Chapter Text
It all comes down to his own stupid mistake.
He knows he shouldn’t let the witch out of his sight. She’s already proven herself to be powerful, skillfully evading them for days while they chased her from one town to the next. She’s smart, and she can cover her tracks well; even the three of them, seasoned hunters with years of experience to spare, have been struggling to catch up.
So when they finally manage to accost her in some podunk town in rural Nebraska, the last thing any of them should do is turn their back on her. Except that when she flicks her wrist, an incantation quick and sharp on her lips, and sends Dean flying across the room, Castiel cannot help it.
Just for a second, he looks away from her, dread climbing up his spine when Dean doesn’t immediately bounce back on his feet. Castiel’s finger still rests on the trigger of his gun, his stance never wavering, but there’s a reason this witch has eluded them for so long.
In the heartbeat between Dean’s body hitting the wall and Castiel turning back around to face her, ready to empty his clip into her chest, the witch is gone. There’s a rustle of fabric somewhere behind him, a soft laugh and a gust of air on his cheek. Before he has any chance to react, the spell hits its mark, burrowing into him like a tick. He makes a last-ditch effort to swing back his gun-wielding arm, fires two haphazard shots that probably miss her by five feet, and then the spell really starts to take root, knocking his feet from under him. He drops to his knees and hears her say, oh, this should be fun.
“Cas!” a voice yells from somewhere to his left, followed by a slew of witch-killing bullets. He doesn’t see if any of them hit her; his head grows heavy, and he slides onto the floor while the spell inside him swells and swells and swells.
“Holy fuck, that’s weird,” somebody above him mutters.
Castiel opens his eyes.
The Winchesters are standing over him, Sam sporting a split lip and Dean rubbing the back of his head, wincing like there’s a bump forming there. They both look worse for the wear, but they’re alive and that’s all that matters.
Castiel gives them a tired smile.
“Is she dead?” he asks.
Sam shakes his head, but he doesn’t look all that preoccupied with the fact they’ve struck out again, and Castiel immediately knows why.
The voice that just came out of his mouth is not his.
He sits up abruptly and looks down at himself.
“Huh,” he says.
“Don’t overreact,” Dean snorts. “You don’t happen to know why that Rowena wannabe turned you into a chick, do you?”
Castiel doesn’t. He would understand if she tried to kill him or knock him out, but this seems like way too much trouble to go into considering the end result. He lifts his hands and turns them over, palms up and then back down. His new fingers are slimmer and slightly shorter. He shrugs. They can still hold a blade.
“Maybe she wanted to incapacitate me,” he offers, even though it doesn’t really make sense. Judging by the frown on Sam’s face, he doesn’t think so either.
“Except this doesn’t incapacitate you, does it?” he says. “You look different, but that doesn’t stop you from going after her again.”
“Y’all aren’t asking the most important question,” Dean cuts in. He extends his hand towards Castiel as he says it, a silent offer to help him up. He clearly doesn’t think about what he’s doing; it’s second nature at this point, with how many times they’ve done it for each other over the years. Castiel also doesn’t think much of it when he grasps Dean’s hand and lets himself be pulled up. It’s only when his palm slides into Dean’s, and he’s hauled up right into Dean’s space, that the difference becomes apparent.
Whenever Dean does this, he lingers; lets his thumb run across Castiel’s skin before pulling away; only drops his hand when Castiel is steady on his feet, and maybe even later than that.
But he’ll do it all with shame ghosting behind his eyes.
There’s no shame there now.
“That question is,” he says, smiling broadly at Castiel, still holding his hand, “if it’s permanent.”
It’s a fair point, but Castiel can’t even attempt to come up with an answer with the way Dean is looking at him. He’s used to having Dean watch his face, but now Dean’s eyes are all over, inspecting every detail of this new body.
He likes it, Castiel realizes.
“It shouldn’t be,” Sam says, slowly. “She’s powerful, but curses like that almost always have an expiration date.”
“And what date would that be?” Dean asks. He’s still holding onto Castiel’s hand, and it proves incredibly distracting.
Sam gives a noncommittal shrug.
“Guess we’ll see. Could be 24 hours, could be a week. I don’t think it’ll be longer than that.”
