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mirabellafic2008-10-20 09:33 pm
mirasfics.livejournal.com) wrote in mirabellafic2008-10-20 09:33 pm
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Title: Private Function DeanWinchesterHasGotItGoingOn(ByRef blowjobs As Boolean)
Fandom: Supernatural, Wincest, NC-17
Summary: Sam gets replaced by a mandroid. Dean's not letting that shit slip under his radar again.
Note: I think this is the geekiest thing I have ever written, ever. Though not as geeky as it would have been if Sam's internal programming language had been Python. (I wasn't even going near Ruby on Rails.) It was also, hands down, the biggest pain in the ass to code, so if you're not viewing this fic in Firefox I don't know what to tell you. You'll have to wait until I have the time and energy to straighten out Word's heinous spaghetti HTML.
"Fucking Christo, dude!" Dean says for the seventh time today. Okay, he's man enough to admit he's panicking a little.
Sam frowns at him, wiping holy water off his face with his shirt-tails – except that that is so totally not Sam and Dean Winchester is gonna have to end a bitch when he finds out who took his brother and why.
"Dean, I'm not possessed," Not!Sam says, just almost the right tone of exasperation, but Dean? Not fooled.
"Yeah?" Dean snaps. "So what the fuck are you?"
A drop of holy water slides down from Not!Sam's sad, sad hair onto his nose. Dean can't fault him for fidelity to the original, or for determination – you'd have to be full-on committed to whatever hell you were trying to raise to man up and wear Sam's hair for the duration. "I'm about to be an only child, is what. Seriously, man, what the hell?"
"Dude, you're good," says Dean, who believes in giving credit where credit is due. "Just not quite good enough. See, I call that Sammy's bitchface but it's really more of a full-body bitch, you know? Goes all the way down to his toes and then leaks out into, like, the spirit realm for three feet around him in every direction. You? You're not working it past your knees, buddy. So, what, you can imitate emotion but you can't feel it, is that it?"
Not!Sam rolls his eyes. "God, Dean, maybe I'm just not that mad at you. Now can we hit the road before lunchtime?"
Dean points at him. "Stay. I'm gonna go get the motel room for another couple of nights. I'll never hear the end of it if Sam busts out of wherever you've got him locked up and finds out I hit the road with a shapeshifter or whatever you are."
"Remember I said I wasn't that mad at you? Did you take that as a challenge or something?"
"Sit the fuck down, Animorph Boy," Dean orders. "When I get back, we're gonna have a talk."
Not!Sam rolls his eyes and sits back with a huff. "Dude, whatever," he says.
He's not nearly annoyed enough. Dean keeps a weather eye on the door to the motel room all the way to the office and back.
"Dean, oh my god. I don't even know what you're doing, but whatever it is, can you just stop?"
Dean glares over at Not!Sam, dropping the curtain back down over the salt line at the window. Not!Sam has been communing with the laptop ever since Dean got back from the office, his fingers flying over the keys with a familiarity even Sam's fingers don't possess. Dean's starting to wonder if maybe he should give them some privacy. "I'm just trying to figure out how the hell Sam got out and you got in."
"Dude, I am seriously, literally going to kill you if you don't let up on this. And I'm not even going to salt and burn you. I'm going to take you back to California and bury you in Forest Lawn right next to one of those big statues of Jesus and lambs, with a headstone that says 'Dean Winchester, Beloved Husband.' And I'll make everyone we know put plastic pinwheels and mylar balloons on your grave at Christmas and the fourth of July."
Dean eyes him narrowly, reluctantly impressed. "Man, you sure got Sammy's imagination with the rest of the package, didn't you?"
Not!Sam gives him the bitchface. It doesn't even make it down past his balls that time. Dean slams the door open and stalks outside, looking for tracks and cursing the invention of non-track-retaining cement. His baby's odometer is right where it was last night, and all Sam's things that aren't in the motel room are in the car. The guy at the gas station across the street hasn't seen Sam wandering off anywhere, and neither have the motel manager or the maid.
Sam's phone rings once before Not!Sam picks it up and says, "Get back in here, Dean. You're going to hurt yourself or get arrested or something."
Ten minutes after he left the motel room Dean stands in the middle of the parking lot in the cold autumn air, heart hammering, drumming his fingers on his hips. There's no help for it, he decides. That thing might look like Sam and talk like Sam and god knows it bitches like Sam, but it's not Sam, and Dean isn't going to find any leads on that concrete. Time to get his interrogation on.
Not!Sam yowls in indignation as Dean slams the chair around and leans over it, bracing his hands on the arms and getting right up in that face that should be Sam's but isn't. "Listen, asshole," he says, quiet and dead serious. "I'm running out of patience and you're running out of options that aren't talk. Don't think that just because you're wearing my brother's face I won't take your ass apart with a silver-bladed knife if that's what it takes to get the real thing back."
Not!Sam is ashen, looking at Dean like Sam looks at people who are batshit insane and pointing a gun in his face. "Dean," he says carefully, lifting his hands in a deliberately nonthreatening gesture. "Man, it's okay. I'm right here."
"Yeah, that's the problem," Dean says. "You are. Sam isn't."
"What – Dean, Jesus Christ, have you seriously gotten this bent out of shape because I didn't get as pissed off about you using all the towels this morning as you think I should? Because I've got to tell you, man, you do more annoying things than that four or five times a day." Not!Sam swallows, and the bob of his Adam's apple is weirdly distracting for a minute. This close, he smells like coffee and Dean's shampoo and a little like the Impala. "Look, let's just go get some food, okay? I promise I'll get really, really mad at you for chewing with your mouth open and hitting on the waitresses. Play your cards right and I might even punch you for freaking me out like this."
It isn't, though, Dean thinks. It isn't the goddamned towels. It's fingers too fast on the keyboard and emotions that don't ever get right down to Sam's bones the way they should and the way his knees aren't quite wide enough apart when he sits. It's the way he sits up straight when he should be slouching and doesn't favor that knee that Dean knows should still be sore. And yeah, fuck it, it's the way Sam should either have bitched about the towels or made that little face like he could bitch about them but he's not in the mood. The fact is, there are a hundred little things about Sam that write his name in the air around him, and after the shit with Meg went down Dean made it his business to learn every single one of them like a Latin major telling declensions on a rosary. It's getting on for two in the afternoon and Dean's only seen half of them today and it's scaring the shit out of him.
"Just tell me," he says, still quiet. "Tell me where Sam is or this is gonna get real bad, real quick."
