Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dean’s been slashing his machete back and forth for some hours now. He's losing steam. His shoulder’s about to pop out. His clothes are soaked with sweat and vamp blood and he honestly just really needs to piss. 

The hidden catacombs under Devil’s Lake, North Dakota, have been home to a large community of vampires who’ve managed to slip under the radar for some years now. But, as with all monster communities like this, some of its members got cocky and leeched a few too many of its star citizens to go unnoticed.

And here come the Winchesters to reap the consequences. 

What’s fuckin’ new. 

Slash. Another head rolls. Slash. This one hits the jugular and Dean gets a spray of vamp blood in his mouth. He spits, just before another decides to use him as a climbing wall and tries to get its teeth into his neck. 

Dean slams his back against the wall, knocking the wind out of the vamp, and gets the leverage to throw her short body over his shoulder. From the pool of blood, gore and viscera on the ground, she bares her fangs at him. Pale and hissing. His headlamp only illuminates her face for a second before his machete finds its mark and she goes down with the rest. 

They gotta be nearing the end of this tunnel now, he thinks. Surely. 

“Sammy!” Dean calls down the old brick chamber. 

“Here!” Sam yells back from some shit-laden vestibule. There's a screech and a flash of Sam’s crimson flare. A head smacks out into the rays of Dean’s headlamp which, he's pretty sure, is losing battery. 

There are more shouts ahead and more behind. They push on. Push on and kill and slash and Dean’s losing all fight and questioning what the point of any of this is when there's light - not headlamp light but, like, sunlight - pouring down the tunnel from behind them. Which is impossible, ‘cause they're dozens of feet underground and the only thing behind and ahead of them is darkness and death. 

Dean’s ears ring. There's a sound like multiple frequencies screeching out at once, and Dean’s forced to cover his ears. The greasy, bloody flat of his blade bounces against his bad shoulder. He squints against the harsh light down the tunnel, his pupils searing after being down here all damn day. 

There are cries echoing all around from the direction of the light and it’s - Dean knows this power. It's angel power. 

Dean’s heart leaps with relief as he thinks Cas has finally found his way to them before he remembers he's supposed to be furious with Cas. ‘Cause the fucker’s been gone for months. They put an APB out on him with Garth, but no one's seen him. 

“Cas!” Dean grits out, and he doesn't really think twice about it. Doesn't really think it could be any angel but Cas who’s come to save them until he sees the silhouette striding down towards him, sharply cut against the light. 

Long hair billows behind the angel’s shoulders. Stark shadows of powerful wings rise behind her. She's long-legged. Wielding two angel blades which she holds firmly by her sides, poised for battle. Dean barely gets a glimpse of her lithe, ethereal shape before the light fades and he's plunged into near-darkness again. 

“Close your eyes, Dean.” The angel tells him, her voice husky and rough and goddamn sexy. He can't help but think it as he slams his eyes shut and the angel strides past him, becoming a beacon of pure starlight once more as she burns the eyes out of the sockets of the vamps ahead of them. 

Harrowing screams reverberate off the tunnel walls as every vamp within a kilometer radius is smote to hell. Or, y'know. Purgatory. Still hell in Dean’s books. Just a different flavor. 

The silence and darkness which follows is oppressive and hollow. Sam blindly stumbles from the vestibule he'd been cornered into, headlamp flashing pathetically dim. 

“Dean? You okay, man? What the hell was that?” 

Dean pushes himself up off his knees, ignoring the warm, fresh gore seeping into his jeans. He grits his teeth as he glares at the very still shape ahead of them. 

“We got company.” He tells Sam, fingers twitching towards his belt. He doesn't have an angel blade on him, though. They left it in Baby. He's got two machetes, his gun and a prayer which won't do shit against an angel. Especially one at full mojo like this one seems to be. 

“That sound, was it Cas?”

Dean hobbles closer to his brother, leaning onto the wall for support. 

A short, irritated sigh comes from further down the tunnel. 

“Sam. Dean. Follow me. The exit is just up ahead.” Says the angel. Dean wishes he could see her properly. Just from sheer curiosity at this point. Her tone is - well. It's like Cas’. All blunt dead-pan authority. But he guesses most angels are programmed that way. Still, the familiarity irks him - 

“Not until you tell us who the hell you are and why you're here.” Dean fires back, unwilling to get any closer. He's been lied to and manipulated by enough of these feathery freaks by now to know not to trust a new one. No matter how powerful, smitey and - okay, yeah, sexy - she seems to be. 

Sam, who annoyingly seems to be in much better shape than Dean, hooks his arm under Dean’s shoulder to support him. 

“I’m” - the angel begins, before reconsidering with another haughty huff. She's got a damn attitude, that's for sure. “It would be easier if I could just show you in the daylight. Preferably away from these… remains.” 

Dean scoffs. “Oh, she's squeamish! Clean up on aisle six, quick, before the lady faints.” 

“Dean… “ Says Sam, “I think we should go with… her .”

“What, and get led into a trap again?” He whispers, voice bouncing around the tunnel. “Nah, man. I say we go back the way we came and”- 

“Dean, I can hear you.” The angel calls tiredly. Dean slams his mouth shut. Sam tenses against his side. “The sooner we get out of here the sooner I can… explain. Please.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, no problem. We’re coming.” Sam responds, ever the amicable player. Dean hopes Sam’s got some kind of game-plan ‘cause he's woozy as shit and he's losing blood from a steadily oozing gash in his thigh and he still really, really needs to piss. 

Clenching his teeth, Dean resolves to lean on Sam a little as they're led out of the tunnel by this mysterious angel. She keeps some distance ahead of them, so by the time they get to the slippery stone steps leading up to a dingy back alley, Dean doesn't get a good glimpse of her as she ascends. He catches a flash of beige around her waist and stupidly thinks: trenchcoat? But that's impossible. It’s just some kinda fancy skirt. 

And anyways, Cas is missing. Fuck. What if she's here to tell them Cas is dead? What if, all this time Dean's been pissed at him, Cas has been lying in a ditch somewhere? 

Panic rises to a crescendo in Dean’s throat, and for a second he's worried he's gonna vomit and piss at the same time, but then Sam’s hauling him up the stone steps and into the blinding sun and he's raising his aching arm against it and - 

And there she is. 

The angel who killed all the vamps with little more than a thought and said Dean’s name with such awkward familiarity. 

Dean and Sam gape at her, kind of at a loss for words because, yeah. There's no two ways about it. She's fucking beautiful. Dean thought Anna was pretty and ethereal when he met her, sure, but - damnit. Anna doesn't hold a candle to the creature standing before them right now. 

A tumble of loosely curled black hair cascades around her shoulders. Her legs seem to go on for days, and what Dean had thought was some kind of beige skirt is actually a trenchcoat tied around her waist, presumably so she could free up her arms to fight. 

She's wearing a blood-smattered white blouse and there's - 

Alarm bells peel in Dean’s head. 

There's a backwards blue tie slung loosely around her open collar which dips down to reveal the shallow cleavage of her breasts and her skin is kinda tan and she - and she fuckin’ turns her eyes on them and it's. 

It's Cas. 

It just is so obviously Cas. Her eyes are the same, abyssal ocean blue and her lips are pink and plush and dry and she's - 

“Cas?!” Sam blurts out, which is just as well. Dean doesn't think he could speak if he tried. 

Cas - because it is, undoubtedly, Cas - lowers his (her?) gaze and drops her shoulders in defeat. 

“Yes.” 

And when she speaks, it's like someone just turned up the notch labeled ‘pitch’ on Cas’ voice box. Everything else about it is the same. The timbre. The intonation. The gravelly huskiness is there, just - dialled up a little. 

“How? But you - you’re”- Sam stammers, gesturing vaguely at all of Cas. 

“My vessel has been transformed into a woman.” Cas says, like that wasn't immediately fucking obvious. She’s not meeting their eyes as she speaks. She just gazes down at the gum-trodden asphalt. “I wasn't sure how to tell you both without invoking - well. The reactions you're having now.” 

“So you just went MIA?” Dean finally finds his voice, and he's not even a little bit surprised to find his anger is the trigger. “Did it never occur to you we could help?”

Cas turns her (his?) sharp, intense gaze on him. With a muscle twitching in her jaw, she strides towards him.

For a whole, holy second, Dean thinks Cas is gonna punch his lights out. Instead, she places two fingers firmly against his forehead and heals him. 

The Grace is the same. Pure, cool and light. If there was any doubt left in Dean’s mind that this is Cas, it's gone the second she heals him. 

“I am sorry, Dean.” Cas tells him earnestly, her eyes petulant and swimming with regret. “I should have come to you when you prayed.” 

Dean finds he has to look away from her. The second she healed his injuries, all the anger melted away with them. And, mortifyingly, so did the crushing pressure in his bladder. Jesus Christ. 

“Yeah.” He says gruffly instead, shrugging Sam’s arm off his shoulder and wiping his hands on his bloody jeans. “S’okay, Cas. This isn't exactly, uh… it's not something we deal with on the daily. I get why you didn't come to us. I mean, me and Sam… we’re not exactly women’s hour over here.”

Dean makes the mistake of glancing up at his brother, whose eyebrows have disappeared into his hairline. 

“You're forgiving him? Just like that?” 

Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. Meets Castiel's eyes. Mistake. She's petrifyingly beautiful. 

“Yeah, dude. She saved our asses, didn't she?” 

Sam makes a small sound of disbelief. “Oh, I know that. I'm just surprised you do. I was ready for you to be at each other’s throats again.” 

Dean doesn't get what the problem is. So, what? He was a little mad. Sure. But Cas is clearly - 

Going through something. It's no wonder he (she? God, he can't do this) was embarrassed to show her face. Dean thinks if he was ever turned into a woman he'd lock himself in his room and never come out. He'd also jerk off, ‘cause he wants to know what that feels like for a chick, but that's - Cas probably isn't thinking about any of that. Is she? 

Dean’s stricken with an unbidden and seriously dangerous mental image of Cas exploring those new parts of her body. He quashes it hard as a flush rises high on his face and he wills his blood to remain in his head instead of rushing south. 

“Yeah, well. I'm not a total dick, Sammy, believe it or not.” He clears his throat and avoids looking Cas in the eye ‘cause she's doing that intense as hell staring thing with the forty-five degree head tilt and it turns out that's way too distracting for Dean while she’s - like this. “C’mon.” He says gruffly, scuffing his feet on the ground as he marches off in the direction (he thinks) of the Impala. “Let's head back to the motel and get cleaned up. Then we’ll, uh. We’ll figure this out together.”  

Cas sits quietly and demurely in the back of Baby while Dean drives them back to the crummy motel on the outskirts of Devil’s Lake. He catches her staring out the window in the review mirror, hands folded across her lap, face contemplative and serene. Like she hasn't just dropped into their laps looking like America’s Next Top Model. Or, y’know, blown dozens of vamps to pieces with her fuckin’ eyes. And that combination - the contrast of her being so fuckin’ put together and hot but also powerful - 

Dean’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. He's clenching his jaw so hard he thinks he's gonna break his teeth. 

“Dean? Y’okay?” Sam murmurs, ‘cause he doesn't miss a thing. 

“M’fine.” Dean bites back. He takes a strong breath in. Nut up, Winchester. It's just a woman. Cas. As a woman. A hot, spectacular looking woman. Nothing weird about that. 

As soon as Dean gets in, he takes a shower. Doesn't even call dibs. Just high-tails it right into the bathroom, peels off the clothes he's definitely gonna be burning later, and stands under the hot spray for as long as it takes for him to feel human again. Sam’s pissed at him for using up most of the hot water, but he doesn't have it in him to feel remorse as he emerges from the steaming bathroom, towel slung over his waist, only to be faced with -

Oh, yeah. Cas. 

She's mojo’d the blood off her clothes and slid her trenchcoat back on over her shoulders, which does absolutely nothing to lessen the staggering effect of how she looks under it. She's shorter than she was as a guy. Slimmer. The trenchcoat takes on this tasteful, oversized quality around her strong, curvy frame. The shirt definitely isn't the same as good ol’ Jimmy Novak’s starched number. It hugs her sides. Reveals the shape of her chest. Doesn't button up as tight and neat at her neck as the other one did. Her slacks have been replaced by a short, black pencil skirt thing. Dean doesn't know what they're called. But it comes right up above her knees, which are clad in tight black panty-hose. The office-ready Oxfords have a small heel on them now, elongating her ankles and making her legs look miles long. The only things which remain the same seem to be the trenchcoat and the disheveled blue tie. 

For some reason, all Dean can think to say as he stares at her, dry mouthed, is:

“You stop at a JC Penny's before coming to haul our asses outta vamp town or what?”

Cas’ lips press together in a thin, displeased line.

“My clothes changed at the same time as I did, Dean. I had no influence whatsoever over their appearance.” 

“Oh. Right.” Dean coughs and goes to root through his duffle, feeling oddly exposed under her lazer-intense glare. “Well, uh. Looks nice.”

The fuck? Looks nice?! 

Dean braves a glance at her when she doesn't answer. Her frown is achingly Cas-like. Down to the curious, drawn-together brow. 

“...Thank you.” 

He hadn't expected a sincere response to the strange comment. He hadn't expected anything at all. Nothing about this is expected, or expectant-worthy. It's fuckin’ weird. Mostly because he just can't stop thinking, hot hot hot she's hot she's hot she's hot. His lizard brain won't give him a second to think . 

“So, what um”-? 

“Sam is coming out of the shower.” Cas announces before Dean can finish the ultimate question. But, right. Yeah. He guesses they should wait for Sam. Big nerd probably has more ideas about this kinda thing than Dean does. 

A minute later, Dean thinks Cas was lying because the sound of the water doesn't shut off for some time and Dean awkwardly gets dressed with his back turned to Cas in silence. Cas’ eyes remain fixed on the bathroom door. 

When Sam finally does emerge, it's to find Cas and Dean sat on opposite sides of the room, neither one looking at the other. He stands there, completely unselfconscious in front of Cas with a towel slung around his waist, glancing between them both as his brow climbs higher up his forehead. 

“Everything… good?” 

“Great.” Dean replies, tapping his foot. “You need to perm your hair or can we get on with this?” 

“Jeez, I’m getting dressed, okay?” Sam shakes his head with an odd look at Dean. “Cas? You alright over there, man?” 

Dean briefly thinks it's weird that Sam’s calling Cas ‘man’ when she's sitting right there looking like anything but. 

Nevertheless, she replies: “I’m fine, thank you, Sam. Please don't rush on my account.”

Sam smiles kindly at her. “That’s okay, Cas. Just, uh… why don’t you start from the beginning? What happened to you out there?”

Dean swivels his ass around on the bed to face her, sitting pretzeled in the sheets. She remains in the chair by the shitty, linoleum counter. Straight-backed and formal. She regards them both uncertainly. 

“About two months ago, my vessel’s sex was reassigned to female.” Cas tells them intensely. 

“By who? Heaven?” Asks Dean. “Is this like when Naomi messed with your melon?” 

Cas opens her mouth to answer before closing it, seeming to reconsider. “No. This isn’t like Naomi.” 

“Then what was it, Cas?” 

Silence. 

Dean leans forward on the bed. “Cas. You can say. It’s us. Whoever’s messing with you, we can”-

“It’s fine.” Cas says resolutely. A faint, rosy flush climbs up from her collarbone to her face. “Really. I am not in any pain, or any danger. Neither of you need to worry about me. I… am sorry I was gone for so long. Truthfully, I was looking for a way to reverse the effects of this - situation - alone. Seeing as I’ve found none, I suppose I have no choice but to carry on this way.” 

“So, you’re - stuck like this?” Dean doesn’t squeak. His voice is just a little sore from all the yelling and grunting during the fighting. Yeah. That’s why his throat feels tight and there’s a cold stone in his gut as he stares at the most attractive woman he’s ever laid eyes on. 

Cas turns the full force of her gaze on him. “Yes, Dean. I am ‘stuck’ like this.” 

“But who”-? Sam begins.

Castiel holds up a hand. The trenchcoat sleeve comes up to where her fingers start. Dean absently thinks she should roll the sleeves up a little. They’re too big for her now. 

“Sam. I don’t wish to discuss this any further. If my appearance bothers you or causes you any discomfort, I will leave.” 

“What? No! Cas, of course not.” Sam hurriedly corrects himself. “We just want to help.” 

Cas nods and threads her hands together in her lap. “I knew you would. I knew you would see this as a problem which requires fixing. It may surprise you to hear this, but I am utterly indifferent to the sex of my vessel. Angels do not identify as male or female. We exist beyond such binaries, and we are apathetic to the subject of gender altogether. I have inhabited a female vessel before. This” - she gestures to herself - “is not new or alarming to me.” 

Dean’s breath catches. “You’ve been a chick before? Like… before, before?” Before Cas met him , is what he means to say. Despite his confusing phrasing, Cas seems to understand. 

“Yes, Dean.” She says. 

Sam nods, flabbergasted. “Okay, well…” He flaps his arms by his sides and looks at Dean for help. Dean may as well have just undergone a lobotomy for all the sense his own thoughts are making. “Okay!” Sam concludes, clapping his hands together. “If you’re happy, Cas, and genuinely, y’know - cool with this - we, uh. We won’t get in your way or try and ‘fix it’ like you say. Right, Dean?” 

“...Right.” 

Castiel stands abruptly, her expression smooth. All traces of uncertainty gone. “Good. I actually came to you because I need your help. There are demons in Pensacola.”

“There are demons in Pensacola?” Sam repeats, blinking at the sudden subject change. 

Dean thinks the vamps must’ve knocked some of his brains out of his ears. He makes up a tune in his head, and voices sing, ‘There are de-emons in Pensa-cola!’ Beach Boys style. 

“Yes. There’s a company of them responsible for a vegan holistic food startup. I believe they’re capitalising on the area’s prevalent populous of beauty-obsessive individuals and the leader, a crossroads demon, is using it as an avenue to make fast, easy deals.” 

Sam nods, clearly still processing, but disguising it well. 

“It’ll take us a couple of days to drive down there but we can take the case, Cas. Can’t we, Dean?” 

Deeee-mons in Pensa-cola, ooh - ooh - ooh!

“Yeah. Sure.” 

Dean is staring at Cas. He knows he is. He just. His brain’s on shut down. Cas is a beautificious smokin’ hot babe and there are demons in Pensacola and nothing makes sense anymore. 

“Really? No vegan jokes? None?” Sam quips. 

The Beach Boys in Dean’s head shut up for a second and he finds the small amount of sense necessary to tear his eyes off of Cas. 

“I'm tired.” Dean snaps. “Shut up.” Technically, it’s not a lie. 

They agree to get in some shut-eye before heading down to Pensacola. Cas allows them that at least. Thing is, Dean can't get a wink of sleep. He knows Cas is there. Waiting for them to wake up, right outside their door. 

Some time around three am, Dean gives up on the illusion of meaningful rest and hauls his ass to the doorway. He opens it, and has to force his head not to spin for a second. 

There's no broad-shouldered, short-haired figure waiting for him. A slender, mussy-haired beauty stands in Cas’ usual place. Back turned. Face stoically turned up towards the stars. Her breath puffs out in short bursts of mist. Each one is slow. A soft stream of vapour. Like she's doing it to see the misty, swirly effect, and not because she has to actually breathe. The way a smoker might puff out temporary rings. 

Dean wraps his flannel tighter around himself. It's a cold, clear night. 

“Almost seven men have attempted to harass me since you both went to bed.” Cas tells Dean without turning around. “The latest was just in the last ten minutes.” 

Dean’s heckles rise and blood pumps to his fists. “The fuck? Where is he, Cas? I’ll fuckin’”- 

Cas lays a hand on Dean’s shoulder and fixes him with a soft, fond look. It's disarming. Familiar, but - different now. 

“Dean, there's no need. I have ensured every single one of them will have nightmares tonight. Upon waking, their outlooks on their lives will have shifted toward a greater purpose. One, who was on the way to meet his girlfriend, will find his penis unable to function for the next twenty-four hours.” 

Dean barks out a laugh. “Damn, Cas. You know how to get ‘em.” 

Cas smiles at Dean with her eyes. The expression hasn't changed a bit. Dean just finds it makes his stomach do a backflip now. 

“I admit, I forgot what it was like… existing as a woman, surrounded by men who”- she breaks off. Narrows her eyes and shifts her gaze away from Dean. “Well. See me as nothing more than a potential partner for intercourse.” A slick slide of guilt slips along the walls of Dean’s ribcage. He's not trying to see Cas in that way it’s just - she's so - 

“I am lucky I have you both as friends.” Cas continues, making the eek of guilt worse. “I should have come sooner. I shouldn't have assumed you'd be the same as them.” 

Dean frowns, and despite his less than PG thoughts, this bothers him. ‘Cause he'd never - never harass Cas. Not like those guys. He's different. He is. He's not - 

Not a creep. He doesn't cat call or any of that shit, he just… looks. Politely. Sometimes less politely. Shit. Is he a creep?

“Jesus, Cas.” He breathes. “‘Course we ain’t the same. Y’seen Sam? Walkin’ around in his towel like nothin’ happened? He barely even blinked, I mean”- Dean laughs and scrubs the back of his head - “you’re still you , right?” 

Instead of answering his question, Cas regards him closely. 

“And what about you?” 

Dean bristles under her watchful gaze. His own vaporised breaths come fast and uncoordinated. “What about me?”

“You said Sam barely blinked. It’s true. He’s comfortable. Perturbed and frustrated because he doesn’t understand why this happened, yes, but my form doesn’t affect him. You on the other hand … ”

Cas takes a step closer, and Dean wants to say “personal space” but the words just don’t come. He gapes down at her like a fuckin’ idiot, getting hot as she tilts her face up toward him. “You are affected, Dean. You’re uncomfortable.” 

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re hot .” He blurts. Stupid lizard brain. He smacks a palm to his forehead in despair. “I mean, you - you’re - fuck’s sake, Cas. Get outta my space.” 

Cas frickin’ smirks. All ‘read the bible’ style like when they met and Dean didn’t understand and thought Cas was a dick. The same expression sits on her face now. Smug. Intrigued. Branding a suggestive challenge behind Dean’s eyelids forever. 

She takes a step back. Her heel clicks against the asphalt. The scent of Ozone and rain burns the inside of Dean’s nose, the way it always does when Cas gets too close. 

“You are hot as well, Dean.” Castiel says, and Dean holds his breath. “Your temperature is higher than usual. Are you feeling feverish?”

Dean lets out a laugh before he can help it. “Hey, fuck you.” 

Cas smiles innocently in response, and Dean can’t help but think that means yes. Yes you can fuck me. Or, better yet, you could try. 

He’s messed up in the head. 

“Hey, look, uh… you don't have to stand out here all night. Come inside, at least.” 

A divot appears between Cas’ brow. “I thought you didn't like being watched while you sleep.” 

Dean doesn't know how to say the idea of that just doesn't bother him now the way it used to. Hasn't for a while. Instead, he gives a one-shouldered shrug. 

“You said it yourself, Cas. You keep getting harassed out here, standing all alone like this, and I - I know you can take care of yourself but.” Dean swallows. “It ain't exactly fun. I dunno. I’d hate it.” 

Cas raises a brow. “You'd hate being hit on and consequently accosted by seven men in a row? Yes, I can see why that would disturb you.” 

“I mean, yeah, it would disturb anyone.” 

“I am not disturbed by it. On the contrary, I find it fascinating how my external appearance has completely altered”- 

“You might be a woman now but you're still a damn nerd. Just get inside, Cas.” Dean interrupts with an eye roll. Cas smirks at him again, and he realizes he's being played like a damn fiddle. “Shuddup. Go on, get.”

Dean means to shove Cas playfully inside the motel room, the way he would’ve before. He hesitates mid-action and ends up just sort of - brushing his hand along Cas’ back. His fingertips catch the ends of her long, tumbling hair. It's soft. Like, feather-pillow soft. Or… dry water. Which isn't a thing, but if it was, it would feel like Cas’ hair. He swallows back the extra pulse in his throat and follows Cas in, realising he held open the door for her as he closes it behind himself. 

So, what? He knows how to treat a lady. It's second nature. 

Cas takes the chair she claimed earlier, and sits straight-backed, legs crossed. 

Dean’s jaw cracks on a yawn. He shrugs off his flannel and flops back onto his bed. The mattress springs squeak. Sam grunts in protest, before rolling over with a gentle snore. 

“Y’good there, Cas?” Dean whispers to the shape in the dark. 

“I'm fine, Dean. Sleep well. I’ll watch over you.”

