Word Count: 3,136
Warnings: underage, toys, feminization/genderplay, impregnation kink, dirty talk, pet names
Summary: See prompt. Written for blindfold_spn and originally posted here.
Notes: By far the easiest fill for me, personally. OP, you're my style all the way!
prompt: Weecest, Sam is 12-14. Some light feminization (Sam wearing panties/skirt?). Dean and Sam both get off on the fantasy of Sam getting pregnant, so Dean fucks him full of come all the time and plugs it up. Dirty-talk about knocking him up, calling Sam's asshole his pussy, etc, encouraged.
Every day, Dean and Sam wait down the street from their school, and while all the other kids are catching a big yellow one, they catch a pathetic "city" bus that just makes an hourly loop around the town, taking old ladies and drunks where they want to go. From their stop on Main, nearest to the highway, they walk back to their set-up at the Old Colonial, Sam's sneakers shuffling along through spring-wet grasses as they trek home.
It's only by keeping his hands shoved into his pockets that Dean keeps from slinging an arm around Sammy's shoulders and yanking him in close. They're trying to blend in. Keep it normal when they're around civilians. It's hard sometimes, 'cause Dean just wants to first-base it with his kid brother right there on the bus seat, but he's got plenty of practice at pretending to belong.
Sometimes Sam's thinking the exact same thing he is. He butts his knee up against Dean's thigh just so they can touch. He grins up at Dean while he talks, and then gets red and looks out the window instead, or laughs and stops himself from hiding his face in Dean's shoulder just in time. It gets Dean going so hard just knowing Sammy has the world's biggest crush on him. That's how it's supposed to be. It's supposed to be Dean watching out for him all the time, giving him the low-down on doin' the nasty, what girls' tits feel like, teaching him how to french kiss and get his hand up their skirts and rub them just right, just the way girls like. Teaching him to jerk off. It's his job. It's his baby brother. He's the one taking him out shopping for that science fair bullcrap, to the library to type up reports on the computer, asking how he did on that algebra test. Sometimes Sam's seriously preoccupied with that stuff.
Maybe today is one of those preoccupied days, 'cause Sam stares at a piece of gum stuck to the back of the seat in front of them the whole time, even when Dean prods him about what's on his mind. He says, "Fine. Good. Nope," when Dean asks him how school was for him that day, how'd that quiz go, did he have a buttload of homework? After that, Dean backs off and plays it cool, even though Sam's knee finds his shyly, and all the little squirms that come after that make Dean chub up a little in his jeans.
When they get home, Sam bolts for the bathroom, not even stopping to ditch his backpack first, and slams the door behind him. Dean laughs, amused and bewildered and yet not really all that surprised at the same time, fondness creeping in as he ditches his own backpack. Maybe Sam just had to hit the head that whole time, couldn't bear to risk being late to any of his classes to just go between them. Little dork.
Home's as sweet as home ever is. Dad's been gone for three days now, and Dean expects that no matter what he said, he'll be gone for a lot longer than the week he estimated. Dad's just kind of like that. But it's cool. He gets to be all alone with Sam. Dean heads back to the bedroom, ignoring the day-old pizza box sitting on the wobbly kitchen table, and sheds Dad's jacket (it goes ceremonially on a hook in the closet) and his button-up, under which he's got on a Metallica t-shirt that's technically banned by their current school. Whoops. His holey-kneed jeans are also a dress code violation, making him have to go to the vice principal to get a pass for them every day that he's got to show to every teacher. I do so solemnly swear to get new jeans this weekend. He has other jeans, ones without holes -- he just likes these. They make him look tough, and they're old and comfortable friends. He doesn't even have to kick them off to be comfortable before throwing himself onto his bed, putting his hands behind his head and crossing his feet.
Maybe he dozes for a minute or two, habitual when he's comfortable 'cause his tendency to stay up late is habitual too, but he wakes up when Sam pretty much lands on top of him.
"Dean," he whispers, and hunches anxiously, straddled there on top of Dean.