There's nothing in Not!Sam's face now that even resembles laughter. "Dean," he says, so carefully. Too carefully. Sam loves the sound of his brother's name, though it took Dean years to realize it, but even he's never shaped Dean's name like it was something this fragile. "Man, you're scaring me pretty bad right now. Look, let's just call a do-over on this, okay? Nothing awful is gonna happen if we just call time out for a couple of minutes. Just, sit down and let's take some deep breaths, here."
The look on his face is so earnest, so Sam, that Dean wants to cry from sheer loneliness. He straightens and stumbles back, landing in the chair on the other side of the table.
"You son of a bitch," he says, rubbing his hand over his face, his voice unsteadier than he can stand. "Look, I just want my brother back. Give him back and I swear to god you'll walk out of here safe, I swear to god. Whatever you want with him, it isn't worth your life."
There's a moment of taunt silence before Not!Sam breathes, "God, Dean," and warm hands slide onto Dean's knees. Dean flinches and opens his eyes to see Not!Sam kneeling in front of him, peering worriedly up at him.
"You're scared," Not!Sam says like he's just now realizing it and he's sorry as hell.
"No shit, Sherlock, my fucking brother's disappeared," Dean tells him.
His hands are big even for his size, long-fingered, Sam's hands but not; because Sam wouldn't be inching closer between Dean's knees, and Sam's hands wouldn't be sliding up his brother's thighs even if they stopped in the middle with their fingers spreading possessively from one line of denim seam to the other. "I'm sorry," Not!Sam whispers, looking beseechingly up at Dean. "Just. I'm sorry because you're freaking out and I don't know how to stop it, and I'm your Sam, Dean, I am."
Dean swallows hard, because fuck if that isn't hard to resist. "Yeah? Well, my Sam doesn't grope me all that often."
Not!Sam's jaw firms stubbornly. "Yeah?" he echoes. "Well, maybe your Sam should."
What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Dean wants to ask, and suddenly can't. He can't say much of anything, because Not!Sam's fingers are digging in, not so much caressing Dean's legs as holding them gently but firmly down. Not!Sam is looking up at him through the shaggy line of his bangs, Sam-stubborn; he leans his head down and rubs his cheek against Dean's knee, inching his hands up Dean's legs, and this is about to go in a really disturbing direction and Dean doesn't know how to make it stop.
God. He's never known how to say no to Sammy, and now he can't say no to things that look like him, either. And this isn't Sammy, Dean knows that right down to his bones, but he has a vibe going just as deep telling him that it's not dangerous or evil either. Sighing, Dean reaches down to run his fingers through dark hair. "Tell me he's okay," he whispers.
A tumble of emotions passes over Not!Sam's face – weariness, exasperation, sorrow, too many things to identify. "He's okay," he says, enunciating with that peculiar bite that means Sam-annoyed. "I promise you. Sam is okay. He's safe and warm and not hurt, just kind of pissed off."
Dean's fingers are still in Not!Sam's hair. Dean thinks that's sort of not okay but he can't get his feet under him enough to care, not with Not!Sam's fingertips drawing tiny circles on his leg. "So, uh. You. Shapeshifter or what?"
"I'm going to go with 'Or what' for a thousand, Alex," Not!Sam murmurs. He slants a quick look up at Dean, then nuzzles deliberately against Dean's thigh. When Dean's breath catches on a ragged splinter of air, Sam's mouth opens against Dean's jeans and kisses near the inner seam, hesitant and unsure.
"Dude," Dean says, and his voice comes out strained, because he's got a hard-on that could drill diamonds and even if this isn't his brother, it sure as hell looks like him. "Gotta tell you, this is not a Sam thing to do."
Not!Sam's hands slide up to Dean's hips, holding them against the chair. It's not the world's best combat grip, but Dean still gets the feeling that he'd have to work pretty hard to break that hold, or what that hold is going to turn into if he moves. "According to you, neither is anything else I've done today," he says sulkily.
Dean kind of hates himself right now. Sam's out there somewhere, maybe hurt, definitely pissed, and Dean has this stupid urge to pet Sam's clone or whatever and tell him it's all right. The weird thing, though is how much it feels all right – that sixth sense that tells him when Sam's not safe, the one that pings when Sam so much as goes to the library without him, that's not pinging at all. It feels like he's just left Sam at Bobby's, pissed off but out of harm's way, and nothing heavier on Dean's shoulders than the responsibility to make whatever Sam's pissed about right again. "God. Just… look, man, you got a name?"
"Yeah. It's Sam," Not!Sam says in a tone the pissiness of which is completely at odds with the way his mouth can't quite seem to stay away from the inside of Dean's leg.
Dean slides his hand under Not!Sam's chin and tilts it up. "Give me a timeline," he says. "When can I go get him?"
Not!Sam eyes Dean's thumb for a moment, then tilts his head and takes it in his mouth, long swoop of heat and wet and eyes that are almost Sam's staring challengingly up at Dean. "Okay, for Christ's sake," he sighs, easing off Dean's thumb with one last lick. Dean's hand might actually be shaking, but no way is he admitting that even to himself. "If you want to play this, we'll play it. Sam will be back by midnight. If he doesn't come back I'll turn into a pumpkin. Now, can we just –"
"Yeah," Dean says, "yeah," and Not!Sam's hands are sliding up under his shirt, baring skin until his tongue slides along the spot where Dean's jeans meet his waist. Dean makes a strangled sound, so turned on he can barely see; Not!Sam laughs, slow and deep, and sucks a hickey onto Dean's waist.
"Yeah," Dean says. "Okay."
And then it's so more than okay, even in the filthybadwrong sense where this guy is pretending to be Dean's brother, because Not!Sam gives a low growl in the back of his throat and shifts his mouth over to pop the button on Dean's jeans with his teeth. Usually Dean's not much into that – takes too long, and it always breaks the mood a little when people find out that it was harder on their teeth than they were expecting – but Not!Sam pops that button like he has titanium teeth and a jaw that could crack walnuts and drags Dean's zipper down with his tongue.
"Holy shit," Dean says faintly. "Sammy and I gonna have to have a talk when he gets back?"
Not!Sam rears back and looks Dean dead in the eye. "He's not here right now," he says. "I am. And I'm gonna make you come so hard down my throat that you forget your own name."
Well, okay, Dean's about to say, but he loses it when Not!Sam leans down and licks up the underside of his dick, slow and dirty, like he has nowhere to be and nothing he'd rather be doing than getting the tip of his tongue familiar with that ridge right below the head. Dean makes a strangled sound and grabs hold of Not!Sam's shoulders, wanting so bad to just grab his head and fuck his mouth hard and deep, and he can't remember ever having been this turned on this fast.
