Freaky Friday
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Warnings: Body switching crack basically, mainly hijinx, overreaction, mentions of feelings.
Word Count: 3886
Prompt: Sam and Dean have switched bodies, which you would have found hysterical if you had known BEFORE you went to your best friend Sam to mope about how felt about dean and how he had no clue.
A/N: Did y’all miss me?! I put out a cry for prompts because I was in a major writing rut and my girl @divadinag hit me up with a ton. Obviously, they’re all fantastic. So this is the first of several fics based off her brilliant brain. P.S please be gentle as I try to remember how to write again.
Ao3 if you prefer.
“The witch is dead why are we still like this? Why’d it only happen when we got back here?” Sam’s tone is more panicked than normal, asking more questions than he’s prone to. Sam normally has the answers. “I don’t know Dean,” Dean’s voice emphasizes the name with the same annoyance Sam normally utters it with, “funnily enough I didn’t ask the witch before we killed him!” “Ok, enough, just, we gotta figure this out, dude. I can’t stay in this body. You’re all gangly.” Dean’s face looks affronted at the accusation, “gangly?” “Yeah,” Sam shakes his arms through the air as if they’re new, “Son of a bitch have you always been this long? It’s unnatural and I don’t like it.” Dean’s face gets this little ghost of a smirk on it that Dean, the one trapped inside of Sam’s body, recognizes, “I thought you’d like the extra length Dean.” “Shut up Sammy. I’ve got plenty of length where it- just shut up ok. We’ve gotta figure this out.” Sam, the one currently residing inside of Dean, clamps a hand on his own shoulder, “guess I, or should I say you, better get reading huh?"
It had been quiet since you got back from dealing with the witch yesterday. The relative calm that hung over the bunker wasn’t unusual at first. It had been a long drive and after you’d all spent ten hours plus in the Impala together the three of you tended to scatter for some alone time. It was just unusual for it to stay quiet for so long. Dean usually crawled out of whatever binge he fell into after a few hours in search of food, and Sam usually preferred the communal comfort of the library to working in his room. But right now you haven’t seen either of them since you got back yesterday morning and their absence is making time tick by achingly slowly. Eventually, you’d even go as far as to say you’re starting to miss them both. However, you are not one to sit around and mope about it. Instead, you decide to take action to curb your loneliness. Sam’s door is a little further from the library than Dean’s which means you walk past it every time you go to see the youngest Winchester. And every single time you stop. Something tight in your stomach makes you pause, stare and imagine. What if you walked in and kissed those lips that you’ve been dreaming of? What if you strode in with all the confidence you normally possess, like he doesn’t phase you, and straddled his lap with absolute certainty? What if you finally admitted to Dean all the dirty things you’ve thought about doing to him? The answer, as your brain was so good at reminding you, was that you would make an idiot of yourself. Dean has never shown even a passing interest in you like that. Your friendship would be ruined to boot and you’d probably have to move out just to be able to live with yourself. But that was, you know, just one of the many worst-case scenarios that eventually got you walking again. You knock when you get to Sam’s room but you never wait for a response before your hand is twisting the handle and you’re sliding inside. Neither of you cares much for privacy around each other, it’s not a luxury you’re afforded on the road in cramped motel rooms so it became a habit back at the bunker too. Or at the very least Sam knows to lock his door when you’re not welcome. Since it’s unlocked you walk in and land unceremoniously on his bed with your limbs spread out like a starfish. He’s sitting at his desk but that probably wouldn’t have made a difference. You’ve fallen on him before and no doubt you’ll do it again at some point. “Y/N?” There’s a confused inflection in how he says your name that you quickly question. “Who else is it going to be? Don’t tell me you have another friend?” You turn your head to the side, smiling at him, waiting for the start of your familiar back and forth, but are met only with this bug-eyed stiffness to his body like he’s still not sure why you’re here. His straight back and frozen expression of fear ends your attempt at a joke as quickly as it began, “you ok? I’m not interrupting anything, right?” “No! Erm...” he cocks his head a little, which makes his hair fall into his face and in turn seems to frustrate him as if he forgot it was there. “No, I was just... reading! Yep. Research. You know how I love me some research.” “Ok” you drag out like he’s a weirdo. Because he is. And the book at his desk isn’t even cracked open so he’s either lying or he doesn’t want you to see what he was reading. You’re guessing it’s the latter but the old, leather-bound book of whatever lore he has a boner for looks uninteresting at first glance. “Anyway, I’m bored. Don’t suppose you’ve found any new cases yet?” “Nah, I’m working on the thing.” He says turning back to the book, opening it this time but holding it at an awkward angle. You can see the front cover but whatever he’s reading inside is well and truly hidden. The unknown project, as well as his shadiness, piques your interest despite the title of the book being some boring, long ass anthology of pagan magic, “what thing?” You’re only watching out of the corner of your eye so as not to seem suspicious but you notice his eyes dart about before he answers, “nothing, it’s just something Sa- me. Something me and Dean are working on.” You’d been about to dig deeper and find out why Sam is being so weird but then he had to go and mention his brother. You fling your arm across your face with all of the