he appreciated the sentiment all the same.

She stopped by the trunk and made some kind of show of pausing to look up at the night sky. Dean looked up to see what she was pretending to look at. Ironically enough, it was a perfect sliver of the moon hanging far above the glittering street lights on the horizon. His dream just before it all happened briefly came back to him and he resisted pulling up his jacket sleeve to check his arm.

“Where are you from?”

Dean could use that question. He could use it just fine. He pulled the name of a town they had passed through a month ago out of his head. A town he knew she’d never heard of. He knew she didn’t really care anyway. The whiskey was buzzing nicely through his limbs and blood. Everything seemed good and comfortable. Almost.

He backed up a little when her hands slid under his jacket and moved over his hips. He could feel the shape of them defined by her fingertips, the way they sloped now instead of whatever the hell it was they did before. Blinking rapidly, he fought his instinct to shove her away, the sensation of her contact twisting his foggy brain in two different directions.

“Yer cute.”

No one had called him ‘cute’ since he was about ten years old. He supposed that was better than being told he reminded her of the circus freak he felt like. It actually put him a little bit at ease. He wasn't anything but what she saw. He wasn't anything twisted or changed. Trying to think of something to say back, he realized he could really smell her now that she was this close. The hollow of her neck was like perfume, the lingering scent of her shampoo and the heat of her skin, bare in the night air made him bite down hard on his lower lip. Her chest was leaning in against him. He’d always loved that feel. That soft weight pushing against everything about him that was all hard lines and angles. That warmth pressing up his body, easing into his hand to be gently held and explored. The space between his legs that was now blissfully absent of his sanitary needs suddenly was brought back to his attention.

It wasn’t completely alien. It wasn’t something like the opposite of what he’d always known, or something that made him nervous. It was a familiar heat but it was a lot more intense. Focused, making the muscles of his stomach flex and making him suddenly aware of the presence of her touch. He shifted in place, the bunched up material of his ill sized boxers rubbing him in ways that made a shiver run down his spine. The night didn’t feel quite so cold anymore, a light sweat had broken out all over his skin.

Somewhere in the haze of the drink he thought that maybe he should be going now. Tell this girl that it’s been fun and all but he had to hit the road and—

Dean made a small sound when her hands suddenly gripped him a little bit harder and before he knew it he was up on the Chevy’s trunk. Startled into grasping her arms, his heart pounded with some weird uncertainty of how to react. He had never been lifted without his permission in his adult life and especially not by some girl. He felt a rush of anger, of indignance and embarrassment. Who the hell did this chick think she was? Just because he said he needed a ride didn’t mean he wanted a ride. Gauging how much strength he thought he had in his arms, he was ready to at least attempt to push her ass back down onto the potholed parking lot.

He didn’t get the chance.

Dean made another startled sound when her mouth was suddenly closed over his, her tongue sweet with some mint she’d been chewing, soft and slow, treating him like he was something small that could break. Dean opened his eyes over the kiss to get another look at her. Damn this girl was aggressive. Where the hell were all the women like this when he was—

She had pushed herself to stand between Dean’s legs, making him spread his thighs wider than he ever had in his female lifespan. He did back away then, not liking how open it felt, how exposed he was even though he was still wearing all his clothes. She made a fist in the front of his jacket to keep him in place, the kiss still going a little harder and deeper this time. Dean was so distracted he didn’t notice until it was too late that her other hand was working its way up under his shirt.

Wondering vaguely if he was somehow being taken advantage of, Dean suddenly stopped his weak retreat as soon as her hand made contact with one side of his chest. Pressing him softly, a fingertip brushed against the sensitive skin and squeezed. Whoa. That felt… that felt like… he heard himself moaning a little into her smile, leaning forward into her hand even while his hands were gripped tight on the trunk’s edge, backing the rest of his body away.

The bar behind them suddenly opened up and the sounds of voices rose and fell in drunken laughter.

“It’s cold out here.” She whispered, sliding Dean down off the trunk as easily as she put him up there.

Confused and disoriented, Dean licked at his swollen wet lips and wondered if that meant this was all over. It couldn’t be over now could it? He knew what he would have done. He knew what move he’d make next but the rules weren’t even rules anymore, he might as well have been in another freaking dimension. He didn’t even know if he wanted it to be over. Shit. Clutching his swimming head again he remembered that he’d never called Sam back. His brother was probably fucking sinking the car out in a swamp by now.

The back door of the car opened.

“Get in.”

Wondering why he was doing what he was told, Dean let himself be pushed down into the darkness of the backseat.