A little symphony of butterflies come to life in his abdomen. Instead of ignoring them like usual, he smiles. 

“Night, Cas.”

“Goodnight, Dean.” 

*

Funnily enough, Dean’s never been on a hunt in Pensacola. It's November, so it ain't exactly beach season, but it’s not freezing cold either and the sight of the sea from the car is still kinda nice. Deep blue waters churn under a breezy, cloudy sky. Dean catches Cas’ eyes in the mirror. Basalt, pensive and oceanic. 

Dean’s hands tighten on the wheel and Sam snores softly beside him in the passenger seat. 

The universe is laughing at him. 

“Want a dip before we go gank some demons?” Dean says in lieu of anything intelligent. 

“I don't own swimming gear.” Cas puts in, giving Dean the (un)fortunate mental image of this Cas padding into the water naked, beckoning him in from the shallows. 

“Right…” says Dean rather croakily.

They hop out at the cheapest motel they can find and get settled in. Cas tells them the demons are holed up in some warehouse downtown (because of course they are. Predictable sons of bitches) and that they're armed to the teeth (as per). 

The crossroads demon in charge is some mid-level skank looking for some extra kudos from the king. 

It's a heavy load of the usual. Usual for them, anyways. All up until Cas starts dual-wielding the angel blades like some kinda sexy Darth Maul. She ganks most of the demons herself. Sam comes a close second. Dean… 

Dean spends a long time just watching Cas roll. Her hair does this thing when she whirls around, arms a blur in a flash of silver. It frames every move in hypnotic, swirly dark motions. Her eyes are hard and shining and blue like always, but in this face - sharply cut and heartstoppingly beautiful - they're mesmerising. 

Despite the distractions, Dean still manages to get a few of his own. Watches the life sputter out of the crossroads demon in orange sparks as he sticks the demon blade into his bony chest.

It's over in less than forty-eight hours. 

*

One shower and a meal later, Cas and Dean make it into a busy dive bar on the coast. It's all a little too conch shells and orange juice for Dean’s taste, but he's not thinking about much else except the hot pursuit of alcohol as he strides into the sticky wooden shack with Cas following closely behind, bassy pop music playing too loud from shitty speakers.  

Sam declared he was too tired to go out for drinks, waving them off in favor of an early night instead. Seeing as the dude did a bunch more fighting this time than Dean did, he gives him a pass. 

“Hey,” he tells Cas as they enter the bar, “I’m gonna hit the head. Why don't you, uh, get us a seat at the bar while I'm in there?” 

She nods at him innocently. “Okay, Dean.” 

He has to tear his eyes away from her so he doesn't walk backwards into a bunch of girls sitting at a table. Jesus. 

Dean finds it impossible to keep a clear head when he's around her. Even walking into the low-tier dive bar with her at his side he can't help but think: 

People are totally gonna think we’re a couple… a HOT couple. 

He tries to feel mad about it. 

Unsurprisingly, he can't find it in him. And now here he is, feeling kinda buzzed even though there isn’t a drop of alcohol in his system and he's looking into the cracked mirror of some truly nasty dive bar bathroom. For some people, this is rock bottom. 

Dean, though? Dean feels… kinda good. The night is alive with possibility. It shouldn't be, he reminds himself. S’not like it's his first time going out drinking with Cas. 

Still. 

He gets a little water on his hands. Pushes it into his hair and spikes it up at the front. Checks his reflection from a couple of angles and -

Wait. What the fuck is he doing? This isn't a date. This - this is Cas. 

“Stop being a freak.” He mutters into the mirror. 

“Amen to that!” Some drunk bastard calls from one of the stalls before going back to groaning into the toilet bowl. 

Dean grimaces and sidles out of the bathroom in search of Cas. His buddy. His friend. His… 

There's a guy talking to Cas at the bar. She's sat on a stool, all prim. Legs tucked in. Hands folded on her lap. Head switched to one side as she listens to whatever the presumptuous fucker is saying. 

He's leaning all up in her space. Elbow propped on the bar in front of her, gesticulating with his other hand. 

Dean clenches his fist and prepares to go over there and beat the living daylights outta the guy.

But then Cas smiles and says something in return which makes the other man laugh. 

Dean’s frozen in amber. He doesn't find the sense to move until Cas turns her head and locks eyes with him. Her smile brightens, and Dean’s gone. Not physically, like - he's here , but his head is a balloon and it's drifting away up to the ceiling and into the sky. He’s gone in every way except the physical, and he gets between the dude and Cas as he reaches out to lay a hand on her arm. He's got one of those moustaches with mutton chops. Red cheeks. Bulbous nose. Seasoned alcoholic. Dean can smell the cirrhosis from here. 

“Can I help you?” Dean asks, injecting his voice with threat. 

The guy backs off, hands raised. 

“Woah, buddy. No harm done. Didn't realize the little lady was taken.” 

“Little?” He hears Cas grouch. 

“Well, she is.” Dean retorts. “So I suggest you make yourself scarce.”

The guy must be wiser than his mutton chops would have anyone believe, ‘cause he backs off without a fight. 

Dean exhales and turns to Cas, who’s watching him with a strange expression. 

“Are you always this way with women?” 

Dean quirks a brow. “What way?” 

“Overly protective. Posturing.” Says Cas without missing a beat. “It’s strange. I’ve never seen this side of you before. Never so… up close, anyway.” 

“Hey, I’ve protected you plenty!” Dean protests, knowing damn well he’s not usually like this with anyone . “In Purgatory”-

Cas narrows her eyes. “That isn’t the kind of protection I mean.” 

Dean huffs, but he knows exactly what she’s talking about. “No offence, but I don’t wanna sit around all night watchin’ you get hit on by guys like that. It’s a fuckin’ - vibe killer.” 

Cas looks skeptical. “A vibe killer.” She echoes. Before Dean can respond, she leans forward in her stool, like she did the other night at the motel. Gets a closer look at him. “What kind of man would you be happy watching me get hit on by?” 

Dean’s mouth goes completely dry. There’s a weird sense of danger ringing low in his gut, but he doesn’t know where it’s coming from. 

“What?” He asks, so quiet it couldn’t possibly be heard over the thumping music. Cas, though, hears. 

“You said you don’t want me to be hit on by ‘guys like that.’” She finger-quotes at him. “So what sort of men would you deem acceptable suitors, Dean? Men like you?” 

Dean gapes at her. “I…” 

“What if I wanted a man to hit on me?” Her lips curve into a smirk. She tilts her head, regarding Dean in an open display of scrutiny. “What if I wanted to try sexual intercourse with a man? What then? Would you disapprove of my choice?” 

Dean can’t breathe. “But you - with April”- 

Cas gives a low, ironic laugh. “Dean. I am utterly indifferent to sexual orientation. Of course I was more likely to attract female attention in a male vessel. The opposite is true now.”

“So… you want… with a…?” 

Cas turns her head the other way, and her hair slips down past her collar, the curly ends brushing the point of her elbow. Her trenchcoat hangs off her shoulder on one side, and it’s - she’s still wearing plenty of layers but she makes it look like a frickin’ strip tease. 

“I’m not against the idea.” She tells him, all unselfconscious angel. “Maybe you could show me how.” Okay, Dean’s either dreaming or - or this is actually happening and he’s - fuck, he wasn’t prepared for - “There must be someone in here you’d approve of me coupling with.”

Dean’s heart drops to his feet. “No.” He says before he can think about it. She raises a brow. “No, you - you can’t just - go off sleeping with some random guy, Cas. It’s - it’s dangerous.”

“You sleep with random women all the time.” Says Cas very diplomatically. 

“It’s different.”

“How is it different?” 

“Cas! Just - trust me here, okay? It’s different ‘cause you’re - you’re a woman now and you’re vulnerable ”-

“You’ve watched me kill seven demons and dozens of vampires in just two days. The other night I told you I took away the function of a man’s penis by just thinking about it. I once embodied fifty-thousand souls”-

“Yeah and look how that turned out”-

“I am not vulnerable.” Cas finishes, her eyes flashing, face becoming kind of… hard. Intense. And there’s the angel Dean met in that barn all those years ago. Foreboding. Powerful beyond measure. And - yeah. Not vulnerable. It’s a weak argument. They both know it. 

Cas squints at him again. “Why does the idea of me doing what you do frequently bother you so much? You didn’t mind when I had intercourse with April.” 

Dean barks an indignant laugh. “She tortured you! Of course I minded. And stop saying intercourse.” 

“But you didn't object to the sex part. If I remember correctly, you found the whole affair quite amusing.” 

Why are they talking about this, why are they talking about this? Dean doesn’t remember bringing up sex. He doesn’t remember inviting this conversation and he sure as hell doesn’t wanna think about Cas having sex with April. Christ. It was bad enough at the time. 

He scowls at her. 

She knows. She knows Dean can’t stop imagining her naked and getting her thighs wrapped around him and his hands in her thick, tumbly hair. She knows and that’s the only reason she’s saying all this. To get a rise out of him. To call him out on it and make some point as if he isn’t already aware of how crappy it is of him to be like this. 

Like hell he’s going to admit to it, though. If this is her tactic to get him to confess, it’s a shitty one. 

“Cas. If you wanna go get your rocks off with some fuckin’ diver-bar lurking Florida man then be my guest, okay? I won’t interfere this time.” 

Dean goes to leave. He's rattled. Irrationality irate. He knows he's being a freak but he's just - 

Cas knows how to get under his skin. Always has. 

She puts a hand on his arm. Gentle, but stopping him all the same. 

“Dean.” Quietly amused. Intense still, but not like before. It's impossible not to soften at the way she's looking at him. “I was only hypothesising.” She tells him earnestly. “I don't want to have sexual intercourse with the men in this bar.” 

Or any bar, I hope. Dean is smart enough not to say that part out loud. 

Dean gets them drinks after that, and they find a table tucked away in a corner where the music isn't so loud. Dean doesn't say it, but he's not fond of the idea of more men coming over to shoot their shot with Cas. God knows it's happened enough times already. 

They shoot the shit, and the subject of sex isn't brought up again which is. Yeah. Exactly what Dean wanted. It’s good. More than good. It's preferred. ‘Cause if he had to imagine Cas falling into bed with just anyone, he thinks he'd lose it. And it's better, ‘cause this way he's less likely to imagine himself in bed with her. Less likely to start picturing the way her soft pink lips would feel against his. The curve of her chest under his hands, through her blouse, the hardened peak of her nipple -

And, yeah. Dean is totally staring at her nipples. 

It's kind of hard not to. They're right there. Not visible, but - making themselves known through the thin, white material. 

Cas glances down at her blouse, following Dean’s line of sight. “Do I have something on my shirt?” 

Dean snorts. “Is it cold or are you just happy to see me?” 

Cas frowns at him. “I’m always happy to see you, Dean, but I don't see what that has to do with the temperature.” 

Dean plants both his elbows on the table and puts his head in his hands. 

“Cas, buddy... we gotta get you a bra.” 

*

They stay at the bar until unwisely late. Dean doesn't usually let himself… well. Stay. Not with Cas. It always gets to that point where they both seem to mutually agree that they should part ways. That whatever they want to say doesn't need to be said. And they've functioned that way for years. 

This time, Dean lets himself stay. 

Cas gets rosy-cheeked. She doesn't get drunk easy, being an angel and all, but by midnight she's had enough to drink that her eyes are brighter and her laugh comes easier and Dean is… Dean is… 

So fucking drunk. 

They're walking along the promenade, back in the direction of the motel. At least… Dean hopes they are. He has no fucking clue where he is. Where he's going. He just can't stop staring at Cas. 

The night has this, like, crazy effect on her. The street-lamps glow orange around her and… 

“Ohmygod, Cas…” Says Dean. He reaches out towards her, brushing his hand around the arc of light framing her delicately ferocious features. Her eyes widen, but he doesn’t touch her face. “You got a halo. You got a halo, Cas.”

She peers at him curiously. “Not in this dimension, Dean. It resides in the etheric plane. Usually humans can’t”- she blinks. Glances up at the streetlamp illuminating them. “I think you might have a mild case of astigmatism.”

Dean laughs. He isn't sure why this is so funny, but it really gets him. “I got a case of somethin’.”

The sound of the sea crashes in the distance. The near distance. Dean can just about see it, beyond the promenade and the long, empty beach. Suddenly, he knows what he's gonna do. 

“Hey, Cas. Remember how I said we should go for a dip?” He grins, and before she can answer, he takes off. Jumps down off the short concrete walkway and starts hightailing it across the sand, yanking off his clothes as he goes. 

“Dean!” Cas calls, chasing him. “Dean, this is highly inadvisable! You are inebriated and it is November, the water will be”-!

“Just admit you're too chicken to jump in!” Dean calls over his shoulder, getting his shoulder caught in his sleeve. He nearly goes flying as he's blinded by twisting fabric, but finally, he manages to get it off and starts going for his belt. 

He doesn't feel a lick of the cold air on his skin. But as he toes off his shoes and socks, he gets the bizarre, soft sensation of dense sand under the soles of his feet. Pushing up between his toes with every step. It's fucking amazing. 

The sea is close. There’s enough light that he can see the shoreline. The white foam as small waves crest and break onto the sand. Waving him closer. Beckoning him. 

Cas is still running to catch up. She could just fly to him, Dean thinks. Teleport him outta there. But she isn't. Which can only mean she wants this just as badly, right? 

Dean barely registers he's stark fucking naked as his feet get swallowed up by the first lap of the waves. He laughs like a mad man as the cold water bites his feet, rushing up his ankles. His shins, his calves… He hasn't felt this exhilarated outside of a fight in -

Years. 

Ever, maybe. 

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!” Dean gasps as freezing water sloshes up to his waist. 

Behind him, Cas is still yelling. 

“Dean! This isn't advisable at all, Dean! Please get out of the water!” 

“Y-you gettin’ in here or you too scared of gettin’ your feathers wet? Huh, Cas?”

Out of sheer stubbornness and a need to prove… something, Dean wades in further, gasping as a wave crests up to his nipples. 

Ludicrously, he thinks: Damn. Maybe I should get a bra, too. ‘Cause the cold’s definitely making his nipples hard. 

That makes him think about Cas’ boobs again. 

The shock of the cold water overrides his arousal, though, and he finds himself flapping his arms as the first tingles of hypothermia set in. It's also very sobering. 

“Holy fucking shit, this is cold.” He manages, face still split in a grin. He curses and swears but he's swimming. Kind of. Kicking his legs under the water, fighting a dull numb pain as the cold current surrounds him. This is both the best and worst feeling ever. He can't wrap his head around it. Can’t -

A fist cards into his hair. He sees Cas’ face, sharply cut by the light of the moon, her eyes nearly black and alight with indignation.

“Dean Winchester, you are the most infuriating man I’ve ever met.” She tells him through gritted teeth, completely submerged up to her neck. 

“Ha ha, knew you would come in after me you”-

Dean doesn't get to finish his dumb, teeth-chattering sentence. 

Cas flies them both out of there, and before Dean knows it, he's being dumped unceremoniously onto a dry floor. Still naked. Still wet.

“Jesus, Cas!” He shouts. The cold water might have shocked some sobriety into him, but he's drunk as a fish, and it takes him a couple of seconds to get the sense to cover his groin with both hands. “You didn't have to do that.” He bemoans, wincing as his limbs get stiff with cold. There's a hot flash under his skin. Yeah. Hypothermia. He's an idiot. 

Cas stands still above him, dripping and still fully clothed. Dean tries not to be too disappointed. 

“Thought you were gonna go skinny dipping with me.” He slurs. Not so much from the alcohol as from the bizarre sensations tingling up and down his body and the adrenaline rushing through his system. 

They seem to be in a motel room. Not the one they got with Sam earlier, thank god, but it's similar enough in size and shape to all the rest for Dean to recognise it for what it is. 

Icy moonlight penetrates through broken Venetian blinds and paints stripes across Cas’ lithe, dripping form. She's holding her sodden trenchcoat in one white fist. Her hair is plastered to her neck and shoulders and - 

Shit. Her blouse is see-through wet. Nipples. More nipples. Dean just can't stop thinking about nipples tonight, can he? The blouse may as well be made of tissue paper for all the good it’s doing. He can even make out the dimple of her bellybutton amongst the wrinkled, wet fabric. Dean wants to put his tongue in it. 

He swallows.

“Why must you aggravate every situation?” Cas demands, completely oblivious to Dean’s lewd train of thought as she takes a step towards him. He feels stupidly vulnerable. Naked and shivering on the thin, carpeted floor beneath her in his own little puddle. “Dean, why can’t you just”-? 

“Just what, Cas? I just wanted to - go in the ocean. That's all.” And get you naked in the water with me. 

He's a terrible person. 

Cas’ eyes flash Grace-blue, and there's a mirage around the slim, strong frame of her form and a blast of heat in Dean’s face. She's mojo’d herself dry. Not him. 

“Aawh, c’mon, Cas that ain't fair.” Dean sits up, bringing his knees up to his chest and winding his arms around himself. “I was just try’na have some fun, okay? S’not like we ever get a vacation… this was… the next best thing… I guess.” He says pathetically. 

Castiel frowns down at him, dark brows knitting together. 

“You wanted to have fun. With… me. In the ocean.” She says, sounding for all the world like she doesn't believe him. 

He huffs. “Yeah, so?” 

“I don't understand what could possibly be pleasurable about dunking yourself in cold water in the middle of the night.” She intones, “Though I suppose one only needs to look at the life of Wim Hof and his teachings in order to understand the extended benefits of cold-plunging…” she muses. Her eyes find Dean’s again from where they drifted off into the distance. “Are you a fan of Wim Hof, Dean?” 

Dean stares at her, lost for words for a moment. As the nerd-speak ends, he’s horribly reminded that this is Cas. Like, Cas , Cas - not some other hot beautiful angel who just happens to be called Cas. It's Cas. His Cas. Dorky little Cas. Boobs or not. 

Christ. 

“Cas, I’m naked and freezing my ass off and I don't know who Win Hoffman is or whoever the fuck, okay? Could ya maybe”-? He gestures to himself wildly.

Cas kneels down until her eyes are level with his. A whole, wordless moment passes where Dean isn't sure what she's gonna do. 

She reaches out and presses two gentle fingertips to his forehead. 

In an instant, he's sober. And warm and dry. But still very very naked. 

Somehow, though, the sober thing is worse. 

He drops his head between his knees as his face burns with shame. None the least ‘cause he’s butt naked and she's kneeling there in front of him, fully clothed. Panty-hose and everything. This is like some kind of weird humiliation ritual. 

“Jeez, Cas… I'm sorry. I dunno what I - what came over me.” He swallows loudly into the silence, only daring to look up when it stretches on for too long. 

Cas is smiling at him. A real smile. Her mouth pulling up at the corners, eyes sparkling in the dark. She has a beautiful smile. 

Always has, he thinks distantly. He just kind of. Lets himself notice it now. In a woman’s face, all of Cas’ most striking features are much more noticeable. Dean shakes his head in disbelief, sober but still just as lost. 

“How the hell…” 

She tilts her head. “What is it, Dean?” 

Dean’s eyes fall to her lips. Plush and pink and slightly parted. In his peripherals, he sees Cas’ eyes drop to his mouth. God. This can't be happening. 

They're extremely close. 

“The hell’d you put in my drink?” He mutters, not daring to take his eyes off her mouth in case this - this moment breaks or something. Also he doesn't think he could stand to look into her eyes and see his own want reflected back. 

Cas sways forwards - just a couple centimetres. It feels like miles. 

“I didn't put anything in your drink. In any of them. And there were many, many drinks, Dean. You were very… forward. Uninhibited, in a way you don't usually allow yourself to be around me… I… enjoyed it.” She murmurs back. Dean can taste her breath this close. It's got that bite of ozone. But also something sweet. Honey. Heather. Spring rain. 

“Good job you… sobered me up then, huh?” He laughs weakly. “So we don't do anything… stupid.” 

Cas nods, and her hair brushes against Dean’s forearms, and gooseflesh erupts all over his body and he thinks, ah fuck it. 

He kisses Cas. 

Cas makes a small sound of surprise. Dean swallows it, pushing his lips against hers, heart going like a jackhammer in his ribs as he thinks, oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. He's wading into the ocean again. Struck by the force of it surrounding him. He gets the same jolt of adrenaline and disbelief. His skin tingles and there's flashes of heat with every press of his lips on Cas’. He shouldn't be surprised that the ocean and Cas are so similar. Both unstoppable forces of nature. Not to be fucked with. Cold on the outside but harbouring untold secrets in the depths. 

She kisses him back. 

Tentative and close-lipped at first. Then Dean - Dean reaches out and touches her bent knee, and something in her snaps. 

Getting a fist in Dean’s hair like she did in the ocean, Cas pulls until there's a sharp sting of pain in his scalp. She manoeuvres him until his head is tilted up, lips parted in surprise, and plunges her tongue into his mouth, their teeth knocking. 

Holy fucking shit . It's a messy, violent kiss and, Dean decides, the best he's ever had. Cas takes what she wants from Dean. She twists his head this way and that and swallows him whole. His heart is gonna leap from his chest and all he can think is, yes, yes, yes, finally! 

He doesn't know where the ‘finally’ comes from. He's only felt like this for a couple days. Since she arrived looking like a Miss Universe finalist. Even that comparison doesn't do her justice.

Absolutely everything about Cas' beauty is natural. There’s nothing contrived about the way she looks. She's divine. She tastes and feels better than Dean ever could have imagined. 

He kisses back as hard as he can, trying to match her fervour.

He doesn't even care that he's naked anymore. He's lost count of the amount of women he's been naked around and, hell, she clearly wants him so it's fine. 

He can't believe this. 

He can finally (again, the perplexing ‘finally’) show Cas what real sex is like. None of this double-crossing April crap. 

Dean lets Cas grab him by the shoulders and haul him up until they’re both standing, bodies pressed up against one another, lips connected. 

Dean uses his height advantage to regain some control. He twists one hand into her tumbling locks (oh fuck it's nice) and slides the other down to the small of her back, (oh fuck that's even better) pulling her body tight against his. 

Cas’ hands roam everywhere. His shoulders. His biceps. His flanks. His ass. 

She sure isn't shy. 

Dean knows he's making noises. Gasping and panting with every micro-second of air time he gets. Of course, Cas doesn't need to breathe, so the lip on lip action is a little longer than Dean is used to. She kisses him with bruising force. Groans into his mouth. 

She pulls away the barest amount to mutter against his lips: “I want to have sexual intercourse with you, Dean. Not with a random man in a bar. I don't think I made that clear.” 

Dean laughs into the next kiss. “You're making it clear enough now, sweetheart, don't worry.”

She shudders against him. He knows some chicks like pet names, but jeez. He didn't peg Cas for the type. His next set of kisses come with a smile. “Yeah, you like that, baby?” He chants as she pushes her hips against him, nails clawing into the tough meat of his ass. Oh, yeah. This is familiar territory. He knows this dance. Has the steps memorized. 

“Don't perform, Dean.” Cas tells him harshly, catching his lower lip between her teeth. “I am not one of your escapades.” She shoves him backwards before he can huff out a retort, ‘cause what the fuck? Talk about whiplash. 

This, now, is a dance he does not know. 

His knees hit the back of a bed and he buckles, catching himself on his elbows just in time to watch her crawling up on after him. Panther-like. Eyes glowing. Predator, he thinks, unbidden. His cock stiffens between his legs in an obvious display of arousal. Cas’ searing eyes drop to it and her lip curls up. 

“You are a marvel, Dean.” She tells him, ignoring his dick for now and flattening herself against his chest. She's a weight. Like an anvil. Heavier than she has any right to be. Heavy like she would be in her - other form. The male one. The thought sends a bolt of electricity South, and he inexplicably gets harder. “It's been a long time since I've held you beneath me like this,” she purrs, her lips ghosting over his as she speaks. Her hands clamp down on his shoulders, pressing him into the mattress. Her thighs - god, her thighs - spread around his waist. Straddling him. The end of her tie brushes against his nipple, and he sucks in a harsh breath as the oversensitivity sets him on fire from the inside. “Just you. Your flesh. Nothing else between us. You and my true form, so close we were almost one… I wish you could remember it. The way you held me when I put you together again and flew you out of hell. Did you know I’d never been held before that day, Dean?” Cas closes her eyes and pushes her forehead against Dean’s. She moans and grinds her hips down, down, right up against his dick. He chokes on a groan and gets his hands around her waist. 