"You can, Dean," Not!Sam gasps. "You can, I can take it, whatever you want," and his hips are moving in small, liquid pumps against empty air and his mouth slides down forever over Dean's dick like whatever his species is, he's not even physiologically set up with a gag reflex.
"Aw, fuck, Sam," Dean groans, clenching one fist in Not!Sam's hair and deciding to forego the freakout over that little verbal slip. Not!Sam makes a soft, approving sound that vibrates just right, his fingers sliding down to stroke over Dean's balls and his tongue playing seriously hot little games with the slit of Dean's cock on the upstroke. Then he starts sucking like a Hoover, hard and hot, and it's with the last vestiges of his sanity that Dean starts frantically pushing at Not!Sam's shoulders.
"Bed," he gasps.
Not!Sam looks up at him through dark eyelashes and smirks. "You don't want it right here, like this? Me on my knees for you right here on this skanky motel carpet, nothing out but your dick –"
"Okay, good point," Dean concedes.
"Thought so," Not!Sam says, and swallows Dean's dick again. Dean has a lingering moment of fear that the bed aversion is because Not!Sam's not anatomically correct or something until he catches a glimpse of the, Jesus, baseball bat or something straining against the zipper of his jeans.
Dean is so not bottoming, he decides. Then Not!Sam manages to deep-throat Dean's dick and run his tongue over his balls at the same time, sloppy and weird and hotwetohgodfuck, and Dean has about two seconds of lucidity to face the fact that he's going to do pretty damn much anything Not!Sam asks out of sheer astounded gratitude before he's locking his legs around the legs of the chair and straining upward, fucking his way into that hot, tight throat while Not!Sam makes hot little moans around him. Long fingers wrap around his balls, bitten-off nails scraping lightly up them, and Dean doesn't even have time to brace himself before he's coming like a fucking volcano, babbling god knows what with his fingers buried in Not!Sam's hair.
Not!Sam licks him until he's done catching his breath, careful strokes on skin that's getting oversensitive fast, and then looks back up at Dean. He's smug and flushed, still squirming a little because he hasn't come yet and that shit has to be getting painful. "Okay, bed now," he says.
"Toppy little fucker," Dean chides amiably, but lets himself be pulled up and over to the bed, clothes trailing to the ground behind them.
He wakes up at nightfall to find Not!Sam curled next to him channel-surfing, half sitting up and digging around in a bag of Doritos like he's never seen them before. Dean stretches contentedly and wraps an arm around Not!Sam, because he's generally willing to bend the no-cuddling rule for Sam and it seems only fair to extend that generosity to Sam-clones too. Ones that aren't evil, anyway.
Then he frowns, sliding a hand up to rest on the side of Not!Sam's neck. And there's a hell of a thing, because instead of the usual reassuring thump-thump, thump-thump under his hand Sam's pulse is going thump, thump, thump in a slow rhythm that's more reminiscent of his girl's engine than anything driven by a human heart.
"Dude," he says.
"It's not blood," Not!Sam explains. "It's coolant. Still red, but only for verisimilitude."
"Man, how many syllables did you just manage after I blew you? I must've been asleep longer than I thought." Dean looks thoughtfully up at Not!Sam. "Coolant, huh? So, what are you, a robot?"
Not!Sam may not quite have the bitchface down, but he manages Sam's look of affront perfectly even around a mouthful of Doritos. "I'm not a robot," he says after he swallows. "Robots are the things that build your cars."
"Not my car," Dean corrects automatically.
"I'm an android," Not!Sam tells him.
"Damn fine one," Dean says, smirking as he runs a possessive hand over Not!Sam. Not!Sam purrs, and Dean has a bizarre moment where he seriously wants to keep this guy forever because he's like a breathing, blowjob-dispensing combination of Sam and the Impala and that shit just cannot be beat. "So who made you? Aliens?"
"You'd probably call them that, yeah."
"Seriously? Like, full-on Area 51 shit?"
"You know, the whole Area 51 thing is culturally insensitive fetishization of the Other," Not!Sam tells him. "Extraterrestrials, in this case."
"O…kay," Dean says. "So what are you doing here?"
"Learning," Not!Sam says. "We can't really kidnap breeding pairs and bring them back to zoos, you know, so our scientists construct androids to substitute for normal humans for a day or two."
Dean raises an eyebrow. "Normal?"
Not!Sam shrugs. "We figured you must be. We ran speech pattern analyses and found that the word 'normal' comes out of Sam's mouth at a much higher rate than… well, normal. It's obviously something he values highly."
"You think we're –" Dean stares at him. "Aw, baby."
Not!Sam pauses in the middle of taking a bite out of a chip, looking worriedly at Dean. "What?"
"Sam talks about normal because it's something he wants and doesn't have. For Christ's sake, killing monsters? Living in motels? Sewing each other up instead of going to the hospital? Dude, this was about as weird as it got before you stirred incest into the mix, and by the way, if you're wanting to get in there and do field research on normality like that chick with the gorillas in the mist, fucking people you're pretending to be related by blood to? Not a good idea, you hear me? And by the way, how the hell do you know about mylar grave balloons but you don't know that incest is really, really wrong?"
"This isn't normal?" Not!Sam asks, looking stricken.
"No, it's not normal!" Dean tells him. "Jesus, didn't your alien leaders teach you anything before they sent you here?"
"I thought they did," Not!Sam says plaintively.
Dean's just about to let loose on him, because who the fuck's idea was this kind of slipshod reconnaissance and Dad must be spinning in his grave, when he sees that Not!Sam's starting to tear up, eyes catching the lamplight in a film of silver glimmer and bottom lip unsteady; and goddammit, Dean can't even resist that face when it's not on Sam's head. So instead he reaches out and slides his hand into Not!Sam's hair, cradling the back of his head, silky strands between his fingers.
"No, dude," he sighs. "The life me and Sam lead? Normal never even gets close to it. Now come on, for chrissakes, just tell me where Sam is and we'll find some nice normal suburban house to drop you off at, 'kay? You can make yourself look like a soccer mom and do all the research you want."
Not!Sam nuzzles Dean's wrist, tears gone now that they've apparently served their purpose and turned Dean into a puddle of gooey pseudo-incestuous mush. "He'd be gone by the time you got there. Now that the sun's gone down he'll be free to go as soon as he tries the door and finds out it's unlocked. He doesn't have far to go to come back, and he's got beer and Ho-Hos."
Wow, Dean's going to hear about that one when Sam gets back. "You promise he's okay?" he asks reluctantly.
Not!Sam's pinky finger slides around Dean's, almost like he's doing it by accident but not really. "I promise. He'll probably be really annoyed, but he's not any more hurt than that."
