Chapter Three

The thread tied around his wrist heats when they hit the Strip. Dean recognizes the hotel the second he sees it. "There, she works there!"

As far as Sam is considered, Dean did some hard meditating and finally remembered seeing the witch's name tag. It neatly explained the sudden memory, without having to explain that Castiel stopped by. Sam is too smart for his own good, and Dean doesn't want to risk him putting two and two together.

The hotel isn't the ritziest joint, but nice enough that Dean feels out of place in the tattered Metallica shirt that had been old when he was sixteen. He looks down at the cord, now steadily hot against his skin, before he leans against the front desk.

The attendant fixes him with a bright smile, acting appropriately oblivious to how out of place they are. "How can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Gemma," Dean says. He leans forward on the counter; the angle of it pushes his breasts up. "She's an old friend. I was hoping to catch her on her lunch break. Is she around..." Dean glances at the guy's name tag and hates himself a little bit as he lowers his voice. "Brad?"

Brad nods, his return smile bold. Even Dean finds that he swoons just a little. Brad has some swagger. "Yeah, she ought to be running the bar. You sticking around?"

"Maybe. Thanks." Sam heads toward the bar as Dean rights himself, already halfway across the lobby.

Apparently Sam is as eager to get this thing over with Dean; by the time Dean arrives he's chatting up the bartender - and score! They've got the right woman. Dean stares down at his breasts one more time with a little mental Adios!

When Dean catches up, Sam is saying, "...and I don't know exactly what he did to piss you off so much, but we need you to fix it."

She scowls at him. She's wearing the same uniform shirt. Dean giggles just a little bit at the memory of snapping off those buttons, now that Castiel coaxed it out of hiding.

With a bland look in his direction, she says, "I'm sorry, but I have no idea what you're talking about."

Dean points on thumb at his chest. "He means these, you crazy bitch."

She squints at his face, then recoils. The initial horror then turns to something much worse: laughter. She laughs with one hand over her mouth, and inhales hard in an attempt to stop it. "Oh, you motherfucker, I can't believe - I didn't - " She waves a hand at the guy at the end of the bar trying to get her attention. "Look guys, my day bartender just called in and I've got to cover this until her replacement can make it. Get a room, alright, and I'll find you? I believe you like to check in under Morrison?"

Dean flushes. He hasn't expected her open vitriol – or really, anything. He's so used to overpowering the creatures they face, that meeting a pissed of chick throws him off balance. "Yeah, fine. But when we - "

"I hardly think you're in the position to make ultimatums." She snorts with laughter as she saunters down the bar.

Sam leads Dean out of the bar with one hand on his shoulder, and doesn't stop until they've settled into a corner of the lobby, a couple armchairs marking it as a quiet corner. "I don't think we should run with guns blazing," Sam says. "Let's just live and let live this time, okay?"

"Live and let - Sam, she stole my dick!" A guy leaving the bar turns to stare at them, and Dean lowers his voice. "She stole my dick, and you want to let her do it to another guy?"

Sam heaves a sigh. "Do you think she has some evil dick collection? I'm going to go out on a limb and guess this is a one-time thing. Maybe we ought to try to finish a case without a corpse, just this once." He walks away toward the front desk and turns his attention to the front desk attendant. "Hi, Brad. Looks like we'll be needing two singles."

"Seriously, still? Look, I promise I've got it all out of my system."

"Nope. Still weird." Sam handles the whole transaction in cash, and signs Dean in as Morrison.

Dean cracks his knuckles as they ride the elevator up to their floor. "So, what's the game plan? We just going to hang out and wait for her to hex us to death? She's got home field advantage, Sam."

"I don't think we're really dealing with a hardcore witch here." Sam stretches, his knuckles brushing the elevator ceiling, and yawns. "The plan now is to take a nap. I'm looking forward to sleeping in a bed that's seen clean sheets this month."

These hotels always give him the creeps. Everything is so clean and manicured and perfectly in place. "Right, sure. I'll let you know when I hear from her." He slides the stupid plastic keycard into his door four times before it lets him in. Once inside, he does what he always does - tests the bed.

It is a lot nicer than the last few beds he's slept in, and a hell of a lot better than trying to sleep in the backseat of the car. He touches that twine on his wrist; he supposes he can take it off now that they've found their witch - they didn't even really need it. But when he goes to yank the knot loose, he hesitates.

It might save his life if she tries to sneak up on him.

He's too keyed up to sleep, too psyched by the idea of getting out of his totally wrong body. He pulls out his phone and sends a text message. How's Heaven?