“Fuck, Cas. Fuck.” Is all he can manage in response as she moves against him. The fabric is rough and scraping against his sensitive dick, but he doesn't care. This is the hottest thing he's ever done. And he's done some pretty kinky stuff. But this? This Cas? Fully clothed and just writhing him against him? Holy fucking shit. He's gonna have enough material in his spank bank for the rest of his life, just from this. 

Dean’s hands fly to the buttons on her blouse, but she knocks it away and leans back. 

“Let me.” 

Dean falls back onto his elbows, breathing hard and hot all over, as Cas begins slowly unbuttoning her shirt. He'd meant for it to be faster than this. In a sort of flash in the pan, ‘yeah it just sort of happened, neither of us were really thinking’ kinda way. The plausible deniability of that statement is fading fast, because Cas is clearly giving this little strip tease a lot of thought. Her movements are calm and perfunctory. She doesn't sway her hips or fondle herself or anything like that the way some girls do for Dean. She pins him down with nothing but her gaze as she peels off her shirt, revealing her bare breasts. 

Busty Angel Beauties, Dean thinks rather stupidly as his mouth waters and he gets an eyeful of her chest. Two perfect, peaked mounds of tanned, smooth flesh. And they're not small, either. Kinda makes sense Cas would have big boobs, Dean thinks as all the blood from his brain inhabits his cock instead. Maybe that means he has a big dick when he’s… a he. 

Dean swallows all the saliva in his mouth and manages a rough, desperate,

“Cas.” 

There should be no sexy way of pulling off a pencil skirt. Cas manages it, swiping the garment off in one fluid motion and letting it drop to the floor. She climbs off Dean to plant one foot on the bed as she rolls down her panty-hose. One long, black, sheer piece of fabric at a time. Eyes always on him.

Bare-legged, she lets them drop to the floor and stands above Dean, unabashedly, in just a pair of boxers. 

Dean's not sure why he was expecting lacy little black panties. It would make sense, surely, with the rest of the package. But no. She's wearing plain men’s grey boxers. The tight kind. There's a small, dark wet patch on them. Right between her legs. Holy fucking shit, Cas is wet for him. 

Dean whimpers quietly. He's never made that sound before in his life. Cas bites her lip on a smirk and pushes her thumbs into the waistband of the boxers, before slowly pulling them down, down, down… 

Dean barely gets a glimpse as she climbs back over him, completely naked now, and straddles his hips once more. 

She stops. Tilts her head at him. 

“Am I doing this correctly?” She asks. “I did some research, but I’m not entirely certain I’m doing it right, Dean.” 

With trembling hands, Dean reaches out and caresses her thick, bare thighs. She's muscular and soft and heavy, clamping him down with unprecedented strength and weight. He couldn't get up if he wanted to.

“Yeah.” He breathes, “Yeah, Cas. You’re definitely. Doing this right. Uh, correct. This is. Yeah.” 

His dick twitches impatiently, his cockhead brushing against the soft velvety skin of her ass. She gyrates her hips a little, and hot, slick heat coats Dean’s dick. 

“Oh, fuck. ” He moans as she lifts above him, a look of fierce concentration on her face. Before he knows it, she's reaching behind her and grabbing his dick, guiding it right to - 

“Cas, Cas, wait.” Dean stops her. She pauses. Utterly still. 

“Am I doing something wrong?” 

“No, no.” He quickly assures. “Just, uh, don't you want a little more foreplay first?” Then, blood fizzing with the idea, “I could get you off before we. Y’know.” He's usually smoother with his words than this. It's not like this is a position he hasn't been in dozens of times before. Cas just - disarms him. 

She tilts her head, hand still and loose around his throbbing cock. Her thumb brushes up against the vein on the underside of the shaft and he gasps. 

“But, Dean. The majority of my research on sex heavily favours pleasure for the man. As the woman, I believe my primary objective is to”-

“Woah, woah. What kinda research is this?” 

Cas hesitates. “The pizza man.” 

Dean rolls his eyes heavenward. He can't believe they're having this conversation mid - whatever this is. 

“Okay, forget the pizza man, Cas.” Dean says roughly. He begins to massage her thighs. Slow and hard. “Can I try something? I promise you'll like it.” 

Her eyes widen, and the muscles in her abdomen twitch as Dean slides his hands higher up her thighs. 

“But… don't you want…?” She sounds so uncertain. So out of her depth. Dean experiences an unexpected jolt of affection, and suddenly he just wants to make sure she's okay. 

“Hell yes I want.” Dean reassures her, and he doesn't have to fake the enthusiasm. “But we can make this last, okay? I don't wanna come straight away.” 

She blinks. “I can use my Grace to make you ejaculate continuously.” She intones, and Dean feels his jaw drop. “There doesn't have to be any refractory period. For either of us.”

“Okay, well that's - definitely something we can, uh, look into.” And now he's implying there's gonna be a next time. Fuck. “But for now, I’m gonna show you how we mortals do it, yeah?” 

Eyes narrowing a little doubtfully, she slowly nods and relinquishes his dick from her grasp. 

Dean releases the breath he'd been holding. Okay, he knows this. He can do this. He just needs to convince Cas that this is a territory he's actually superior in for once, and he should be the dominant one. Because Cas taking control right now would just be… 

Dean swallows hard and ignores the pulse of want at the base of his spine as he considers it. 

He's gonna teach Cas about sex. Gonna show her how good it can be for a chick. Hell yeah. He's gonna make her scream with his tongue. That's what he's gonna do. 

Dean grasps onto her waist with renewed purpose and manoeuvres her off of him. She obliges, somewhat reluctantly, and allows him to position her on her back, flipping their positions. 

Grinning at the prospect, Dean shimmies down the bed until he can lie comfortably on his stomach, feet hanging off the end, Cas’ legs spread wide open before him. 

There isn't much light in this dingy hotel room, but what he can see… good god. Splayed out like this, the light stripping her bare, Dean can make out details he couldn't before. Like the fact she’s as tanned all over as she was before. And nearly as muscular, just in a more - padded, curvy way. She still looks like she could take him apart with one blow (ha) . Dean gets fixated on the thin line of dark hair trailing down from her navel before thickening into a dark cluster at her groin. There’s a dusting of perceptible, textured hair on her legs too. Under her arms. 

It’s fucking hot, Dean thinks, getting unbearably hard as he takes it all in. Not in a kink way; it’s not like he has a fetish for body hair or anything, just - he’s always liked a woman who leaves that shit alone. It’s sexy. Mature. He’s seen his fair share of bald vaginas, waxed like a freshly plucked chicken. Or weirdly prickly from a recent shave. Or just… disconcertingly  smooth. It’s always been kind of a turn off. He can’t put his finger on exactly why. He’s talked to guys in bars before who’ve point blank said they’d refuse to go down on a chick who had hair down there. Dean always thought that was really fucking weird. S’not like he’s ever had a girl ask him to shave. 

Dean shouldn’t be surprised Cas hasn’t bothered to trim down there at all. It’s Cas, after all. Personal grooming has never exactly been top of the list of his - HER - priorities. 

She’s fucking beautiful for it. 

“Dean?” Cas asks, voice a little breathier than usual as Dean just sort of hovers over her. Mouth watering like a bloodhound. 

“Yeah, baby, just wait. I'll make you feel so good, I promise, I’ll show you how good it can be.” He whispers, no longer thinking straight. Cas doesn't tell him off this time. ‘Cause this time he's not “performing.” It's real. All real. 

Dean lowers his mouth to the velvety skin of Cas’ inner thigh and sinks his teeth into the soft, delicate meat of her. Immediately, her muscles cord under his lips, bursting with tension. 

He kisses and nips up along her left thigh with bruising force, unable to hold himself back and tease the way he usually does. Not only does her skin feel like heaven, it tastes fucking amazing. All the sweet, ozone and citrusy scents that usually mingle together around Cas’ aura are extra potent here. There's more too. A scent that's just Cas’ which he can't really describe. 

Dean’s hands move unconsciously along Cas’ flanks. Stroking and scraping and measuring the curve of her waist and her hips. 

Cas’ legs open marginally wider as her breathing swells, physically inviting him in. Up to now, Dean’s refrained from looking directly in between her legs. It's like a treat he's trying to savour. But when he does, he feels like reality’s shifted. Dragging his lips away from her thighs, Dean takes a second to admire the perfect, wet slit of her, nestled in a bed of curly black hair. The scent of it from here is sweet and fucking perfect, and he feels his dick drag along the sheets under him, neglected and hard enough to hammer nails. 

Dean doesn't waste any time. He lowers his mouth to her and licks a soft, teasing stripe along the centre of her flesh. 

As soon as his tongue makes contact, she gasps. It's a full, surprised sound, and her back arches off the bed as she chases the pleasure. He moves away and watches her squirm, her eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling in sheer disbelief. 

“Oh, Dean!” She gasps, “That was good!” 

Dean nearly laughs aloud - she's just so sincere. Almost innocent with it (even though nothing about this is innocent). Cas draws her legs up and plants both feet either side of Dean’s shoulders. She wriggles closer to him, and he bites back a grin at the brazen display of want. She's delightfully not shy. She wants it openly. It's sexy as hell. 

“Could you please… try that again? I'm not sure I was… fully able to catalogue… the feeling…” Cas says, her hands fisting in the sheets. 

“Oh, sweetheart, that was just a taste.” Dean tells her, his voice low and gruff with arousal. 

He ain’t about to keep a lady waiting. 

He dips his tongue back into the soft, slick bundle of nerves, relishing the flavor of her. Delighting in the way her hands instantly fly to his hair and grip, hard, holding him there. Dean doesn't withdraw this time. He fastens his lips around her and swirls his tongue gently and slowly around her clit, having no trouble finding it. 

“Dean!” She cries, voice high and wrecked. “Oh, Dean, that is incredibly pleasurable - please - please don't stop”-

Dean shouldn't be surprised to learn Cas is so vocal. It's not like she's done this before and, even though he doesn't know how good it feels for women, he can't imagine what it must feel like to discover this now. After, what? A gazillion frickin’ years? 

Dean groans into her, already obsessed with the feeling. He closes his eyes, and his world narrows down to the delicious sensation of the tip of his tongue on her clit. He varies the pressure and speed, eliciting new cries and an outpouring of praise from her every time. He saves his last trick ‘til last, though. Withdrawing enough so he can lightly lick at the small, sensitive spot, he watches as Cas is tricked into thinking he's slowing down, getting ready to draw away. Her brow is furrowed, cheeks flushed, head tossing from side to side. Her hair is a dark cloud on the pillow around her. Her nipples are peaked, hard and alert, and her fingers are curled in the sheets again. 

She moans, unable to hide her disappointment as his licks become so soft they're practically nonexistent. 

“Dean…” She pants. 

“You want more, sweetheart?” 

Cas bites down on her lower lip, brow fastening together. 

“I… this has been… immensely helpful… thank you, Dean, for showing me… but you don’t have to continue… I recognise how… how strenuous this must be…” 

Dean pushes his hips into the bed, allowing himself one thrust against the sheets to alleviate some of the pressure in his dick. Before Cas can say another word, he dives back in, gets his lips back around her and sucks her clit hard and fast . 

Cas’ breath shudders hard on an intake, and she practically shouts. 

“Oh, oh, Dean! Yes! Yes!” 

Cas’ thick, muscular thighs clamp down on Dean’s head. His eyes fly open in alarm as the pressure becomes almost painful. He couldn't withdraw if he wanted to. 

Cas' fingers return to his hair and yank him down. What he thought was going to be his finishing move has ended up being her taking him for a ride as she grinds down ruthlessly against his face, dragging her slick, hot centre up and down in a desperate purchase for release. 

Dean’s favourite part of any head session is when the girl allows herself to let loose. When she drops the demure, controlled, sultry act and goes to town a little. Some let loose more than others. Some not at all. Dean prefers the ones that do. 

Cas, though? Fucking Christ . He's never had anything like this. She uses his mouth like it's her own personal sex toy. Fucking her clit against his tongue, getting the heels of her feet into his shoulders to drag him impossibly closer while she continues to shout, 

“Yes! Yes, Dean! Just like this - just like this! Ah - more - more - there - there ”- 

Dean holds on for dear life, both hands wrapped around the back of Cas’ knees, all at once trying to alleviate the pressure her thighs are putting on his skull and drag her closer. Her clit has swelled into a hard knot of pleasure against his tongue, and all he can do is suck and swirl his tongue against it as she brings herself to orgasm against him. 

It doesn't take very long. Her thighs convulse rhythmically as she cries,

“Dean! Dean, I - I can’t - I’m going to - I - yes, yes!” 

The lightbulb in the middle of the room shatters, showering the room in glass. The TV screen in the corner cracks. Her clit pulses in his mouth, hips grinding against his face with so much force he wouldn't be surprised if his nose is smashed and bleeding by the end of this. 

Cas’ following shouts and moans would honestly be sort of comical if she wasn't also making these incredible, wrecked sounds and pressing herself against him with careless abandon. As it is, Dean finds himself groaning into her, his cock coated in pre-come as he convulsively humps the mattress. Dean loves eating chicks out. Truly, he does. But he doesn't think he's ever been so close to coming untouched from it as he has with Cas. 

He hasn't even got his fingers or his cock inside her yet, he thinks as she trembles at the height of her orgasm around him, her thighs holding on tight and shaking as she comes in his mouth. 

Dean keeps licking and sucking and pushing his tongue into her until she shoves his head away, overcome. The entire lower half of his face is wet. There's a dark, damp spot on the sheets around her legs and more whitish moisture dribbles out of her as she comes down. 

“Holy fucking shit. ” Dean can't help but curse as he gives his mouth a rudimentary wipe with the back of his hand. Cas, he should have predicted, gives him no more time to comment on the situation. She surges forward and bodily throws him on top of her until he's sprawled between her legs, his aching dick sliding in the damp join between her groin and thigh. She smashes their mouths together, eyes alight and fierce and brimming with more than Grace. Her tongue punches into his mouth, licking up the juices left behind. 

“Can you taste yourself, sweetheart?” Dean finds himself asking, the endearment coming easier to him with her than he thought. 

“Yes.” Cas growls back, teeth nibbling his lower lip, hands grabbing for purchase on his shoulders. His ass. “Dean. I want to make you ejaculate. Now.” 

Her tone doesn't imply room for negotiation. Not that he’s complaining. “Get - inside”- she says, thrusting her hips up to meet him, the heels of her feet coercing his hips to align with her centre. 

Dean, seeing no choice in the matter, obliges, and it's like his dick just knows where to go. Before he knows it, he's nudging at her soft, hot entrance. 

“Cas… are you sure…? We should”- he inhales sharply, “probably warm you up a bit.” 

She makes a frustrated sound against the crook of his neck, mouth jammed against his jugular. 

“So do it. Please.” 

The plea itself makes his cock jump against her, and she bucks her hips, grinding herself against the hard length of him. It’s so fucking good he could come from just sliding up against her. But he won’t. He’s gotta hold back. Gotta show her some more before he gives in to the dull, ecstatic throb climbing higher and higher with each second. 

Dean props himself up and guides one hand down between their bodies. He doesn't need to spit on his hand or get extra lube - she's fucking soaked. His spit and her come and arousal more than make the way for him to press one finger gently inside her. 

As he expected, she's tight as hell. Cas gasps out small, breathy sounds with every push of his middle finger. She grasps his wrist with both her hands and guides it down harder. Faster. 

“More…” she pants, “ more, Dean.” 

Dean can't fucking believe how hot this is as he eases a second finger inside her along with the first. Knowing what it'll do to her, he crooks them up inside her and rubs against a spot which makes her legs raise and clamp hard around him again. She cries out, her eyes flashing ethereal blue and gold. He hears the bathroom mirror shatter a small distance away and couldn't care less. 

“There! Yes! Yes, more, there, there!” Cas chants, rocking her hips back and forth, fucking herself onto his fingers. 

“Oh my god, Cas.” Dean groans, unable to stop himself from pressing against her as another bead of pre-come dribbles out. “God, you're so fucking hot.” She whines and gyrates her hips, getting him just where she wants him. By the time he's got three fingers inside, she's dripping all over the sheets and Dean’s about as close to coming untouched as he's ever been. He imagines it… painting her and his own fingers in his come before he's even entered her - 

No! 

A warning pulse from his cock and a burst of pleasure at the base of his spine warns him he's getting too close. 

“Dean - inside me. Now.” Cas demands, letting go of his wrist so he can pull his fingers free. He does, and she immediately chases them with her body, mourning the loss. He gives her what she wants - what they both want - and begins to guide himself inside her. 

“Ah!” She punctures the air with sound as his cock begins to slide in. Easier than it would have been without prep, but still tight and hot and perfect. 

She gazes at him in a glazed, awestruck way, pink plush mouth open in half-stuck pleasure, eyes rapidly flashing between Grace-light and abyssal, lust-filled blue. 

Dean finds he can't look anywhere else but her face - her eyes - as he pushes in all the way up to the hilt. Fully inside her, hips locked together, they both gasp at the sensation, and Dean - Dean can't believe he's doing this. He’s fucking Cas. 

This isn't just fucking, a tiny, unhelpful voice provides. This is so much more. 

Yeah. 

Not going there. 

There's a moment of stillness, though, that he can't resist relishing in. 

His hand is pressed against Cas’ face. He thumbs her cheekbone. Traces his fingers down to the soft curve of her mouth and strokes her bottom lip. 

“Dean…” Cas says, and it isn't the obscene, pleasure-filled whimper from before. It's more. 

It's just - more. 

Too much. 

Dean breaks his gaze, flattens his palm against the pillow, and moves. 

He rolls his hips back, pausing just before he fully pulls out, and then thrusts back in with careful, slow precision. If he goes any faster he’ll come after three pumps and that would be -

Embarrassing. To say the least. 

Cas’ eyes flutter shut. “Oh, that's… that’s nice…” she sighs as Dean slowly thrusts in and out. 

It's a calm, steady build. Not like the desperation of before. Dean’s arms shake. There's sweat pooling at the base of his spine and he's forcing his breaths to come out controlled and even. It's taking him everything not to lose control. 

“Mmm… Dean…” Cas moans, her eyes closing again.

Dean buries his nose against her temple, breathing in the scent of her as he grinds his hips against hers, trying to focus more on her pleasure than his own. 

It's difficult. Because every moan of Cas’ goes right to his dick. 

“Dean… I… I have some research I want to try…” Cas tells him, her voice strained. Her breasts heave with every long, drawn out breath. He ducks his head down and manages to mouth at the top of one of them. Going any further might cause him to slip free, and he's - he just needs to be inside her right now, no matter how badly he wants to get his mouth fastened around one of her perfect nipples. 

“Yeah…?” Dean pants. He licks and nibbles along her collar bone. Scrapes his teeth up and along the elegant column of her throat, enjoying the soft hitches in her breath. 

“Mmhm.” Cas hums her affirmation. “May I?” 

“Y-yeah, Cas…” Dean says. “Go for”- 

The world turns upside down. Or rather, he does, as he's flipped onto his back in record speed. Cas’ moves would make a wrestler baulk, he thinks, as she manoeuvres him with her legs alone, managing to keep him inside as she straddles him once more. 

Cas grasps both of Dean’s wrists before he can protest and pins them above his head so he's stretched out before her like a strung up bird ready for plucking. He gapes at her, the slow, steady ascent to his orgasm dead as the shock takes over. 

“Jesus, Cas! Warn a guy!” He manages. 

Cas tilts her head at him, and her hips don't stop moving. They languidly rock in a figure of eight, as if by complete instinct. It's such a fucking insane sight. Better than the best porn he's ever seen. And he's seen some good shit. 

“I did. I told you there was something I wanted to try.” She replies, her grip around his wrists tightening. 

“Did you”- his voice squeaks. Try again. “Did you get this from the pizza man?” 

Cas’ expression darkens. She all but glares at him, moving her hips with building urgency. The bed creaks. She’s heavy on top of him. And god, he’s gonna come in her, isn't he? It's inevitable. Somehow, it's this inevitably which helps him hold back. Can’t come yet. Can’t come yet. 

“No, Dean. This… is the result of an amalgamation of reading. A mix and match, if you will.” 

“Uh, okay.” Dean says dumbly, his breath coming in pants again as she starts to ride him, pace increasing by the second. 

“Ah…” Cas closes her eyes momentarily, her grip on Dean’s wrists so hard she must be cutting off the circulation. “This… does it feel good for you, Dean?” 

“Fuck yes…” Says Dean, wishing he could plant both hands on her hips, hold her still, and fuck up into her until he spills. But that would defeat the point, wouldn't it? He’s supposed to be helping Cas here, not chasing his own release. Yeah. This is a - a teaching moment. 

“Me… me too…” Cas agrees. She lets go of Dean’s wrists, but he finds he can't move them. They're stuck there. Held by her Grace, he knows. He can't find it in him to protest. The restraint just slides the notch up that little bit further towards danger, which shouldn't be a turn on but absolutely is and has been for a long time now. It's been a long time since he's allowed himself to indulge his inner freak. Even a little bit. He hasn't gone for any kind of BDSM with a woman in a long, long time. Does Cas even know what BDSM is? God, he should probably tell her. He doesn't wanna take advantage of her - doesn't wanna - 

“Oh, Dean… I'm getting close again.” Cas whines, throwing her head back, her hair falling about her features with effortless Grace. 

“Fuck yeah. You gonna come on my dick, baby?” Dean can't help but reply, canting his hips up harder into her. “Want you to come like this. Please, Cas. Please come for me.” 

Her eyes fly open and she fixes him with such an intense look he's suddenly worried he's done something wrong. 

“Beg me. Beg me again, Dean. Beg me to come.” 

Oh my fucking god. Dean gazes at her, maybe for the first time in his life feeling something akin to worship as he easily gives in to her demand. 

“Please, Cas.” He begs helplessly. And he's not acting. “Please, baby. Come on me. Come on my dick. Fuck me until you come. Please, please”- when did he start whining? When did he let their roles flip so she’s the one in charge? He can't pinpoint the exact moment, he just knows he's entering this state - kind of like a trance. Like hysteria. Like utter bliss and disbelief all at once. And it's fucking incredible. His dick jumps, and he knows he probably only has thirty seconds or so before he's flying over the edge. 

“C’mon, Cas. Please. Please. I'm getting close too, you gotta come before me. Please, Cas. I'll do anything, I’ll do anything”- 

Her face breaks open in ecstasy. She leans back, breasts bared and fucking bouncing as she rides him so hard she might break his pelvis, bracing her hands on his knees as she shouts to the ceiling: 

“Yes, Dean! Yes! More - more - there - there - oh, there like that yes, yes, yes!” 

Cas’ hips snap down against Dean’s, filling the air with the obscene sound of flesh hitting flesh. The headboard rattles against the wall. He knows when she's coming because he feels her convulsing around his dick, the inside of her fluttering against him as the orgasm takes over. That's all it takes. 

Dean comes with a shout of his own, his cock jumping inside her as spurt after spurt of come flies out. His vision practically fucking whites out. There's a screeching sound somewhere, like bending metal, and another shatter as a window breaks and a strong, ocean scented breeze washes over them. 

Cas’ hips gyrate on top of him and she cries out her release until every drop has been squeezed out. When it’s over, she slides off him, spent, and they lie side by side. Breathing hard. Eyes shut. Covered in sweat and moisture and god only fuckin’ knows what else. 

“Fuck.” Dean says when he can catch a breath. 

“My sentiment exactly.” Cas quips from beside him, her voice low and scraped and so fucking sated he can't help but feel proud for bringing her to orgasm twice in such a small amount of time. 

They lie there for a moment in quiet, ecstatic disbelief. 

And then, 

“Shit. Cas, we didn't use a condom. I'm so”-

“It’s fine, Dean. You cannot impregnate me. I am also immune to any potential STI’s you may be carrying, so there's no need to worry.” 

Dean glances over at her. “And, uh… do I…? Have any…?”

The look Cas sends his way is unreadable. “You had one. I healed it a long time ago without telling you, to save you the embarrassment.” 

Well, shit. 

Heat rushes to his face. 

“I guess I should thank you.” 

“I think you already have.” Says Cas. 

Dean actually laughs. 

And then, silence.

Ah, shit. He thinks, for an altogether different reason now. Post-nut clarity or what? He needs a minute. To gather himself. To - 

“Bathroom.” 

“Dean, wait” -

“ Fucking - ow!” 

Blood pours from Dean’s foot. All over the floor. All over the white sheets. He forgot about the broken glass.

Cas scrambles to his side, leans over, and presses two fingers against his raised ankle. Dean grimaces at the sensation of his skin knitting back together. The glass on the floor vanishes. The windows repair themselves. 

Like it never happened.

Dean stares at her. 

She stares back. 