"You better be right, dude," Dean warns, and catches himself toying with the hair at the back of Not!Sam's neck.
"I am. You'll see," Not!Sam tells him, smug and sleepy. He curls closer against Dean, one foot sliding between Dean's calves, and sets to mapping out all the sensitive spots on Dean's neck with his tongue. Dean closes his eyes with a happy sound, spreading his hand over the hard muscles of Not!Sam's back.
Yeah, totally gonna be more sex here in a minute, he thinks, completely down with that fact. And that's the moment the door to the motel room slams open, because that is just the way Dean's life goes.
"Dean! Dude, you aren't going to believe this, I woke up this morning and… um," Sam says from the doorway.
Dean clears his throat. "Sammy! Uh. Welcome back."
"I told you he was all right," Not!Sam says, apparently much less interested in Sam than in Dean's collarbone.
"Oh my god," Sam says in a strangled voice. "Dean, what the fuck?"
"Oh, hey, introductions," Dean says, because Mom taught him manners. "Sam, this is… well, I don't know, he says his name is Sam but I've sorta been calling him Not!Sam in my head all day. He's a mandroid."
"Android," Not!Sam corrects.
"Top of the line model," Dean leers.
"Dean, what the fuck?" Sam repeats. "An android? Seriously? Seriously?"
Dean waves a hand at him. "Now, see, that's what I was saying," he tells Not!Sam. "See how he's got, like, a bitchface aura right now?"
"Mm-hm." Not!Sam isn't interested. He is, however, interested in Dean's earlobe.
"So, Sammy, you were saying?" Dean prompts.
Sam's mouth snaps shut with a click Dean can hear all the way over on the bed. "You know what?" he grinds out. "Never fucking mind. We are not going to talk about what happened to me. We're going to talk about how the fuck I came back and found you in bed with an android who looks exactly like me."
"Do we have to?" Dean asks uncomfortably.
"Dude, he's a – a mebot and you fucked him!"
"Sammy," Dean says, pitching his voice low and grave, calling his tantrum-throwing baby brother to order. "You think for one minute I'd have fucked him if I didn't know for a fact he wasn't you? What kind of sick bastard do you think I am?"
"He's in the room, you know," Not!Sam points out in an imitation of Sam's bitchface-voice spoiled only by the fact that his fingers are tracing motherboard lines on Dean's chest. Dean murmurs something embarrassingly close to yeah, I gotcha, baby, and curls his arm around Not!Sam's shoulders. Just, you know, to keep the situation from getting out of hand.
"Oh my god, can you just – Dean, can you just let go of him for a minute?" Sam chokes. "I can't even tell you how disturbing this is."
"That's because you're not disturbed," Not!Sam points out helpfully. "The balance of your physiological markers isn't right for it."
"Yeah?" Dean says, rewarding Not!Sam with a quick nuzzle to the ear that makes the real Sam make a sound Dean isn't even going to try to figure out. "What are his physiological markers right for?"
"Jealousy," says Not!Sam promptly.
"What – no!" Sam bellows.
"I can monitor forty-four human physiological markers at distances of up to thirty feet," Not!Sam explains. "And I have wireless access to a database of –"
"You're jealous, Sam," Dean says.
"This may not be the weirdest thing that's ever happened to me but it is way, way up there," Sam tells them.
"You're also turned on," Not!Sam informs Sam. "We could have a threesome, you know. I don't really have a refractory period."
Sam stares for a minute, then shifts from foot to foot, scratching the back of his neck and eyeing Dean in a way that makes Dean a little nervous, frankly. Demons, okay, shapeshifters, vampires, whatever, but Dean isn't sure he signed on to have his little brother looking at him like a starving, pissed-off, yet strangely embarrassed wolf slavering over a side of beef. "Um," Sam says, and shrugs a little. "Yeah. Sure."
Dean's dick appears to believe that the pissed-off, embarrassed wolf thing is a good look on Sam. He may have to have a talk with it later.
Sam turns around, and for a minute Dean thinks he's about to storm out after all, but Sam just throws the bolt on the door and turns back to the bed. He's still staring at Dean and looking pissed-off in a way that causes Dean to remember uncomfortably that he is actually the shortest person in this room, but he's unbuttoning his shirt now, quick jerky movements that are more of a turn-on than they have any right to be.
"You think we're hot," Not!Sam whispers smugly against Dean's ear. "What do you want? Want to watch us do each other? Or do you just want to watch us do you?"
"Man, you are a horndog," Dean says, approving. "Is that an android thing or a Sam thing?"
"It's a Sam thing," Sam answers tightly.
"Sammy, you do me proud."
"Yeah, that's not really how I'm going to do you," Sam informs him, dropping all of his fifty-four shirts to the floor.
"I'm sensing some anger here," Dean says. "Do we need to talk about feelings?"
"Shut up, Dean," Sam snaps, and really it's just the opening shot of the comfortable and familiar Sammy is a Little Bitch game but Not!Sam doesn't seem to be aware of that. Suddenly he's not so much curled beside Dean as coiled, one hand spread protectively across Dean's chest and the other angling way too close to the knife under the pillow.
"No, seriously, man," he says in a voice the pure tonelessness of which is warning enough, and Sam stops dead in the middle of unzipping his jeans. "Do we need to have a talk about feelings?"
Dean stares at Not!Sam, a little incredulous. It's weird to see – Sam's face and body conveying the clear message that if anyone in that room makes the smallest wrong move it's going to end in disembowelments, without Sam's conscience or emo or anything else in there to keep his pack instincts in check. Weird and, okay, scorchingly fucking hot. Dean's dick puts that opinion out on the table for a vote and Dean agrees with it completely.
Except that now Sam's looking pissed off, embarrassed, and hurt. "What is this, Westworld? Fuck you, dude, he's my brother," he says, confirming Dean's long-held opinion that Sam has no sense of self-preservation.
"Boys!" Dean snaps in the get-your-ass-in-line-Sam voice he always did better than Dad. "Chill, both of you. I did the Mikowski triplets in tenth grade, there's enough to go around. Sam, get your ass in bed. Not!Sam, you let me worry about Sam. C'mon, my dick's not getting any harder here."
Okay, that's kind of a lie. But it gets Sam naked and into the bed, and Dean's not arguing with results right now.
Part 2
Fandom: Supernatural, Wincest, NC-17
Summary: Sam gets replaced by a mandroid. Dean's not letting that shit slip under his radar again.