Dean hadn’t been on his back in the back seat of many other cars before.


Unsure of what exactly he was supposed to do, he tried to move with her, kiss back, touch back like he would with any woman at any other time. But- but this chick was stronger than he was. It had started predictably enough. Pleasantly enough. This girl liked to kiss. It made Dean wonder what that mouth could do on— well, it made him wonder anyway.

She started rubbing his stomach under his shirt, strangely enough, right over that spot that had been giving him hell for the past three days. He hadn’t realized it was a ploy to get down his pants. He was pretty sure that the presence of tits (hers, not his) hadn’t taken half of his IQ away, but the four glasses of Jack Daniels might have had a lot to do with his response time. The thought of it made him let his knees fall apart a little bit as she kept slowly kissing him, working his mouth so he could barely think let alone try to do anything rational.

He felt her hand slip down over his bare skin.

It was the first time since he’d let all of this start to happen that he panicked. He hadn’t expected it. Didn’t think the surge of it would feel so terrible. The sensation of fear at being touched revolted him so much he shoved himself backwards and twisted her wrist at a slight angle that he knew would make her stop. At least that was the plan. Instead, in his liquored grace he practically laid down for her. While he had stopped her wrist, her hand was already down between his legs, freezing him in place with her firm steady touch.

“Don’t- don’t do that.” Dean said, hissing when her fingertip slid down lower and pressed against an aching wetness that he sincerely hoped wasn’t more blood.

She ignored him. Panting uncontrollably, he wasn’t sure if he should be outraged or not.

Dean’s eyes closed, his knees falling apart further as the touch started into a slow stroke. Oh god. He knew this one. At least he thought he did. He knew what it usually did to women when he thought he was doing it right anyway. Her lips were on his neck now, kissing him softly under his ear as her hand worked him as slowly and deliberately as her kiss had.

He heard himself make some weird sound when her hands went to his drawstrings. He tried to pull her hands away but the loose fabric was already being pulled down his thighs. There was a small laugh when she spotted his boxer shorts.

“Nice.” She murmured, as she kissed him over the soft cloth then that was gone too.

Dean felt his head bang back against the armrest of the door and winced.

Bracing one booted foot up against the back windshield, his other knee held up over her shoulder. His hands flew backwards, gripping the round metal of the window opener, the other gripping hard onto the back of the passenger seat. The light sweat turned heavy, slick on the backs of his knees and beading over his lip.

“Oh my-- oh my god...”

Dean had done it before. Many times. With so many women in so many places he couldn’t sit down and tell a guy about them all if he tried. But he never knew, he didn’t know, he never expected, he had never known— holy shit, he'd almost forgotten about that fucking tongue ring.

She wasn’t holding him down but he felt like he couldn’t move, his thighs spread so far apart, her hands cupping him just enough to lift him to her mouth. He felt his eyes roll back when something even stronger started settle down on top of him. Like a burning weight. His entire body filled with some heavy sweet gauze, the edge he vaguely knew of for himself coming much steeper and slower than he’d ever thought could possibly happen.

And it… it just kept freakin’ going.

“Oh god...” He whimpered and felt his boot slip a little on the glass as his thighs started to shake.

A hand came up and pushed his shirt up to his neck, exposing him completely. He felt his skin react with the cool air despite how fogged up the windows had gotten, the faint heaviness of his chest moving with the slow steady jolt of her fingers as she started to fuck him with her hand along with her mouth.

Dean mortified himself with the sounds he started making then. He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t keep one pitiful whimper back from the half pain pressed pleasure of the feel of the motion and friction working on the inside of the body he never should have even owned. The sweaty death grip he had on the front seat tightened even further.

Ah fuck, fuck, oh fuck--

When it hit Dean was surprised he didn’t kick out the back windshield.

He couldn’t breathe.

He sure as hell couldn’t see.

By the time he came back down he realized for the first time in his life after he’d come so hard that he for once, didn’t want to go directly to sleep. He felt awake, electric. Ready to go.

“Where are you stayin’?”

Dean blinked down at her in a dizzy haze.

“Wha-what?” He panted.

“You got somewhere to be?” She asked.

Dean thought of the motel room filled with plastic bags of unopened feminine need products. He thought about the look on his brother’s face when he finally appeared. He thought about the fist that might accompany the words that would come next.

“Nope.” Dean answered affirmatively.

“Why don’t you come back to my place?” She smiled, lips wet, chest pressed down between his legs.

“Wha- what about your boyfriend?” Dean was always good on the details no matter how sloshed he got. And this fun was all well and good but there were some limits he wasn’t going to cross unless some rufies were involved.

