Chapter Two
First they head east. "Let's go recent before we go back," Sam had said when they packed the car. Dean's last conquest before they hit the ghoul in Virginia Beach was in Charlottesville. Determined, Sam decided they'd drive the full twenty-one hours in one go, as quickly as possible. "Searching the country for the witch that diddled your boy parts isn't my idea of a good time," he said at two AM in a McDonald's drive-thru.
"Well, I still don't think Charlottesville is the witch. She's a college senior. Erica or something like that." He folds his arms under his breasts. He's almost adjusted to them, started to work out to the differences in balance and strength in his brand new body, but it's still weird. Other than the necessary tasks, he's been ignoring his...
He can't even fucking say it.
"Classy," Sam mutters. He uses one hand to steer while he drinks his Coke. "Do you know where to find her?"
"Um, yes." Dean smiles sheepishly at the memory. She'd had curly dark hair and a fresh tribal tattoo on her lower back, the ink still shiny. "I drove her home from the bar, and we parked in her parent's driveway."
"You are a scourge on the fathers of America."
Dean smirks. "Don't I know it."
They make a quick drive by Erica-or-something-like-that's house, but there's nothing. No residual burn. Not even a little tingle. Dean stares at the twine on his wrist. A weird lump clogs his throat when he looks at it that won't go away.
It's always gone away before, that strange and noisy feeling that he refuses to consider. He doesn't have time for it now, when he's trying to remember the last women he bedded.
"Well, worth a shot," Sam says. "Let's get a hotel; we can start heading west tomorrow." He finds the first roadside motel on the way out of town and checks in alone. Dean takes the opportunity to stretch; he relishes the cool summer air and took a swig from the flask in his jacket pocket. The jacket hangs weird on his frame, but he likes to imagine he looks more like an awesome punk chick and less like someone borrowing her brother's ill-fitting coat.
When Sam returns, he has two keys.
"What the hell?" Dean asks as he hands over one key.
"Look, I figure you're about two beers away from some uncomfortable self-exploration, and I just - I'd rather not know that much about you."
"It's not like - "
"Nope, totally different. It's no big deal, really. Just - " A shudder passes through him, as though he's imagined something unpleasant. Like having his nails pulled out or being shot or something. "Never tell me about it."
The idea doesn't sound at all appealing. Dean fancies that he knows exactly how to work a woman, and it's a lot of pressure to test that theory on himself. Still, it's not like he hasn't gotten selfishly used to having his own room in the quiet weeks when they work the salvage yard between hunts. "Fine. Whatever. Call me in the morning." He sets off for his own room and immediately drops back onto the bed. It's too soft, and he squirms to get comfortable with no luck.
It's too quiet. He flips through the seven grainy television stations and finds only news and sitcom reruns. There's a small paper tucked into one drawer, right beside the customary Gideon, advertising which channel to find the pay-per-view porn on.
Dean isn't tired, but he doesn't want to bother Sam. His old standby of heading out to the bar for a good lay is out of the question. He wouldn't even know where to start.
He blows out a breath and flips through his phone. He could send Sam annoying text messages. Maybe even Garth, for shits and giggles. He still has Castiel's old phone number programed in. He's called it before; it rings and still has that stupid voicemail greeting programed it. He wonders if Castiel ever checks it.
Shaking his head, Dean tosses the phone aside and decides to call it an early night. It's his turn to drive tomorrow. He strips down to his boxers, which leave irritating elastic marks over his hips, and turns out the lights.
Sleep eludes him. Sleep is something that is happening to other people, people whose minds aren't racing with witches and wrong sex organs and Sam's commentary weaving a niggling curiosity in the back his brain. He lays on his side, then rolls to his stomach. He counts sheep. He tries talking each of his body parts to sleep - he read about it in some old magazine as a kid.
Goodnight feet. Goodnight ankles. Goodnight calves. Goodnight knees. Goodnight thighs. Goodnight -
Dean flops onto his back. He has to, doesn't he? He's not going to be able to rest until he checks it out once and for all. Heaving a sigh, he spreads his legs and reaches a hand determinedly under the waistband of his boxers.