“...Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Dean.” Cas’ eyes are dark and intense. Her hair is a tangled mess. Her lips are swollen and bitten. 

He could kiss her like this. Just - because. 

“Bathroom.” Dean says again, making very little sense as he marches off to the en-suite, stiff legged.

He pees in a naked trance. 

You just fucked Cas you just fucked Cas you just fucked Cas. 

The mantra bounces around in his skull like a ping pong ball. His jaw aches from eating her out. His hips fuckin’ hurt, and when he looks in the mirror (no longer broken) it's to see the first blooms of colorful, dark bruises forming across his pelvic area and upper thighs. So he hadn't been imagining her clamping down on him. She really was like an anvil. 

Once again, Dean finds it impossible to be mad at the fact. 

He emerges back into the bedroom with his heart in his throat. 

Cas is lying mostly under the blanket now, watching him innocently. 

“Not much of my research went in depth about post-coital rituals, though I have been made aware it is common to smoke a cigarette after intercourse.” Her brow joins together. “I don't fully understand how the inhalation of tobacco links to sex but I'm happy to try it.” 

Dean snorts and does the only thing he can think of, which is joining her back in bed. 

“Yeah. I ain't huge on smoking. Tried it a few times ‘cause I thought it'd make me look cool but couldn't get past the taste.” 

Cas nods thoughtfully. “So what do you usually do?”

She looks up at him, leaning against the headboard, her chest fully exposed. Unselfconscious. Unaware. She doesn't try to hide. Dean tries not to get distracted. 

“Uh, I dunno… depends on the situation.” He shrugs. “Some chicks like to cuddle, I guess.” 

Cas perks up, sitting up straighter to face him in her all too intense way. 

“Is that recommended?” 

Dean is lost at sea. Completely bereft of any semi-intelligent thoughts as he gazes at her. 

“Depends.”

“On?”

“If you - like cuddling. I dunno.” 

“I don't know. I've never tried.” 

Kinda sad, Dean thinks. She's gone millions of years without cuddling. 

“It's, um. It can be. Nice.” Dean gets out, cringing at himself. “Unless the chick’s got frickin’ acrylic talons. Try cuddling up to a harpy. I’ve woken up more times than I’d like to admit with scratches the length of my arm.” 

Cas frowns. “I wasn't aware human women could have talons. Is that some kind of birth defect?” 

“No, I mean - y’know what? Nevermind. Just c’mere.” 

Dean throws his arm out in invitation before he can think better of the decision. Cas’ gaze slides to it blankly. 

“What are you doing.” 

Dean freezes. God, he’s stupid. This is so stupid. “Thought you wanted to - try”-

Cas’ expression becomes wide-eyed. Nearly panicked. Like when he - she - was in the brothel all those years ago. Completely locked up in terror at the prospect of sex. Dean doesn’t know how to equate that Cas with this one - the one who fuckin’ strapped him to the bed and gave him the best orgasm of his life. 

“I don’t know how. I’m sorry.” 

Her unexpected apology makes Dean lose some of the tension ratcheting up in his shoulders. Teaching moment, he reminds himself. 

“It’s cool, Cas. I’ll show ya. Look.” He scoots closer to her, vividly aware of the heat of her skin against his under the blanket, and winds his arm across her shoulders. 

“Then if we both lie down - and you just kinda - yeah, further - no, not that far, Jesus - okay. Just. Yeah. Head on my chest. Good.”

They end up in what Dean guesses is the best estimation of a cuddle he’s gonna get with her; lying on his back, her head on his chest, hair pooling all over his torso, her arm over his abdomen. His arm slots under her neck and his fingers brush up to her shoulder, cradling her close. It would be the picture of cuddling if she wasn’t stiff as a board. 

“Cas, you can relax.” 

“Is this correct?” 

“It’s - yeah. There’s no correct way, y’know? It’s just… whatever’s comfortable.” 

“...” 

The silence is loud. 

“You comfy, Cas?” 

“I… think so…” 

“Alright.” Dean concedes and then just - lays there. Staring up at the ceiling. This is the part where Dean would make some idle chit-chat. Or where either one or both of them would go to sleep. Or where, in particularly adventurous hook ups, they’d get going on round two. 

None of those things happen. They lie in awkward, crippling silence for what feels like a lifetime. 

“Your heartbeat has a much more assertive rhythm now compared to when I raised you.” 

Dean swallows hard. Okay, so maybe the odd hookup will put her head on his chest and make a cheesy comment about hearing his heartbeat or something, which Dean will always totally humor, but this is - 

Not that.

“What?” He croaks.

“I was worried I was doing something wrong,” Cas continues in the same even, velvety tone, her head pressed hard against his chest. “At first, your heartbeat was so weak. I thought: even for all of my power, all of my Grace, I cannot bring back a man who does not want to live. But a part of you did.” 

“‘Course I wanted to live, Cas.” Dean whispers, his throat tight. 

She hums doubtfully. “After the things you’d done in hell, you were resistant. My touch burned you. You were a creature of sin, almost entirely lost, but a small part of your humanity remained. I nurtured it back to health. I reminded your soul how it feels to stand in the sun, and an untainted shard reached back to me. Held me so close. So desperate and bright that I - I never expected”- her breath catches, and she stops. “I’m sorry, Dean. I will refrain from talking any more about this. Your heartbeat has become quite erratic.” 

Dean takes a second to find his voice. “S’okay.” 

Dean thinks, in the pregnant pause which follows, Cas’ arms tightens minutely against him. It’s hard to tell, though. 

It might not be anything at all.

Chapter Text

Dean stirs into semi-consciousness feeling… pretty great, actually. He’s laying on his side, and there’s a body tucked up against his front. He’s spooning some chick. Right… he hooked up last night, didn’t he? It was good, as well. Better than good. Best sex he’s ever had. Dean groans as the chick pushes her ass up against his morning wood - just a slow, gentle thrust which could easily be done in sleep. Oh fuck, yes, let's get this party goin’ he thinks, more than down for a repeat of last night. 

Dean squeezes the hip under his palm, earning him a soft sigh of pleasure from the body up against him. He likes that sound. ‘S a good sound. 

He wakes up a fraction more, getting with the programme his dick’s been edging him towards for some time now. Fuck, yes he loves morning sex. Morning sex just - makes the day that follows a little bit sweeter. It might be his favourite kind of sex, now he thinks about it. 

Eyes still shut, Dean tightens his grip on the girl under his hand and rocks his hips up against her soft, plump ass. His cock slides up along her cheeks easily. Whoever she is, she’s already wet, he registers. A pleasant, slow thump of arousal keeps his hips moving, and he coats his dick in the slick, wet heat between her ass cheeks. Just sliding up and along. There’s no hurry. No urgency. Just the two of them, moving together. 

“Oh, fuck, yeah…” Dean breathes, unable to stop the babble falling from his lips.

“...Dean…” The throaty groan which answers him is - familiar. Too familiar. She’s got a husky voice. A voice that made him beg last night. 

Please, Cas, I’ll do anything - I’ll do anything - 

Dean’s eyes snap open and he freezes. As he suspected, he’s met with a dark halo of hair millimetres from his face. The ass he’s squeezing is Cas’ ass. The thighs slipping around his dick are Cas’ - 

“Mmph… Dean… that’s good…” 

Dean moves. His face remains frozen in an expression of shock as the events of the previous night pour back in vivid, explicit detail, but he’s half asleep and his dick hasn’t got the memo yet and - 

Yeah. She’s right. This does feel good. 

Dean squeezes his eyes shut and just - lets his body move. He thrusts up against Cas, her entrance slick and hot against his dick. He could slide right in if he wanted to. She wants him to, that much is obvious.
Dean lets his hands choose what to do next. He guides his fingers up and along the velvety contours of her torso and dips them down until he’s got his palm up against her breast. He brushes his thumb over the hard peak of her nipple, earning him a husky moan. 

“Oh, yes. More - please…” She pants, and Dean just. Does it. He flicks her nipple with his thumb and forefinger. Gently rolls it between them. Strokes around it in circles as he lets his hips buck up between her ass and thighs. Soon, she’s gasping and moaning with every thrust. Dean pushes his forehead against her neck, breathing in her sweet, musky morning scent, and bites gently on her shoulder. His groans come out muffled against her skin. Her shoulder muscles tremble and jerk as she… as she… 

Dean opens his eyes and nearly comes on the frickin’ spot as he realises she’s touching herself. She’s got one hand grasped around his wrist, guiding him where she wants him to touch, and the other dipped between her legs where she plays with herself. Fast. Desperate. Fingers dancing over her clit. 

“Oh my fuckinggod”- Says Dean, and he can’t help the way his hips speed up. The last woman to masturbate in front of him - with him - was Lisa. And that was ‘cause they’d been together a while and she wasn’t shy. Most girls don’t - wouldn’t - 

But this is Cas. 

“God, keep going,” Dean pants, overcome with want for her, “that’s so - that’s so-"

“Sorry…” Cas whispers, eyes shut, brow screwed up in ecstasy, “I… couldn’t help…” 

“Oh, no, don't you dare apologize.” Dean pulls her tighter against him and now, fully awake, concentrates extra hard on touching her nipples. Varying the speed and pressure. He lets his dick push up against her where she’s started to open for him. God, it would be so easy… 

“...Can… Can I…?” He begins to ask.

“If you don’t, I might kill you.” Cas threatens, her voice practically a growl. Okay, then. Dean only has to nudge a little further before he’s entering her. She’s tighter than last night. He didn’t finger her open this time. But there’s not too much resistance, and he finds going slower only builds the tension wound tight at the base of his spine. 

Cas’ fingers speed up against her clit and she lets out a broken moan. “Oh, yes! More… please...!” 

Dean pulls in and out of her in tiny increments, not fully inside her yet but thrusting all the same. She feels like perfection around him. Like silk and water and a warm bath and every good moment in his life wrapped up into one sweet, sensual package. 

Cas groans and starts to turn onto her front. Dean follows, and then Cas is angling her hips up, thrusting her ass into him, and he's kneeling and inside her and they're fucking for real now. 

She doesn't stop touching herself. She snakes her hand underneath her to rub, fast and hard, against her clit as Dean slides all the way in. 

He grabs onto her hips for purchase and drives into her. Practically pounds. She cries out with every thrust, burying her face in the pillow. Her back is a mile of tanned, muscular, curved perfection. Dean reaches out and claws from her shoulder blades to the base of her spine. 

“Oh, Dean! Yes! Touch me there, again, again, please.” She moans, her entire body quivering under him. 

Dean doesn't understand it, but as soon as he places his palm between her shoulder blades, she practically howls in pleasure. 

“Dean - Dean - I’m going to - I’m going to-"

Fuck. 

She comes. Hard and shaking, with her fingers on her clit and his hand massaging the middle of her back. There's a burst of moisture at the base of his dick. A warm rush as her orgasm completes. He's getting close himself. Just a few more thrusts and he’ll - 

Cas pulls off of him, and his dick slips free.

Dean actually whimpers. Crawls up the bed to chase her. She swivels around on her hands and knees until she's facing him, eye-level with his cock. 

Then, without a word, she meets his gaze - pupils blown wide, eyes dark with want - and takes the head of his cock into her mouth. 

Dean folds in half as he's engulfed by the heat of her throat. 

“Holy fuck, Cas.” He grunts. His hands thread into her hair and he holds her still, overwhelmed for a moment. “Shit… Cas… you don't have to…” 

She pulls off him with a pop. “I want to.” She tells him, rough-voiced, looking fucking debauched. Her face is flushed and rosy. Her lips are plump and pink and so perfect Dean can't believe he hasn't kissed them this morning. She gazes up at him expectantly, before lowering her lips back to his cockhead, and sucks. 

It's divine torture. 

Cas doesn't take the full length of him. Not yet. She teases. Presses her tongue into the slit. Suckles delicately, all the while keeping her hooded eyes fixed firmly on his face. 

Dean doesn't know what his face is doing. Contorting in fuckin’ tormented ecstasy, probably. 

Both Cas’ hands are on his ass. They squeeze, and he follows the movement, letting himself move into her. 

Cas begins to bob her head. Her eyes flutter shut and she moans around his dick, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure up his spine. It’s sloppy and unpracticed, like she’s never done this before. And, yeah. Fuck. She probably hasn’t.

Dean tips his head back and closes his eyes, focusing solely on the incredible sensation of her gently sucking him. 

“Cas…” He whispers. “How the hell are you so… good at this?” She begins to move as if to answer. His hands tighten in her hair. “Rhetorical question.” He gasps out. “Don't stop.” 

And, god bless her, she doesn't. 

Every bob of her head brings her further and further down, and it isn't long before Dean feels the tip of his cock nudging the back of her throat. He cradles her face as he gently eases down into the tight channel. Thumbs her cheekbones. Brushes the strong shape of her jaw. “Oh god… fuck… gonna…” Dean starts. His balls start to draw up. The coil in his abdomen is unspooling, preparing to unleash - and he’s going to - in her mouth - 

Cas pulls off him, a frown appearing between her brows. “Sam is trying to reach me.”
What - 

What?!

Cas disappears with a flutter of wings. In the two seconds it takes her to return, Dean doesn’t know if he’s going to come or cry, but thankfully he doesn’t have to decide. 

She reappears, crouching in front of him on the bed as if she’d never left, and takes his cock back into her mouth, sucking him down hard before he can even begin to verbalize his confusion.

Dean’s head is a mess of: oh, fuck yes - and - Sam? What the fuck? Where did she just go? She can’t have gone to Sam… looking like this… surely - 

Cas takes him all the way down, apparently lacking a gag reflex, and before Dean knows it he’s coming down her throat. 

And not just the normal amount. It doesn’t fucking stop. 

His vision nearly fuckin’ whites out as he empties himself inside her, hips bucking, completely out of control, his hands tangled in her hair. 

She dutifully drinks him down. Continuously. And Dean can’t - this is insane - 

He pulls back and his dick slips out of her mouth, but he still isn’t done. Come lands across her face. Decorates her delicate, feathery brow. And Cas, instead of recoiling in disgust, tips her head back and lets Dean paint her with his spend. The last thick, white spurt lands across her plush, punished lips. And Dean doesn’t think. He just - bowls forward and kisses her. Tastes his own, salty bitterness on her lips. Catches her bottom lip between his teeth and devours her mouth and licks up against her tongue and takes and takes and takes. 

They only break apart, a trail of spit and come arcing in a bridge between their lips, because Dean remembers - 

“Cas. Tell me you didn’t go to Sam like that.” He begs, breathless. His pleasure haze interrupted by the horrifying possibility that his brother saw Cas naked and freshly debauched. 

She blinks at him. There’s a drop of his come on her eyelash. She looks - fucking filthy. Feeling kind of like a monster for reasons unknown (‘cause this isn’t the first time he’s come on a girl’s face) he uses the blanket to gently wipe the worst of it off. She closes her eyes and lets him. Totally unbothered. 

“Like what, Dean?” 

“You can’t be serious.” 

“Do you mean was I clothed? No. I arrived to him in the same state I left you in.” 

Dean drops the corner of the blanket. His stomach plummets with dread. “Shit.” So much for keeping this from Sam. “And… what did you… tell him?”

“I said that you and I were busy, and I’d fly us back to his room as soon as we’re done.” 

Dean exhales hard and tries not to panic. Pinches the bridge of his nose. 

Cas frowns. “It seems he’s already on his way. He’s using a device to track your phone. We’re in the motel across the road from him, so by my estimate he’ll be outside the door in about two minutes.”

“Fuck.” Dean swears, jumping up off the bed like he’s been electrocuted. “Fuck!” 

He bolts to the shower, horribly aware of the stickiness covering his body, but not before stopping on the threshold and shouting into the room:

“Get dressed. Now. And - fuck - can you bring my clothes back?”

“Okay, but Dean, why are you so–?”

Dean slams the bathroom door shut. He can’t - deal. With this. This isn’t.

It’s not good, is what it is. 

He showers quick. Military style. Tries not to hyperventilate. True to her word, Cas has made Dean’s clothes not only appear, but pop into existence folded and clean on top of the toilet seat. 

It’s just as well, ‘cause when he emerges from the bathroom Sam’s there. In the room. Looking slightly out of breath and bemused and furious all at once. 

“Uh. Hey, Sam.” Dean says, as if this is a completely normal turn of events. 

Sam’s answering expression puts real fear in Dean. 

“Hey. Can we talk?”

“We, um. We really should be gettin’ back”-

“Now, Dean. Outside.” 

Cas sits on the bed, fully dressed (small fuckin’ mercies) and watches them innocently. 

The room still smells like sex. 

“Cas, just - wait here.” Sam points at her. 

Resigned to his fate, Dean follows his brother outside. Yeah. Like a two inch thick door is gonna stop Cas from hearing their conversation. 

Dean scuffs his boots on the curb. Watches his breath puff out in misty swirls. A small ways away, he sees the sign for Pilkington Motel has bent and warped out of shape, and it now reads something like knton tel. 

The sound of bending metal from last night hits him like a soft punch to the face. He grimaces, and hopes Sam hasn’t noticed. 

“So? What?” He addresses Sam with a shrug. 

Sam’s face colors faintly pink, but his glare is unwavering. “I want you to look me in the eyes and tell me you didn’t do what I’m ninety-nine percent sure you did.” 

Dean scoffs. “Gonna have to be more specific, Sammy.”

Sam huffs and cards a hand through his hair. “Did you sleep with Cas?” 

Dean grimaces. Shit. “By sleep d’you mean…?” 

“You know damn well what I mean.” Sam presses, getting all up in Dean’s space. And Dean, defences down, resorts to the last get out of jail free card he’s got tucked up his sleeve.

“Why?” He smirks. “You jealous?” 

Instead of rolling his eyes, Sam actually looks disgusted. He takes a step back from Dean, shaking his head. 

“Dean, you - for crying out loud, man! I mean, I knew somethin’ was going on when Cas appeared in my room lookin’ all”- he flaps his hands - “but I - a tiny part of me hoped”-

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, Sam. It’s not a big deal. So, what? We hooked up. What’s new? She’s just chick of the week, okay? Don’t get used to it.” And the best sex I ever had, he deliberately does not say.

“But it’s Cas!” Sam cries. “And you - he”-

“It just happened! We didn’t exactly plan it. Can you stop acting like such a fuckin’ virgin for one goddamn second?” 

Sam’s face hardens. “Dean. That’s Cas in there. Our - your best friend.” 

“I know who she is, Sammy.” Dean argues, determined to put a huge full stop on this as soon as possible. 

Sam’s brows draw together. He scrutinizes Dean. “And what’s with all this ‘she’ stuff? Cas might look like a woman for now ‘cause of some spell gone wrong or some shit but he’s still”-

“Walks like a woman, talks like a woman, fucks like a woman.” Dean grins. “She’s a she, Sam. Get used to it and get over it.” With that, he turns on his heel and heads back to the room to collect Cas. He doesn’t need to go far. She’s right on the other side of the door. Her beautiful features are smooth. Marble-like. Icy. 

“I think I should leave.” She intones, not looking at Dean.

He shrugs. Hides his disappointment. ‘Cause shit, yeah. Sam was right. She is still Cas, after all. Always flyin’ off somewhere. 

“Alright. You’ll call us if you need anythin’ though, right?” 

And when she glances up at him and meets his eyes, hers are - sad. It’s the only word for it. Kicked puppy look. All downturned and petulant and dark, abyssal blue. The lust and unwavering determination to make Dean feel good and coy innocence are all gone. 

“Yes. I will call you if I need anything. Goodbye, Dean.” She tilts her head at Sam. “Goodbye, Sam. Thank you both for your help with the demons.” 

And with that, she disappears. 

Dean thinks, damn. If only I could’ve kissed her one more time. 

*

The drive back to the bunker is awkward to say the least. 

Dean sings along to Zepp. Curses at other drivers. Punches Sam’s arm when he sees a yellow car. 

Sam just glares at him. Mouth pressed in a hard, displeased line. He goes on his phone. Sighs loudly at every given opportunity. Grits out monosyllabic answers to every one of Dean’s questions. 

Around hour seven, Dean pulls into a gas station so they can pee, eat and swap places. Sam slams out of the car without a word to Dean. 

“Fuckin’ drama queen,” Dean mutters, going for the driver side door so he can fill up Baby and relieve the impending strain in his bladder. 

But the door. Won't. Open. 

Dean rattles the handle, instinct and panic blurring together as he realizes that either his car is broken or something is very very wrong. “What the…?” 

“Hey, Dean-o.” 

Dean jumps so hard he nearly hits his head on the roof. He goes for the gun he keeps in his inside pocket. 

Bad move. 

The handle heats up, glowing bright hot red in a millisecond and he's forced to drop it as the skin on his palm is nearly seared off.

“Holy fuckin’ shi–!”

A strong hand clamps over his mouth, and Dean finally gets a look at the intruder sitting in the passenger seat. 

Golden eyes twinkle back at him. 

Fucking Gabriel. 

“Ou umphin’ mph!” Dean complains. 

Gabriel wags his finger in Dean’s face. 

“Really, Dean? Blaspheming in front of an archangel? Your hubris knows no limits.” Gabriel smirks. 

The scent of ozone fills the car. Oh, yeah. It's him alright. 

“Now can I release you?” Gabriel teases. “You gonna be a good boy?” 

Dean scowls. He's got a couple angel blades stashed in Baby, but none of those will work on him. 

Gabriel removes his hand from Dean’s face. 

“You fucking feathered dick, what the fuck are you doing in my car?” 

Gabriel rolls his eyes. “Not a good boy, then.” 

“Answer the question, Gabriel.” Dean snarls. Like he has anything he can possibly use against this guy. Outside, time has stopped. Gas station patrons remain frozen, posed with cigarettes in hand, smoke painted mid-air in mesmerising patterns. Halfway to pouring a can of soda into their mouths. Mid-step. Mid-wave. They're stuck. Completely unaware of what's going on in the Impala parked right in the middle of the station. 

Gabriel chuckles. “Jeez, someone’s rattled your cage. But whatever, sure. Let's get into it.” 

He props his elbow against the dash, facing Dean, who's still recovering from the shock. 

His gaze is slightly more intense than his jovial tone would suggest when he says, “Three days.” 

Dean blinks at him, imagining all the things those words could mean. Three days, like, a three day trial? Three days until the end of the world? Until his death? 

He stares at him blankly. Gabriel rolls his eyes heavenward. 

“You've known the guy for over five years and it took you three. Frickin’. Days to get in his pants as soon as you realise he's got boobies. I mean–” he laughs, clapping his hands together. “I knew you'd get there but three days? Oh, it's golden. Truly. Thank you for not only proving me right but for exceeding my expectations altogether!” Gabriel continues to laugh, filling the car with his sinister mirth, and Dean feels his face growing hot. Allows a note of shame to distort the tempo of his heart. 

“How the fuck is that any of your business?” 

Gabriel raises a brow at him. “You're slow, Dean. But not that slow. Think about it.” 

Dean does. And then it clicks. 

“You - you turned Cas into a woman!” 

“Aaaaand he’s knocked it outta the park!” Gabriel cheers. “Well. It was mostly me. My idea, I mean. I had some help.” He flaps his hand. “Point is, I won the bet.” 

Dean would say a prayer for the thin grasp he has on his sanity if it wouldn't be heard by the motherfucker sitting right next to him. 

“You - bet on - on me and Cas - having se - why?” 

Gabriel snorts. “What, like you and mister profound bond over here haven't been dying to jump each other’s bones since day one? I know you, Dean. Others might buy your mysterious, brooding angsty no one understands me crap but not me. You just needed an excuse. A vagina shaped one.” 

Dean gapes at him, for once at a total loss for words. 

“I - you–”

“But it seems you haven't learned your lesson yet, have you?” Gabriel narrows his eyes at him. “You, Dean Winchester, are far too chipper for my liking and that has to be rectified.” 

“Whatever it is you're planning, I will come down on you like a ton of fuckin’ bricks.” Dean growls. “Sam and I will both–”

Gabriel waves him off. “Please. You'll see me again. Real soon, actually, so save your gripes. ‘Til then, happy hunting!” 

Gabriel flies off with a wink and a click of his teeth, and Dean could actually - will actually - kill the bastard. 

Not before checking all his limbs are still intact. They are. He pats himself down. Examines his face in the rearview mirror. All good. All in order. 

The door handle works again. He gives Baby a once over, circling her and checking under the hood. She's fine. Suspiciously untouched. 

Sam returns a minute later, arms bundled with some green lookin’ shit and a few packs of jerky. 

“Uh… Dean?” 