dramatics you usually reserve for talking about Dean, “seriously? You couldn’t go ten minutes without mentioning him?” “Hey! What’s wrong with me-my brother?” You roll your eyes under the arm stretched across your face. You know Sam must tune out you out like 50% of the time, you hope he does at least for his own sake. Except for the amount of time you’ve spent lamenting about your unrequited feelings he can’t have completely forgotten, right? “I don’t know why you’re being so weird but please stop.” You huff out a breath and slump your shoulders, “seriously I’d just got him out of my head.” The book slams violently shut in a way Sam never treats books, “nope, that’s it. Now I want to talk about it!” “Really?” Sam had been understanding when you first developed your crush but you were pretty sure the other reason he tuned out your ‘Dean talk’ was because you were talking about his brother. It can’t have been comfortable to listen to. Although now he wants to talk about it? “I mean. Ok, fine. I thought you were sick of me talking about how pretty your brother is but I guess not.” He had swung around and leaned forward on his knees when you first opened your mouth but as soon as you mention Dean being pretty Sam begins choking on his own tongue. “What?” “Calm down bud,” you jump up and clap him on the back before slumping back onto the bed. “I won’t call him pretty again in your presence. Lesson learned. But seriously, I almost told him today. I was five steps from his door. I could have gone in and done it.” You puff your chest out a little, proud of the progress you’re making from being six steps away from admitting the truth. “Told him- you almost told him?” “Yes, you giant dummy. I almost told Dean that I maybe, definitely want to knock boots.” Sam’s mouth is caught in this limbo of half opening and then snapping shut making him look like a defective guppy. There’s no sound is coming out, so you continue, “oh come on. That’s not even the worst thing I’ve ever said to you about him. Remember when I told you about that dream where he spent an entire hour... well I won’t say it again. Last time you couldn’t look at me for days.” If you hadn’t been making yourself laugh with the memory then maybe you’d have noticed how suddenly interested Sam had been in hearing the story again. And maybe you’d have thought it to be a red flag. “How long have you been feeling like this?” . “Eugh. Every time you ask me that and then you tell me to put on my big girl pants and go tell him.” “Why haven’t you? Maybe he would want to know.” He poses a good question and it’s not the first time he’s asked you. It is, however, the first time you’ve been interrupted by the object of your affection running into the room, “dude I think I found something!” Everything stops for too long a second. You stare at Dean, Dean stares at Sam and Sam can’t stop looking at you. It’s all very Days of Our Lives, you just need some dramatic music in the background. If your mind weren’t elsewhere you might wonder why they are being so secretive and climactic. However, you’re too busy praying to any available god or even demigod, that Dean didn’t hear what you’d just been talking about. When Dean finally looks at you he misreads the awkwardness in your face, “oh good, you told her. Listen, I know it’s weird but I think I found something to put us back. It’s not really a reversal of the spell just a detour, kind of.” “What spell? What are you talking about?” As soon as he mentions a spell almost getting caught with your crush fades to nothing. You’re in hunter mode without faltering. Especially so soon after just killing a witch. “The spell the witch cast before he…? Dean didn’t tell you?” His face creases, pouts more like it, in Sam’s direction. Actually, if you had to put a name on it you’d say that he does a classic Sam bitch face. Except it’s Dean doing it at Sam. Before your brain can unpack how wrong that it there’s something else he said that’s sticking in your craw. “No Dean. Since I haven’t seen you all day no, you haven't told me anything. What the hell is going on guys?” You look over at Sam, your trustworthy best friend who normally explains it all. There are no answers though. Sam’s face is blank except for those wide eyes again. Dean steps forward, “Y/N. It’s me, Sam. There’s no easy way to say this but Dean and I, we kind of got switched, this morning actually. We think the witch put a spell on us but maybe time delayed it somehow? We didn’t find any hex bags anyway. But I think I’ve found...” Dean, or Sam anyway, could have started reciting the declaration of independence, in French, backward for how much attention you pay anything else he says. Realization sends a shudder up your spine that turns into a white-hot flush of equal parts embarrassment and fury. You slowly turn back to Sam, well Dean. Dean in Sam’s body. Dean who you just unwittingly admitted your long hidden feelings to. You can feel the intensity of the red staining your cheeks. Somewhere in Dean’s body, Sam is still talking but the real Dean has the decency to make Sam’s face look sheepish at least. In the back of your mind, you joke that he can't pull off Sam’s infamous puppy dog eyes properly. Not that it matters, because you’re about to do the only thing you can do right now. Monsters you can face, demons you can kill, ghosts you can burn but this situation? Yeah, you’re going to run. Dean, or Sam, fucking whatever, falters over whatever he’s saying when he reads the decision on your face. But even half blocking the door he’s no match for your speed, especially not in a new body that he’s not used to. He barely raises his hands in a defensive attempt to ask you what’s wrong when you shake your head and side step him altogether. Three well-placed steps and you’re past him. Then it’s just you and the sound of your pounding feet echoing through the empty corridors of the bunker. All the way to the garage where you take the first set of keys your fingers wrap around, start the engine of an old pickup, and get the hell out of dodge.