"I don't know."

Dean jolts and twists on the bed. Castiel is sitting behind him like he'd been there the whole time. It's weird enough to sit together on the bed – he hates that it's the distance that feels wrong.

"Can't you warn a guy before just showing up?" But he's not mad, and Castiel offers one of those wan almost-smiles in response. It feels like old days, except that Castiel is wearing jeans and a dark jacket that looks like something out of a military surplus store; it's just a little too big. Maybe Castiel is allergic to well-fitted coats.

Wait a second.

Dean sits up and turns toward Castiel, but keeps his distance. "You don't know? I thought you were doing the good work after that whole... You know."

Castiel looks down at his hands. "As it turns out, the systematic murder of my family was all it took to get my Father's attention. I am no longer welcome."

"Oh. Cas, did you - "

"I'm to serve a life sentence as a human. My Father has promised that when this body fails he will welcome me not as an angel, but not as a man." Castiel's face twists momentarily, the single hint at some underlying rage. Then he exhales, flitting one hand as though to indicate smoke disappearing in the air. "I am, as always, an anomaly."

Dean can't bring himself to speak. During those last days of the Apocalypse, Castiel had looked like someone hollowed him out – he should have recognized the symptoms. "Where have you been?"

"Everywhere. I spent time in a monastery in Brazil, hoping my Father would forgive me if I regained my faith. I helped the needy. I hid. I checked on you and Sam, when I could find the courage. Eventually I realized I would need work if I intended to survive."

"You should have said something."

"What would I have said?"

Dean doesn't know.

When the phone rings it's dark in the room. Dean reaches out to see feel the rhythmic rise and fall of Castiel's chest. He doesn't actually recall falling asleep - in fact, he had emphatically sworn he wouldn't fall asleep.

An anomaly. Weren't they all?

The phone stops ringing, just to start again a second later. Dean answers with a snapped, "What?"

"I'm sorry, I was under the impression that you need my help."

"You're so not attractive when you're pissed."

"Yeah, well, you're not a particularly attractive woman, so we'll call it even. I'm going to be up there in ten minutes. Get your brother."

Castiel is awake when Dean hangs up the phone. "I should go."

"No, it's fine," Dean says, mostly because he doesn't want Castiel to go. By the end of the night this whole thing will be over, and he still doesn't know how he's going to address them. If he should pretend this never happened (he has every intention of forgetting that he was briefly a woman) or carry on like it's not contrary to everything he believes about himself.

Both options make him uneasy.

Dean reaches for his jeans. "Can you get Sam while I get dressed?"

Castiel nods and dresses quickly before letting himself out.

There's enough time to pee and get dressed before someone knocks on the door. Dean lets everyone in with a quick nod. Gemma crosses the room to the window. The twine burns when she crosses the room.

At first no one says anything. Dean wishes he had a gun, or a knife, or a length of rope - anything to express his frustration. "So, you're going to give me my dick back now?"

She snorts. "It's not that simple."

"What do you mean, 'not that simple'? It was simple enough for you to take it!"

"No, actually, it wasn't." She sighs and drops into the chair and stares out at the city while she speaks. "Look, I don't do this, right? I don't do one night stands, and I don't actually do magic. It just sort of happens sometimes. There's a coven that I meet with every other month, but we're strictly dedicated to not using magic, you understand? Because I know about hunters - I know what people like do you."

Sam leans against a wall. "What makes you think we're hunters?"

Gemma flashes him a tight smile, before letting her gaze fall to Dean. "Whenever someone knows about your magic, you assume they are."

"And for someone who doesn't do magic, you sure did a number on me," Dean says, wishing everyone would stop lounging around looking so cavalier while they talk about his body. "Just unmojo it, right?"

"I didn't do it purpose. I stupidly believed that whole I've got a job but I'll be back, this is something special, baby bit - which, I'm usually too smart for, I'll have you know." She waves a hand in vague disgust, and swallows some invisible bitter pill. "So, a couple weeks passed. I went on my usual coven visit. There were pints of Ben & Jerry and shitty romantic comedies and some gnashing of teeth. If men could really understand what it was like to be a woman, they'd quit lying for a chance to stick it in.

"I sort of fixated for a couple days. He'd be a terrible woman. I bet he'd understand, if he just had to go a couple days like a woman. And, well - whoops."

"Whoops? Whoops?" Dean is going to kill her, and they'll never find the body. There will be nothing left of the body. This is worse. If she did it on purpose, he could blame anyone but his own stupid sexual impulses. He'd have something to get mad at. This - this is bullshit.