It's normal, from what he can tell, but unique to him. He shivers as he runs his fingers through his wiry curls and brushes the closed folds of his temporary pussy. He licks his lips, falling back on his favorite fantasy - that first weekend with Lisa - and feels out the familiar/unfamiliar territory.
He slides his middle finger inside to get it slick, his body opening in response as he moves to find the sensitive bundle of his clit. The twine brushes against his skin and his mind flashes to Castiel kneeling, Castiel's fingers as he tied the string to Dean's wrist. Dean's hips jerk slightly and his nipples harden and he stops, panic replacing arousal.
Oh.
It's normal, isn't it? That weird lump that won't go away when he thinks of Castiel - it's like when he had a crush on Bianca Pratt in eighth grade. He can't will it away, because now it's not too weird or impossible. Now he's... Well, not a he, at least not for the time being.
Somewhere in the back of Dean's mind, where reason has apparently forgotten that he's not actually a woman and that it's still impossible, there's hope.
He rolls back onto his stomach and counts sheep.
Sam doesn't ask.
Dean tortures him anyway. "So, this girl business isn't all bad," he says between large bites of his breakfast burrito. He waggles his eyebrows as he chews. "When I'm a guy again, I will be a literal sex god."
Sam's whole face contorts in horror. "Don't you think maybe this whole thing was designed to, I don't know, make you rethink your man-whore ways?"
Dean shrugs. No shit, Sherlock. "Don't know what the crazy bitch was thinking. I mean, we don't even know I jilted her."
Sam raises an eyebrow. "What, you don't believe Cas?"
"I believe him - but maybe I just killed her coven mate or something. It doesn't have to be about sex."
"Really." Sam looks pointedly down at Dean's boobs. "I'm pretty certain this is about sex."
Dean manages the last of his burrito in one big bite and chews with a not-quite-closed mouth, which is enough to make Sam look away. "Whatever, man," Dean says when he's got it mostly swallowed. "I'm just saying - there are some perks."
Sam doesn't voice any more thoughts over breakfast, and they spend the next twelve hours tracing their exact route from Charlottesville to Springfield, stopping in all the same towns to feel for some trace with their witch homing beacon.
By the time they're pulling in to a familiar motel in Springfield, Dean is half-asleep behind the wheel. He should have asked how close he needed to get. It's not as though he got work addresses from the women he fucked during a hunt. It's all supposed to be good fun - everyone was supposed to know that he wasn't sticking around.
He slams on the brakes.
Sam jerks to attention in the passenger seat. "What's wrong?"
"I think - " Dean rubs his face and swears. His back is killing him - boobs are not so fun to haul around. He's sweaty and needs a shower, and suddenly he remembers exactly which girl he jilted. "The yearly sabbatical to Las Vegas."
Sam's face falls. "Are you serious? We went the complete wrong way for Vegas, Dean!"
"I know, I know! But you were on that fucking nature thing, or whatever it is you do, and I was cruising this bar and... you know." When Sam continues to look unimpressed, Dean sighs. "Look, this makes it easy, right? Her name was..."
He licks his lips and stares off into space. He knew her name. After the second martini for her and beer on tap for him, they had wandered up to his hotel room. He distinctly remembered whispering her name - Trust me, this is definitely something special...
"You don't know her name, do you?"
"I did! I just... you know, I took the easy road that night."
Sam settles on an appraising glare that would have fit on their father's face.
Dean rolls his eyes. "You know - hey, I've never felt this way before. You're amazing. I think I love you. Of course I'll call."
"The douchebag road."
"It's not like I use it all the time! It was Vegas. Everyone lies in Vegas!" Dean cruises to a parking spot and climbs out of the car. "Let's check in, get a good night's sleep, and figure it out in the morning."
"Really, we'll figure out how to find a girl in Vegas, who may have been a tourist, who you can't remember?"
"Just go get the room. I'll meditate or something."
When Sam returns again with two keys, Dean doesn't bitch. It's nice not to fight over first rights to the shower. Standing under the blessedly hot spray of water, washing parts he'd never considered for more than fun, he realizes he's alienated he feels.
It's not just that his dick is still missing - he's adaptable, and he's determined already that it's all a temporary thing. He's going to get his dick back, and he can go back to being Manly Man Dean Winchester, scourge of fathers and boyfriends.