If you wanted to be found, like an idiot, you’d have gone to a bar. Or maybe a diner. You know, somewhere they'll obviously look first. You don’t want to be found for a long time. Instead, you stop at a gas station and buy yourself the nicest bottle of whiskey they have along with some random armfuls of snacks. Then you drive to a motel, turn off your phone and curl up in bed, in the fetal position sucking on your drink like a baby’s bottle. They’re going to be beyond pissed that you took off and turned off your phone but maybe you’re beyond pissed that Dean just let you sit there and spill your guts. Everyone can be mad about something. Or maybe you should have gone balls to the wall and told Dean all those months ago. Whatever. There’s lots of blame to go around. What sucks is this could have been funny. Like this could have legitimately been the most hysterical supernatural situation to find yourselves in. You and Dean could have hidden all of Sam’s things in places too high for him to reach, well you’d have watched Dean hide the stuff anyway. And Sam could have taken Dean’s body out for a run or to a make your own salad place. That’s just your initial ideas. Given an hour you’d have a list of pranks ideas for them both. Instead, you’re almost halfway through a fifth of whiskey and two bags of chips deep into your snack pile. Alone. You don’t remember ever feeling the embarrassment on the level you’re experiencing now. It’s agonizing and you're absolutely sure it will never fade. Alcohol only dulls your chagrin as you keep flashing back to using the phrase ‘knock boots’. You’re close to insanity when there’s a knock at the door. You’re slow to get up and even then you take the time to press your face against the peephole. Your shoulders roll back in annoyance at not being as well hidden as you’d hoped, “no thank you. Do not disturb.” He knocks again and you sigh, stamping your foot in a mini, slightly drunken tantrum. “Y/N, it’s Sam.” Reluctantly you swing the door open and try not to frown at him still wearing his brothers face. While you manage to keep your expression in check you still splutter, “why do you still look like him?” “We haven’t tried the spell yet. We’ve been looking for you since you left.” You still think you were pretty justified in running away but you kinda wish you could talk to Sam right now. Your Sam. “I’m sorry.” The apology tastes of whiskey and potato chips but not of actual regret. “No, you’re not.” He smiles. In your head, you know exactly how that smile would look on Sam’s face. It’d be comforting and friendly, playful even. But on Dean’s lips, the smile reminds you of the fool you’ve made of yourself. You huff and wander back to the bed and your bottle, “you’re right. I’m not. He just sat there and let me tell him! And now he knows. And I can’t talk to you when you look like him. You’re going to have to turn around or something.” Sam shuts the door behind him but makes no attempt to look like anything less than Dean. It’s motly annoying that you didn’t see it earlier. There’s the occasional way he moves that’s so utterly Sam, like the way he shakes his head or the way he carries himself. Now that you think about it there were lots of those clues while you talking to Dean. If you’d have recognized even one then maybe you wouldn’t have opened your big, dumb mouth. “Want to talk about it?" “Absolutely not Deano. Oh sorry, Sam. Right. Sam! It’s so hard to keep track.” You sweep your arm through the air with the bottle hanging precariously from your hand. Alcohol-fuelled sarcasm dripping from your tongue. “Look where talking has got me tonight. I can’t even run away for more than a few hours before you find me, all looking like Dean!” He strides over to you wordlessly and you forget. For all of a second, it’s another daydream. It’s Dean, the actual Dean, coming towards you. It’ll be his hands on you when he reaches you and his lips about to kiss yours. “I think you’ve probably had enough of this.” Sam mothers the bottle away from you, breaking the spell. Even though it’s soulful green eyes that you’ve memorized staring at you, it’s Sam that shines through them, somehow. “I never used to be like this you know. Maybe you don't remember when you first met me. I was a badass. I killed a demon by squeezing his head between my thighs, I mean I exercised him after but the thigh thing really slowed him down. I was cool Sam and I was hot!” He’s moving your snacks from the bed to the table while you ramble on, “both at the same time, huh?” “Yes! Because I wasn’t bogged down with dumb feelings for your dumb brother.” You lay back without being told to. Drunken exhaustion has crept up on you and with the bed now empty you fall into it easily. The mattress is lumpy but not completely uncomfortable. Sam pulls the blanket over you and patronizingly pats you on the head. “Maybe if you’re lucky things will be different in the morning.” He says earning a grumble for treating you like a child. You don’t correct him though. You hope things will be different in the morning. You hope you wake up in a world where today never happened. You close your eyes as Sam lets himself out, Dean being the last thing you really see.