"Look, whatever, you can be as pissed as you want, but it's not like you were so good to me either. And I'll fix it, if you promise to forget we ever met. Shouldn't be too hard, right?"

"That's not fair."

"It never is." She stands and adjusts the lapels of her jacket. "I'll make some calls, ask some of the more experienced women for remedies, but it's not easy to get us together. There's a reason we only meet every eight weeks. How should I get it contact with you?"

"Here, I'll give you my cell," Sam says. He exchanges cards with Gemma - well, her card and his number scrawled on hotel stationary - while Dean is still processing that he's going to have to stay like this for the indeterminate future. Castiel watches Gemma intently, as still and cold as when he was an angel. She at least has the good sense to look unnerved when she walks past him.

Dean takes her seat by the window, numb to anything but the weird casing that is his body.

Sam asks Castiel, "Does she seem legit?"

" did not sense any deceit."

"Good."

Dean shudders, either with unease or rage, but he can't tell which. "Good? This isn't good! This is about as far from good as it gets." He shakes his head. "We have to find another way. I can't just sit here and wait for her to get around to finding me a way back to normal."

"We won't," Sam says. A good hard sleep must have done him some good, because he's back to patient and agreeable. "We'll go home and pour over Bobby's books. I'll do some research tonight, but let's just stay calm, okay? At least we have a plan, right?"

Dean nods. Part of him wants to fight; he wants to go back to killing monsters and saving people, but the incident with the ghoul rings in his memory. All his training is for the wrong body; he's a liability. He may as well be dead. "Just - I need some time here, okay?"

"Yeah."

Sam pats his shoulder before he leaves. Castiel makes some motion to leave, but Dean stops him with a word. He's going to have to teach Castiel when alone is actually a euphemism for I don't want Sam to see me freaking out.

They don't have sex. Castiel stays all the same.

Once they return home, Dean throws himself into work at the salvage yard while Sam pours over books and the Internet.

Taking over Bobby's side business has been interesting; Dean still decipher Bobby's address book. It seems to be about two-third hunters and one-third neglected customers. Still, they have a few regulars, and word of mouth spreads. If any of the regulars ask, he tells them he's a cousin visiting for a few weeks.

Castiel comes to visit over the first weekend. Dean tries to teach him how to fix an engine, but Castiel doesn't grasp it. His hands shake as he works, tiny tremors that Dean catches out of the corner of his eye. The dark smudges under his eyes are heavier, and he's stopped wearing the overcoat. In his civvies, he looks like a school teacher or an ad salesman on a day off.

"I've never had need for mechanics." Castiel holds his dirty hands out and looks around with a scowl on his face. "If I ever needed to fix something, it was only a matter of willing it so. Dean, my hands are filthy."

"You're dirty, not dying." Dean laughs as he tosses a rag to Castiel. "What is it you do anyway? Obviously nothing with your hands."

"I work in a library."

Dean stretches to work the stiffness out of his lower back. "Yeah? How'd that happen?"

Castiel shrugs. "There was an opening, and I have a great capacity for organization. An encyclopedic knowledge of the world has helped."

They laugh and Dean thinks he can get used to this. After everything is back to normal, he thinks he can sustain this level of intimacy, alone in the yard and laughing over the things that should hurt more. Castiel shouldn't have to work in a library. Dean shouldn't have to pee sitting down every single time.

If Sam notices that Castiel sleeps in Dean's room, he doesn't say anything.

Gemma calls halfway through the second week; her witch friends have some potential leads. A few days after that, Sam finds something in one of Bobby's old books and passes it on.

For a couple days Dean wakes up like a kid on Christmas morning, certain that this will be the morning he wakes up to find everything in the right order.

When it becomes clear that this isn't going to happen, Dean focuses entirely on work and wishes that a hunt would show up. Supernatural attacks are getting further and further apart - either the monsters are getting smarter, or things really are cooling off after the apocalypse. On top of that, hunters still call Bobby's line for leads, and expect them to know what's going down all over the country. Dean doesn't have the stomach for it, but Sam seems to enjoy gathering information and pretending to be the FBI. Perhaps it's not the worst lot in life for a hunter.

Castiel comes back on Friday. "Must be nice, standard hours," Dean jokes while he watches the same rerun of Law & Order for a third time. He has no idea how they even have Law & Order; Bobby somehow hooked his ancient television up to four channels, and two of them are always Law & Order.