Dean considers telling him that Gabriel was just here, but thinks the only thing worse than him knowing he slept with Cas last night is him knowing archangels were taking bets on it. So, wisely, he keeps his mouth shut. 

“S’fine. Thought I heard a weird noise comin’ from the engine.” 

Sam accepts this without argument, and climbs back into the car. Driver’s side this time. There's a beat where Dean just stands there, still bewildered and cheesed off from his encounter with Gabriel, and Sam gives him an exasperated look through the windshield. 

“You gonna piss or what, dude?” 

Dean glowers right back but marches towards the gas station anyway. He piles his arms high with snacks. Pie for later. All the shit he likes. 

When he gets back to the car, Sam’s gone right back to ignoring him. Fine. Whatever. Dean tries to sleep while Sam drives. Finds the insane paranoia keeps him awake. ‘Cause what the fuck did Gabriel mean, he’ll see him soon? And, what? He turned Cas into a woman just to get Dean to fuck him - HER? 

It makes no sense. It's fucking stupid and terrible and reminds Dean why the hell he never should have let himself get involved with angels in the first place. 

No matter how good they are in bed. 

*

Dean flops down onto his memory foam, finally alone, but exhausted and bothered. Gabriel’s words rattle about in his skull like moths trapped in a lampshade. He needs to talk to someone about this. Not Sam. Sam will just - make it worse. In his judgy, I can't believe you slept with your best friend sort of way. What, like he's never slept with someone he shouldn't have? Dean seethes about it as he leans back in bed, considering. ‘Cause there really is only one mode of action he can take here. 

Ignoring the pit of anxiety in his gut, he says:

“Cas, I need–”

A breeze ruffles his hair and lifts the blanket. Cas stands next to his bed, gazing down at him, impassive. 

“I'm here, Dean. What do you need?” 

She's glorious. Even more beautiful than his crappy human memory serves. It's not dark in here, his bedside light is on, but he could swear she just kind of. Glows. Has she always done that? 

“You always come when I call, huh?” He jokes. And it comes out sounding less like a joke and more of an endearment. 

“Yes.” Cas answers plainly. 

Dean nods. Manages to tear his gaze away from her. 

“So, your brother paid me a visit.” 

Cas’ hands curl into anxious fists at her side. Dean doesn't need to clarify which brother he's talking about. 

“...I see.” 

She glares at the opposite wall, hooded eyes glacial. 

“Did you know?” Dean asks roughly, feeling weirdly vulnerable sat on his bed. He stands up when she hesitates. Towers over her, their new height difference giving his words more weight. “Did you know about the bet?” 

She looks up at him, a frown catching. “Bet? No. I didn't know there was a bet. I knew his intentions were to push me towards you, but I–”

“What and you just went with it?”

“But I never expected those intentions to come to fruition!” Cas speaks over him, raising her voice, her gaze hard and unforgiving. Okay, yeah. She's pissed. At him for some reason. 

Dean takes a step back. “Right, so maybe we shouldn't have–”

“Do you regret it?” Cas asks, clipped. 

They watch each other. Dean studies her face. The sharp edge of her jaw. Her abyssal, Pacific glare. The plush outline of her lips. He remembers how she tastes. Her mouth. The sweet, hot, wet arousal between her thighs. Gets hard just thinking about it. Her moans and cries still ring in his ears when he closes his eyes. 

“No.” Says Dean, lowering his voice. “I don't regret it.” He thinks it's the truest statement he's made in days. Maybe longer.

Cas’ shoulders stiffen and a flicker of surprise breaches the marble facade. 

“I heard you. Talking to Sam.” She tells him, her voice like a barb. “What you said, about…” she trails off, ducking her head. Like she's shy or - or upset. 

Dean suddenly remembers his words to Sam:

Walks like a woman, talks like a woman, fucks like a woman… she’s just chick of the week. 

Oh. Crap. 

“Cas, I - I said that shit to get Sam off my case. I was just bein’ - I was bein’ a dick on purpose. Trying to… I dunno.” He flaps his arms. “Throw him off the scent or whatever.” 

She tilts her head at him. “What scent? Sam knows we had intercourse. What is there left to hide?” 

And ain't that just the question. 

Dean licks his lips. Flicks his eyes between hers. 

“Look, do - do you regret it? ‘Cause we can just forget about this, Cas. If it's easier, we can forget. Never mention it again.” 

Truthfully, he can't think of anything worse. He wants his hands in her hair again. Wants her thick, muscular thighs clamped around his head. Wants to kiss her and lick into her mouth and moan her name. Hear her moaning his. 

“It would be easier to forget.” She agrees blankly, crushing something in his chest. The small implosion causes him to fold inward, shoulders curling down as he turns away from her. 

“Yeah… yeah, I. I thought you might say something like that.” 

Dean hears a sharp intake of breath behind him. 

“But I can't.” A resounding beat follows her words. Dean doesn't move, except to slowly turn back towards her, hope unfurling like a forbidden flower in the empty space the implosion left behind. “I now have to live with the knowledge of what you feel like inside my vessel. I will never be able to forget how your lips feel against mine. Or how they feel between my legs, your tongue pressing me open.” 

Dean’s breath catches. She says it in such a perfunctory, measured tone. No self-consciousness whatsoever. “I know how you feel when you come apart. Quivering, trembling underneath my hands and my mouth. I have memorized the rhythm of your ejaculate. It's rather plentiful, by the way. Certainly above the statistical national average.”

He stares at her, speechless. 

“So, yes, Dean. It would be easier to forget. But I can’t. It is not in my nature to forget.” She swallows. He follows the movement of her throat. Then she holds up two fingers and steps closer towards him. “Would you like to forget, Dean? I can take it all away from you. I… I will, if you ask me to.” 

From the way she holds her shoulders and the sorrowful angle of her brow, Dean can tell she wants nothing less than to take away his memories of their time together. If they never do this again, he wants to hold onto the memory of that night (and morning) until his dying breath. 

“Hell no.” It comes out gruff. Dripping with arousal. Arousal and - an emotion he can't recognize. Doesn't want to recognize. It's too close to home. Too close to the times he almost lost Cas before. Whatever it is, it certainly doesn't belong in the bedroom. Not in this context. He shoves it aside and takes a bold step closer, lowering his chin so his nose brushes against the top of her head, feathery dark hair tickling his lips. She smells divine. Like something he could absorb and scent forever. He'd never get tired of it, he thinks, letting his eyes close for a moment as he breathes her in. The air between them is charged. Electric and tingling like a spell in the midst of its casting. 

Both of her hands reach up, brushing lightly against his arms. Goosebumps erupt over his entire body. He doesn't think he's ever been touched so gently. 

Then, her hands seize his shoulders. She holds him still. 

“Dean. Kneel.” 

Dean thinks his heart stops. Momentary cardiac arrest. It’s not like it would be the first time. 

Before he’s even made up his mind to obey, his legs do it for him. He sinks to the floor, never taking his eyes off her. Then she's standing above him. All trenchcoated authority, her expression implying this command is not one to be argued with. 

Dean decides in that moment she could tell him to do anything in that husky, onerous tone, and he'd do it. 

She cocks her head to the side, considering him. The concrete floor is hard and unforgiving under his rapidly deteriorating knees. He really should get a carpet or something, he thinks. For now, the pain barely registers. 

“No. Not there.” She hums, like she's rearranging furniture. “On the bed. Kneel on the bed, Dean.” 

He's a marionette, and she's pulling the strings. The command, heavy with intention, weighs between them. Saturates the air they breathe. Sinks into the walls and makes this a place of worship. I would worship her, Dean thinks as all his blood rushes to his dick. The single command effectively lobotomizes him ‘cause he can't think of anything except doing whatever she frickin’ demands. Is it magic? Angel mojo? He doesn't know. Doesn't care, he realizes. He just needs this. Needs her. 

The duvet is soft and springy under his poor neglected knees. The memory foam compresses under his weight. 

Cas walks around the bed, scrutinizing him, heels clicking, calm and measured. 

“On your hands, too.”

Jesus Christ. 

Dean drops his hands onto the bed, falling into the tabletop pose. On all fours. Just ‘cause she asked him to. 

The apprehension is driving him crazy. What's she gonna do? Spank his ass? 

Kinda doesn't sound too bad. 

Heat floods Dean’s face at the thought. He keeps his eyes determinedly on the plain, khaki sheets. 

Cas walks over to the foot of the bed, facing him.

“Look at me, Dean.” She tells him gently. 

He does. And he isn't prepared for the force of the smack she unleashes across his face. The noise claps like thunder around the room. One entire side of his face burns, and unfortunately, it goes right to his dick. The shock of it only fuels his tense state of arousal. 

He hisses. With the pain. With the need to relieve the pent up strain already building between his legs. 

“That's for the words you said to Sam.” Cas tells him.

Yeah.

He deserved that. 

He deserved worse. 

Then, removing the pain with a lick of cool, aloe Grace, she strokes his cheekbone with the back of her fingers. 

Dean sighs, flushing at the vulgarity of his own words to Sam. “M’sorry, Cas.”

“You're forgiven.”

He believes her. She doesn't remove her hand. She gazes at him, like she's trying to solve a complicated equation. 

“The other night, you showed me how mortals have sex.” She says matter of factly. “Tonight, I'd like to show you how I–” she pauses, conflicted. “How an angel might bring you pleasure. If that's - if I–”

“Yes.” Dean breathes in a rush. He wants nothing more than to get fucked by Cas right now. Wait, what? What he means, is he wants nothing more than to fuck Cas. Yeah. That's right. Not the other way around. ‘Cause she - ‘cause that's - 

Still on his hands and knees, he considers what he wants from her. Or rather, how he wants it from her. It's hard to parse out. A myriad of fantasies flash behind his eyelids, each one more tantalising than the last. 

A small, powerful smirk lights up Cas’ features then. 

“Dean, I am going to make you come without touching you.” 

A short, hard huff escapes him. Of shock. Pure want. Maybe a little bit of fear. 

“Okay.” He croaks. 

Cas sheds her trenchcoat. It drops to the floor in a pile, disregarded. She rolls up her sleeves, her perfect tan forearms on display. Dean doesn’t know why he half expects to see a layer of dark hair on them. Some veins. Muscle. There is that, but it's - it's subtle on her now. Not like how he remembers. 

That's ‘cause you knew Cas as a dude first, with big beefy tanned arms, his traitorous inner monologue says. The thought shouldn't - should NOT - make him harder. 

Cas is a hot woman. An attractive, sexy, beautiful woman. The man thing was temporary. She doesn't even care about that stuff. Woman, girl, chick, that's what she is now, and that's all that matters. Yeah. 

Dean tells himself that when he meets her eyes again and hears Cas’ old, gravelly voice. The way he said his name. Like a prayer. Dean. 

“Dean.” Says Cas. Hm. Not quite the same. But that's good. This is better. Lighter. Not as - as gruff. Not as confronting. 

“Cas… what should I…?”

A jolt like lightning sparks in Dean's lower belly. It's like the shock of a quick, unexpected orgasm, but it's over before he can think to process it. His dick jumps in his jeans, confused and maddeningly hard. 

“What the–”

“Be quiet, Dean.” Cas commands, her eyes and voice cast in steel. 

Dean shuts his trap. His heart beats against the cage of his ribs hard enough to bruise. He's hot all over and, just like last time, he can't believe this is happening. 

“Close your eyes.” She tells him softly.

“But I wanna see you.” He blurts. Biting his lip after but the statement’s already out there. However instead of punishing him with another shock of ecstasy, she chuckles. Low and dark. Dean’s not sure he's ever heard Cas make that sound before. It's taunting. Borderline fucking sadistic. 

“You lost that privilege when you said those degrading words. I'm afraid you'll have to earn it back.”

Dean almost says, I thought I was forgiven, but something tells him this is all part of riling him up. Part of the pleasure somehow. She's pushing his buttons. Testing him. Seeing what makes him tick. She doesn't know that it doesn't matter. Everything she does seems to be working for him. She could start reciting poetry and he'd probably come in his pants. 

Dean closes his eyes. His next exhale quivers. 

Cas brushes his lips with her fingertips. 

“Good. Now stay silent for me. I don't want to hear a single sound, no matter what you feel.” 

She touches him. Or rather, something touches him. Dean’s t-shirt slides up along his back as it's pulled off. It bunches up around his neck and over his head before dropping over his arms, pooling around his clenched fists in the sheets. 

At the same time, his fly is zipped down and his jeans shuffle down his legs and fold up above his ankles. The denim tickles his oversensitive skin. 

He is slowly, carefully undressed by too many hands. The hands, whether they're real or Grace, don't stop their ministrations. They flatten and run over his skin. They’re cool, unlike flesh. Inhuman. They remind Dean of the flat of a paddle, but too soft to be wood. Some touches brush up along the inside of his elbows. The back of his knees. The nape of his neck. The firmer ones press along his flanks and the backs of his thighs, deliberately avoiding the curve of his ass. Each touch is slow. Meaningful. Considering. Dean grits his teeth, craving the mindless speed and wanton abandon of their last fuck. This is edging towards a massage. 

Doesn't make him any less turned on though. If anything it's worse. The tension ramping up in his body with every cool slide of the Grace hands is making him insane. The cord in the pit of his abdomen is clamped tight. Vibrating. He needs a quick release. Not this torture. 

Maybe Cas enjoys torturing him. 

“Cas…” He begs. For the second time in his life. 

“You're wondering if I like this. If I've wanted this.” Says Cas, her voice in the gutter. It still doesn't reach anywhere near the depth of her old pitch, but it has the same effect on Dean. He shivers from the nape of his neck to his toes. 

“How did you–?”

“I hear your prayers. Always.” She tells him. “A breath of longing in the wind is enough. It doesn't have to be a direct prayer. I know you've wanted this - wanted me since…” she hesitates. Dean hears her audibly swallow. “You’ve wanted this version of me since you saw it.” She finishes, and if Dean wasn't strung up, plunged into the variable darkness behind his eyelids, he'd probe into the note of discontent in her statement. But he is, so he doesn't. 

He agrees with a miniscule nod, eyes screwed up tight. Her heels clack against the hard, unforgiving concrete. 

She comes to stand by his left. “You have shown me things, Dean, no other human has.” 

Is she referring to the sex? ‘Cause that’s - not entirely true. Cas had sex with April, he remembers again with a bitter twist in his gut. 

He opens his mouth to reply. A Grace hand clamps down over his mouth. Or maybe it's her real hand. No, it’s - it’s a Grace hand. It has that slippery, silky sensation. He has the weirdest urge to lick it. To taste it. 

“I've let you speak enough.” Cas tells him. “You're going to be quiet for me now.” 

Jesus fucking Christ. 

This is, like, some dominatrix shit, right? Dean tries to imagine Cas trussed up in leather and latex and lace, a riding crop in her hand. Red lipstick smeared across her full, plush lips. It would work for someone else. Not Cas. She's just - hot enough as she is. The get-up would detract from her serious, sincere nature. Wouldn't make sense. 

He longs to open his eyes. Gaze at her. Meet the fathomless blue and beg her for release. Make it quick. Make it so I don't think about it. 

Dean gasps, every thought torn from him as the Grace hands swiftly slide down over his ass and cup his balls. Another traces down his abdomen, right towards his full, engorged cock. 

Dean bites his lip hard enough to taste copper. The whimper in his throat doesn't make it past the barrier of his skin. Every muscle in his body tenses as the Grace hands stroke and fondle and tease. 

Cas takes the hands everywhere. His ass. His nipples. The vee of his groin where the nerves begin to cluster and fire in anticipation. His dick bobs obscenely between his thighs, brushing against his clenched abdomen. Pre-come dribbles and hangs in slippery ropes, pooling on the sheets. 

One hand - finger - whatever - presses against the smooth stretch of skin between his dick and his ass. 

Occasionally, when Dean’s feeling brave and too far gone into his jerk-off sessions to care, he’ll grind a knuckle here. Right up against where he knows the sensitive gland sits.

It feels like nothing else. And the Grace hands aren't self-conscious. Aren't hesitant. They don't bite back a guilty cry like Dean does when he does this to himself. 

His vision kaleidoscopes, and a burst of pleasure blooms at the base of his spine. This time, a noise does escape Dean. A cut-off, strangled moan.

He bucks against thin air, his dick close to straight up fucking exploding if it isn't touched soon. 

Cas exhales. A brief, reverent sound filled with sadistic amusement. 

“Oh… you like that. Don't you, Dean?” 

It's a test. She's testing him. He nods in the dark, using the last shreds of his will not to speak or open his eyes. 

“Would you like me to do it again?” 

Dean all but moans with how much he doesn't just want - but needs - her to get him off. He remains perfectly still. Obedient, despite the jangling protests from the tiny, rational side of his brain left, at once successfully overpowered by the sensations roving across his skin. He waits for the press to return, for her to give his prostate some attention. 

When she does, he can’t hold back the broken groan that’s ripped from his throat. He quivers, arms trembling, veins on fire. 

A light shines behind his eyelids. Blue-gold unmistakable Grace. 

He thinks, sometimes, of all the magic he’s seen, all the glimpses of beauty in the horror, Cas’ Grace is the most beautiful thing of all.

He just didn’t know it was also capable of this. 

Grace hands press rhythmically over that sensitive stretch of skin now. Perfect, almost vibrating undulating motions. And then, finally, that cool, velvet ecsasy encases his neglected, throbbing cock. 

The whine Dean releases is inhuman. Later, he’ll pretend he didn’t make that noise. That he isn’t capable, but for now, it’s impossible to hold back. Every muscle in his body locks up and trembles as the peak of his orgasm finally, finally crests over the edge, and he comes all over the bedspread as stars burst behind his eyes and every coherent thought is wiped clean as the Grace hands milk him dry. 

When it’s over, he goes to collapse.

“Stay still.”

The command has an instantaneous effect. 

Dean freezes. He’s shivering, teeth rattling in his skull, aftershocks rippling up his spine. His dick becomes heavy and sated between his thighs, every brush of it against his skin firing with oversensitivity. Yet he remains on all fours, eyes closed. Just because Cas told him to. 

“Cas.” He begs. A whisper. 

Heels clack. Closer. “Open your eyes.” 

Dean does. They’re heavy, as exhausted as the rest of him. Gummy and stinging with tears which gathered there before he could stop them. 

Cas is untouched. A perfect, implacable being. Her wild dark hair frames marble, angular features. Her pupils are blown out, eyes dark with intent. Her lips are slightly parted. Dry. Always too dry. She tilts her head at him, considering. 

“Now, when you try to compare me to other women you’ve bedded, I hope you will remember this.” She’s shrewd. Calm. The very opposite of Dean. 

It’s taking every last bit of his will not to collapse onto the come-soaked sheets. That’s what this was? A lesson? 

He shouldn’t be surprised. Cas has always done this. Tried to teach him things via strange and unconventional means. He should have seen it coming. Even sex, to Cas, contains a lesson to be learned. Perhaps even a punishment. It certainly feels like one now as Dean remains upright, coated in sweat and his own semen. 

Cas comes closer, and for an exhilarating second Dean thinks she might slap him again. She gently touches his brow, and instead of pain or toe-curling pleasure, Dean is left feeling as if he's taken the most thorough shower of his life. The sweat, come and tears vanish. His clothes return, intact, onto his body. Even they smell freshly washed. 

Limbs like jelly, Dean slowly sits back on his haunches, swallowing as the blue-gold light of Grace fades from Cas’ eyes. 

“Um. Thanks.” ‘Cause what the hell else is he supposed to say? 

She nods in acknowledgement, and goes to turn away. 

“You're leaving?” He blurts. 

She faces him, one brow raised. “Yes. Unless there was something else you wanted to tell me.” 

Dean’s completely forgotten about the conversation which led up to this moment. He'd planned to kiss her. To thread his fingers into her silky hair and muss it all up, before fucking her until the only word on her lips was his name. 

He wants to ask her to stay. To sleep with him. Not - not fuck him. Just… lie next to each other. He tries to remember when it was he got so cuddly. 

“No.” He says finally, his voice weighted with meaning he hopes she doesn't hear. 

Cas eyes him for a moment, expression inscrutable, then disappears with a flap of wings. 

Dean watches the empty space where she stood for a whole minute, before collapsing onto his back with a heartfelt, “fuck.” 

*

Dean dreams of a mountain. 

Which kinda sucks ‘cause he hates hiking and heights are even worse. Thankfully, though, he's at the base of it. A tall, jagged, imposing thing composed of stone unfamiliar to him. He's surrounded by pale, leafy trees. The soil beneath his feet is more like sand, and it's hot. Like, Dallas in the summer hot. 

He doesn't recognize this place. He doesn't even think he's in America. 

Dean shrugs, and starts to walk through the dry underbrush. ‘Cause dream logic, right? Better to go with it and see what happens. 

Dean barely makes it a few paces before a sharp, sudden pain in his ankle makes him jump back in fright. It's followed by a fearsome hiss. 

A cold sweat breaks out over his body. He's been bit. By a fucking snake. 

“Shit, shit shit shit shit”- Dean swears and glances around for - anything. There's nothing. Just him, some parched looking shrubs and the snake rising from the ground. Its hood flares open as it hisses menacingly at him, holding three quarters of its impressive girth aloft by sheer, incredible strength. 

It's some kinda cobra. Fuck. Can these things kill? Dean doesn't know. He's spent so long studying monsters that he doesn't know what dangers to look for in the more pedestrian predators of the world. It never occurred to him he could be taken out by one of them. 

“You mortals never look where you're going.” The snake says. 

Dean glares at it. “You didn’t have to bite me.” He snaps back, affronted. 

“I often find I do,” the snake intones in a garish, British accent, “lest you creatures never get the message.” 

Dean holds his sore ankle up, hopping on one foot. 

“Is it poisonous? Did you poison me?” He tries not to sound as horrified as he feels. The idea of dying from something as arbitrary as a snake bite is - humiliating.

“The word you're looking for is venomous and no, Dean Winchester. It is not. It is medicine. A medicine you desperately need.” 

How the hell d’you know my name? Whaddya mean, medicine? And a hundred other questions bubble to Dean’s lips. Somehow, the only one he manages is:

“Who are you?” 

The snake bobs its head. Startling green. Huge. He's never seen a snake like it. 

“Alas, I am reminded how forgetful you beings are.” The snake sighs. Because here, in Dean’s dream, they can apparently do that. “My name is A…” The snake’s voice becomes muffled as Dean wakes up and the dream dissolves, as dreams do. The mountain disappears, then the ground and, finally, the snake. What replaces it is an irritating, monotonous vibration. 

*

Dean slaps his hand blindly around in the sheets as he searches for his phone. The alarm persists, buzzing from somewhere unreachable. Finally, he finds it on the floor near the foot of his bed and shuts it off. 

Christ. 

He blinks up at the blackness above him. Underground dark. It's darkness like nothing else. Comforting, when he first got here. A welcome change from the flimsy blinds and translucent curtains hanging, usually broken, from motel windows. 

Now it reminds him of the grave. 

With that thought, Dean gets up and at ‘em. He hops out of bed, light on his feet, weird dreams all but forgotten. 

Wiping his eyes of sleep, he blearily makes his way down the corridor to the bathroom. The bottom of his t-shirt flaps against his thighs as he walks. The fuck? He must have accidentally put on one of Sam’s stretched out things last night. Got it mixed up in the laundry. He doesn't remember going to bed noticing it being this oversized. Then again, his mind was pretty wiped after Cas -

After Cas did what she did. 

The memory makes something in his boxers twitch, but it doesn't feel - 

He frowns at the sensation. It doesn't feel like it usually does, and he's suspiciously lacking morning wood. 

Whatever. A nice, hot shower will get him going. 

He staggers to the bathroom sink and turns on the faucet, ready to splash his face with cold water. 

Either he's going crazy, or someone's moved the sink. It's higher. Not too high for him to reach, but he bashes his wrist against the porcelain as his muscle memory gets the height wrong. 

Same with the mirror, which is all steamed up after Sam’s post-run shower. 

Dean scowls. The fuck is goin’ on? 

He slaps cold water over his face, blinking away the droplets, and reaches out to swipe the condensation off the mirror. And what he sees it - 

Not him. 

Sure, they're his eyes. Green as ever. Same shape. But his face, is… 

Smaller. Yeah. Daintier. His nose is an elegant slope, a pinch in the middle of his face, and it's like someone's shaved down his jaw so it's all soft and subtle. Dean brings a trembling hand to his face. His skin is crazy soft. There's no morning stubble. No five o’clock shadow. Not even any goddamned peach fuzz. Just soft, hairless skin decorated with freckles which, without the threat of a beard, stand out even more than usual. 