"Wha'sa'matter?" Dean gets out, still waking up, hands coming to clutch Sam's hips.
Sam just pauses, though, and Dean comes awake enough to realize something's different, Sam's -- not wearing the kind of stuff he usually wears. Polos, khaki shorts, baggy jeans cast off from Dean that are so big on him he has to belt them up tight, non-descript t-shirts and hooded sweatshirts. Uh, nope. This is definitely not any of those things. This is a skirt.
Dean squints confusedly, not sure he's seeing it right. He's pretty sure Sam's wearing the same t-shirt he wiggled into that morning, but not the jeans -- that's a skirt. A cute one. A short one, jeez. It's like the kind cheerleaders wear, blue like their school's colors right now, and it's pleated enough, giving enough, to let Sam straddle him with room and pleats to spare. His knees are bare on either side of Dean's hips.
A million questions flood Dean's mind. What the hell? Where did you get this? Did you buy it, steal it, trade lunch money for it, find it somewhere, what? What are you doing? But he bypasses all of those for the most obvious thing and asks dazedly, "You wearin' a skirt for me, baby boy?"
Sam squirms weirdly. "Yeah," he says, but it tilts up at the end, almost like a question, like he's not sure if Dean approves.
Fuck yeah, Dean approves. God, he approves so hard that all the blood in his body goes rushing to his dick, leaving his head spinning. He recognizes this. It's what they've been playing with, but even further, a whole new layer. It's perfect. It's so Sammy, doing it all the way like this; Dean's heart aches, his stomach aches, his whole body just pounds with heat.
For a moment, he doesn't say anything, 'cause he can't -- he just lets his hands slide down Sam's thighs, feeling them all skinny under that skirt, feeling the pleats stop and Sam's bare skin start. Because he can, because the skirt can't stop him, he slips his fingers underneath it and strokes Sam's skin, and glances up at his brother's face to find him looking a wreck. He's red-faced and breathing hard, like Dean's been toying with his dick for hours or something, and his hair's flopped into his eyes but Dean can still see the screw-up of worry on his forehead.
Dean takes charge. "So fuckin' sexy," he breathes, and has Sam over on his back before the kid knows what hits him, laying him down and pinning him with easy expertise. Sam's knees splay open; he's not used to wearing a skirt, not like a real girl would be, but that just gets Dean even harder. He grasps at Sam's thigh. It's so smooth. He hasn't even started shaving his face yet, and his thighs are smooth too, still baby-skinned even though his muscle is thinning out, trying to stretch and help him grow up.
"Easy access?" he asks, and Sam nods quickly, still taking in those harsh little breaths. "Yeah," Dean whispers, and follows his gut, tests the waters. "I can finger that little pussy so easy now, huh?"
"Yeah," Sam whispers immediately, hardly a breath.
"God, Sammy." The thought, just the thought, of being able to do that to Sam like he could to any horny enough cheerleader, makes him want to shoot in his pants right there. Easy access. Just for him. God, that's so hot.
"You can just --" starts Sam in a hiccough, but he stops, and Dean waits, on edge, for him to keep going. Sammy gets shy sometimes anyway, but Jesus, right then he's in a skirt. Dean's surprised he's speaking words other than "shut up" at all. After a few awkward seconds, he reaches up to gently brush Sam's hair out of his eyes with fingers that feel sweaty and clumsy, and that does it. "You can just do me in it like this," Sam whispers in a rush, and they're breathing so hard and loud now, the both of them. "Just move my panties and --"
Dean gasps for breath, loving that word coming out of Sam's mouth and all the crazy fucking feelings it gives him.
"Don't even take off my panties," Sam says, sounding braver, and Dean fumbles between them, trying to get his button-fly jeans all unpopped. His boner's going to rip another hole in them, ruin them, and then he'll really need a new pair.
"Your pussy all wet for me, sweetheart?" he asks, and Sammy huffs at him, nodding, shoving Dean on. "You sure? You ready for my dick all -- bare in you?"