"I'm given to understand I have a good job," Castiel says as he sits beside Dean. "The hours are very predictable, and the benefits are good."

"'The benefits are good'? You don't even know what the means, do you?"

Castiel smiles and shrugs. "I gather I'll be glad for them when I need them."

Without thinking, Dean grabs Castiel's hand and squeezes. Castiel leans closer.

They're still holding hands when Sam finally walks in the room; he's chewing on the end of a pencil and flipping through a book. He glances over them for a second, then turns back to his book. "No one warned me that this 'raised you from perdition' gig required hand-holding. What's going on? Because Cas, all this eating and sleeping you're doing has me worried."

Castiel looks guiltily to Sam, and Dean extracts his hand from Castiel's grip.

The phone rings. Dean answers so he doesn't have to hear the story of how Castiel got kicked out of Heaven again. Because Dean can't shake the feeling that Castiel ought to hate him, that Castiel ought to blame him for everything. If only Dean had been an obedient Righteous Man, Castiel never would have rebelled.

It's several hours later, while Castiel is out picking up burgers, when Sam says, "It's cool, you know, if you guys have a thing. It makes sense. No judgment."

Dean glares at his brother, and it's clear Sam is trying his very best to keep a serious expression. "I may be a chick, but we are still closed to chick flick moments, got it?"

Sam fails to keep a straight face after all.

During the third week Dean goes through three days without even thinking about his body. He doesn't squeeze his boobs once, even just to make Sam uncomfortable.

When that sinks in, when he thinks that he's starting to get comfortable in his temporary body, Dean hides in his bedroom and drinks heavily. He only sneaks out to eat and shower when Sam is asleep or gone.

Sam deals with the customers on Thursday, and he sends Castiel up as reinforcement on Friday.

"It's not forever," Castiel says from the other side of the door when Dean refuses to let him in. It's all gotten so fucking domestic. Dean takes another swig from the bottle of scotch he'd fished from Bobby's old closet and wonders what his dad would think.

Dean laughs until his sides hurt when he tries to decide if his dad would find the vagina or the fucking-a-dude more wrong. Then again, maybe he would just be appalled that Dean is swigging good scotch from the bottle like it's cheap McCormick's rum.

Castiel's voice takes on a more concerned lilt. "Dean?"

"How do you know?" Dean shouts. The wood floor is hard under his ass, his foot has fallen asleep, and he wants to hate Castiel. He's got these two default modes of handling how he feels about Castiel: he goes numb, or he gets mad. Because Castiel is this huge thing in his life, and having sex with him hasn't helped at all. It's made him larger and more prominent in Dean's thoughts. "And so what if it is forever? Maybe it'll be for the best, and we can go on like this forever. I can bake apple pies and - " Dean hiccups, then laughs, then slumps against the door. "I'm going to die a woman."

Castiel tries the doorknob again. "You're not going to die a woman."

"Maybe I'm about to die of alcohol poisoning. You don't know. Don't bury me in a dress!"

First Castiel grumbles something that Dean can't quite make out, and then, louder: "I'm getting your brother."

"You're not my real mom!"

Dean doesn't see Castiel at all that weekend. He's not sure if that hurts or helps.

One day Dean wakes up and realizes that he's been a woman for more than a month. He hasn't seen Castiel for the second weekend in a row. Instead of getting angry or - God help him - getting drunk, Dean just stamps the feelings down and gets back to work. Business is picking up, a lot more business than Dean had expected. People just assume that they're related to Bobby.

Sam finishes organizing the library and takes over the desk. Piled in one corner are seven books about witchcraft that reference body control. One evening Sam tries to explain Skype while he talks to Gemma about a passage in this particular esoteric text, and Dean gives up. He resigns himself to a life of Cosmopolitan and tampons and whatever the shit else it was he's supposed to like now that he's got lady parts.

That evening, sitting on the front porch steps with a beer in hand, he calls Castiel. He's surprised when Castiel actually answers. "Um. Hi." In the background someone yells something about a bong. "What's going on?"

"My housemate has friends over."

Dean laughs despite himself. "You have a roommate?"

"Yes. It seems to be the pragmatic thing one does when finding a place to live. Luke is student. He works at the library as well."

"Ah." Dean pauses and blows out a breath, staring off into the sky. It's one of those great transitory nights, still a bit chilly but comfortable. "Sorry. I wanted to say that. Because I was being ridiculous, hiding my room like a child. Sorry."

Castiel sounds fond. "You said that already."