“All right,” Dean says. Then he turns to Castiel, as if in afterthought, and asks: “You’re okay, aren’t you? I mean, you feel like you?”
“Of course I feel like me,” Castiel says, suddenly feeling irritated. He lets go of Dean’s hand. “The spell only changed my outward appearance. Now, can we please focus on finally hunting down that witch?”
He doesn’t know where his annoyance comes from, except that he does. Dean Winchester is looking at him the way he looks at nameless women in the towns they visit, following one hunt after another. Waitresses, bar patrons, witnesses. He watches them with an impish smile and twinkling eyes, a hope of fleeting bliss and an underlying certainty that he will never see them again.
Castiel doesn’t want Dean to look at him like that.
“She’s got a twenty minute head start on us,” Sam sighs. “It might take us weeks to find her again.”
“Are you saying we should give up?” Castiel says tersely.
“No, of course not. I’m saying we should regroup and ask Rowena for help.”
“No offence to your intellect, Sammy,” Dean says, in a tone that implies offending Sam’s intellect is his main goal, “but why would Queen Witch help us hunt down one of her own?”
“Let me worry about that,” Sam says curtly. “It’s only a three hour drive back to the bunker, and it would be stupid to pay for another night at the motel if the witch is gone anyway. Besides,” he adds, turning to Castiel, a smile softening his face, “Cas needs new clothes.”
Castiel sags onto his bed, dropping his duffel bag on the floor next to the nightstand. It’s barely past 7 p.m., and he has no idea what he’s going to do with himself until morning. Sam and Dean will probably be heading to bed soon – they’ve barely been sleeping this whole week, hot on the witch’s heels, never quite close enough – and he’s going to have to kill time waiting for them to wake up. Usually he’ll just settle into an armchair with a book from the Men of Letters library, annotating it and correcting mistakes as he goes, but tonight he doesn’t feel like it.
Having this new body is jarring.
He’s had a female vessel before, albeit briefly, but it feels like it was lifetimes ago. Back in those days he used to be completely disconnected from it, acutely aware of the distinction between his own sense of self and it. Not to mention it was a body he was borrowing. The woman he shared it with, a Sunday school teacher by the name of Frances Whitmore, was devout and that’s all he really remembers about her. He left her without sentiment, content to return back to Heaven, back to his true form made up of divine equations that, unlike humans, made perfect sense. Then there was Jimmy, then Claire – he still hates to think about that, she was only twelve, it wasn’t fair to ask this of her – then Jimmy again, and then…. Then Castiel died for the first time, and when he came back, it was without his human host. The buffer of Jimmy’s presence gone, Castiel could no longer pretend he was just occupying a vessel. That body was stabbed, shot, carved into and violated in every way imaginable, and it was his.
He’s grown rather fond of it, too; learned its angles and crevices the way a pianist learns to work the keys of his instrument. Through trial and error, he’s figured out how much pressure to apply for his touch to be non-threatening and comforting, or how far to lift his chin to be able to look Dean directly in the eye. He’s worked hard for the ease of inhabiting this body, and a stray curse put him back in square one.
It might not be permanent, but that doesn’t make it any less disconcerting.
On impulse, Castiel bends down to open his duffel and rummages through it until his fingers find the hilt of an angel blade. He pulls it out and lifts it to eye level, catching his own reflection blinking back at him along the sharp edge.
It’s not that different, he supposes. While it’s true that his features have a decidedly feminine look now, he can still recognize his old self in the unchanged shade of his hair or the color of his eyes.
He wonders if that’s why Dean kept glancing at him in the rearview mirror the whole way back to the bunker.
Castiel is still contemplating his new face staring at him from the surface of the blade, tucking his shoulder-length hair behind his ear with mild curiosity, when there’s a knock on the door.
“Cas, you there?”
Cheeks growing hot, Castiel hastily puts the blade away on the nightstand. He’s not sure why, but he doesn’t want Dean to think his new appearance bothers him.
“Yes. Come on in.”
The door cracks open, and then Dean’s there with an armful of clothes and a small smile.
“I thought maybe you’d like to change into some more girl-appropriate duds,” he says. His eyes travel down to the too-loose tie, the oversized shirt and the trench coat Castiel is now drowning in. “I, uh, brought some options. We don’t have any actual lady apparel lying around, but I grabbed a couple of things that could work.”