“Don’t got one.” She admitted with a small guilty turn of her head.

Dean laughed a little and lazily dug his hand through his jacket that was bunched up around his shoulders. The soft blue glow of his phone flickered to life.

32 messages. All marked: Urgent

Dean let his head fall back as he smiled. He could learn a thing or from this chick. In fact, he thought he might already have. He watched her right herself, looking for keys, glancing out the opaque windows for any sign that they had been observed.

More like heard.

He was still trying to get his clothes back on when the engine turned. He sat up and let himself be chauffeured to who knew where. Tipping his head back he got a good look at his boot print clear and perfect in a slight smear on the rear windshield.

That was a new one.

He groaned when he woke up to the harsh glare of sunlight.

Feeling for his watch he remembered he never put it on before he left the motel the day before. It sat too heavy and awkward on his wrist. It was easier just to look at his phone. Oh man. His phone.

Rolling off the bed, he picked up the first shirt he found which happened to be the black tank top the girl had been wearing last night. It felt good to put on something that fit his body more or less. Forgoing the search for his boxer shorts that he wasn’t even sure made it out of her car, he pulled up his gray sweats instead and moved quietly out of the room so he wouldn’t wake her up.

The clock on the wall of the apartment’s small kitchen said noon.


He had meant just to sleep off a little bit of his failing buzz after he’d showered with her in her cramped bathroom that barely had enough room for one let alone two of them. He hadn’t cared what she saw by then. She didn’t question all the scars and marks of violence all over his skin. But she did make one comment that made him smile a little bit.

“All that and you never once got inked?”

She herself boasted a coiled dragon undulating down a shoulder blade, its broad serene snout settled in the small of her back. It was colored every shade of red and almost metallic gold in her candlelight.

Nope. Never went down that road. He almost told her that his dad would have probably killed him but he decided to let it just be funny as it was. Sitting down on her soft sofa next to a cat he’d not noticed before, he laced on his boots, tied them on tight, tight enough and it was almost like they fit like they were supposed to.

He wondered if he should leave a note. A small message of something. Something of what he wasn’t quite sure. He knew he would never see her again, and if he did, he wouldn’t be the person she brought home. There was a pang of guilt there, as he thought that maybe he’d deceived this woman somehow.

Then he remembered being shoved mafia style into the back of her Chevy head first and thought maybe it didn’t really matter.

His jacket didn’t have his sunglasses, and it took him about a mile of walking before he realized just exactly where in town he actually was. It was about another mile after that before his hangover started to recede back just a little bit. Her place ended up being a little farther out than he’d suspected but that was okay. His legs felt like taking their time. Thankful that his phone battery was dead, he was glad that the conversation he’d eventually be having didn’t have to occur just yet.

It could wait a few more miles.

Sammy could get in all the punches and kicks he wanted. He deserved them all for the stunt Dean pulled last night. Dean knew he wouldn’t be very forgiving if the tables were turned. However, by the time he finally turned down the street that had the motel sign in sight, he started to second guess his willingness to confront Sam who had probably been up all night. With a deep breath, he shoved a few coins into the soda machine and power chugged a coke to get his brain kick started. The caffeine and sugar cleared some of the haze left in his head.

He didn’t have a key.

Great. He was gonna have to knock and then stand there and wait.

The car was parked right in front of the room which was at least one good sign. Sam hadn’t torched it with gasoline or just up and left him here, moving on to the next state without his new feeble sibling to worry about.

Bracing himself, he knocked.

There was the sound of movement inside the room, the brief pause at the spyhole, the longer pause before the lock turned. The door opened a few inches and was left like that.

Oh boy, here we go.

Sighing, Dean pushed the door open and stepped into the dark musty room he’d escaped the day before. Sam was sitting on his bed and apparently found his cell phone to be the most interesting thing he’d ever seen because he didn’t look up from it once, even after Dean tossed his jacket down and took a seat by the small table by the window.

“Well,” Dean tried. “I’ve got good news?”

Sam’s livid gaze flickered up at him, and Dean wished he hadn’t tried to draw any of that barely contained blistering attention towards himself on purpose.

“Bleeding's stopped.” Dean hitched his shoulders in a brief shrug. “Thought the cycle thing was what, 7 days?”

“I said I thought it might be.” Sam said curtly down towards the carpet.

Dean felt his brows rise and fall in renewed consideration. Maybe this thing was on its way out? Maybe this madness would be over with faster than he’d hoped. Life with Sam would be infinitely less bearable if that wasn't the case.

“I found the bar you were in.” Sam said simply.