His mouth drops open above the delicate point of his chin. His hair’s longer, too. Dark blond and cut like a short, shaggy mullet thing which frames his features in what could only be called a feminine manner. The ends stop just below his jaw, brushing against his neck. It’s ticklish. He sticks his hand in his hair and runs his fingers through the straight, silky length. 

No. No. 

“Sammy!” 

Dean yelps at the sound of his own voice. Light and thin and several octaves higher than usual. “Holy fucking shit.” Oh, god. Oh, fuck. 

Dean glances down and, sure enough, poking through the flat expanse of his t-shirt, are two soft mounds on his chest. He's got fuckin’ boobs. 

Dean is - he’s a - 

He's a frickin’ chick. 

Chapter Text

Dean sits at the kitchen table, hunched over himself. Feet bare, he could just about muster the will to swaddle himself in the dead guy robe (which fuckin’ drowns him). There's a steaming coffee placed artfully in front of him. Sam hovers nearby, at a clueless loss, while Dean considers throwing himself off the nearest bridge. 

Sam had come running as soon as Dean had shouted, of course, but had been able to do little more than gape in bewilderment at Dean’s new… form, before Dean had run off and slammed his bedroom door shut. It took nearly an hour of coaxing, pleading and reassuring to get Dean to open the door even a crack, and even longer to convince him to come to the kitchen. 

And when he speaks, it’s - 

“I can't live like this, Sammy.” Dean croaks in the lowest pitch he can with this voice. It's not low enough. Nowhere near. It sounds like a girl’s imitation of a guy. A dumb one. 

“We’ll figure this out.” Sam tells him for the hundredth time, placing a bowl of something green and unappetising in front of him. “Just eat up and we’ll call Cas and--"

“Do NOT call Cas.” Dean protests, his insides going cold. “She can't see me like this - she–” 

Sam shakes his head at him. “Dean, Cas isn't gonna be freaked out by - this.” He clears his throat at Dean's withering glare. “He - she could help us. She's been through this, remember?” 

Dean should tell Sam about Gabriel. He should. 

Instead, he glares at the coffee and the food, and clamps his legs shut. ‘Cause there's another pressing issue he has to take care of. 

His frickin’ bladder. 

But how the fuck is he supposed to do that, now he has a - a -? 

Dean puts his fist over his mouth and closes his eyes as the reality dawns. He's a girl. He's got a fuckin’ vagina. And boobs. And - whatever else girls have. A womb. Ugh. 

But he really, really needs to piss. 

Hating himself, but hating the situation even more, Dean says,

“Sam. Um. Could you, um… come with me? Please?”

Sam’s brows are drawn together in careful, confused sympathy. 

“For what, Dean?” He asks softly. 

“Just - stand outside the bathroom while I. Please. Don't make me spell it out.” 

Sam frowns at him for a second longer before his expression widens into one of realization. 

“Right! Right, sure. Want me to come in with–?”

“NO.” 

Now, dead guy robe cinched so tight Dean’s aware of how much smaller his waist has become, he stares down at the toilet bowl in front of him, heart hammering. 

He knows he's gotta - sit down. Which is. Weird. But not that weird, right? He does it all the time when he has to shit, so it's not so different. 

But the sensation - what it's gonna feel like - 

“Y’okay in there?” Sam calls from the hallway. 

“Fine.” Dean grits out. He sounds like he did before his voice broke. Thirteen years old. 

Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, Dean decides to just. Pull off the band aid. 

He shoves down his boxers (which now loosely hang on his hips), swishes up the robe and sits down. 

Peeing is. An experience. It's a lot less… detached-feeling now. He can feel it. The warmth of it. Feels wrong. Like he's getting it on himself.

Teeth gritting so hard they might break, Dean empties his bladder and goes to tuck himself back in before he remembers he actually has to use something to wipe himself off. And that there's nothing to tuck in. 

“Oh, god. Oh god.” Dean whispers in quiet hysteria as he gets a whole wad of toilet paper and wraps it around his hand, before gingerly dabbing at the area. 

It feels - so weird. So sensitive. And there's so much to it. Like a whole frickin’ geography. Dean’s seen many a vagina before, but having one is a whole different ball game. 

He swallows, wide-eyed, at the back of the cubicle door. Tiles cold beneath his bare, much smaller feet. 

Dean finishes up and quickly pulls his boxers back up, before flushing and opening the bathroom door to wash his hands. 

“Hello, Dean.” 

Dean screams. Like, actually full-on girl screams. ‘Cause waiting outside the door for him is -

“C-Cas?” 

Cas blinks at him. “Yes… Sam called. Are you–” she frowns. Rakes him up and down with her eyes. Her brow relaxes and a slight horror dawns. “Oh… you’re–”

“A freakin’ girl. Yeah.” Dean snaps, shoving past Cas to wash his hands. “And you!” He yells at the door. “Traitor. I told you not to call Cas.” 

A sheepish silence answers from the hallway. Cas’ heels click against the tiles. 

“Dean.” It’s soft. Reproachful. “Are you… alright?”

Dean grips the edges of the sink, glaring at his small, bony hands. He thinks, somewhere distantly, that maybe his anger is unwarranted. That this is no one's fault except Gabriel’s, who really needs to pay for this. But not before turning him back. Them both back.

Which would mean Cas wouldn't be a woman anymore. Which would mean… 

No. This isn't the time to be selfish, Dean thinks. Shit’s gotta be put right. He's had enough of this Freaky Friday crap. 

“How do we summon Gabriel?” He grits out. 

Silence meets him. 

The bathroom door swings open. “Gabriel? Why d’you wanna summon him?” Sam asks, dumbfounded. 

Cas remains obtusely quiet. 

“We - I–” Dean sighs. Closes his eyes. Starts again, and tries not to concentrate on the high voice which sounds every time he speaks. “I'll explain later, Sam. I might’ve… left some details out about. This.” 

Sam’s answering expression tells him he's one more conversation away from leaving Dean to deal with this on his own. 

“Explain now.” Sam demands. “I haven't been up for hours doing research just so you can hit me with this crap. I don't care how embarrassed you are, Dean, you have to tell me what's going on.”

Dean glares at him. Cas frowns. 

“Sam, why were you researching? Dean didn't transform until this morning.”

Sam gives a sheepish grimace. “M’sorry, Cas, I know you told us you didn't care about being a woman but I–” he rethinks whatever he was going to say, “I decided to look for a solution anyway. Just in case.” 

Cas stares at the floor, her posture rigid. “You shouldn't have done that.” 

“Well, too late now. And it doesn't matter anyway.” Sam flaps his hand. “‘Cause apparently it was Gabriel this whole damn time. Would’ve been nice to know before.”

Dean mutters something under his breath about Sam’s own track record with lies by omission before Cas steps in. 

“Let's meet in the library.” She suggests. “I'll help Dean gather himself–”

“The fuck, I don't need help–”

“-and then we’ll come to you, Sam. Okay?” 

Jaw clenched, Sam nods. 

Dean doesn't care if he's pissed. 

He cares his dick is missing and he's got boobs now, and he can't really think very far beyond those two things. 

As soon as Sam leaves, Cas places her hands on Dean’s tense shoulders and spins him around. He glares into her eyes, realising their height difference has gone back to what it was. She's an inch or two shorter than him now. Dean doesn't tower over her like he did over the past few days. Can't gather her up against his chest and press his nose into the top of her head from where they stand. Well, he could, but it would be more. 

More. 

It would just be more. 

“Dean,” she tells him intensely, her eyes burning with that inscrutable, adoring depth he's always found so difficult to look at, “we will fix this. You will get back to normal. I'm sorry, I - I didn't think it would go this far.” 

“It's not your fault.” Dean says passionately. “Unless you told Gabriel to steal my junk like some dick and balls tooth fairy.” 

A tiny smile twitches at the corner of her lips. “Of course I didn't.” She says softly. 

Dean shrugs her off, moving to exit the bathroom as he does. 

“Then don't apologize. I don't wanna hear it. Let's just - sort this crap out like we always do.” 

*

Dean reluctantly tells Sam about Gabriel’s impromptu visit to the Impala on their journey back from Pensacola. He misses out some of the shit Gabriel said for obvious reasons. Sam doesn’t need an accurate play-by-play, just the gist. Cas stares at the bookshelves the whole time, her posture straight, hands curled loosely at her sides. Dean wondered whether being turned into a woman would make Cas seem less sexy to him now. But nope. Her angular features, curves and soft messy hair remain as appealing to him now as they did before. The strong pulse of want which takes a hold of his insides and thrums between his legs is… surprising. He waits for the boner which never arrives. Instead, it's just kinda. Warm. Maybe a little wet. Holy fucking shit. He's wet for Cas from just looking at her. Does this make him a lesbian? The thought forces an amused snort from him while Sam is mid-flow, talking about ways to summon an archangel. He gets a sharp glare in response. Dean curls further down into his chair, dead guy robe swamping him. They don't have all the ingredients for the spell, so Cas agrees to go and get the rest. As soon as she's flown off, Dean leans forward and thumps his head on the table. 

“I am so fucked.” 

Sam sighs. “I'm sure there's a way out of this, Dean. I mean, not trying to invalidate you or anything but… we've had worse. Way worse. Gabriel will probably get bored and turn you back soon anyways.” 

Dean lifts his head a fraction and peeks at him, not bothering to correct him on why he thinks he's fucked. 

“How long does it take for an archangel to get bored? A century? Two? He had you going for six months."

Sam grimaces at the memory. “Yeah…” 

Dean kicks up off his chair, surprised by his relative lack of strength. As an experiment, he lifts the chair with one hand, and finds the strain in his arms is more prominent than usual. 

“God fucking dammit.” He whispers. 

Cas returns a few minutes later, grim-faced, and explains that the Mesopotamian milk-thistle needed for the spell has to be boiled for two days before it can be used. 

Two days.

A whole damn forty-eight hours of being a girl. More if they can't convince Gabriel to turn them back.

Dean grits his teeth and accepts the information with quiet despair. Fine. Okay. Two days. Not impossible. He spent forty years in hell, two days of being a chick won't kill him. 

He leaves Cas and Sam to their research and holes himself up in his room, gameplan at the ready. He needs to get out. He can't sit cooped up in here staring at his boobs until he cries - ‘cause he will if he doesn't move.

Dean pulls up the contacts on his phone and rings one of the few he has on speed-dial. 

“Dean! Long time no speak, broski. What'cha doing?” Charlie's bright sunshine tones are an instant balm to Dean’s hellfire nerves. 

“Charlie.” He breathes with relief, “I need you at the bunker, stat.” 

“Uhhhhh who is this and what’re you doing with Dean’s phone?” 

Dean sits on the edge of his bed and pumps his leg up and down as he realizes what he's gonna have to admit. 

“Charlie. It's me. It is Dean.” 

“Sure, Diane, maybe. This ain't Dean. What's going on?” 

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“For crying out - look. Long story, but I've been turned into a - a chick. It’s angel mojo shit, okay? I'll explain when you get here.”

Silence. 

“If you're really Dean then tell me the name of the porn star who portrayed Princess Lay-Her in the 2001 cult-classic Jabba the Slut–”

“Destiny Fox.” Dean says without a beat. “We both have the DVD boxset and we had a two hour debate over whether Destiny or Carrie Fisher would win in a fight - it’s Carrie by the way, suck it - but we had to stop ‘cause Sam wanted to listen to his audiobook in the Impala. Believe me now?” 

Charlie giggles. “Oh shit. You're a girl!”

“A woman actually, thank you very mu - I mean. Shut up. Just - can you get over here?”

“Lucky for you, I'm only two hours away.” He can hear the smirk in her voice. 

“Good.” He says, as gruff as he can. “And, uh… if you could bring me some clothes too that would be great.”

Charlie snorts. “Sure thing, princess. See you soon.” 

Dean hangs up first and throws his phone down on the bed. He wraps his arms around his middle and hunches over, glaring at the hard concrete floor. There's jeans and shirts strewn about, ready for the picking. But they're all at least three sizes too big. He's frickin’ slender now. Lean, yeah. But small. Lithe and curvy in a way which should be nice to look at, but kinda makes him want to shrink into a ball and never be seen again. He's not hot the way Cas is hot. His boobs are smaller, for one (kind of a blessing actually). He's flatter. Athletic. Even his hair, girly as it is, is shorter than hers. There's a knot of dread at the base of Dean's throat as he pads over to the square mirror on his dresser and eyes himself critically.

Shrouded in the dead guy robe, he doesn't get much of an idea of what's going on beyond the small bits he glimpsed before hastily wrapping it around himself. Questioning his sanity, ‘cause this isn't bound to help at all, Dean unties the belt and lets the robe drop to the floor. 

He's just in his boxers, the elastic stretched at the hips (wider than they were before) and loose around his thighs and crotch. ‘Cause, yeah. There's nothing to fill it. 

Dean gapes at his topless reflection, the urge to cover his chest almost overwhelming. 

He counteracts it by placing both palms over his boobs and squeezing. It doesn't feel nice. He always kinda thought it would. They're soft and plump and sort of satisfying to hold, sure, but - they're also his. And that's - upsetting. 

Dean's eyes track down the rest of his body. The small pouch of his belly that wasn't there before. The narrow width of his shoulders. The lack of muscle and the redistribution of fat. Even his knees look different. He's slender and soft in places he shouldn't be. Tighter in others. Makes no damn sense. 

“So fucked up…” he mumbles, turning around to inspect his ass. 

Thank god he still has a good ass. 

A gentle knock at the door has him scrambling for the dead guy robe and cinching it back around himself. 

“Come in!” He squeaks. He clears his throat. “I mean, uh. Get in here.” 

Dean is not surprised when Cas enters his room, her expression carefully blank. 

“You're not doing well.” She states, standing by the door jamb. 

“Go figure.” Dean huffs, tucking his knees up to his chest. “Charlie's coming. She's bringing me some shit to wear, so that's something.”

Cas frowns. “I could have gotten you clothes.” 

“No offence, but I don't wanna be walking around looking like I looted a Macy’s. You're not exactly a fashion expert, Cas.” 

“Neither is Charlie.” She points out. 

“Yeah but she has normal shit. Not–” he gestures to Cas’ sexy holy tax accountant get-up “-whatever this is.” 

Cas blinks. “The other day you said I looked nice.”

Oh, yeah. He had said that. And she does. In her way. But it's in a way that only she can pull off, and he doesn't know how to explain that to her without confusing the situation even more. 

“Forget it, Cas. It's just - a style thing, okay? And didn't you say yourself that Angels are, like, indifferent to gender or whatever? Charlie will be able to help me more in that department. I need to be able to show my face outside, y’know?” 

Cas simply nods once, before taking another tentative step into the room. 

She stands there, eyes tracking the space, hands curled around the too-long cuffs of her trenchcoat. 

“Spit it out, Cas.” Dean sighs, rubbing his temples where there's more hair now than there was before. 

“I… understand that circumstances have altered the nature of our.” She swallows. “Relationship.” 

Dean has to look away from her as his insides do a cartwheel.

“But I was wondering if I could offer you some comfort.” Cas finishes on a quick inhale. “A hug, maybe.”

Dean snorts. Can't help it, even as heat crawls up his face, prickling his cheeks. 

“You wanna cuddle, Cas? You get a taste for it after last time?” He teases as his heart clenches weirdly. 

“I was asking Sam about it after our conversation–”

“Jesus Christ–”

“And he said that cuddling isn't exclusive to post-coital activity. It is something people do with one another frequently, especially if they're intimate with one another.” Her gaze is set in steel. Determined battle-calm. It would be hilarious if Dean’s mouth wasn't suddenly dry. “Which… we were.” She reminds him. 

Dean nods, mind disorientingly blank. A thought pops into his head, and he says it out loud before he can stop himself. 

“Hey, so does this mean I’m a virgin now?” 

Cas just frowns at him. 

Dean gestures to himself. “New body, y’know? And it's not like I've ever” - he sticks a finger through his fist - “up the vag.”

Cas frowns. “Up the what?”

“Vagina, Cas, jeez.” Dean rolls his eyes. “It works different for girls, right? D’you think I could tell if I was a virgin if I had a look at it?” 

Cas stares at him. “Well for a start, the appearance of your vulva would not indicate whether or not the hymen had been broken, if that's what you're saying. And secondly, the state of the hymen is not always an indication of whether its owner is a “virgin” or not.” 

Dean gapes at her. “Huh?” 

Castiel sits on the bed beside Dean, and if he's not mistaken, there's pity in her expression. 

“Dean. You are not as well versed on female anatomy as I thought.” 

“I know what a hymen is.” Dean snaps. And then, quieter, “I think.” He laughs. “Popped a few in my time.”

Cas nods soberly. “Including mine.”

“Including - what?” 

Cas tilts her head. Her long, messy hair falls past her shoulder. Dean still wants to get his hands in it. He refrains, though, ‘cause this is all still too weird and - hell. Cas wanted to sleep with a guy, right? She might not want him now he's - not a he. The thought causes a tight bundle of nerves to tighten in his stomach. 

“My hymen broke the night we were sexually intimate. I registered a brief moment of pain, but I cleared the blood before you would notice. I didn't want to frighten you.” She explains softly. 

“Cas, what the hell.” Dean breathes, guilt eating him up at the thought he’d been so wrapped up in getting to have her - like that - that he’d totally missed any signs she was uncomfortable. Losing her virginity, for crying out loud. Well, kinda losing it. Her girl virginity. “You should've told me if I was hurting you, I–”

Cas places a finger against his lips, effectively silencing him. Maybe forever. 

“The pleasure far outweighed the pain. My point is, I was not a virgin. Not by your standards. Becoming female did not erase the experiences I had in a male vessel.”

“Experience.” Dean corrects as she lowers her finger. “You only had sex with April. Right?” 

“Multiple times.” Cas nods. “I may have been human, but I was able to maintain enough stamina for us to continue intercourse for over seven hours. With small breaks, of course.” 

Dean’s eyes might drop out his head, he's staring at her so hard. Seven hours? Holy shit. 

“Uh huh.” He says dumbly. “Right.” 

She drops her eyes to the blanket where their hands sit side by side. Not touching. Dean’s, he's horrified to notice, are smaller than Cas’ now. He scrunches his tiny girly hand into a fist. 

“And what was the other word you said?” 

“Vulva.”

“Thought that was the dangly thing in the back of your throat.” Dean mutters. 

Cas actually huffs a small laugh. “No, Dean. It is the external part of the female genitalia. The vagina is actually inside. Neither would show whether you are a virgin or not, but if you like I can check to see if your hymen is intact. If you even have one. Not everyone does.” 

“No. Nuh uh.” Dean stands up quickly. “No looking up my vagina - vulva - whatever. The less we see of it, the better. I - I don't wanna know. Peeing was bad enough.” 

Cas gazes up at him. She reaches out and catches his wrist. 

“Dean. You have a while before Charlie will arrive. I think you should relax.” 

Dean glares at her but allows her to hold his wrist. He doesn't pull it away, even though he should. 

“I can't.” It’s a small admission, one which has him feeling even smaller than he currently is. 

She tugs him closer. Their knees brush. Dean swallows all the saliva in his mouth as Cas’ eyes take him apart. 

“Breathe, Dean.” She murmurs, the hold on his wrist tightening. But not painfully. She offers him a small, safe smile. The kind Dean misses seeing on Cas’ real face. This is her real face now, he reminds himself. And it shouldn't be sad. But it kinda is. He realizes, with a painful jolt, that he misses guy Cas. Even though they're the same. And he never could've done any of that sexy shit with guy Cas - ‘cause that would just be - out of the question -

“Dean.” Cas warns, her thumb circling his wrist, “Your pulse is rising.” 

“I know, I - I can’t stop thinking about - and every time I talk I feel wrong, like –” 

“So don't talk.” 

Dean lets her tug him back down onto the bed next to her. He glares. She tilts her head. 

“You look almost the same to me.” She says, like that's supposed to be reassuring.

“Gee, thanks, Cas.” He rolls his eyes. 

Her brows knit together. “It wasn't supposed to be an insult.” 

Dean drops his chin to his chest and closes his eyes. “Yeah, I know but–” 

“I mean it in the sense of you. Not how you present.” She brings her fingers up to brush against his face. “You forget, sometimes, that it's your soul I see. Not your sex.” 

On any other day, at any other time, Dean would laugh at her saying sex. ‘Cause, y'know. Underdeveloped sense of humour. But there's so much reverence in her tone - something so intense and impossible to ignore - that he just stares at his oddly shaped knees. 

“Right. Well, uh. Good. Thanks.” Real smooth.

Cas drops her hand to her lap. Dean inspects her knees. Perfect, obviously. Still covered by those opaque black panty-hose. He knows what her legs feel like underneath them. How her thighs bunch with thick, soft muscle. He licks his lips. 

“There's a name for what you're experiencing.” Cas says distantly. 

“Hm?” 

“It's called gender dysphoria.” 

Dean snaps out of his thigh-induced trance to meet her eyes. 

“Gender what?” 

“Dysphoria. It's something mostly experienced by transgender people who aren't happy with the sex-characteristics they were born with.” 

Dean sighs. “Dumb it down for me, Cas.”

He’s only just realized she's holding his hand. The one which was clenched into a fist before. 

“You feel a sense of wrongness and discomfort about your body. Particularly the female aspects of it.”

“Obviously.” Dean says, trying to sound gruff. It comes out like he has a cold. 

“You weren't born like this, but it amounts to the same thing. You are experiencing gender dysphoria. Others do too, so you're not alone.” 

Dean feels a sharp twist of fondness for Cas. 

“That what you trying to tell me, Cas? That I ain't special for losing my shit over this?”

Cas presses her lips together, displeased. He butts his shoulder into hers. “Yankin' your chain, babe. I appreciate it. I think…” Dean freezes as he realizes he just called her babe. ‘Cause, yeah. Sue him. He’s said that shit to other women he’s slept with. But this is Cas. Goddammit… 

If she notices though, she doesn’t show it. There’s only a quick eye roll before she continues. 

“My point is, there are solutions. Ways to cope with the feeling, if you end up - stuck like this. For longer than you'd like.” 

The idea sends dread sinking low in his gut. 

And then the reality of what Cas said hits him. 

“Are you saying there's people who feel like this all the time?” 

“I imagine they start to get used to it, but yes, Dean. Gender dysphoria is a very real affliction. The people who have it feel it to different degrees, but it's often the motivator behind opting for a sex change. It is, apparently, one way to alleviate the discomfort.” 

Dean rubs his face with his free hand. “Shit. And I just thought they were, like, I dunno. Gay plus or something. Didn't realize it was so…” he grimaces. Gestures to himself. 

“I'm sure the shock of waking up this way has made it feel significantly worse for you.” Cas comments, totally sincere. Dean kinda loves her for not laughing at him. “Most people - all other people, that is - have time to get used to this sort of thing.” 

“Yeah, but Gabriel is a bastard.” 

Cas hums, her frown returning. “Yes, but this is… the magic he’s used for this is incredibly thorough. Even at the height of my powers, I wouldn't have been able to maintain this visage on either of us for long. I've been this way for months, and I haven't felt the usual undercurrent of magic which accompanies a spell or illusion, however complex.” 

“He's an archangel.” Dean shrugs. 

“He is also horribly impatient. I doubt he'd go to all of this trouble just to torture you in such a specific way. It would take energy. Concentration. He must have used something… a tool or a- another person. Not a witch, obviously. I’d be able to tell.”

Dean’s eyebrows reach his forehead. “I don't think anything could stop him from fucking with us, Cas. He’s the goddamned trickster.” 

 Cas hums, her eyes far away as the cogs in her head audibly turn. “I was searching for a solution to this before, but all the avenues I tried were related to angel biology. Specifically the complexities of possessing a human vessel. I need to try again. Look elsewhere.”

Cas goes to stand, but Dean catches her hand. He lets her fingers slip out of his own before he can get carried away and hold on for dear life or something. 

“You’re leaving? The hell happened to my hug?” He tries to play it off as a joke, but his voice wobbles way too much. He knows he’s blushing, but he maintains eye contact with Cas anyway. She’s like a magnet that way. 

Her thoughtful blue eyes widen and turn concerned in an instant. “Oh, Dean. I’m sorry. I thought you didn’t want to.”