He dumps the pile on Castiel’s bed and starts picking up items one by one, explaining as he goes.
“This is the smallest t-shirt I have,” he says, holding it out in front of his chest like he’s making a sales pitch. “Still probably gonna be a bit big for you, but at least it should be comfy. I also have one that shrank in the laundry,” he adds, showing Castiel a dark blue tee that looks like something out of an eighth grader’s closet. “I was gonna toss it actually, but maybe it’ll fit you. I don’t exactly know your new size, so...”
There’s a hint of embarrassment in Dean’s expression as he puts both t-shirts aside. He casts a quick glance at Castiel, as if picturing the way the clothes will fit, and just as quickly looks away.
“Now for pants, all I could scrounge up are those,” he goes on, presenting a pair of gray pajama bottoms. “Obviously they’re gonna be way too baggy, but they have a drawstring, see? So you can tie ’em tight around your waist. And if you fold up the pant legs as well, you’ll be golden. I mean― I know it’s not ideal, but we probably shouldn’t go on a shopping spree just yet, in case you’re back to being yourself tomorrow.”
“I am myself, Dean,” Castiel says gently.
Dean slowly opens his mouth.
“But I know what you meant,” Castiel adds, taking pity on him. He looks down at the clothes lying on his bed, reaching out to run his hand over the worn material of the plain black t-shirt Dean said was his. “Thank you for these.”
“Uh, sure. No problem.”
Dean makes a move as if to leave, but then doesn’t, and he ends up hovering awkwardly at the foot of the bed. His hand travels up to rub at the back of his neck, and with a jolt, Castiel remembers he’s been hurt during the hunt.
“Is that where you hit the wall?” he asks, pointing at the spot Dean is absent-mindedly massaging.
“Huh? Oh, no, that’s―”
But Castiel is already upright and crowding into Dean’s space.
“Let me,” he says. Eyes fixed firmly on Dean’s face, he puts his right hand on Dean’s nape. There’s definitely a bump there, raised and uncomfortable by the feel of it. Castiel heals it with practiced ease, one gentle pulse of grace, swift and efficient.
This is the moment when he would usually draw back, putting some distance between himself and the dread in Dean’s eyes. That much direct contact isn’t allowed unless in life-threatening situations, and being roughed up after a run-in with a witch certainly doesn’t qualify as such.
Except that when Castiel looks at Dean now, it’s not apprehension he sees. It’s wide eyes, slightly parted lips, and Dean’s face inching closer.
“Thanks,” Dean says, his voice surprisingly soft. And then, “So, are you gonna try these on?”
It takes Castiel a moment to realize Dean’s talking about the clothes he’s brought.
“Oh. Yes, I think I will.”
He picks up one of the t-shirts – Dean’s, not the shrunken one – and contemplates it for a second. Dean was right, it’s likely going to be too big on his slimmer frame, but Castiel thinks he still prefers it over the other one. It’s a little washed out, closer in color to charcoal gray than true black, but it looks like it’ll be comfortable.
When he looks up, Dean is watching him with an expression so akin to wonder Castiel doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Are you going to stay while I change?” he asks, raising one eyebrow. He might still stumble over some of the finer aspects of living among humans, but he’s no idiot; he knows that undressing in front of a person of the opposite sex is a big deal. Even if in this case, there’s no shyness to speak of. It wouldn’t make sense for Castiel to feel self-conscious about a body he doesn’t know. In fact, he’s probably just as curious to see what’s underneath his clothes as Dean is.
To his surprise, Dean doesn’t blush or stutter out an apology, excusing himself out of the room. Instead, he raises both hands in front of himself and says:
“I’ll give you some privacy, if you want, but to be honest, I’m curious how everything’s gonna fit. I’ll turn away when you ask, promise.”
Castiel blinks. That’s not how he expected this to go, but if that’s what Dean wants, there’s no reason to deprive him of it.
“All right,” he says. “Then turn away.”
He plans to make quick work of it, leaving any further exploration of his temporarily changed physique for later, so he doesn’t linger; he takes everything off, then throws on the t-shirt, pulls on the lounge pants, and taps Dean’s shoulder to let him know he’s done.