But his brother doesn't want to share a hotel room, and even Castiel looks at him like he's something just a little bit dirty. Every time some strange guy gives him a once-over, he wants to punch the motherfucker - and then wonders how many girls he'd creeped out with an up-and-down glance.
Once he's dry and comfortable in a shirt and a fresh pair of boxers, Dean considers his options. Try as he might, he can't remember a name. He vaguely recalls long dark hair and a lacy red bra and maybe B cups? She might have had blue eyes, or that might be Castiel encroaching on his thoughts again.
Come to think of it, maybe Castiel can help. Dean dials the number. It's not that he really wants to bother the angel, it's just that he wants to be able to say he asked for help.
He's so tired of asking Castiel for help. Dean isn't supposed to be a job, he's supposed to be a friend.
The phone is still ringing in Dean's ear when Castiel appears in the room. "What can I do?" he asks, standing nearly in the corner of the room. Even though he would never physically run, he's poised like he might be considering it. He doesn't even sound upset, just tired. There's a shiftiness to the way he moves, the way he glances around as though seeking all the exits.
"Hey, I didn't think - " Dean closes his phone, and clears his throat. "I think the witch is in Vegas. Any chance Angel Air is still open for business?" Dean isn't surprised when Castiel shakes his head, once and quick. "Long shot anyway. I remember being... Well, being a dick, but I can't remember her name. I don't even know if I got a name."
Castiel takes a hesitant step forward. "I can try to find the memory, if you like."
"Really?" Dean smiles. "Perfect. It's not going to hurt you, is it?"
"No." But Castiel moves carefully, only coming as close as necessary to brush his fingers to Dean's forehead.
Laughter and her hair through his fingers as she tugs the bun loose, her squeal as he pops the buttons of her shirt. The name tag, hotel name emblazoned across the top, catches his eye -
"Gemma." Castiel pulls his fingers away, his voice gone croaky all of a sudden. "Her name tag says Gemma." He turns like he's about to leave.
"Cas, wait."
Castiel freezes, and looks at Dean like he's been dreading those very words. It makes it worse.
Dean hasn't made amends for his role in what happened, the things he said that made it worse. He just wants it be solved - all he really wants is for Castiel to visit sometimes. He misses the way Castiel stood too close and misunderstood why it made Dean uncomfortable.
Dean swallows his pride. "Look, I'm sorry. I never said I was sorry, and I should have. You have every right to be pissed."
"I'm not upset. Why would you think I was?"
Dean laughs, clipped and sardonic. "I called and called, right? Now you're edging around me like I smell bad."
"Your form disturbs me."
"My - are you fucking serious?" Dean stalks toward Castiel with every intention of hitting him, his fists balled. "Look, I'm not in love with it but there's nothing wrong with it!"
Castiel holds his hands up, palms out; Dean stops just shy, his face hot.
"You misunderstand me. Again." Castiel's shoulders relax slightly, and he lowers his hands. "I crafted you from bone and earth. To breathe life and bond soul to a human body is something few angels experience. This form is something twisted. It hurts to behold, when I have loved your body for so long."
Dean's breath catches in his throat. He licks his lips. "Come on, Cas - you can't just tell a dude you love his body. That's a cheesy porno line. Besides, you can't..." His mouth has gone dry, and he can't quite muster a nonchalant smile because this can't happen.
Castiel frowns. "Was there some confusion about my feelings? I have loved you for a long time, Dean. I didn't realize that I was unclear."
"Um." Dean leans closer. He feels the warmth of Castiel's body, finds himself heady with his scent.
This is happening - oh shit, that bullet train left the station days ago and he's only just now realizing that this is going to happen. "Is this so bad?" His voice is low and quiet as he runs his hand up Castiel's arm.
Castiel seems dazed and distracted as Dean's hand comes to rest on the side of his neck. "It isn't yours."
"It is. I mean, it's all my skin, right?" Dean's whole body feels overexposed and wanting and he needs Castiel to understand. His fingers brush the hair at the nape of Castiel's neck. "And this is... It's not weird like this."
Understanding dawns in Castiel's eyes. "You would be uncomfortable in your own body."
Dean doesn't bother to agree; he doesn't want to waste the time. He pulls Castiel in and kisses him, his whole body relaxing into one exulted moment of finally.
