apocalypsos | It's Rex Manning Day!

Okay, Getting Picked Up For Winchestercon Day. Close enough. :)

So the

spn_remix fic authors have been revealed, and it turns out

sanyin was the one who did the awesome remix of The Days Don't End Here, My Friend. Go and read it, 'cause it's amazing.

As for me, I remixed Go The Other Way by

sevenfists. That was hard, y'all. There was liquor involved, unsurprisingly. Heh.

Title: Go The Other Way (The Liquor In The Front Remix)
Author:

trollprincess
Story remixed: Go The Other Way, by

sevenfists
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean

*

Go The Other Way (The Liquor In The Front Remix)

*

Here's the thing, Sam.

You know that list you made?

Right, that one. The one you wrote down on the back of a brown napkin with a golf pencil while Dean stole your cheese fries out of revenge. You told him about the next job in Carrollton and he ... you know, made that face. Cocked an eyebrow, curled his upper lip like he thinks he’s Elvis or something. Said something about goats and sacrifices and covering his ass by claiming he’s into bestiality and how the lines of bullshit he weaves on a regular basis have gotten so goddamn twisted they’re practically French braided.

You‘d hissed, “Are you fucking insane?”

And he’d taken a pull off his bottle of beer and said, “No, apparently I’m fucking livestock.”

Don’t worry. It’s okay if you wanted to smack him upside the head for that one.

Those big paws of yours, though? They’d cause one hell of a head injury, man. I’m just saying.

So, yeah, the list.

What I’m getting at is, maybe you shouldn’t have thrown it out. Not that you save that sort of thing and get it framed or anything. It was on a napkin, after all, and it’s not like it’s the kind of thing you can share with the grandkids in fifty years.

Really, though, after seeing put Dean in black plastic glasses and fake mustache, claim he‘s Groucho Marx and put Dean in pink bunny suit, tell other people they must be imagining him, a little cross-dressing would look like a cakewalk.

*

Seriously, though, who even keeps a goat as a pet these days?

You’d think a mayor would get his kid a puppy or something.

I mean, come on, man.

*

The upside to convincing Dean to dress in disguise as a girl (beating out option #7, put Dean in fat suit and heavy makeup, tell people you’re in town for the hot dog eating contest) is that … well, hello. Dean in a dress. What’s not funny about that?

The downside is the complete lack of cooperation.

It wouldn’t be such a problem if you didn’t need at least a little cooperation. You know, just enough to get Dean’s measurements. The attitude, you can handle. Grumbled comments about when you expect him to grow tits and what color nail polish you plan on buying him … yeah, you kind of expect that.

On the other hand, you’d be amazed the looks salesladies in major department stores will give you when you say, “I’m looking for a sundress that will fit a six-foot-tall man with a broad chest and a nice ass.”

Okay, maybe not all that surprised, but we‘re not here for your drunken college escapades, Sam. We’re here to introduce your older brother to the wonderful world of being a transvestite.

No, really. None of this will ever stop being funny.

You call Becky’s cousin Shane as soon as you leave Dean back in the motel room. He’s probably back there pouring itching powder into your bag or attaching your picture to a MySpace page where he outs you as the family goatfucker instead.

Shane answers quickly enough. Nice guy, doesn’t sleep much, does the best Angelina Jolie impression on the planet. Fabulous kisser, but remember what I said about your drunken college escapades?

The first thing he says when he gets on the phone is, “Stealing a man’s cell phone and prank-calling his entire phone book is just mean, unless I’m getting some heavy breathing out of the deal.”

“Not unless you buy me tequila first,” you say.

“So it is you,” Shane says. Hums something, turns down the volume on a radio or TV or something. “I thought you were taking up permanent residence in the passenger seat of your brother’s car.”

“That’s why I was calling. Talk me through dressing him up as a girl?”

“As long as I get some photographic evidence out of the deal,” Shane says, not missing a beat.

That’s the great thing about Shane, really.

*

Let’s talk about the things you are absolutely not disappointed about.

For one thing, you’re not disappointed that the nicest wig you could find was a really pretty shade of brown. Blonde would have made you think of Jess, red would have gotten Dean hit on by anyone with a working set of eyes. And hey, it’ll look good with the green eyes, right?

And you’re not disappointed that you have to accommodate while skirt-shopping for the slight bow in Dean’s legs and that weird rolling swagger that makes women trail after him with their tongues hanging out. What the hell has he been doing while you were away, riding horses in the rodeo? There’s no excuse for that walk other than excessive time spent on horses or a third leg in his pants, and you would have noticed if he were sneaking out to be a cowboy.