When Dean turns back to face him, a smile touches his lips and crinkles appear around his eyes.
“Well shucks, Cas, you can really pull off that mismatched domestic getup.”
Before Castiel can process that statement (he thinks it’s a compliment), Dean reaches out to lightly run his fingers through his hair. Part of it got trapped by the collar of Castiel’s – Dean’s – t-shirt, so he gathers it up between his thumb and middle finger, pulls it free, and watches as it falls down over Castiel’s shoulder.
“I’m kinda enjoying this version of you,” he murmurs.
Castiel has about two seconds to react before it happens; two excruciatingly long seconds of furious internal battle. His decision-making synapse ping-pongs frantically, back and forth: I want it – he doesn’t mean it – once is better than never – it’ll mess us up in the long run – at least for tonight – we’ll both regret this – he looks so hopeful –
Dean’s lips touch his, and Castiel doesn’t turn his face away.
He knows it’s a bad idea from the second the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed.
He knows it the same way he knew he shouldn’t conspire with Crowley to find Purgatory, or say yes to Lucifer, or steal the Colt. There’s no doubt in his mind that it’ll blow up in his face, that it’ll hurt later – it hurts now – but he can’t see how he could possibly fight against it.
Dean kisses him with increasing momentum, first just brushing their lips together, then cupping his face and deepening the kiss, then leaning into Castiel with his whole body, until they’re pressed together from head to toe and Castiel has no choice but to throw his arms around him and pull him even closer. They stumble a couple of steps towards the bed and the next thing Castiel knows, he’s lying there with Dean on top of him.
This is a bad idea, reason reminds him. He’s probably already forgotten it’s you. It’s this body he wants. Stop him.
“Dean,” he tries. He hates the way his voice comes out, high-pitched and breathless and not his own. He slides his hand into Dean’s hair, tugging it a little to get his attention. He doesn’t mean to rile him up, but that’s exactly what happens; Dean’s pupils are blown to hell when he looks back at him.
“What? What do you need?”
To have you see me, Castiel thinks, but what he says is: “More.”
Dean’s answering grin, boyish and joyous, melts away the last of Castiel’s resolve. He tilts his head back, giving Dean free access to the hollow of his throat.
He doesn’t talk again for a long time, partly because he doesn’t want to hear his changed voice and partly because he still half expects reason to take over, to make him say no or stop or it’s still me, do you remember? do you care? Dean doesn’t seem to have a problem with Castiel’s silence, filling it with his own murmured words, low and scattered into monosyllables. He’s not exactly talkative, but there are these small sounds spilling out of him, almost like he can’t help it, and Castiel cannot get enough of them.
He does a rather good job of keeping his mouth shut, if he says so himself – even when Dean fingers him open, even when he goes down on him – but when they finally come together, Dean’s name punches out of him like he can’t hold it any second longer.
“Yeah,” Dean says, and kisses him again. “Yeah.”
It stops to matter that his voice isn’t right, because Castiel doesn’t hear it anymore. He gathers Dean closer, right palm on his shoulder blade and left at the back of his neck, and he holds on to him tight enough to bruise. The headboard starts knocking into the wall as Dean’s movements grow faster, shifting them both higher up the bed. Tension builds slowly, much slower than Castiel remembers from his first (and until now, only) sexual encounter. He supposes anatomy comes into play here, although he doesn’t dwell on it much. Makes no difference; it’s not like he’ll have a chance to do this again in his own body and draw a comparison.
Soon Dean’s arms start shaking, bending at the elbows just a little to compensate for it. Castiel looks up at him, at his closed eyes and furrowed brow, and knows they’re hurtling towards the end now.
He clutches at Dean’s back to the point of pain.
“Not yet,” he pleads. “Dean, not yet.”
Dean’s eyes pop open and land on him, unfocused and dark in the dim light of the room. He nods like he understands, but then his left hand leaves the spot next to Castiel’s head and slips in between them.
“S’okay,” he mutters, “I’ll get you there, don’t worry.”
Castiel almost laughs aloud – like he’d need any additional help in “getting there”, with Dean above and inside him – but then it’s over, just like that; his nails dig into Dean’s nape, his back arches, and nothing rings out in his ears but the sound of Dean’s name in that foreign, unfamiliar voice.