Note: I think this is the geekiest thing I have ever written, ever. Though not as geeky as it would have been if Sam's internal programming language had been Python. (I wasn't even going near Ruby on Rails.) It was also, hands down, the biggest pain in the ass to code, so if you're not viewing this fic in Firefox I don't know what to tell you. You'll have to wait until I have the time and energy to straighten out Word's heinous spaghetti HTML.
| Function DeanWinchesterHasGotItGoingOn doesn't return a value on all code paths. A null reference exception could occur at run time when the result is used. |
"Fucking Christo, dude!" Dean says for the seventh time today. Okay, he's man enough to admit he's panicking a little.
Sam frowns at him, wiping holy water off his face with his shirt-tails – except that that is so totally not Sam and Dean Winchester is gonna have to end a bitch when he finds out who took his brother and why.
"Dean, I'm not possessed," Not!Sam says, just almost the right tone of exasperation, but Dean? Not fooled.
"Yeah?" Dean snaps. "So what the fuck are you?"
A drop of holy water slides down from Not!Sam's sad, sad hair onto his nose. Dean can't fault him for fidelity to the original, or for determination – you'd have to be full-on committed to whatever hell you were trying to raise to man up and wear Sam's hair for the duration. "I'm about to be an only child, is what. Seriously, man, what the hell?"
"Dude, you're good," says Dean, who believes in giving credit where credit is due. "Just not quite good enough. See, I call that Sammy's bitchface but it's really more of a full-body bitch, you know? Goes all the way down to his toes and then leaks out into, like, the spirit realm for three feet around him in every direction. You? You're not working it past your knees, buddy. So, what, you can imitate emotion but you can't feel it, is that it?"
Not!Sam rolls his eyes. "God, Dean, maybe I'm just not that mad at you. Now can we hit the road before lunchtime?"
Dean points at him. "Stay. I'm gonna go get the motel room for another couple of nights. I'll never hear the end of it if Sam busts out of wherever you've got him locked up and finds out I hit the road with a shapeshifter or whatever you are."
"Remember I said I wasn't that mad at you? Did you take that as a challenge or something?"
"Sit the fuck down, Animorph Boy," Dean orders. "When I get back, we're gonna have a talk."
Not!Sam rolls his eyes and sits back with a huff. "Dude, whatever," he says.
He's not nearly annoyed enough. Dean keeps a weather eye on the door to the motel room all the way to the office and back.
| Dim Sam As Double For Sam = 0 To 1000000000000000 Step 0.5 Select Case Dean Case "Annoyed" Sam += 5 Case "Pissed" Sam = Sam ^ 2 Case "Fucking Furious" Sam = Math.Exp(Sam) Case "Horny" objBaby = CObj(Sam) Call YouLikeThat(objBaby) Case Else Dean = beer End Select Next Sam |
"Dean, oh my god. I don't even know what you're doing, but whatever it is, can you just stop?"
Dean glares over at Not!Sam, dropping the curtain back down over the salt line at the window. Not!Sam has been communing with the laptop ever since Dean got back from the office, his fingers flying over the keys with a familiarity even Sam's fingers don't possess. Dean's starting to wonder if maybe he should give them some privacy. "I'm just trying to figure out how the hell Sam got out and you got in."
"Dude, I am seriously, literally going to kill you if you don't let up on this. And I'm not even going to salt and burn you. I'm going to take you back to California and bury you in Forest Lawn right next to one of those big statues of Jesus and lambs, with a headstone that says 'Dean Winchester, Beloved Husband.' And I'll make everyone we know put plastic pinwheels and mylar balloons on your grave at Christmas and the fourth of July."
Dean eyes him narrowly, reluctantly impressed. "Man, you sure got Sammy's imagination with the rest of the package, didn't you?"
Not!Sam gives him the bitchface. It doesn't even make it down past his balls that time. Dean slams the door open and stalks outside, looking for tracks and cursing the invention of non-track-retaining cement. His baby's odometer is right where it was last night, and all Sam's things that aren't in the motel room are in the car. The guy at the gas station across the street hasn't seen Sam wandering off anywhere, and neither have the motel manager or the maid.
Sam's phone rings once before Not!Sam picks it up and says, "Get back in here, Dean. You're going to hurt yourself or get arrested or something."
Ten minutes after he left the motel room Dean stands in the middle of the parking lot in the cold autumn air, heart hammering, drumming his fingers on his hips. There's no help for it, he decides. That thing might look like Sam and talk like Sam and god knows it bitches like Sam, but it's not Sam, and Dean isn't going to find any leads on that concrete. Time to get his interrogation on.
Not!Sam yowls in indignation as Dean slams the chair around and leans over it, bracing his hands on the arms and getting right up in that face that should be Sam's but isn't. "Listen, asshole," he says, quiet and dead serious. "I'm running out of patience and you're running out of options that aren't talk. Don't think that just because you're wearing my brother's face I won't take your ass apart with a silver-bladed knife if that's what it takes to get the real thing back."
Not!Sam is ashen, looking at Dean like Sam looks at people who are batshit insane and pointing a gun in his face. "Dean," he says carefully, lifting his hands in a deliberately nonthreatening gesture. "Man, it's okay. I'm right here."
"Yeah, that's the problem," Dean says. "You are. Sam isn't."
"What – Dean, Jesus Christ, have you seriously gotten this bent out of shape because I didn't get as pissed off about you using all the towels this morning as you think I should? Because I've got to tell you, man, you do more annoying things than that four or five times a day." Not!Sam swallows, and the bob of his Adam's apple is weirdly distracting for a minute. This close, he smells like coffee and Dean's shampoo and a little like the Impala. "Look, let's just go get some food, okay? I promise I'll get really, really mad at you for chewing with your mouth open and hitting on the waitresses. Play your cards right and I might even punch you for freaking me out like this."
It isn't, though, Dean thinks. It isn't the goddamned towels. It's fingers too fast on the keyboard and emotions that don't ever get right down to Sam's bones the way they should and the way his knees aren't quite wide enough apart when he sits. It's the way he sits up straight when he should be slouching and doesn't favor that knee that Dean knows should still be sore. And yeah, fuck it, it's the way Sam should either have bitched about the towels or made that little face like he could bitch about them but he's not in the mood. The fact is, there are a hundred little things about Sam that write his name in the air around him, and after the shit with Meg went down Dean made it his business to learn every single one of them like a Latin major telling declensions on a rosary. It's getting on for two in the afternoon and Dean's only seen half of them today and it's scaring the shit out of him.
"Just tell me," he says, still quiet. "Tell me where Sam is or this is gonna get real bad, real quick."
There's nothing in Not!Sam's face now that even resembles laughter. "Dean," he says, so carefully. Too carefully. Sam loves the sound of his brother's name, though it took Dean years to realize it, but even he's never shaped Dean's name like it was something this fragile. "Man, you're scaring me pretty bad right now. Look, let's just call a do-over on this, okay? Nothing awful is gonna happen if we just call time out for a couple of minutes. Just, sit down and let's take some deep breaths, here."