“For a hole, this place sure has a lot of holes huh?” Dean half smiled, his hand finding a half open bag of pretzels and a hunger he didn’t know he had until he saw them.

“They said you left.” Sam continued. “With someone named Chris.”

Chris. Christine. So that was her name. Dean had never thought to ask. His hand rubbed the ribbed black tank he’d lifted from her floor. A little sorry that he stole something almost for the pure hell of it, he figured there were plenty other black ribbed tank tops out there in the world.

“So?” Dean asked, lifting his chin and daring Sam to say whatever it was he wanted so badly to say.

It was the tone he used when he wanted to taunt his brother into a challenge about what was what. The sound of it came out weak and didn’t come off anywhere near like he wanted it to but for some reason Sam did back down. The static of fury in his eyes blurring suddenly into weary concern.

“What happened to your face?”

“My face?” Dean assumed Sam meant something other than the obvious.

Turning to the latticed mirror behind the television, Dean caught the dark marks around his chin where a hand had held him in place. Other marks on his neck from fingers and a mouth. Looked like this silky smooth skin of his bruised like a peach. His chest hitching in a humorless laugh he wondered what his legs and his thighs must look like. Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he did find it a little strange walking around with any normalcy the morning after.

If there was a god, Sam wouldn’t notice that small detail.

“They said you were trashed Dean, falling out the door with some guy named Chris and they didn’t even know his last name—“

“Hey, hey!” Dean held up a hand before Sam got riled up enough to get up onto his feet. “Chris was a woman and while she wasn’t exactly, well a gentleman, nothing happened. I slept at her place. Everything’s fine.”

Sam took another look at Dean’s face and didn’t say another word.

“Look, it’s been a really weird night?” Dean collapsed back into the stiff chair he was sprawled in. “I’m really tired and all I want is something to eat and a bed."

Sam slammed his phone down on the table between beds about hard enough to break it.

“I’m sorry Sammy.” Dean heard himself saying, his throat working. “I just lost track of the time.”

“That place was a fucking dump Dean.” Sam murmured. “It was the kind of place we go into armed if we had to at all.”

“I get it. Ok?” Dean rubbed his face, his hangover ebbing and flowing back and forth behind his eyes. “I fucking get it already.”

Sam leaned back further onto his bed, his exhaustion betraying him now that Dean was back under lock and key. Dean could see the lines of his arms tensed rock hard, his chest heaving slowly. His brother looked as though he had volumes more to say and Dean was silently grateful his brother was too weary and angry to even know where to start. He was fighting to keep his eyes closed, his drained wrath the only thing keeping him awake.

"Just...you don’t fucking get anything." Sam breathed out slowly, eyes fluttering. "You never fucking think."

Dean sighed, shrugging tiredly out of his leather jacket. He felt suddenly small, stupid and strangely guilty again. Did all girls get this kind of flack for a one-nighter? He'd never considered just what the cost was for his once most simple of pleasures. Dean decided right then and there that if this offended goddess wanted to exact her punishment on him indefinitely, he might need to consider some form of euthanasia.

"Sorry." He mumbled uselessly on his way to the fridge.

But Sam was already rolled over and half way into his denied sleep.

A cursory glance through the contents of the fridge yielded little more than a half-eaten sandwich. Dean shoved the remnants in his mouth and washed it down with the lukewarm coffee left sitting on the table.

The walk had left him feeling sweaty under his leather and dusty from the passing traffic. He still smelled like her apartment too and for some reason he wanted all traces of that off his skin and down a drain.

But first and foremost he wanted to crash

His head hit the pillow faster than he could think to pull the covers over his body. Instantly it all went away. The smell, the echo of hands on his skin, the ache in his bones and the feeling he'd just done something horrible.

To himself. To Sam. Maybe even that girl named Chris?

Pulling the stiff blanket up over his head, he decided to stop thinking long enough for his body to get the black out it needed.

Pain woke him.

Like an ice cold spike to the head, he sat up with a gasp. The room was too hot, his shoulders coated in chilled sweat. He felt heavy, dizzy and confused. The lights were still out, the weak and dying light outside painting the wall in shadows. He'd been out for hours.

Groaning, he lifted a hand to his stomach, massaged the throbbing ache there. It didn't work. His muscles cramped painfully again, making him hiss. Wondering blearily if that half bottle of booze was finally on its way out, he clutched his belly on his way to the bathroom. Blindly, he groped for the light switch and stumbled to the shower. Shedding the dirty and used clothes, their worn dank sweaty scent now strong enough to raise the bile in the back of his throat, he hastily turned on the water and stepped inside.