Despite the unfamiliarity of the shapes - the fullness to his lips, the swell of his breasts between them - it works. Fucked up, definitely. He's not stupid; he's not really a woman, but for now it doesn't matter. When Castiel runs his hands down to the swell of Dean's ass and pulls him closer, Dean believes that he can have this one nice thing out of a shitty situation.
Castiel kisses him like he's letting loose years of something repressed and uncertain. Dean aches for more.
He shoves Castiel's stupid overcoat off without breaking the space between them; his fingers stumble over every button to Castiel's shirt . He grins and pulls back from the kiss to yank his own shirt up over his head.
Castiel stares, but not at Dean's breasts – he places a hand on Dean's cheek. Dean backs away and yanks him toward the bed by the waistband of his pants; he stumbles into a sitting position on the bed and undoes Castiel's fly.
"Dean."
Pausing, Dean looks up to Castiel's face. There's so much open affection there, and Dean almost can't stand it. He's doesn't want talking to ruin the moment. "Yeah?"
Castiel leans down to kiss him again. "I would desire you in any form," he whispers against Dean's lips.
That's it. Game won. Dean melts and yanks Castiel down onto the bed. He should say something equally poetic, something emotional and meaningful, but words - Castiel should know by now that Dean doesn't do words.
So instead Dean divests him of the rest of his clothing and admires the whole that is Castiel, magnificent and beautifully human against the maroon paisley bedspread. Twitchy and lust-heated himself, he shimmies awkwardly out of his boxers and sits up, one hand steadying himself on Castiel's hip.
They stare at each other. Dean is suddenly aware of his total nudity, the body that doesn't reflect him at all.
He wants his own body back. He's imagined this moment a dozen times, but never like this. He almost stops- almost says, Let's just rain-check it until we can do it for real.
Except he can't. He never would.
Castiel stays the night. His face is tense even in rest, and Dean is surprised to see him actually asleep. It's not the first time he's seen Castiel sleep, but it certainly seems more... practiced. For one, Castiel hogs the blankets. And snores.
Castiel rolls onto his back and blinks slowly before his eyes focus on Dean. He smiles. It's disconcertingly unfamiliar, with the shadow of stubble and the messiness of his hair. Goosebumps raise across Dean's neck. He hasn't thought about that husk of Castiel he saw in Zachariah's future in a long time, but for a moment Castiel looks too eerily similar.
Dean ignores Sam's first wake up call in the morning in favor of a less frantic fuck. It's still just once if they haven't left the bed yet.
"You should visit more often," Dean says some time afterward, breathless and tingling. Castiel raises an eyebrow at him, and he flushes. "Not like this. It's just me and Sam now, and if you're not pissed..."
The phone rings for a third time. It's becoming more and more evident that the real world needs attention. Their bubble is fast bursting. Dean answers on the fourth ring. "What?"
"What - what?" Sam sounds well-rested at least, if completely pissed off. "It's, like, ten AM. Since when do we get on the road after ten AM?"
"What's the rush? I slept in."
"Well, it's a little over a day to Vegas. We could be there by noon tomorrow, if we get going and really book it. Unless you've decided that you want to keep the tits after all."
"Fuck no. Let me shower; we can hit a drive-thru on the way out of the town." Dean hangs up and climbs out of bed. His thighs are sore, but otherwise he just feels lazy and sated. "So, you want to ride with us?"
Cas sits up and rubs his hands on the sheets. He's starting to close off again, though there's still affection when he meets Dean's eyes.
Now that Dean looks at him in the sunlight, everything seems off. His clothing isn't the only thing that's changed. Castiel moves slower, without the awkwardness he used to show within his vessel. The bags under his eyes and the length of his unkempt hair are all wrong.
Castiel clears his throat. "I should get back. I didn't mean to stay away for so long."
Instead of leaning in for another kiss, like his whole body is begging him to, Dean nods. "I'm going to hit the shower. Stop by more often. Whenever you want. You're always welcome, and I mean that." He grins, stumbles into the bathroom, and closes the door behind him.
Alone, he lets the panic creep in.
Because having sex with Castiel was just like scratching an itch. It's never so easy as scratching once to make the craving stop.