Dean gives a one shouldered shrug. “Seeing as we’re chicks now, I figure it’s not super gay if we just hug, right?” He says inside a bitter-sounding huff of laughter. “I mean. If you–”

Cas pulls Dean to his feet in a sharp display of strength and crushes him to her chest. The squish of his new chest against hers feels - distractingly odd. But then the ozone, sweet scent of her hair and the tight, constricting feel of her arms wound around his middle make him realize how badly he needs this. He turns his face towards her neck, getting a facefull of soft hair and the divine scent of something otherworldly and just Cas, and he allows his own arms to travel around her shoulders and hold her right back.

They stay like this for a little while, Cas’ even breathing and warm body soothing him more than he thought was possible. 

When Dean begins to draw away, he doesn’t go fully. They’re still sort of hip to hip, loosely wound around each other. And fuck, he’s never gonna get used to looking at her face up close like this. Even the frown lines which have always been a part of her features are just - kinda beautiful. Her plush, pink lips open on an inhale and Dean’s struck with the memory of his come all over them. Of kissing it off her. Of her expression, flushed and debauched, as she gazed up at him, her lips a pretty pink ring around his swollen cock. He swallows hard. 

“Um.” He fumbles with his words. He’s gotta say something so he doesn’t do something dumb like kiss her. Cas’ eyes flick to his lips, like she’s thinking the same thing. She totally isn’t, so Dean tries to think the most boner-killing (pussy killing? Pussy drying? Jesus Christ) thoughts possible. “Thanks for uh. Y’know–”

She does kiss him then. Leans in. Presses her lips against Dean’s softly, one hand curling into the tawny hair at the nape of his neck. Dean’s got fireworks going off in his stomach. His eyes are still open. Cas’ are as well, which should be weird, but they just - stare back at him like this is totally normal and not crazy and insane and amazing. 

Dean slams his eyes shut and gets with the program before she can come to her senses and pull away. He deepens the kiss, running his tongue along the seam of her perfect lips, and gets both hands up in her hair like he’s wanted since the last time. Cas makes a small, husky sound of surprise, which sends a bolt of arousal right down to the pit of his abdomen. Dean breathes in her scent. Subsumes himself in her. Kisses her hard and insistent. Distantly, Gabriel’s goading words rattle about in his skull. 

“You just needed an excuse. A vagina shaped one.”

A tang of shame makes itself known in the back of his throat. And he’s trying to shove that aside and get back into the kissing when he remembers something else. 

Dean pulls away from Cas with a smack. Her lips are swollen. Kiss bruised. Her cheeks are pink and her eyes are wide and startled. But Dean doesn’t have time to linger on the tantalising details. 

“Gabriel said he had help. I totally frickin’ forgot.” Dean says roughly. Well, rough for a girl voice, anyway. He breathes hard as Cas gazes at him. He watches her register what he’s saying. 

“What?” She asks, her own voice hoarse. Satisfaction curls with the low burn of arousal in his gut. ‘Cause he made her sound like that. Again. 

Dean swallows. “When - when he came to me in the car he was sayin’ a lot of crap, y’know? And I kinda got caught up in the whole you and me bet he had goin’ on, but. Yeah. When I clocked his shit and he said he turned you into a woman, he also said he had help. Said it was mostly him but not - not all him. Sorry. I forgot.” 

Cas’ hand tightens around the back of his neck. “No, that’s - incredibly helpful, Dean. Thank you.” 

Dean nods, and he’s obviously pumped full of adrenaline ‘cause he feels his lips pulling up into a smile. He gives a small, breathless laugh.

“Whaddya say? We got time to fool around a little before you jet off again?” 

Cas blinks. “Fool around?”

Uh oh. He gestures between them. “Uh, yeah. Not for nothin’, Cas, but the last time anyone kissed me like that…” He raises his brows suggestively. 

Cas’ expression is unreadable. “Would it be of comfort to you? To have intercourse with me?” 

And there’s the boner-killer he was looking for. 

Dean untangles his arms from around her. “Christ, Cas, it’s - whatever. I just thought–”

“You… thought the kiss was foreplay?” She asks. And it’s genuine. She’s actually confused. Dean could swear this isn’t just some kind of angel ignorance. Anna was never this unaware. She knew what Dean was getting at and went right with it. “We didn’t kiss yesterday.” She says.

And holy shit, yeah. It was only yesterday Cas had him on all fours, trembling and literally begging her -

Fuck, that shouldn’t turn him on as much as it does. 

He casts his eyes to the floor, face burning. 

“Yeah. I’m aware.”

“You wanted to.” Cas states, hooking her finger under his chin so he has no choice but to look at her. “I could tell. You wanted to then, and you still want to now. Your pupils are dilated and you keep licking your lips and staring at mine.” Dean gapes at her, any and all responses jostling for control. He ends up speechless and a little jelly-legged. “Even though kissing isn’t essential for your pleasure, it heightens it. I’ve noticed.” She observes, and he feels like a bug under a microscope under her intense scrutiny. “You enjoy it.” 

“Sometimes it’s not always about pleasure.” Dean bites back, determined to regain control over this conversation. If he ever had it in the first place. “Sometimes it’s just - nice. To show the other person you–” He stops, afraid of what he was about to say. To show them you what? Love them? He hasn’t said the ‘L’ word to anyone since Cassie, and he ain’t about to start now. Him and Cas might have a ‘thing,’ and Cas - well, Cas as Dean knew her before - was a part of the family. Is a part of the family. So sure, there’s love there. But he can’t - this isn’t - “It’s not all about sex.” He finishes, pinching the rest of the traitorous words behind his teeth. God, he hates talking about this. They were never supposed to talk about it. It was meant to be just a wham, bam, thank you ma’am situation but here they are. Talking about it. 

Maybe Cas reads his thoughts. Maybe she's just as sick of talking as he is. 

Their next kiss is lacking the heat from before. It's almost chaste. Dean attempts to deepen it, but Cas stops him with a hand on his sternum. Right between his boobs. He wonders what it would feel like if she grabbed one. 

Her other hand strokes gently up along his soft, hairless jaw. Thumb on his cheekbone. 

Dean's heart stutters. No one's kissed him like this in - 

Maybe ever. 

Just as the ache in his chest becomes too much, Cas pulls away. 

“Did that feel like it was about sex?” 

Dean swallows. Stares at her. “Don’t think so.” He’s dizzy. 

She steps away from him. “Good.” Expression nearly blank, save for the tiny twitch of a smirk at the corner of her mouth, Cas turns heel and leaves. 

The slam of Dean’s bedroom door startles him out of his trance, and it takes him far too long to get his brain out of his dick (vagina, vulva, whatever) and think: what the fuck was that?

*

Charlie arrives in a whirlwind of red hair, laden down with a duffle bag. Sam lets her in (‘cause Dean’s not sure he can face getting as far as the front door yet) and Cas waits, immovable and impassive, at the map table, her palm resting face-down over southeast Asia. She hasn't made eye contact with Dean since messing with him in his room, and he wonders if this is all some kind of elaborate revenge for the stuff he said about her to Sam. She said she forgave him, but he's not entirely sure he believes her. 

Charlie comes to a stop at the base of the stairs, her jaw dropping open when she sees Dean. 

Instead of mashing him into a hug as she did with Sam, she paces over to him (now disturbingly eye-level) and rakes him up and down with her eyes. 

“Holy Shmoly you weren't kidding. It's really you!” 

“Yeah.” Dean confirms, his voice pinched and thin. “Told ya.” 

Charlie doesn't point and laugh like he was scared she would. Her face collapses into a grimace. 

“How ya holdin’ up?” 

He shrugs. “Been better. You brought clothes, right?” 

“Oh, sure! I got t-shirts and some jeans and - oh.” Charlie stops mid-flow as she spots Cas sitting at the table. Dean hopes he's imagining things but he's sure her cheeks go a little pink. 

“Um. Hello.” She nervous-laughs, giving Cas a shy wave. 

“Hello, Charlie. It's nice to finally meet you.” Cas stands up and glides over to come and stand in front of Charlie, her heels giving her a height advantage. Her posture is taller than it had been in Dean’s bedroom. She's all fuck with me and I'll turn you into a pillar of salt. And that's -

It doesn't help Dean’s imaginary permanent boner around her.

“Finally…?” Charlie frowns, the divot between her brows only deepening as she takes in Cas’ attire. Her eyes flick between Cas and Dean. “Wait. No. Castiel? You're Castiel?!” 

Cas squints. “Yes. That… is still my name.” 

Charlie's jaw swings open. “You - you're a girl too! Dean didn't say–” 

Dean huffs, “Look, Charlie, it's a long story. Cas’ dick brother hit us both with some curse. Spell. Whatever. And now we’re both…” He gestures between the two of them. 

Sam’s smile is tight when Charlie swivels towards him for an explanation. 

“We’re figuring it out.” He says with a pointed look at Dean, who it seems is very much still in the doghouse for keeping some crucial info to himself. 

Charlie lets a giggle through, only cowering slightly at the glare Dean sends her way. 

“This is so Twilight Zone, I can't even.” 

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. C’mon.” Dean grasps Charlie’s upper arm and has to practically drag her to his room. She waves a goodbye to Cas, who slowly waves back. As soon as the door closes behind them both, he rounds on her. 

“Jeez, Charlie, cool it with Cas and the staring! You're gonna scare her off.” 

“The only one scared here is me. Jesus, Dean, you could've warned me she was- well–” 

“Hot as shit? Yeah. I know.” Dean sits on his bed, rubbing his temples. There's a short silence, and when Dean glances at Charlie there's an odd expression on her face. “What?” He demands. 

“Nothing.” She says in a way which implies it's a lot, actually, but then she starts unpacking her duffle and Dean’s never been so ready to shed the dead guy robe. 

What he ends up wearing, though, is somehow worse. 

Dean has never experienced denim which is quite so close fitting as this. Charlie's jeans hug his thighs and his ass. It's cloying. Tight. 

“How the hell d’you move around in these?” Dean grouches, twisting to look at himself in the mirror. 

“You get used to it.” Charlie says, biting into an apple. She's shucked off her shoes and she's lounging on his bed reading a comic. Watchmen. “How's the shirt?” 

Charlie's Pickle Rick shirt fits him a little better at least, but he can't help noticing his boobs. They stick out, nipples pert, above the cartoon on the front. 

“Holy shit, look at this.” He says in liu of an answer, jigging on the spot to watch them move about under the material. He winces at the sensation of them bouncing around, and suddenly feels a stab of sympathy for all those call girls he used to stay up late watching on shitty motel TV, their tits bouncing everywhere as they shook their ass seductively at the camera. ‘Cause this shit ain't comfortable. 

“Mm. I didn't have any bras your size.” She snorts. “Try having back breakers like mine.”

“Charlie, your boobs aren't even that big.” Dean can't believe he's saying this as he inspects his own. 

“They're bigger than yours.”

“So not.” 

With a roll of her eyes, Charlie slides off the bed and comes to stand next to Dean in front of the mirror. She points at her chest. Bounces on her heels to give them some momentum. Dean’s mouth drops open as he notices, for the first time, that yeah. Charlie's kinda packing. 

“See?” She lifts a brow. “You're lucky this angel gave you, like, cute little model boobs. You can't be more than a B cup.” 

Unperturbed and unaffected by Dean’s baffled, garbled response, Charlie throws her apple core into the trash can across the room, punching the air when she gets it in one. 

Grumbling, Dean throws one of his flannels on over the outfit. It swamps him, of course, but thankfully Charlie notices his dilemma. 

“C’mere.” She says, a sympathetic twist in her smile. She takes the two flaps of material either side of the buttons and ties them in a knot around Dean’s waist, tucking in various pieces of loose fabric into the waistband of his too-tight jeans. Grinning, she steps back to admire her work. “Perfect! You actually look kinda cute.” 

Dean scowls at her. “I don't wanna look cute, I wanna look like me.” 

Her expression turns into one of pity. “Then, uh, hate to break it to ya but we’re gonna have to go shopping.” 

Dean gets flashbacks to shopping with Charlie for her FBI outfit and winces. He's about to veto the idea when Charlie says, “Besides. I forgot to bring you shoes.” 

Dean turns away from the mirror so he doesn't put his fist in it and groans. 

*

Dean’s leather jacket is the only thing he insists on not letting go of. He has to cuff the sleeves and there's way more room inside it now than there should be, but he needs the comfort. The old, gun-oil, scratched leather smell. Charlie shrugs her shoulders and announces to Sam and Cas that they're going out. 

Cas’ expression flickers, like she's about to ask to come with them, before she steps back and allows them to leave the bunker without a word. 

Dean descends the steps into the garage with a huge sigh of relief, needing to get out of the heady atmosphere of the bunker. It's just getting… way too weird out there. Not that going girl-shopping with Charlie is any less weird - except it kind of is. ‘Cause they've done it before. It's just - it's Cas. She has a freaky effect on Dean. He can't parse out his emotions when he's around her. And, sure, that's been a running theme throughout their friendship but now… now he knows what she tastes like? It's so much worse. 

Charlie side-eyes him on the drive to the mall. He forewent the Impala the second he realized he was too short for the steering wheel and would have to adjust it, so he settles for sitting shotgun in her shitty little fiat panda which definitely needs an oil change by the sound of it. 

“So, um… speaking of boobs–”

“We weren't talking about boobs–”

“Dare I broach the tension between you and miss Castiel back there?” The twitch at the corner of Charlie's mouth is just about all Dean can take. 

“Don't go there.” 

“Okay, so you banged. Got it.” 

“Literally nothing about my answer tells you we banged, Charlie–”

“I'm a lesbian, Dean. I know when two girls have banged, okay? It’s totally obvious. It's like - like Sam and Frodo talking but not really talking, y’know–?”

“You did not just compare me and Cas to Sam and Frodo.” 

“Hm, you’re right. You guys are totally Gimli and Legolas.” 

“Who’s who?” Dean mutters. 

“Like you need to ask.” Charlie smirks. Dean glowers at her, masking his rising panic under a veneer of irritation. “So, c’mon! Tell me about it? I'm dying to know what hitting that was like. She's so… dreamy.” Charlie sighs. 

Dean presses his lips together. Something territorial stirs in his gut. He thinks, don't go there. She's not for you. 

He tampers it. It's just Charlie for crying out loud. Charlie, who is a serial lady-killer and bonafide experienced lesbian. Charlie, who is sweet and kind and might actually end up ticking all of Cas’ boxes. Oh, god. What if Cas and Charlie hit it off? Could that happen? 

“Can we not right now?” Dean grinds out, which has Charlie shooting him an altogether different kind of look. 

“That bad, huh? Okay. Gameplan. Shopping, food, beers. Sound good?” 

“Honestly? Yeah.” Dean sighs, hunching back into the seat and glaring at his feet, where his own shoes look like a frickin’ clown’s in proportion to the rest of him.

They hit the shoe store first. Dean manages to find an inoffensive pair of brown, leather lace-ups. They're slender, lacking the steel-toe and heft of his usual pair, but at least they fit. The sales associate tries to show him some pointy looking things which she insists will lengthen Dean’s figure and compliment his ankles, but he waves her off and exits the store as quickly as humanly possible. Now able to walk like he's not playing dress-up in his dad’s closet, Dean lets Charlie guide him through to a different clothing store until they reach the lingerie section. 

A feeling of wrongness settles over Dean as they traverse the aisles of bras and panties. It doesn't help that every so often, Charlie will pick out an outrageous lacy or satin pair and say, with no irony at all, 

“Oooh, these would suit you!” Or, “I bet Cas would go crazy for these.” And then Dean’s flushing as he's reminded of Rhonda Hurley and her perfect pink satin panties hugging his ass and brushing snugly against his cock. The phantom sensation makes him glare at the floor as he tries desperately not to picture himself doing the exact same thing with Cas. An unbidden image of Cas ripping off those pink panties from Dean’s hips, the satin trapped between his teeth as he gazes up at him with fathomless blue eyes, flashes in front of his vision.

He stops dead in the aisle. ‘Cause Dean wasn't picturing girl Cas. He was picturing Cas as he was. Guy Cas. 

Charlie keeps going, oblivious that Dean’s stopped until she's reached the end of the aisle, a pile of panties and bras thrown over her arm for Dean to try on. 

“Dean?” She shout-whispers. 

Dean gulps, lava bubbling under his skin at the unexpected image. 

“Estrogen’s one hell of a hormone.” He says with feeling, making Charlie snort. 

*

His ensuing panic attack in the ladies changing room isn't so funny though. 

Charlie thrusts the pile of lingerie into Dean’s clueless arms and instructs him to try them on. She ignores his protests as he insists he's gonna be back to normal in just two days, and shuts the curtain behind her, leaving Dean alone in the boxy grey cubicle. 

He strips, determinedly not looking at himself in the mirror, and starts trying on bras. 

Turns out fastening a bra up is way harder than taking one off. His unpractised fingers fumble with the fastening, and it takes nearly five frustrating minutes for him to just try on one goddamned bra. It doesn't even fit. 

The underwire digs into his ribs and constricts him. The thin, tight straps eat into the soft meat of his shoulders. There's a gap between his boobs and the rest of the foam cup. 

“I can't do this, Charlie.” Dean says suddenly, paralysed by his reflection. By the horrible sensation of the medieval torture device constricting his chest. He lowers himself onto the bench, unsure if the pain in his chest is coming from the bra or the oncoming onslaught of dread. He clutches at his airways, breathing hard and squeezing his eyes shut. 

“Dean?” Charlie calls. She slips into the cubicle and crouches in front of him, laying a hand on his bare shoulder. “Dean.” She says, way softer. “It's okay. We don't have to do this–” 

“What if - what if I can't turn back?” Dean croaks. He's not crying. Not yet. But there's a lump in his throat and his eyeballs sting. Charlie gazes up at him sympathetically. 

“Dean. If there's one thing I know for sure, it's that nothing gets in the way of a Winchester. Don't let the thing that beats you be a… well. A bra.” 

Dean gives a watery laugh despite himself. 

“I can think of worse ways to go.” He shrugs. “Death by bra. Doesn't sound too bad.” 

“If the bra’s not yours, sure.”

“...Point.”

Dean doesn't add that a whole other reason he's panicking is because of the angel waiting for them back at the bunker. 

Charlie scoops up nearly all the remaining lace and satin numbers and returns to the changing room with a few plain sports bras instead. These are nowhere near as offensive, both in form and feeling, and Dean begrudgingly accepts three pairs in neutral colours. He doesn’t mention the satin, sage matching-set which makes its way into his inside pocket. He steals it in a moment of madness, unable to rid the image of Cas and those satin panties between his teeth from his mind. 

The rest of the shopping trip is nowhere near as traumatizing. He buys a pin-striped grey pant-suit in case he gets caught on a hunt and has to act as FBI, a few shirts which he considers appropriate for either gender (if a little small) and some baggier jeans. He's got plenty of socks back at the bunker and his boxers are fine. Charlie appraises his new get up as they make their way over to a bar for a bite and a beer. 

“Suits you, Winchester.” She says, clearly trying her damned hardest to be supportive. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean rolls his eyes. “So long as I don't stick out, I don't care.” 

The dive bar they head to is laced with the all-too familiar scent of stale beer, old cigarette smoke clinging to patrons’ clothes and greasy, over-fried burgers. 

“Home sweet home.” Dean says, closing his eyes and tipping his head back as he inhales lungfuls of ethanol-imbibed oxygen. 

They take a seat at the bar and are quickly served by a friendly blonde who, it takes a second for Dean to notice, doesn’t give him a once over or bat her eyelashes at him. It’s on the tip of his tongue to thank her with a ‘sweetheart’ and a wink added on before he remembers what he is. What he looks like. 

They eat and drink, and slipping into conversation with Charlie is like putting on a well-worn pair of slippers or a nice, fleece-lined blanket. He almost forgets how shitty he was feeling earlier. 

Almost.

‘Cause something always has to come and fuck it up. 

This particular something takes the form of a man. 

“Say, what’re two young ladies like you doin’ in a place like this?”

Dean nearly misses the gruff, sidling remark until he catches Charlie wrinkling her nose over his shoulder. He spins around on the bar stool, finding himself face to face with some guy who, even as he looks, is standing to get closer to them. 

“That’s none ‘your business.” Dean remarks, content to turn back to Charlie and continue his conversation. 

The guy and his friend share a laugh and a look. 

“Would it kill ya to smile, young lady? Pretty face like yours shouldn’t be stuck in a frown. C’mon. Lemme buy ya’a drink.”

This might be the first time Dean kills someone over a compliment. His eyebrows shoot to his hairline as he takes in the sheer fucking gall of this guy. 

“What?” Dean stands in an attempt to loom over the redneck. Well. Usually he’d be looming. In this form, he’s reduced to glaring up at the underside of the guy’s hairy, flabby chin. 

Damn. Men really are gross. 

Gross redneck guy chuckles down at him, which sets his blood boiling. 

“Dean.” Charlie warns, sensing the heat. 

“Cool ya jets, sweetheart.” The guy laughs. And then, turning to his equally gross-looking buddy beside him, “She’s a feisty one, huh? We got our work cut out for us–” 

That’s it. 

Getting up on his tip-toes, Dean head-butts the guy square in the nose.

The redneck makes a choked off sound of pure indignation and stumbles backwards into his meathead friend, blood streaming from his nostrils. 

He glares at Dean, eyes blood-shot and angry. “You broke my nose, you fuckin’ bitch!” 

“I’ll do worse if you don’t back the hell off.” Dean spits. 

“You whore. You goddamned slut!” Redneck cries, mouth clotted with blood, teeth red. 

Dean throws his hands up. “How the hell am I a slut for not wanting to sleep with you?” 

The guy’s not listening. Him and his buddies are gearing up - for a fight, yeah, but clearly hesitating. You don’t get seen hitting a woman in these parts. You just don’t. 

If Dean was his usual self, this would be a brawl already. 

If Dean was his usual self, the guy wouldn’t have approached him like that in the first place. 

Charlie hauls Dean from the bar before the cops are called. Given the circumstances, Dean’s not actually sure they would be called. ‘Cause, seriously. What does anyone have to fear from two, average sized women? 

He’s simultaneously giddy with adrenaline and outraged by the interaction as they march back to the parking lot (with haste).

“Fucking pig.” Dean spits, forehead pounding from the force of his hit. “The fuck was wrong with those guys?” 

Charlie slants him a knowing look. “Hey, don’t ask me. I’ve had to deal with guys like that my whole life.”

Horrified, Dean turns to her. “Really? Shit, man. Sorry.” 

“Why are you apologising?” She snorts. “Not like you were ever a threat.” 

He frowns, and decides not to dig deeper into that statement. He’s not sure he’d like her answer.

*

Considering his circumstances, the rest of the day is kinda nice. Having Charlie at the bunker is a good distraction - always is - but especially this time around. They get pizza and gather around the map table. Sam managed to get some shut-eye while they were out shopping (and brawling) so even he is in lighter spirits. 

Cas remains stoic and impassive, but one look at how gently she talks to Charlie shows Dean that she likes her. For Cas, a crinkle at the corner of her eyes equates to a grin. 

Charlie puts her hand on Cas’ shoulder as she talks. Cas’ pizza slice pauses halfway to her mouth and her gaze falls to the point of contact.

Oh god. 

“Gonna go and - check on the, uh - spell ingredients–” Dean stammers, sliding out of his chair and bolting it to the kitchen as fast as his new legs will allow. He’s lighter, for sure. More nimble. His getaway is quick and slick and he spends a few minutes hunched over the steel counter, watching a bundle of mesopotamian milk-thistle broiling on the stove. It gives the air a bitter, choking taste. 

“Dean.” Cas’ voice is soft and laden with meaning in the quiet, hot kitchen. 

Dean keeps his back to her. “You want another beer? More in the fridge.” 

“No, I came to see if you’re alright.” 

“I’m fine, Cas. You don’t gotta hover.” He snaps, harsher than he means. 

There’s a short silence where he thinks Cas might have left. He turns around and she hasn’t. She watches him with a tilted head, a narrow squint puckering her brow. 

“You’re upset.” 

Dean leans against the counter and cards a hand through his too-long hair, gaze darting anywhere but Cas. 

“No shit! I hate being like this. It's like looking into some gender switch fun house mirror version of myself and I - I don't like it.” The higher pitch accentuates every mote of vulnerability he feels. He drops his chin to his chest and sighs. “Go back, Cas. They’ll be wondering where you’ve gone.”

“They’re wondering why you left.” She points out. 

Dean shrugs. “Gonna hit the hay. M’tired. S’been a long day.”

Cas takes a step closer to him, and even over the bitter scent of milk-thistle he catches the sharp ozone bite in her scent. 

They look at each other, eyes catching and holding as they so often do. Dean wonders what the hell Cas sees right now. If she sees someone as pathetic and small as he feels. As if reading his thoughts, she frowns. 

