
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2293793.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Community:_blindfold_spn, Genderplay, Feminization, Panties, Dirty_Talk,
      Impregnation_Fantasy, Pet_Names, Crossdressing_Kink, Butt_Plugs,
      Weechesters
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-07-20 Words: 3121
****** Easy Access ******
by Edwardina
Summary
     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.
Notes
     Written for blindfold_spn and originally posted here.
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."
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