The look on his face is so earnest, so Sam, that Dean wants to cry from sheer loneliness. He straightens and stumbles back, landing in the chair on the other side of the table.
"You son of a bitch," he says, rubbing his hand over his face, his voice unsteadier than he can stand. "Look, I just want my brother back. Give him back and I swear to god you'll walk out of here safe, I swear to god. Whatever you want with him, it isn't worth your life."
There's a moment of taunt silence before Not!Sam breathes, "God, Dean," and warm hands slide onto Dean's knees. Dean flinches and opens his eyes to see Not!Sam kneeling in front of him, peering worriedly up at him.
"You're scared," Not!Sam says like he's just now realizing it and he's sorry as hell.
"No shit, Sherlock, my fucking brother's disappeared," Dean tells him.
His hands are big even for his size, long-fingered, Sam's hands but not; because Sam wouldn't be inching closer between Dean's knees, and Sam's hands wouldn't be sliding up his brother's thighs even if they stopped in the middle with their fingers spreading possessively from one line of denim seam to the other. "I'm sorry," Not!Sam whispers, looking beseechingly up at Dean. "Just. I'm sorry because you're freaking out and I don't know how to stop it, and I'm your Sam, Dean, I am."
Dean swallows hard, because fuck if that isn't hard to resist. "Yeah? Well, my Sam doesn't grope me all that often."
Not!Sam's jaw firms stubbornly. "Yeah?" he echoes. "Well, maybe your Sam should."
What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Dean wants to ask, and suddenly can't. He can't say much of anything, because Not!Sam's fingers are digging in, not so much caressing Dean's legs as holding them gently but firmly down. Not!Sam is looking up at him through the shaggy line of his bangs, Sam-stubborn; he leans his head down and rubs his cheek against Dean's knee, inching his hands up Dean's legs, and this is about to go in a really disturbing direction and Dean doesn't know how to make it stop.
God. He's never known how to say no to Sammy, and now he can't say no to things that look like him, either. And this isn't Sammy, Dean knows that right down to his bones, but he has a vibe going just as deep telling him that it's not dangerous or evil either. Sighing, Dean reaches down to run his fingers through dark hair. "Tell me he's okay," he whispers.
A tumble of emotions passes over Not!Sam's face – weariness, exasperation, sorrow, too many things to identify. "He's okay," he says, enunciating with that peculiar bite that means Sam-annoyed. "I promise you. Sam is okay. He's safe and warm and not hurt, just kind of pissed off."
Dean's fingers are still in Not!Sam's hair. Dean thinks that's sort of not okay but he can't get his feet under him enough to care, not with Not!Sam's fingertips drawing tiny circles on his leg. "So, uh. You. Shapeshifter or what?"
"I'm going to go with 'Or what' for a thousand, Alex," Not!Sam murmurs. He slants a quick look up at Dean, then nuzzles deliberately against Dean's thigh. When Dean's breath catches on a ragged splinter of air, Sam's mouth opens against Dean's jeans and kisses near the inner seam, hesitant and unsure.
"Dude," Dean says, and his voice comes out strained, because he's got a hard-on that could drill diamonds and even if this isn't his brother, it sure as hell looks like him. "Gotta tell you, this is not a Sam thing to do."
Not!Sam's hands slide up to Dean's hips, holding them against the chair. It's not the world's best combat grip, but Dean still gets the feeling that he'd have to work pretty hard to break that hold, or what that hold is going to turn into if he moves. "According to you, neither is anything else I've done today," he says sulkily.
Dean kind of hates himself right now. Sam's out there somewhere, maybe hurt, definitely pissed, and Dean has this stupid urge to pet Sam's clone or whatever and tell him it's all right. The weird thing, though is how much it feels all right – that sixth sense that tells him when Sam's not safe, the one that pings when Sam so much as goes to the library without him, that's not pinging at all. It feels like he's just left Sam at Bobby's, pissed off but out of harm's way, and nothing heavier on Dean's shoulders than the responsibility to make whatever Sam's pissed about right again. "God. Just… look, man, you got a name?"
"Yeah. It's Sam," Not!Sam says in a tone the pissiness of which is completely at odds with the way his mouth can't quite seem to stay away from the inside of Dean's leg.
Dean slides his hand under Not!Sam's chin and tilts it up. "Give me a timeline," he says. "When can I go get him?"
Not!Sam eyes Dean's thumb for a moment, then tilts his head and takes it in his mouth, long swoop of heat and wet and eyes that are almost Sam's staring challengingly up at Dean. "Okay, for Christ's sake," he sighs, easing off Dean's thumb with one last lick. Dean's hand might actually be shaking, but no way is he admitting that even to himself. "If you want to play this, we'll play it. Sam will be back by midnight. If he doesn't come back I'll turn into a pumpkin. Now, can we just –"
"Yeah," Dean says, "yeah," and Not!Sam's hands are sliding up under his shirt, baring skin until his tongue slides along the spot where Dean's jeans meet his waist. Dean makes a strangled sound, so turned on he can barely see; Not!Sam laughs, slow and deep, and sucks a hickey onto Dean's waist.
"Yeah," Dean says. "Okay."
|
Try Dean = "yes" Catch ex As Exception Sam = Math.Exp(Sam) Finally blowjobs = True End Try
|
And then it's so more than okay, even in the filthybadwrong sense where this guy is pretending to be Dean's brother, because Not!Sam gives a low growl in the back of his throat and shifts his mouth over to pop the button on Dean's jeans with his teeth. Usually Dean's not much into that – takes too long, and it always breaks the mood a little when people find out that it was harder on their teeth than they were expecting – but Not!Sam pops that button like he has titanium teeth and a jaw that could crack walnuts and drags Dean's zipper down with his tongue.
"Holy shit," Dean says faintly. "Sammy and I gonna have to have a talk when he gets back?"
Not!Sam rears back and looks Dean dead in the eye. "He's not here right now," he says. "I am. And I'm gonna make you come so hard down my throat that you forget your own name."
Well, okay, Dean's about to say, but he loses it when Not!Sam leans down and licks up the underside of his dick, slow and dirty, like he has nowhere to be and nothing he'd rather be doing than getting the tip of his tongue familiar with that ridge right below the head. Dean makes a strangled sound and grabs hold of Not!Sam's shoulders, wanting so bad to just grab his head and fuck his mouth hard and deep, and he can't remember ever having been this turned on this fast.