“Dean–” 

“You and Charlie seem to be hitting it off.” He bites. “Shouldn’t you get back?” 

Another of those measured head tilts. “She's very nice. I can see why you're friends, but–”

“You know she's into you, right?” Dean wills himself to shut up. Can't. The ugly thing in his abdomen keeps on hissing and clawing. “Just saying, if there was ever a time to shoot your shot with a chick, she's not a bad choice.” 

Castiel blinks and then her expression changes into a glare. “You want me to sleep with your friend? Why?”

“I didn't say I wanted - just. You should. If you're into her.” 

Cas’ eyes are so narrow they're blue slits in her perfect, angular face. She takes another calculating step closer to Dean. 

“And what if I was? Would you be happy for me?” 

Dean’s breath catches. “I wouldn't - it's not about me.” 

“It sure seems like it is. You left the room like a petulant child. You come to me with your vagaries and your longing and you expect me to put words in your mouth. To tell you what you want, because you can't seem to say it.” Her voice lowers to a whisper as she gets close enough to touch. “I will not play this game with you, Dean. I believe I've made my intentions clear. Come to me, or don't. I have been patient enough for both of us.” 

She turns to leave, and that's - no. 

In the space of a heartbeat, Dean snags the too-long sleeve of Cas’ trenchcoat and tugs her against him. He crushes their lips together in an angry kiss before he can form sensible thought. Just can't let her leave. Can't let her think - god, he doesn't know. 

Cas makes a soft, surprised noise against his mouth before she opens up to him again. Fresh and sweet, like summer dew on his tongue. He forgets about being angry. He forgets his jealousy. The messed up spiral of this is Cas, you're kissing Cas, as he disappears into the sensation of having her. Winding his fingers in her hair and drawing her closer, closer still. 

Cas fights back. She bites his lip. Hard. The taste of copper sears between them, and Dean barely registers the sharp pain in his kidneys as he's pressed back into the sharp steel counter. It's ferocious. Unforgiving in all the ways Dean’s been craving since last time. 

A pulse of arousal thrums down his body and coils deep behind his navel. He circles his hips forward, catching the bend of Cas’ knee as she lifts it between his legs. The effect is - god. It's good. 

Cas runs both hands down his sides, dipping into the curves, over the wide jut of his hips. She squeezes and Dean moans. The sound he makes is embarrassing as shit, and if his brain wasn't in his dick (pussy?) he might draw away from that alone. 

“We have about five minutes before Sam comes to see what's taking us so long.” Cas’ voice is treacle-thick against Dean’s mouth. “So what do you want? Should… should we stop?” 

Dean makes a sound of protest as Cas’ knee presses firmer against him. He can feel himself getting wetter. Heat and moisture blaze between them, and wild horses couldn’t stop him from rutting against her now. 

“We… we should.” He manages, even as she brings her leg higher. Increases the pace. The friction is fucking glorious. Jesus fuck. Dean doesn't know where he got the idea that girls don't feel arousal as strongly as guys do, but he's sure as hell proven wrong now. 

“So stop then.” Cas says, nipping along Dean’s jawline and curling her fingers over the waistband of his jeans. 

“Fuck, Cas.” Dean moans. 

She palms his ass. Lifts him. And then he's - fuck, he's on the counter and she's crowding into the space between his legs and kissing him hard again, one hand in his hair as the other deftly unbuttons his fly and slips over his boxers. 

“You want me.” Cas says against the shell of his ear, and it's not a question. “You want me to make you come, even like this.” 

Dean throws his head back, exposing his neck, and squeezes his eyes shut. 

“How'd you figure that?” He half laughs, half groans as the tips of her fingers skate over the thin material of his boxers. Teasing where the wet patch has bled through the fabric. 

“Your pupils are dilated.” Cas answers seriously, pulling away to catch his gaze as she speaks. “You blush every time you look at me. I can feel your longing from miles away. And…” she pauses, a smirk dragging at the corner of her mouth, “I can smell it.” 

Heat prickles along Dean’s neck and face. He swallows hard, torn between the surprising sensations taking place between his thighs and her magnetic stare. 

“Fuck.” 

“I caught it this morning, too. At the table. You tried to hide it from me, but I can tell, Dean. You smell so sweet when you're aroused. Sap on bark. The tang of a ripe orchard. Salt on my tongue. It was hard to turn away.” 

That shouldn't be hot. Shouldn't have him trembling from his core, bolts of electric heat searing under his skin like crackling lightning. 

“Who taught you dirty talk?” Dean pants, bewildered. 

She cocks her head, so Cas-like it hurts. Because she is Cas. Just not - Cas Cas. Man Cas. God, why does it matter? Dean can't remember why it matters. She's still - him. Her. Fuck. 

“I've heard you through the walls enough times to learn the basics.” 

“You–” Dean narrows his eyes as she smiles with genuine mirth. “Sneaky shit. You're not supposed to be funny either - ah!” 

Cas presses two fingers firmly against the hard knot of nerves firing on all cylinders. 

“We’re running out of time, Dean. Tell me what you want.” 

“I…” Dean tucks his bottom lip under his teeth. Can't look at her. Screws his eyes shut. 

Cas begins to withdraw her fingers. 

“Don't - don't stop.” He says in a whimper. “Please.” 

“Please what?”

“Please… make me come, Cas.” 

Silence. 

Dean opens his eyes. Hers blaze into him, pupils blown wide and dark. 

“Make me come, Castiel.” 

If she wants him to beg, he’ll beg. He doesn't care. It feels too good. So hot and slick and all-encompassing. A low, simmering burn in the pit of his spine. 

In answer, Cas slips her hand into his boxers and - oh. If over them had felt good, this is a whole new league. 

Dean has to bite his fist to stop from crying out as Cas strokes over his -

Fuck. His fucking clit. ‘Cause, yeah. He's got one of those now. 

She starts slow, building pressure and pace with steady, sure rhythm. 

“So good, Dean.” She murmurs into his neck, sucking and nipping the sensitive skin behind his ear. “So wet for me. I had no idea you'd open up for me like this. So beautiful. Perfect.” 

Her words burn through him. Shame rages a losing battle with ecstasy. 

Dean gasps, gripping Cas’ shoulder hard. The other clenches around the steel counter, the metal biting into his palm. He needs the pain. It's the only thing keeping him from melting into a pure puddle of pleasure as her fingers speed up. She works over him hard and fast, the slick, wet sound of her fingers against him filling the room. 

“Not long now, Dean. Are you going to come for me? Or are they going to find us like this? It's up to you, because I'm not stopping until you're done.” 

Jesus. Dean doesn't know what's turning him on more. The filthy way she's talking or her hand. His exhibitionist streak rears its head as the idea of being walked in on like this is introduced to him. Only, one of the people walking in would be his goddamned brother, so - yeah. He doesn't want that. 

Not that it'll be an issue. 

The climax is stirring, hot and fast, building and building with an intensity like he's never known. 

Cas jacks him off with the sort of ruthlessness abandon he's only ever seen in hardcore porn. His legs open and tremble around her as his orgasm builds, climbing higher and higher until - 

“Oh, fuck! Cas, Cas, don't stop - gonna come - gonna come–” 

Cas bites down onto Dean’s shoulder with a wrecked moan, and that's it - he's gone. 

He comes on her fingers. Body shaking, counter rattling with the force of her movements and his own, quivering legs. 

Above them, a lightbulb shatters and they're plunged into semi-darkness. The cupboards fly open. Pans and plates scatter and crash and Dean does. Not. Give. A. Fuck. 

The orgasm lasts and lasts. It feels like an age before he uncurls his fingers from Cas’ shoulder. They're stiff. Sore. The steel counter has made an angry, red indent in his hand and he’s pretty sure his jeans are soaked through. Feels like it. 

Cas’ fingers twitch against him and his whole body jumps with the oversensitivity. Their breaths fall, out of sync and hard, in the ensuing quiet. 

“Ten seconds.” 

“Ten… what…?” Dean mumbles, dazed, blinking up at the dark ceiling. His body is wrung out. Satiated beyond belief. 

“Until your brother finds us. Seven now.” 

“Fuck.” 

Dean scrambles off the counter on unsteady legs. The only reason he doesn't end up as a heap on the floor amongst shards of broken lightbulb and ceramic is because Cas catches him under his armpits, hauling him upright. 

When she touches two fingers against his neck, the warm, swampy sensation in his pants disappears along with the sweat cooling on his skin and the shakiness in his legs. 

It looks like that's all she has time for, ‘cause a second later Sam and Charlie come skidding into the kitchen. 

“Are you guys okay?” Sam demands, alarmed. “The lights started flickering and then–”

“We heard a crash.” Charlie finishes. “What happened?” 

“Um.” Says Dean. 

“It was me.” Cas says. “My apologies. I attempted to speed up the process of boiling the milk-thistle for the summoning spell.” 

Dean is almost disappointed by how put together she sounds. How monotone. How unaffected.

“Why… would you do that?” Sam asks slowly. 

Cas touches the wall. The lightbulb resumes its old, yellow glow with a faint, comforting buzz. The floor is clear of glass and debris. Dean blinks against the onslaught of light. 

“Dean is very unhappy with his predicament. I thought it might help if we summoned Gabriel as soon as possible.” She shoots a glance at Dean. “Dean’s gender dysphoria is very bad.” 

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose as Sam coughs and Charlie makes a sound like a squeak. 

“Why’d ya have to say it like that, Cas?” Dean grumbles. 

She just tilts her head. Innocent. “Because that’s what it is?” 

“Just–”

“It doesn’t matter.” Cas continues, turning away from him. “We have to wait for the milk-thistle to boil. As planned. Sorry.” 

Cas brushes by them and into the hallway without another word. Sam, Charlie and Dean are left gaping after her. 

Sam quirks a brow at Dean. “Really, Dean? You got Cas to try and perform the spell now?”

“Err.” Dean says. 

“Dude, it's only gonna take two days! You don't need to get Cas to waste his mojo like that, it's pointless. I know this sucks but can't you just –”

Charlie casts him a sympathetic glance. “Sam, if you'd seen Dean in the department store today, I think you'd get it. Cas was right. The dysphoria is, um… y’know. Painful.” She shrugs at him, because he hasn’t opened this queer can of worms with her yet. Wasn’t planning on. But the terminology sits in his gut like - like something he doesn’t wanna touch with a barge pole.  

And, wow. Dean loves Charlie. He really does. He knows she’d be there for him if he came out and said he wanted to live life as a frickin’ dog (and he’s sure there are people into that). But goddamn, he needs to be out of here and anywhere else so fast because he's just had the most mind-blowing orgasm of his life and he doesn't know if that's a girl thing or a Cas thing and it's -

Yeah. He's freaking out. 

“I'm going to bed.” He hurries past them both and runs in the direction of his bedroom as fast as physically possible in his current state.

“Y’know, I’d kinda hoped him turning into a woman would make him less emotionally constipated–” He hears Sam complain from the kitchen. 

“Bitch!” He calls over his shoulder. 

“Jerk.” 

*

Dean stands outside his bedroom door for all of two seconds before deciding fuck that and marching straight to the room which tentatively belongs to Cas. 

He doesn’t knock. Never needed to before. Just opens the door and strides in. 

“Cas, you can’t just rock my shit like that and then dip, I - oh.” 

Cas is, indeed, in her room. 

She’s braced over the bare dresser, one hand clutching the solid oak ridge, the other buried between her thighs. She’s flushed, lip trapped between her teeth. 

Angels don’t sweat my ass, Dean thinks as, miraculously, a fresh wave of arousal at the sight nearly bowls him over. 

Cas stands straight, eyes wide and slightly horrified. 

“Dean–”

“Bed.” 

“...I…” 

“No way you’re getting off alone after what you just did to me. Bed. Now. Let’s go.” 

Dean’s already tugging off his flannel. Kicking the door shut behind him. Whatever it was he meant to do or say when he came in here has flown out the proverbial window. ‘Cause Cas is watching him undress with barely concealed hunger, her eyes sparking blue-gold as his words register.

She shucks her shoulders and the trenchcoat falls to the floor with a thwump. Her shirt is already untucked from her skirt. Her fingers glisten, wet from where she’d been touching herself. 

Dean doesn’t wait to get his shirt off before he’s practically falling into her. He’s horny already. The lack of refractory period is, again, either an angel mojo thing or a girl thing and he really doesn’t care which right now. 

Cas’ arms wrap around him, strong and sure, and Dean is lost. 

“Is this going to be - a regular occurrence?” Cas asks between fiercely pressed kisses. 

“I sure fuckin’ hope so.” Dean admits, pliant and easy from his last orgasm. He wants nothing more than just - her. Her body around him. On him. (In him)

Conversation ends there. 

They undress each other with the desperation of the dying. Cas’ buttons pop and scatter across the floor. Dean’s new jeans are ripped. One of his socks flies onto the dresser. Cas’ tie lands perfectly over the door handle. Cas helps him stretch the elastic sports bra over his head. 

Dean pushes her back onto the bed, naked, and she lets him, crawling back on her elbows like a cornered predator. He is struck again by how completely unselfconscious she is, bathed in the light of the incandescent bulbs, knees parting open, chest thrust forward and her eyes pointed with laser focus on him. 

Dean very deliberately ignores his own body as he climbs on top of her and in between her legs - just like the other night. Only he doesn’t take up as much space, now, as he did then. The bed doesn’t dip nearly as much with his weight. He ignores all of these small factors and concentrates on Cas. Just Cas. 

He dips a hand between them as he noses along the join between her neck and her jaw and slips a finger gently between her slick folds. 

Cas moans, her back arching off the bed. Dean slides his arm under her and holds her to him, but fuck, she’s heavy. 

He says as much. “Why the hell d’you weigh more than an anvil?” He kisses and licks against her throat. 

Cas flips him with that unreal, angelic strength. Dean bounces on his back, blinking up at her. 

She straddles his thighs, spreading her legs wide, and he feels how wet she is against his hip-bone. 

Cas tilts her head at him and her eyes flare. The shadows lengthen around the room, and the silhouettes of two, huge black wings fill the space. Dean’s jaw drops as he thinks god, I want you. I want this. I want you like this. 

“You know why.” She answers, her voice otherworldly. As if it exists in three separate dimensions. He feels its timbre in his bones - in the protective warding she carved into his ribs. 

“Your wings…” Dean breathes. “Can I–” 

The silhouettes fade. Cas bends over him, her eyes glowing like beacons in an empty ocean. She rocks against his hip. Once. Twice. Her eyes flutter shut.
Dean gets his hands around her waist as she grinds against him. This, he can do. This, he knows. 

Cas tosses her head back, hair flying in a careless black halo around her shoulders as she releases a bitten off moan. Dean traces the thin trail of hair leading down from her naval to the dark, curly cluster above where she’s wet for him. 

“Wish I could fuck you.” He gasps out, thrusting up against her as much as he can given her weight. He wishes too that he could see her wings for real. Touch them. Measure the value of each individual feather between his fingers. 

“What do you think we’re doing?” Cas huffs out, frowning at him as she rolls her hips in a figure of eight, chasing her own pleasure. Watching her using his body for her own gain is doing more for him than he ever thought possible. 

“But, y’know, really fuck you–”

“We don’t need a penis to ‘fuck.’” Cas tells him, serious and straightforward. The quotation marks are in her voice. 

She reaches down and lifts his leg from under his knee, exposing him to the air. Before he can protest at the sudden vulnerability, she slots herself between his legs, one of hers hooking under his, and presses herself against him. 

Dean gasps at the sensation of her hot, wet entrance against his. Cas slides the hard bud of her clit against his own with firm, rocking motions, the meat of her ass grinding against his thigh. 

“Oh, fuck, that’s good.” 

She watches him. Intense. All encompassing. Each movement is a calculated pressure designed to send a coiled lance of ecstasy darting up his spine. It's a different heat to what he's used to. A different pace. The desperation is slow and clawing, purring in his navel. 

There's a word for what she's doing. Dean’s watched it in porn. Tribbing. She's tribbing him. Or is it scissoring? He's not sure. It gets blurry, when he's watching on a phone screen with one hand. Always kinda detached. Chasing something fast and convenient and meaningless. Maybe that's why he always thought this was something they did for show. That it couldn't possibly, actually feel this good. 

Visceral and wet and hot and intimate. Cas fucks him hard and thorough, the pace of her hips speeding in increments. 

There are noises dripping from Dean’s mouth - noises he never thought he'd hear himself make in a million years. He hangs on to her thick, hair-dusted thighs for dear life. Digs crescents into her skin with his nails. 

Cas bites her lip and doesn't remove her eyes from his face, even though what's happening between them, at the hot point of contact, is cosmic. Stars exploding and squishing together like burst fruit. 

“You're going to come like this.” Cas tells him, her voice ditched lower - closer to something he knows. Recognizes. 

It's that small fact which sends a flood of tingling pleasure from his toes to his scalp. 

“Mm. Yeah. Gettin’ close.” He says, gasping. Meaning it. He's been getting close for some time. Teasing closer and closer back to that place she brought him to on the counter. 

“Want you to - at the same time.” He says. The words small and vulnerable in the face of what they're doing. 

Cas’ eyes flash, and she rails into him, hips pistoning. The headboard slams against the wall. The mattress shakes. Dean cries out, legs trembling, whole body clenched. 

“Dean, Dean, I’m going to - to–”

“Yes,” Dean gasps, “do it. Please. Please, me too. Please.” He whimpers as her legs clamp and quiver, her head thrown back, a wrecked moan dragged from her throat as she comes. He feels her fluttering against him, the seep of heat and moisture coating him. 

“Oh, god, Cas…” Dean's on fire. He knows it's coming, can feel it, so close -

Cas pulls away from him, and the air is a cold shock against his flickering core. 

“Cas!” He complains. 

Cas, eyes bright and intense, kneels between his legs and slips her finger between them. She crooks two inwards, pressing against the hot, open slit of him, and pushes in. 

Dean gasps and his hands fist in the sheets. 

“So tight…” Cas murmurs, her gaze drawn to where the tips of her index and middle finger have been swallowed up by him. 

She eases the way, and in the back of his mind Dean knows she's using her Grace to make it easy for him, but he couldn't care less. He feels - he feels full inside. Taken. Possessed. 

“Fuck me, baby. Yes, fuck me.” 

That can't be him. But it is. He's wrecked. Shredded. A shaking, hot, wet mess. 

Cas fingers him like it’s her God-given mission. Dean opens his legs as far as they'll go and that's it - she fucks him with her fingers. Jackknifing. Pumping in and out with slick, fast abandon. 

Her palm smacks against his clit with every thrust, and there's a point inside him which curls and coils and writhes. 

He thinks - he thinks he might be coming. Over and over. Continuously. Relentlessly. The pleasure wave crests and washes over him - spine to skin - like a blast wave. 

Dean's vision whites out. Everything narrows down to the power of Cas’ fingers and her mouth, which is lowered over one of his peaked nipples. She sucks him. Laves at him. And the extra stimulation is almost too much - nearly painful. Dean rides the edge of the pleasure-pain for an untold time. Until his legs fall onto the bed, boneless, and his head flops to the side and his eyes slip closed. 

Cas pulls out of him, breathing hard, and he feels empty. He could keep going, he realizes. But he’s content, for now, for the tide of ecstasy to draw back and grant his poor, trembling muscles some relief. 

“Jesus… fuck, Cas.” He puffs. Loose and open. Satiated. 

Cas collapses on top of him. Dead weight. 

Dean, not thinking really, lets his hand fall between her shoulder blades and scritches gently with his blunt nails. 

Cas makes a small sound into the sweaty skin of his neck, her whole body tensing. 

“Sorry.” Dean murmurs. 

“...n’t op…”

“Huh?”

Cas lifts her head. Eyes shut. “Don't stop.” 

Dean swallows. Now his orgasm has passed, he’s - he's clearer. Post-nut clarity hitting like a brick to the head. The angel on his chest presses her temple against the slim bowl of his shoulder. 

Dean scritches between her shoulder blades. She sighs in contentment and - god, frickin’ nuzzles into him. 

Blissed out, he allows it. 

He allows her to stay with him. Even when the pull of sleep hooks from the back of his neck, dragging him down into a rare, dreamless slumber. 

*

Charlie stays for the summoning. She wants to see an archangel, apparently. Dean, having met enough of the fuckers, can't possibly imagine why. 

Gabriel appears in the circle of holy fire with a smirk plastered on his face. Checking his nails like he hasn't just been plucked from another dimension or Tahiti or a strip club or wherever the fuck he was. 

“Mornin’ ladies!” He announces, droll. “What's cooking?” 

The smoke from their spell does kinda smell like a BBQ, Dean will give him that. 

“You, if we don't get answers soon.” He bites. 

Gabriel’s golden eyes flick to him, and he grins in delight. 

“Oh ho ho! She speaks!” 

Dean takes a step forward, fists bunched. It’s Cas who touches him on the shoulder, grounding him. Cas, who causes his fists to uncurl.

“Gabriel,” Cas steps in front of Dean, her hand slipping down his arm as she moves. “Undo this. You’ve had your fun.” 

“No, no. This isn’t fun, little sibling of mine, this is serious stuff.” Gabriel blows on the fire, watching the flames flicker. Birthday candles on a cake to him. 

Sam takes the opportunity to speak from where he’s been standing, watching the exchange with a furrowed brow. “Let’s not forget who’s trapped here.” He says diplomatically enough that it barely even sounds like a threat. 

“Yeah, we’ve got you by the balls, so you better start talkin’ solutions real soon.” Dean puts in.

“And I, literally, have your balls.” Gabriel drawls, cupping his palms to illustrate the point. 

Dean grits his teeth. “Fuckin’ dick. We should just ice him already–” 

Gabriel lets out a laugh, high and loud. “Ladies, fellas, those other way inclined, you’re barking up the wrong tree here. Didn’t I tell you I had help? I can’t reverse you back to your big ol’ Jarhead self. Even if I wanted to. Which I don’t, by the way.”
“Help from who?” Sam demands. 

Gabriel mimes a zip being pulled across his lips and Dean is, genuinely, going to kill him. He gets as close to the flames as he can before his eyebrows singe off. 

“You better answer–” 

“Or what? You’ll kill me? Please.” Gabriel mocks, blowing out a raspberry as he waves a hand to dismiss Dean. “I made a deal, anyways. I can’t tell you.” His grin widens into something wicked. “But I can show you. You’ll just have to come in here with me. Or, y’know, let me go. Your choice.”

“Nice try.” 

Gabriel throws his hands up. “Fine! Live in ignorance. Enjoy holing me up in here while I sing out show tunes. How’d that one from Oklahoma! go? Oh, yeah - chicks and ducks and geese better scurry, when I take you out in the surrey, when I take you out on the surrey with the fringe–”

Dean roars. “JESUS, STOP!” He smacks his hands over his ears and finds both Sam and Charlie have done the same. Cas just looks defeated, shoulders low. Dean hates that look on her. Sees it way too much. 

Gabriel sighs. “I miss Broadway.” 

Charlie slowly uncovers her hands from her ears. “You were on Broadway?” 

“You kiddin’?” Gabriel rounds on her. “I put the place on the map.”

Charlie nods. “Impressive.” 

“Thank you! Finally some appreciation.” 

Dean glares at Charlie. She shrugs. “What? It is kinda cool–”

“Okay, enough.” Dean sets his jaw. Stands at full height. Which, yeah. Isn’t very high. “Show me how to turn back.” 

Gabriel wiggles his fingers. “I will if you come closer.”

“Dean.” Cas warns. 

“If I wanted to kill him, I’d have done it already.” Gabriel points out. And, yeah. It’s true. But that doesn’t mean he won’t do something weird. Still, Dean takes a step closer to the circle. He holds out his hand. 

“Sam, pass me some water. When I’m inside, light the fire again.”

“Are… are you sure?” Sam says. 

“Positive.” 

Gabriel waits, expression set in smug, passive stone. 

Dean douses a small section of the circle with the water Sam gives him. He steps inside, inches from Gabriel (who, incidentally, he is now the same height as) and it’s only seconds before the flames roar at his back. 

He turns his head. Catches Cas’ worried, blue-gaze through the flickering orange. She’s beautiful, cast in fire like this. Angular and soft, her lips slightly parted as she watches him. The shadows play with her expression. One second, it’s hurt. The next, it’s like - she’s looking at Dean like she -

Dean swallows and faces Gabriel. 

“Do it.” He says to the archangel. “Show me.” 

Gabriel smirks. “I hope you’ve said your prayers, Dean Winchester.” 

He touches two fingers to Dean’s forehead, and the world goes black.