You think.

Look, the point is that things like not being able to shove Dean into that black leather miniskirt even if money were involved and not having enough cash or working credit cards on hand to buy those incredible suede fuck-me-quickly boots disappoint you in no way, shape or form.

Dressing Dean up like a girl (beating out #10 on the list, dousing him in paint from head to toe and claiming he’s the lost member of the Blue Man Group) will be fun.

You know, just like Halloween.

Wait, you hate Halloween, right?

Fine, then, forget I said anything.

*

The trick is to look at it like a school assignment.

Make a list of things you need, check them off as you go along. The outfit, the hair, the makeup, the tits. Dean to stop bitching, Dean to shave his legs without a fight, Dean to just give in already.

Shane once told you it’s mostly about the attitude. The ugliest man in the world can pass himself off as a woman if he plays the part just right. And hell, it’s safe to say that Dean is about as far from the ugliest man in the world as possible.

I mean, those lips? Fuck, Sam, I know he’s your brother, but you’re not blind.

Honestly, if all you bought for him was lip gloss, that says a lot.

*

You are not stupid.

Maybe I’m stating the obvious here, but you’re not. That’s why I can safely say you know Dean’s full of shit when he claims he doesn’t know how to shave his legs. Considering Dean’s numerous stories of how many times he’s had a pair of legs wrapped around his head, he’s got to have had more than his share of up-close-and-personal examinations of the shaving job on a woman’s legs.

Serves him right when you say you’ll do it for him, really.

Your fingers trail over his skin, his knees, the bones of his ankles. You tell Dean you used to do this for Jess sometimes.

You don’t tell him you used to do it exactly like this. The same gentle touches, the same movements of your hands. You don’t mention how it usually ended, the razor halfway across the bathroom floor and your face lowered between soft thighs and Jess making these wild keening noises that went straight to your cock.

Dean apologizes, and you say something like, "If I avoided everything I used to do with her, I wouldn't be eating breakfast anymore, you know?"

You think he says something in response, but your hand finds it way up his thigh.

Yeah, you’re not really paying attention to what he says right now.

*

Okay, so maybe you got a little too much sick amusement out of making him a pair of tits out of birdseed and stockings.

I think you’re allowed to wonder if Dean felt it somewhere, though.

Oh, don’t give me that look. You know what I’m talking about. When you finished burning off the ends of the faux nipples and you tweaked the damn things. When you weighed them both in your hands and palmed them and wondered if Dean was standing at the register of a hole-in-the-wall Chinese place somewhere squirming uncomfortably and not knowing why.

That’s not why he forgot your egg roll, by the way.

And no, that’s not a euphemism.

No, no matter how much it qualifies right now.

*

So Dean has this medical condition.

Every time he exhales, he hits on something.

It’s going to be a problem in the short run, you know, You get him dressed up the next day and take him for a test run at the nearby truck stop, and … okay, yeah, that might have been a bad idea. Dean and those lips and a skirt against a bunch of truckers who aren’t all that picky? Why not just slap a sign on his back? “For rent -- one older brother in a dress. If I can get him into one, I’m sure you can get him out of it!”

I don’t really advise that approach, by the way.

But yeah, the flirting. That’ll be a problem. Calling the waitress “sugar” is just begging for trouble.

“Nice work,” you say after she leaves.

“Fuck you,” Dean snaps back. He wriggles in the booth like he doesn’t know what to do with his legs.

So it’s all Dean’s fault you don’t say much for the rest of breakfast. If he’s going to sit there in a skirt and a wig and say things like “Fuck you” and put that mental image in your head, then he is just going to have to suffer the consequences.

*

On the way to the morgue after breakfast to check out the third death in Town Hall in the last six months, when some guy openly flirts with him as you pass on the sidewalk. That’s when it hits you that other guys think Dean -- or maybe you should say Deanna -- looks hot.

For the record, those weren’t the consequences you were thinking about, were they?

*

This is what you see.

You see Dean in a dress.

This is what most other people see, if the morgue attendant is any indication.

They see a very pretty brunette with her attentive boyfriend, a girl with great legs and a friendly smile and would you like to see the body and maybe the medical records and perhaps the winning numbers for tomorrow night’s lottery jackpot?

Honestly, you don’t even get how he does it.

In the end, though, it gets you what you’re looking for, the easy enough explanation that whatever it was that killed the Town Hall janitor probably scared him to death.

Amazing what Dean sobbing like a girl can get you.

Like, say, a stupid grin on your face that may never ever go away.