"You can, Dean," Not!Sam gasps. "You can, I can take it, whatever you want," and his hips are moving in small, liquid pumps against empty air and his mouth slides down forever over Dean's dick like whatever his species is, he's not even physiologically set up with a gag reflex.
"Aw, fuck, Sam," Dean groans, clenching one fist in Not!Sam's hair and deciding to forego the freakout over that little verbal slip. Not!Sam makes a soft, approving sound that vibrates just right, his fingers sliding down to stroke over Dean's balls and his tongue playing seriously hot little games with the slit of Dean's cock on the upstroke. Then he starts sucking like a Hoover, hard and hot, and it's with the last vestiges of his sanity that Dean starts frantically pushing at Not!Sam's shoulders.
"Bed," he gasps.
Not!Sam looks up at him through dark eyelashes and smirks. "You don't want it right here, like this? Me on my knees for you right here on this skanky motel carpet, nothing out but your dick –"
"Okay, good point," Dean concedes.
"Thought so," Not!Sam says, and swallows Dean's dick again. Dean has a lingering moment of fear that the bed aversion is because Not!Sam's not anatomically correct or something until he catches a glimpse of the, Jesus, baseball bat or something straining against the zipper of his jeans.
Dean is so not bottoming, he decides. Then Not!Sam manages to deep-throat Dean's dick and run his tongue over his balls at the same time, sloppy and weird and hotwetohgodfuck, and Dean has about two seconds of lucidity to face the fact that he's going to do pretty damn much anything Not!Sam asks out of sheer astounded gratitude before he's locking his legs around the legs of the chair and straining upward, fucking his way into that hot, tight throat while Not!Sam makes hot little moans around him. Long fingers wrap around his balls, bitten-off nails scraping lightly up them, and Dean doesn't even have time to brace himself before he's coming like a fucking volcano, babbling god knows what with his fingers buried in Not!Sam's hair.
Not!Sam licks him until he's done catching his breath, careful strokes on skin that's getting oversensitive fast, and then looks back up at Dean. He's smug and flushed, still squirming a little because he hasn't come yet and that shit has to be getting painful. "Okay, bed now," he says.
"Toppy little fucker," Dean chides amiably, but lets himself be pulled up and over to the bed, clothes trailing to the ground behind them.
|
If Dean.Contains(CStr(blowjobs)) And _ Sam.ToString.Contains(CStr(blowjobs)) Then Thread.Sleep(10800000) End If
|
He wakes up at nightfall to find Not!Sam curled next to him channel-surfing, half sitting up and digging around in a bag of Doritos like he's never seen them before. Dean stretches contentedly and wraps an arm around Not!Sam, because he's generally willing to bend the no-cuddling rule for Sam and it seems only fair to extend that generosity to Sam-clones too. Ones that aren't evil, anyway.
Then he frowns, sliding a hand up to rest on the side of Not!Sam's neck. And there's a hell of a thing, because instead of the usual reassuring thump-thump, thump-thump under his hand Sam's pulse is going thump, thump, thump in a slow rhythm that's more reminiscent of his girl's engine than anything driven by a human heart.
"Dude," he says.
"It's not blood," Not!Sam explains. "It's coolant. Still red, but only for verisimilitude."
"Man, how many syllables did you just manage after I blew you? I must've been asleep longer than I thought." Dean looks thoughtfully up at Not!Sam. "Coolant, huh? So, what are you, a robot?"
Not!Sam may not quite have the bitchface down, but he manages Sam's look of affront perfectly even around a mouthful of Doritos. "I'm not a robot," he says after he swallows. "Robots are the things that build your cars."
"Not my car," Dean corrects automatically.
"I'm an android," Not!Sam tells him.
"Damn fine one," Dean says, smirking as he runs a possessive hand over Not!Sam. Not!Sam purrs, and Dean has a bizarre moment where he seriously wants to keep this guy forever because he's like a breathing, blowjob-dispensing combination of Sam and the Impala and that shit just cannot be beat. "So who made you? Aliens?"
"You'd probably call them that, yeah."
"Seriously? Like, full-on Area 51 shit?"
"You know, the whole Area 51 thing is culturally insensitive fetishization of the Other," Not!Sam tells him. "Extraterrestrials, in this case."
"O…kay," Dean says. "So what are you doing here?"
"Learning," Not!Sam says. "We can't really kidnap breeding pairs and bring them back to zoos, you know, so our scientists construct androids to substitute for normal humans for a day or two."
Dean raises an eyebrow. "Normal?"
Not!Sam shrugs. "We figured you must be. We ran speech pattern analyses and found that the word 'normal' comes out of Sam's mouth at a much higher rate than… well, normal. It's obviously something he values highly."
"You think we're –" Dean stares at him. "Aw, baby."
Not!Sam pauses in the middle of taking a bite out of a chip, looking worriedly at Dean. "What?"
"Sam talks about normal because it's something he wants and doesn't have. For Christ's sake, killing monsters? Living in motels? Sewing each other up instead of going to the hospital? Dude, this was about as weird as it got before you stirred incest into the mix, and by the way, if you're wanting to get in there and do field research on normality like that chick with the gorillas in the mist, fucking people you're pretending to be related by blood to? Not a good idea, you hear me? And by the way, how the hell do you know about mylar grave balloons but you don't know that incest is really, really wrong?"
"This isn't normal?" Not!Sam asks, looking stricken.
"No, it's not normal!" Dean tells him. "Jesus, didn't your alien leaders teach you anything before they sent you here?"
"I thought they did," Not!Sam says plaintively.
Dean's just about to let loose on him, because who the fuck's idea was this kind of slipshod reconnaissance and Dad must be spinning in his grave, when he sees that Not!Sam's starting to tear up, eyes catching the lamplight in a film of silver glimmer and bottom lip unsteady; and goddammit, Dean can't even resist that face when it's not on Sam's head. So instead he reaches out and slides his hand into Not!Sam's hair, cradling the back of his head, silky strands between his fingers.
"No, dude," he sighs. "The life me and Sam lead? Normal never even gets close to it. Now come on, for chrissakes, just tell me where Sam is and we'll find some nice normal suburban house to drop you off at, 'kay? You can make yourself look like a soccer mom and do all the research you want."
Not!Sam nuzzles Dean's wrist, tears gone now that they've apparently served their purpose and turned Dean into a puddle of gooey pseudo-incestuous mush. "He'd be gone by the time you got there. Now that the sun's gone down he'll be free to go as soon as he tries the door and finds out it's unlocked. He doesn't have far to go to come back, and he's got beer and Ho-Hos."
Wow, Dean's going to hear about that one when Sam gets back. "You promise he's okay?" he asks reluctantly.