There's no pounding behind your eyes when you peel them open and for that, you'll have to thank Sam at some point. It wouldn't have been the first time you drank yourself to sleep and you were far from tired until he tucked you in and took away the good stuff. Although it was gas station whiskey so, mediocre stuff. Your body drags as you get out of bed like the air is slowing you down. It's a tragic shuffle to the bathroom where limp arms barely find the tiny bottle of mouthwash to banish the day-old whiskey breath. You run your fingers through your hair and give up after the second tangle. The palms of your hands make a small semblance of an effort to flatten the creases from your clothes, but you still look like you slept in the clothes you’re wearing. Eventually, you accept that, yeah, you're going to have to go back like this. They'll both look like stock photo models for the Canadian tourism board and you'll look like the human embodiment of the hair that gets pulled from the shower drain. It will be a fitting return for you after yesterday. Your brain tries to convince you that you should drive straight home. The faster you face the music the faster you can get on with your life. It’s just, then you see the mound of junk food on the table. You try to pretend it's your hunger that makes you sit cross-legged on the end of the bed, salty snacks and candy bars resting in your lap, even if you know it's the fear in your chest making you procrastinate. You're throwing M&M's high into the air while trying to catch them with your mouth when there's a knock at the door. The falling chocolate bounces off of your forehead and lands somewhere on the floor amongst its other fallen brethren that missed the target. Getting off the bed is now a loud affair of creaky mattress springs and crinkled wrappers and you take long enough that your visitor knocks again. "I'm coming, I'm coming." You huff out. You hadn't really paid much attention to the time but for some reason, you're expecting the robust man who rented you the room to be there demanding you leave or pay for another night. It's why, unlike last night, you don't check who's there. Everything seems safer in daylight so you almost lurch the door off its hinges with the force you exert to open it. “Really? Come to drag me back already?” Dean is standing there, well his body anyway, and you're just as frustrated as you had been to see him last night. “Seriously you guys didn’t have time to do the spell yet?” He smirks. It’s enough to know from that alone but he still confirms it for you, “we had time. ‘S all taken care of sweetheart.” Everything is happening too fast to blush or run or slam the door. “What are you…?” He takes a step so that the edge of his boots are almost touching your feet. One hand cups your cheek, his thumb stroking a lazy line back and forth over your skin like he’s admiring art and his other arm wraps around your waist. You’re already breathless. You’re already fucking done. But Dean hasn't even started. He ducks his head at the same time that he lifts your face a little, angling your mouth in his direction. You let out this whisper of a gasp, unable to actually comprehend this series of events as his lips connect with yours. It could all be a dream. You’ve dedicated entire REM cycles to just this moment. The kiss. But in your dreams, he never tastes like coffee as he does now. And dream you never worries about if she still tastes of alcohol. Plus there all those little things you hadn’t thought to imagine. Like the way his arm pulls you into him so you’re halfway into a Hollywood style dip except you’re crushed against him enough to feel his muscles twitch. His lips are fuller somehow, softer but he kisses you more intensely than dream Dean. His tongue chases yours and maps out your mouth for a lifetime. It’s still not enough. When you both somehow telepathically agree to breathe you still don’t want to give him up and you rake his bottom lip through your teeth just because you don’t want to let him go. He laughs at that. The unashamed desperation that you finally let out. “Thought I should wait till I wasn’t in Sam to do that.” “You know, to anyone else, that’d be a really weird thing to say.”
5eva tags: @divadinag @darthdeziewok @fluentinfiction @witch-of-letters @supernatural-teamfreewillpage Dean babes: @thewinchesterchronicles @akshi8278