He can hardly even say "bare" without losing the word in his mouth. He never does it bare with chicks -- never. Hasn't ever. Only with Sammy, and it had been a big deal to him to do it that way. Still is. He remembers having to explain to Sam a long, long time ago that yeah, those were condoms, and you used 'em so you didn't knock a girl up, and the first time he fucked Sam, he used one because he wanted to set a good example.
Afterwards, Sam had said slowly, It's not like you'll knock me up. I'm not a girl. Cheerily, Dean had replied, No glove, no love. It was like a religion for him. So they used protection, no matter what. Finally Sam had asked, timidly and in the middle of a midnight conversation of silly whispers that had mostly centered around Baywatch and boobs, Is it okay if we... pretend the condoms are so you won't knock me up?
They used up Dean's entire stash of Trojans just thinking about it, as if it was really a risk that Dean could get him pregnant if there wasn't a condom in the way. It was fucked up and crazy and hotter than any sex Dean had ever had with a girl. For a while he was almost convinced that he'd done it wrong with the girls or something, but now he's pretty sure it's just that he'd rather impregnate Sam than debate team losers and older girls who thought he, too, was twenty-one.
"Ready," Sam mouths.
"Let me feel that wet little pussy, baby," Dean says, as if he has to coax, and Sam wiggles, knee tipping open even further, opening himself up for Dean, skirt stretched between his thighs and slipping up them helpfully. Dean's fingers stroke against a delicate elastic band and hot satin and the distorted stretch of Sam's panties over his little hard-on. He's wet them through where his slit's pressing up the stretchy material.
Oh, yeah. He's definitely wearing the panties that had once belonged to a sort of slutty chick that Dean had screwed a then record-breaking four times before having to pack up and ship off. They aren't the little cotton affairs most girls he's been with wore. They're a rose-pink satin, and Dean had liked them so much that the girl had frenched him deep and stuffed them into his waistband like he was some kind of stripper and said, Keep 'em. You like 'em more than I do. When Sam had spotted them in Dean's bag a couple of weeks later, he'd laughed his ass off, but they stuck around in his smart-ass little brain, and eventually he'd asked if Dean still had them... if he could wear them, to be more like a girl. Now they're Sam's. They don't fit him perfectly, but Dean just thinks it's cute, Sam's thirteen-year-old dick stretching them awkwardly.
Dean's fingers slide lower, making Sam give a squeaky moan as they rove over his balls, trapped and taut in the panties. Then he hits it, the firm square of rubber that tells him Sam has a plug seated in his little butt. The questions rocket through his brain: When did you do this? How long you been wearin' this thing? You put it in while you were in the bathroom? You wear it to school? This why you were bein' like that on the bus?
Instead, he says, "Push those panties aside for me." Sam does, skinny awkward fingers clawing the crotch of them aside somewhere under the skirt, and Dean takes gentle but firm hold of the plug and starts working it out, saying, "Yeah, sweetheart. Just like that. Keep your pussy all open for me. Gonna fuck you right here -- right in your skirt, little panties on --"
"Are you gonna do it bare?" Sam asked, his face squinching as the widest part of the plug slides out of his ass. He's sweating now.
"Yeah. Gonna have my bare dick in you," Dean returns, voice rough and low with the effort not to come. The shiny, clear plug he picked up at some grimy adult store in Nevada just for Sam is sliding out easy, now, wet with lube, leaving Sam's hole wet and puckered sweetly, ready for cock.
Sam's hips jump and squirm incessantly the moment the plug is out, and Dean tries to set it aside where he can reach it again, but he's hardly paying attention to anything but how Sam's losing that polite thing he likes to stick to, getting into it with him. "But you're gonna get me knocked up..."
"You like the sound of that?" Dean asks, panting in Sam's hot face as he wrangles his dick out of the slit in his boxer-briefs -- God, this is so in-the-backseat, shucking his jeans down just enough, boots still on, Sammy not even ditching his panties.
The noise Sam makes is both reluctant and a moan. Dean cranks it past eleven, fitting the head of his cock against Sam's slippery hole and pushing in, insisting, Sam's ass having to open up around him, spread for him like his legs are spread in this little skirt.