Not!Sam's pinky finger slides around Dean's, almost like he's doing it by accident but not really. "I promise. He'll probably be really annoyed, but he's not any more hurt than that."
"You better be right, dude," Dean warns, and catches himself toying with the hair at the back of Not!Sam's neck.
"I am. You'll see," Not!Sam tells him, smug and sleepy. He curls closer against Dean, one foot sliding between Dean's calves, and sets to mapping out all the sensitive spots on Dean's neck with his tongue. Dean closes his eyes with a happy sound, spreading his hand over the hard muscles of Not!Sam's back.
Yeah, totally gonna be more sex here in a minute, he thinks, completely down with that fact. And that's the moment the door to the motel room slams open, because that is just the way Dean's life goes.
"Dean! Dude, you aren't going to believe this, I woke up this morning and… um," Sam says from the doorway.
|
Try Call MoreSex() Catch cockblock As Exception Call DeanWinchester_CatHerder() End Try
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Dean clears his throat. "Sammy! Uh. Welcome back."
"I told you he was all right," Not!Sam says, apparently much less interested in Sam than in Dean's collarbone.
"Oh my god," Sam says in a strangled voice. "Dean, what the fuck?"
"Oh, hey, introductions," Dean says, because Mom taught him manners. "Sam, this is… well, I don't know, he says his name is Sam but I've sorta been calling him Not!Sam in my head all day. He's a mandroid."
"Android," Not!Sam corrects.
"Top of the line model," Dean leers.
"Dean, what the fuck?" Sam repeats. "An android? Seriously? Seriously?"
Dean waves a hand at him. "Now, see, that's what I was saying," he tells Not!Sam. "See how he's got, like, a bitchface aura right now?"
"Mm-hm." Not!Sam isn't interested. He is, however, interested in Dean's earlobe.
"So, Sammy, you were saying?" Dean prompts.
Sam's mouth snaps shut with a click Dean can hear all the way over on the bed. "You know what?" he grinds out. "Never fucking mind. We are not going to talk about what happened to me. We're going to talk about how the fuck I came back and found you in bed with an android who looks exactly like me."
"Do we have to?" Dean asks uncomfortably.
"Dude, he's a – a mebot and you fucked him!"
"Sammy," Dean says, pitching his voice low and grave, calling his tantrum-throwing baby brother to order. "You think for one minute I'd have fucked him if I didn't know for a fact he wasn't you? What kind of sick bastard do you think I am?"
"He's in the room, you know," Not!Sam points out in an imitation of Sam's bitchface-voice spoiled only by the fact that his fingers are tracing motherboard lines on Dean's chest. Dean murmurs something embarrassingly close to yeah, I gotcha, baby, and curls his arm around Not!Sam's shoulders. Just, you know, to keep the situation from getting out of hand.
"Oh my god, can you just – Dean, can you just let go of him for a minute?" Sam chokes. "I can't even tell you how disturbing this is."
"That's because you're not disturbed," Not!Sam points out helpfully. "The balance of your physiological markers isn't right for it."
"Yeah?" Dean says, rewarding Not!Sam with a quick nuzzle to the ear that makes the real Sam make a sound Dean isn't even going to try to figure out. "What are his physiological markers right for?"
"Jealousy," says Not!Sam promptly.
"What – no!" Sam bellows.
"I can monitor forty-four human physiological markers at distances of up to thirty feet," Not!Sam explains. "And I have wireless access to a database of –"
"You're jealous, Sam," Dean says.
"This may not be the weirdest thing that's ever happened to me but it is way, way up there," Sam tells them.
"You're also turned on," Not!Sam informs Sam. "We could have a threesome, you know. I don't really have a refractory period."
Sam stares for a minute, then shifts from foot to foot, scratching the back of his neck and eyeing Dean in a way that makes Dean a little nervous, frankly. Demons, okay, shapeshifters, vampires, whatever, but Dean isn't sure he signed on to have his little brother looking at him like a starving, pissed-off, yet strangely embarrassed wolf slavering over a side of beef. "Um," Sam says, and shrugs a little. "Yeah. Sure."
Dean's dick appears to believe that the pissed-off, embarrassed wolf thing is a good look on Sam. He may have to have a talk with it later.
|
Name 'StoneInLove' is not declared. |
Sam turns around, and for a minute Dean thinks he's about to storm out after all, but Sam just throws the bolt on the door and turns back to the bed. He's still staring at Dean and looking pissed-off in a way that causes Dean to remember uncomfortably that he is actually the shortest person in this room, but he's unbuttoning his shirt now, quick jerky movements that are more of a turn-on than they have any right to be.
"You think we're hot," Not!Sam whispers smugly against Dean's ear. "What do you want? Want to watch us do each other? Or do you just want to watch us do you?"
"Man, you are a horndog," Dean says, approving. "Is that an android thing or a Sam thing?"
"It's a Sam thing," Sam answers tightly.
"Sammy, you do me proud."
"Yeah, that's not really how I'm going to do you," Sam informs him, dropping all of his fifty-four shirts to the floor.
"I'm sensing some anger here," Dean says. "Do we need to talk about feelings?"
"Shut up, Dean," Sam snaps, and really it's just the opening shot of the comfortable and familiar Sammy is a Little Bitch game but Not!Sam doesn't seem to be aware of that. Suddenly he's not so much curled beside Dean as coiled, one hand spread protectively across Dean's chest and the other angling way too close to the knife under the pillow.
"No, seriously, man," he says in a voice the pure tonelessness of which is warning enough, and Sam stops dead in the middle of unzipping his jeans. "Do we need to have a talk about feelings?"
Dean stares at Not!Sam, a little incredulous. It's weird to see – Sam's face and body conveying the clear message that if anyone in that room makes the smallest wrong move it's going to end in disembowelments, without Sam's conscience or emo or anything else in there to keep his pack instincts in check. Weird and, okay, scorchingly fucking hot. Dean's dick puts that opinion out on the table for a vote and Dean agrees with it completely.
Except that now Sam's looking pissed off, embarrassed, and hurt. "What is this, Westworld? Fuck you, dude, he's my brother," he says, confirming Dean's long-held opinion that Sam has no sense of self-preservation.
"Boys!" Dean snaps in the get-your-ass-in-line-Sam voice he always did better than Dad. "Chill, both of you. I did the Mikowski triplets in tenth grade, there's enough to go around. Sam, get your ass in bed. Not!Sam, you let me worry about Sam. C'mon, my dick's not getting any harder here."
Okay, that's kind of a lie. But it gets Sam naked and into the bed, and Dean's not arguing with results right now.
Part 2
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BWAH! Cannot be beat, indeed.
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