"I'm just really tired of this, and it's worse when it just becomes a reality instead of a nightmare. I freaked." Dean takes another sip of his beer and relishes the flavor. "But you know. Nothing I can do about it now except never have sex with an inexperienced witch again, right?"

"Dean, this isn't forever. I look forward to the day that Sam and Gemma negate the spell and restore your body."

"Sure. Me too. In the mean time, are you busy?" The silence hangs, and Dean can hear Castiel's roommate laughing in the background. Some bass-heavy beat thumps slowly, but the noise is muted by the phone. "I mean, if you can come over. I don't know if you can - "

"I can."

Dean rolls his eyes and hangs up his phone. "Careful, your bad sense of humor is showing."

"It takes some effort." Castiel settles down on the step beside Dean. He takes Dean's offered beer with a nod of thanks and rubs his free hand in slow circles between Dean's shoulders.

"So," Dean asks as he plucks his beer back and leans against Castiel, "I've been meaning to ask: the boobs. You don't seem overly interested."

"They're just breasts." Dean motions for him to continue. Castiel frowns. "I have no context for what you want to know. We've discussed how I feel about this body - it is a good, healthy body but it is not yours. The breasts have no meaning to me, other than knowing that to you, they are a marker of femininity."

"Yeah, but when I have sex with a chick, the boobs are at least a third of what makes the experience awesome. Sometimes when I get sad, I look at them in the mirror and pretend they're not mine."

"Perhaps, if that's what you enjoy about having sex with a woman. But I'm not having sex with a woman. I'm having sex with you, just as you are."

Dean nuzzles his face into the curve of Castiel's neck and inhales the scent of smoke and soap. "Don't make it weird."

Castiel turns his head to kiss Dean. "I don't think it is."

Dean has morning wood.

He half reflexively stretches and rubs against the sheets before something fires in his brain and he realizes he has morning wood. He jumps out of bed and strips naked, staring down past his flat, muscled chest down to the majesty that is his cock.

Oh God, he could weep. He instead runs down the hall to where he can hear the shower running and barrels right in. "Sam! Sam! I'm me again!"

"Huh?"

Dean flings the shower curtain back. "Check it! I haven't seen this thing in 42 days. I'm so happy I could fucking kiss it."

"Dean, I haven't even had coffee yet." Sam pulls the shower curtain closed. "Go put some pants on. We'll have a celebratory high five in half an hour."

It's impossible to get mad with an erection so glorious. Dean goes back to his bedroom. It's one of those overly cheerful sunny mornings, where the sun streams perfectly through the windows like God wants to shine the brightest spotlight right on his dick.

He pulls on his clothes that finally fit exactly like they're supposed to, and makes the trek down to the gates to open up the yard for business. They won't see their first customers for a couple hours yet, and Dean considers beating off just because he can. Instead, he snags a cup of coffee and sits at the kitchen table with Sam. "Did you guys figure it out?"

"She didn't send any messages, but clearly." Sam sips his coffee and yawns. When Dean holds out his hand for that celebratory high five, he complies half-heartedly. "Everything feel normal?"

Dean stretches and nods. "It's like pulling on a pair of jeans out of the dryer. It's perfect."

"Good." Sam closes his laptop and leans back in his chair. "So, are you going to miss it?"

"No," Dean says firmly. He taps the front of his pants, just to make sure it's still there. This is amazing. It's like existing again, after weeks of feeling like he was disappearing and some girl was taking his place. "I am going to celebrate."

"Definitely." Sam gives him one of those long, imploring looks before he asks, "Are you going to wait to tell Cas when he visits tomorrow?"

Dean freezes, and his good mood? Gone. The elephant in the room just let out a great big honk and he has to look at it dead on. He clears his throat. "No reason not to tell him now. Did he ever tell you about how he feels about my body?" Dean tries for lecherous, but it comes out sort of wistful.

Sam makes a noise of disgusted protest to humor him.

Dean sends a text message, even though he knows Castiel has already left for work: I'm me again.

It doesn't take long for Castiel to reply. You always were. I told you it wouldn't last forever.

Dean closes his phone. "Hey, I need a shower," he says, his voice just a little weak. "Cover the yard?"

"Of course," Sam says without looking up from his laptop. Dean heads upstairs, leaving his phone on the table; he strips and climbs into the shower and tries not to panic.

He was no different yesterday from today, except for the shape of his junk. He washes his hair and tries not to panic. Castiel just - he just doesn't get it. They hadn't actually been -

Dean can't quite bring himself to put a word to it. There's not a word to define what they were, and he doesn't want to touch the one that would describe what they could become.

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