"Gonna knock you up," he tells Sam, sweet and powerful and losing it, just losing it. "Knock your little pussy up so fuckin' good, baby girl."
Sam's worn the plug all day. Maybe he lubed up extra good in the bathroom or something, but his ass is so fucking hungry for Dean's cock that he just sinks in, hole gripping him tighter than pussy -- he could never really mistake how Sam felt to him to be anything like how screwing pussy felt -- and surrounding him in wet heat. He can just fucking see it in his head, how it might look if they were seriously back-seating it in the car and someone could see them, shrimpy Sam's legs spread wide around him, all their clothes still on, but his dick out his fly and filling up Sam's hole all the way. Sam's thin arms wrap around his neck and he lets out those wounded breaths that Dean's learned are good, turned on noises, and Dean ruts him into the motel mattress, makes his little butt bounce, talks nasty at him.
"Yeah, that's what you want, huh? To get all knocked up without even takin' your panties off, let me shoot you full of come, huh, Sammy? Get you pregnant with all the come I'm gonna shoot right up in there?"
Sammy can't speak. He's fighting between clinging at Dean's hips with his legs and trying to open them up more, tilt himself up for Dean's cock sliding in him. Dean grabs at one of his knees and tucks it up over his elbow, pinning it up more, and Sam moans for him, the most pathetic and sweet noise.
"Tell me. Tell me," Dean pants. He is gonna lose it so hard, but that's okay, 'cause he'll be doing this again before the day is out, he knows it.
"Want you to," Sam chokes.
"Yeah? You want me to knock you up, sweetheart?"
"Yeah. Wanna get pregnant. Wanna get pregnant," Sam whimpers in a jumble, locking on and repeating it helplessly, and God, Dean is gonna fucking blow, and there's no condom to catch his load, keep it from filling Sammy up and getting him pregnant.
"Fuck. 'M gonna --" Dean's face is burning. "'M gonna give you such a huge load --"
"Please, Dean. Please, get me pregnant, please," Sammy's begging, and Dean's balls strain, and he can feel his wad pumping up his dick and loading up Sam's hole, creaming him in hard, repeated spurts, and all he can see is stars there for a few seconds before he gets it together.
"Fuckin' comin'," he rasps. "Feel that? Feel me pumpin' you full?"
"Yes," Sam says, near tears, and Dean rams him harder, spending everything he's got, near brutal but not quite, knowing Sammy's gonna come on his dick, is gonna come from the friction of the panties on his knob and just thinking about getting creamed.
"Gettin' that pussy loaded," he says through his teeth. "Knockin' you up. God, Sammy. Makes you wanna come just thinkin' about how I fucked you pregnant, huh? Fuckin' my load deeper and deeper. Makin' your little pussy pregnant for me."
Sam scrabbles, hitches; Dean keeps his leg pinned ruthlessly up, keeps fucking him, sliding his sensitive, twitching cock through his own jizz, and yeah, Sammy comes on it, no problem, ruining those panties. Dean loves that. He lets Sam's leg free (it hits the mattress exhaustedly) and again pushes Sam's hair out of his eyes, across his sweaty forehead. His face is gleaming and red, and as always, Dean feels a hitch of concern in his chest. It doesn't matter if Sam's the one who jumped him in a skirt. He's the one in charge, here.
"Good, baby boy?" he pants.
Sam nods, eyelids low, looking distant for a moment until he asks, "Is it okay if you plug me full?"
"Yeah, of course," Dean says, relieved. He loves that, too.
"And I can keep the panties on?"
"And the skirt," Dean says, one-upping him all too happily.
"And you know it's getting me pregnant. All your jizz plugged up in me."
Dean's dick twitches and his skin goes on fire.
"Yeah. Keep you all plugged up with it."
"And you can keep doing it," Sam continues, hiding his face in Dean's shoulder, "whenever you want."
"Yeah," Dean says, stroking Sam's hair and grinning. No questions this time. "Easy access."