*

The two of you go to the library to research on Dean’s orders, because when a guy forced to wear a skirt (instead of option #14, dress Dean in ninja outfit, tell anybody who asks that ninjas are invisible, stupid) makes a demand, you don’t argue.

Okay, remember that thing I said about you just seeing Dean in a skirt? Yeah, that’s real sweet. Here’s where your problem lies.

When Dean turns to you and says, “Dude, my bra came unhooked,” and then says he can’t reach back and fix it and can you do it?

The correct answer is, “Oh, hell, no.”

Just figured I’d mention that so the next time it comes up, you won’t just stick your hands up his shirt and start grabbing at anything that’s not where it’s supposed to be. You know, if there is a next time.

Take my word for it, Sammy. Mauling a transvestite in a library doesn’t make it educational.

No, not even for an emergency like repairing his breasts.

*

I’m sorry, where were we?

Oh, right. You and Dean leave the library and Dean’s bitching because … well, because he’s physically capable of doing so, and then you go out for Italian and that medical condition of his just kicks in again like clockwork with the male waiter, and you both leave to head off to Town Hall and --

Hey.

Hey, Earth to Sam.

Am I bothering you with this whole storytelling thing or what?

Or maybe you’d like for me to come back later when you’re not staring at Dean while he pulls up his skirt so far it’s practically illegal in front of an antique store window like he’s feeling the sudden urge to flash a curio cabinet?

Okay, fine, we’ll move on.

*

The thing about being a Winchester is that you get exceptionally good at lying.

Dean once said not long after you left Stanford with him that it would sure as hell explain the whole lawyer thing with you. It was like you looked at your qualifications -- criminal activities, research, and lying -- and figured out that your best option was getting a law degree.

You smacked him upside the head for that, but even you’ve got to admit he was hitting a little close to home with that one.

So it’s easy enough to get past the clerk at the front desk by telling her you’re reporters from the Washington Post researching founders of small towns. It would beat out option #2, telling her you’re transvestite demon hunters and your little black dress is at the cleaners, but hey, you never wrote that list.

The bathroom where the last guy died is clean.

Well, okay, not clean clean, because of the dead janitor and all, but supernaturally there’s nothing.

“Shit,” Dean mutters.

“Tell me about it. I don’t know, man, it’s really starting to look --”

And that’s when some guy pops his head into the bathroom and tells Dean he can’t be in there because it’s the men’s room.

On the way out, you ask Dean, “Who was that guy?”

“The mayor,” he says. “I thought for sure he was going to recognize me, man, it would’ve been awful.”

You get this brief mental image of the mayor recognizing Dean’s face under that wig and going ballistic, dragging him out into the town square and keelhauling him or whatever it is they do with people who supposedly fucked their goats in towns like this. Depending on what kind of small town we’re talking about here, goatfucking and transvestism could be on entirely different circles of Hell.

“I told you this disguise would work,” you say.

Yeah, if you’re going to smack your brother upside the head, you’ve got to expect one in return sometimes, it turns out.

*

All right, a quick recap of how Dean ends up in your lap.

You go back to the motel together and you take a shower while Dean passes out on the bed with a rerun of that Japanese game show with the funny English dubbing on the TV. You come out of the bathroom and think about waking him up and getting him out of the skirt and bra and wig, but it’s been one of those days and you slide between the covers of your bed and sleep like the dead.

It’s such a nice change for once, you don’t even bother to think about asking Dean to wear a dress every night just in case that’s the mystery solution.

Late afternoon, and Dean’s in the exact same position he was in when he went to sleep. Bra tugged to the side enough to make him look deformed, skirt riding up his legs and distracting the hell out of you. Wig tousled like he’s been riding in a convertible or fucking the football team or something.

You’ve got to stare, right? When the hell are you ever going to talk Dean into this again, man?

When Dean wakes up all groggy and slurred like usual, you tell him he should have taken off the wig before he fell asleep.

“Whatever,” he says, “I’ll look rumpled and sexy.”

You usually do, is what you avoid blurting out.

“You wish,” is what you end up saying.

So he rolls then, and you don’t even know how he does it, one smooth movement and there’s Dean’s body tumbling into your lap like a particularly adept gymnast. Arms around your neck and there’s a spot on the back of your neck he claims for himself, brushing his fingertips in soft and teasing circles over the flesh hidden by your hair.

You wish you could say this isn’t turning you on, but you wish for lots of things and never get them.

“Are you saying you don’t think I’m hot?” Dean whispers in your ear.

“No,” you say.

Your hands on his hips, your fingers clutching at Dean through his skirt. It’s possible you’ve made a wrong turn into the Twilight Zone and didn’t even see the exit sign.