It was just what he needed.

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the tiles and letting the warm spray of water cover his back like a blanket. He was shuddering, his body out of control once again, painful spasms like many tiny deaths wrenching him of control. It was out of his hands. Whatever his new body did or didn't, he would just have to bear it.

The thought made him want to drive his fist through the wall repeatedly.

Flipping his arm to look at the underside, he saw the dark blue line there, as fine and poignant as the night he had gotten slashed meticulously over his flesh. While he watched it grew thinner and thinner, down to the width of a hair. The clamor in his head and body deepening as it swiftly sucked itself back into the pigments of his skin.

"Stop." He whispered, eyes closed. "Just... s-stop."

And like that, it did.

He thought he'd only closed his eyes for a second.

Something new was hurting when he blinked them open again. The back of his head now throbbed sharply where he'd smacked it, his limbs in disarray, splayed around the edge of the tub. The water was hitting him directly in the face.

He’d fallen?

Dean slowly began to partially right himself with a grunt, fingers flying to the back of his head, checking for damage. His fingertips traced his lip, coming away slightly bloody. Must have bit it on the way down.

What the fuck had happened?

Carefully, he tested his too-heavy limbs.

His breath caught in his throat, hand flying to the firm straight contours of his chest. Heart racing, he braced his thigh and didn’t dare smile just yet. Lurching out of the water, face turned away from the mirror, he left the shower going behind him, pushing open the door and flipping on the stark lamp lights.

“Sam? Sammy! Wake up!”

His voice sounded solid. Like he remembered. He fought the smile that was winning despite his efforts. Shivering and drizzling water on the brown packed carpet, he watched his brother roll over slowly, rubbing his eyes and squinting at the offending light.

Daring to hope, Dean cleared his throat. “Well?”

Sam looked him up and down.

“Looks like its over.”

“Just like that!” Dean held his arms up triumphantly.

“Just like that.” Sam sighed, shaking his head a little.

Happily digging into his bag, he pulled on the first fleece he found, feeling it fit him like it was supposed to, his boxers not baggy or empty as he cupped himself for a few moments of reassurance before covering up his stuff with an extra layer of jeans.

“Wher-where are you going?” Sam sleepily asked.

“Get up, yer coming with me.”

Dean was yanking out the extra sock padding he’d filled his boots with and sliding them on up to his ankles, twining the laces briskly.

Sam was finally sitting up. His returning consciousness showing some of the relief that he maybe didn’t want Dean to know he was also feeling quite profoundly. But Dean didn’t miss it. It made him feel a little more like shit for blowing him off all night but he couldn’t bring himself to apologize anymore than he had. He wasn’t sure he was ready to just forget Sam’s natural sense of entitlement over his days and nights as soon as ovaries had come into play. Maybe not ever.

But he couldn’t blame him. And he couldn’t get mad at him. So he didn’t.

Dean slipped on his long lost watch, the comfortable heavy feel as welcome as putting on his broken in cracked leather jacket or turning over that finely tuned engine that was sitting there just waiting for them in the parking lot.

Their unconventional dawn just happened to correspond with happy hour.

“I wanna go shoot some pool.”

“Right now?” Sam was pulling on his shirt and trying to stop his yawns.

Dean really wanted to see if that fucking hustler would be there again. It was petty and cheap but Dean wanted that twenty spot back that he’d lost fair and square more than that 500 he’d lost two months ago at a rigged poker game that blew up in his face.

“Don’t ya wanna come along?” Dean asked with a small smile. “Make sure I get home at a decent hour?”

Sam collapsed back onto his bed and groaned. “Jesus, you are such a jerk.”

“We are outta here in five.”

Dean went out to the car and he knew Sammy was right. He should have a speech by now. Some somber fleeting set of words to explain what the hell the forces of nature had warped him in and out of like some brutal parlor trick. He frowned when he saw how low on gas Sam had left the car. He must have been driving up and down these cruddy streets until dawn.

Looking in the back rear view mirror, he slid a hand down over his jeans, briefly holding the weight that hung there under the paper thin worn denim. He wondered if he would ever actually forget what he had been given by the hands of a woman in her very own guise. He wondered if anything he ever did again in his future would even equal what he had felt in a body he'd been condemned to endure for a marked set of the moon's changing face.

At the end of it all, he thoughtfully rubbed the warm skin of his forearm where the line had now completely and utterly vanished without a single trace of having been there at all.

Dean wondered if Sam had been wrong.

He wondered if it had really been a curse at all.

the end
Tags: isochronism
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