Dean laughs then, dark and heady and smoky like cigars and whiskey. His teeth tug at your earlobe before his mouth leaves a heated trail down the slope of your neck. There’s a haze or something, this drugged dizzy feeling in your brain.

His teeth scrape over your Adam’s apple. You don’t even recognize the sound you make.

He moves away easy and free like it’s nothing.

I get it if you can’t even remember your name for a minute there.

*

It’s not like you don’t know Dean’s a perv. Name it, and Dean could get off on it.

But in the diner he drags his foot along your leg and says all quiet and strange, “Try not to freak out,” and then he’s licking at your lips, one slow intentional rasp.

You have this brief emotional short circuit where you feel like ice cream, like rocky road piled high on a cone that Dean’s got to chase with his tongue to keep it from getting away.

You say something, you think, a curse probably, and then you’re not thinking straight. You’re kissing your brother who’s wearing a fucking skirt and the only thought currently occupying your mind is that the skirt Dean’s wearing provides a terrifying lack of barriers if the sudden urge to get him out of it becomes overwhelming.

The waitress clears his throat and there you are guilty as sin.

Dean thanks her for the food. He shifts his wig on his head, then sticks his hand under the table.

Oh, sure, you don’t want to think about what he’s doing under there.

But then you blurt out, “Are you going to eat your pickle?” and …

Well, honestly, Sammy. Mind out of the gutter.

*

It turns out Town Hall’s got imps.

No, really.

You almost wish it were something huge and nasty with fangs like kitchen knives. Imp bites sting, and the little bastards won’t stand still long enough for you to look at them, much less grab them and break their necks. I mean, can you blame them?

When you find Dean in the bathroom afterwards scrubbing dirt from his bare knees, he’s got one leg up on the sink and his ass in your underwear.

“Tighty-whities work a lot better under a skirt than boxers do,” he says.

He’s wearing that fucking smirk, too, and that’s its goal, all right. It’s the one he wears to entice and tease, the one that has girls tugging down the waistband of his boxers in dimly lit pub bathrooms. It curls toes and ruins panties. It’s way easier to jerk off to than it should be.

You’re grossed out about Dean wearing your underwear for obvious reasons.

So, yeah, now is the perfect time for him to decide to announce that his dick’s planning a Sam-centric world tour and the next stop on the trip is your ass.

Or at least, that’s the way you interpret it.

Eh, you never would have made much of an interpreter anyway.

*

It’s not the blowjob that does it, the warmth of Dean’s lips wrapped around your cock and the playful glide of his tongue over your skin. It’s not even the way he looks on his knees before you or the constriction of his throat around you as you come.

What really breaks your brain is when he gets up off the bathroom floor afterwards and says, “Let’s get back to the motel. I want you to fuck me.”

Well, of course he does, because he’s Dean, and yet …

Oh, yeah. Brain still broken.

Hell, brain staying broken, at this rate.

*

These are the things you learn when you fuck Dean in some crappy motel in Ohio.

Dean didn’t think you’d go through with it. He doesn’t say anything but you can tell.

He’s easily annoyed by bra clasps, even if he’s not the one undoing them. It’s possible he’d invent a button that when pressed would harmlessly dissolve an entire bra if he had more free time.

He tastes like autumn. Your tongue licks at his lips and you think of spices and wood smoke and Halloween candy. You can’t even explain it.

He’s done this before.

Oh, fuck, he’s done this before, not just drunken making out at some party. You’re really blasé about the whole thing and yet at the same time there’s this flash of knowing that you’ll be jerking off to that mental image in the shower one of these days, given the opportunity and enough free time.

When he comes, he makes this sound that might not even be human and trembles like he’s coming apart.

He presses back when you slide into him like he’s searching for heat, like he’s taking advantage of your extra inches in height to curl into you as much as possible.

He says your name like he wants to hear himself saying it, like it’s proof, like he’s been wondering what it’d sound like during sex for a while.

*

I know what you’re thinking.

You wake up in the morning with your arm still curled around Dean’s waist thinking, “I’m supposed to be freaking out right now.” Just another stop on the schedule after the sex. Get cleaned up, go to sleep, wake back up, freak out about the not-the-least-bit-normal sex you just had.

There’s a wig on the table and a gun on the nightstand. Dean presses against you in his sleep like he found all the right grooves and locked in, like a newly pressed puzzle or something.

You’re thinking you’re supposed to freak out, and all you want is some muffins.

Okay, and maybe to get Dean back into that skirt again.

Don’t worry. I won’t hold that against you.