new fanfic: If I was made for you (Dean/Castiel) wip
Title: If I was made for you
Author: words_soul
Rating: NC17, H, A, AU
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Girl!Dean/Castiel
Disclaimer: The characters belong to their copyright holder, not me.
Summary: A curse gone wrong, truths discovered. Love is about the soul, not just the body.
Spoilers: various for the series. The story ignores canon from 6x07 on.
Warnings: Gender Swap. WIP
Author's Notes: Based on some vague spoilers that Misha Collins let slip during his latest convention.
He talked about breaking a fourth wall...and getting some.
The exact quote was something like, "Ops My tongue is in your mouth", referring to a she. And yes, I know the she in question is probably going to be Meg and to be fair, I think Rachel Minear and Misha Collins have mad chemistry together (Dean/Castiel owns my heart, but I'm salivating over the promo stills), but then again Misha has chemistry with plotted plants, lamps, benches, one Jensen Ackles, so what else is new? *grin*
And this is my first fan-fiction in SPN fandom, although I'm working on a longer fic not Dean/Castiel related.
English is not my first language and this fic isn't betaed, so any error is mine.
Prologue
“Castiel, get your feathery ass down here, now!” Sam shouted, as he dodged another demon, while he heard Dean somewhere behind him.
His brother would probably kick his ass if he knew that he almost missed not having a soul. Yes, he had been ruthless, he had used a baby and his own brother as baits. But he hadn't been afraid...whereas in that moment he was starting to get scared.
A warehouse in the middle of nowhere, and they were surrounded by demons.
Two hunters versus a shitload of demons and a powerful witch. It was bad. Granted, they had faced worse odds and come out of them, but right now? The odds sucked. And a little help from Dean's angel would be appreciated.
And although Cas had gotten up close and personal with his insides searching for his soul a while back, to him he still was first and foremost Dean's angel. After all they did share a more profound bond.
And it wasn't as if he had the luxury or the time to dwell on the deeper meaning of Castiel's words, not when demons wanted a piece of Lucifer's meat suit and Michael's almost vessel to play with.
Besides it didn't exactly take a genius to figure out that bit of information.
“Don't waste your breath, Sammy...” Dean growled and Sam had to snort at his brother's words. He bet that if his brother called him, Castiel would come. So, why didn't he?
“Son of...” Dean grit out, killing another demon...and really, how many of them kept popping up? It was supposed to be a routine salt and burn job. Since when routine involved shitload of demons and a witch that was into some serious mojo? A real witch, not a bored housewife with too much time on her hands and zero idea about what she was really dealing with.
Since when? Since they were Winchesters!
He heard Dean getting close to him, and still Sam wondered why the hell wasn't Dean calling Castiel. Why? Because he was a stubborn son of a bitch! Because they had had a fight shortly after he had had his soul back, one Sam didn't really know much about and couldn't even come close to, since Dean refused to acknowledge Castiel's very existence.
And although Sam intellectually knew that they had been hunters and had faced shitty situations long before Castiel entered their lives, bringing with him the clusterfuck known as the Apocalypse, that didn't mean that when the odds sucked so much having him around would be a bad thing.
Later he would think back at those brief moments of utter silence, he would recall the brief look he had exchanged with Dean and he mentally kicked himself, because he should have known.
Because shitstorms always came when they were drawing their breaths. Because God might be on permanent vacation, but fate sure got a kick out of making their lives miserable. Dean had a grudge against God? Well, Sam would fucking tear fate a new one!
It all happened in a few seconds: they heard the tell tale sound of wings flapping - and Sam wasn't in the least surprised by the fact that Dean had immediately recognized the sound of Cas's wings or that he had looked smug as he had turned to look at him - and then the witch appeared, out of nowhere, holding hands with a demon, wearing a chick as meatsuit.
“This can't be good...” He heard Dean mutter.
“You think?” Sam mumbled, ignoring Dean's eye roll.
And then it happened. And it was fast...too fast for him to do anything. For Cas to do anything
Only Dean moved fast enough, his big, self sacrificing brother, pushed him away before fire engulfed him and it was a cold fire, bright and bluish.
He heard the witch chanting, in tongues, he recognized some of the Latin words: ex vacuus ut intus.
And then Dean's screams, and Castiel lounging forward and the bluish light growing bigger and bigger as he was pinned against a wall by something strong and invisible - and really, what about demons finally got a clue? He hated being pinned to any wall by invisible lame ass demons! - and the warehouse trembled with the sheer force of that cold fire, magnified somehow by the words the demon and the witch chanted, together..in different tongues, and he only could make some of them out, some of the ones spoken in Latin: luguolo animus.
Dean's cries became more and more anguished as the fire grew with intensity, and Sam couldn't see Castiel's any more...and it didn't matter, he thought - and later kicked himself some more for the thought - because in a matter of seconds the warehouse would crumble down upon them, and it would be over.
Only it wasn't over, because the warehouse did indeed crumble down upon them, it imploded upon them, but Castiel worked some of his angel mojo which somehow protected them. Sam felt his skin tingle with the power of the angel, with the cold of that still burning bluish fire, he felt his ears ringing because of the shrill noises, and for the silence coming from Dean.
Dean had stopped crying out, and for a moment Sam thought back at the days when he had been soulless, when seeing his brother being turned into a vampire hadn't meant anything to him, except a creepy: “well, this could be useful.”
Sam thought for a moment about those days, hating himself for doing that, hating that he wished he could be still like that. Because what he was feeling in that moment? It hurt. It hurt so much despite the familiarity of the feeling that, for a moment, he didn't have the strength to open his eyes.
He could only envy his soulless self, because he knew, without a doubt, that when he opened his eyes he'd be greeted by a world of heartache and pain.
Problem was that he didn't need to open his eyes; it was already there, making him pant with the effort to breath, while behind his closed eyelids Dean was burning, enveloped by those cold, bluish flames and his ears were still filled with his cries.
He jerked his eyes open, taking in big gulps of air, only to meet Castiel's blue eyes. The angel was tilting his head on a side, looking at him with puzzlement or, maybe Castiel wasn't puzzled at all. Sam wasn't really fluent in Castiel-ese, that was more Dean's thing. He was sure his brother had Castiel's head tilts cataloged down to an exact science.
And...
Sam blinked his eyes, forcing his mind on the present. He looked around, they were among the remains of the warehouse...and why wasn't Castiel wearing his trench-coat? And why the fuck couldn't he take a goddamned breath?
“Sam.” Castiel said, placing his hands on his shoulders, and Sam wanted to hit him. He really did, even if he knew that it wouldn't do any good, but at least he might be able to breath again. He was sure of that. His logic was flawless, really.
And then...
“Sam!” Castiel's voice was more urgent now, and the edge in it was enough to shake him and finally catch his attention.
“What?” He croaked.
And why wasn't Castiel wearing his damn trench-coat, again? And what the hell was wrong with him? His brother had just been burned to death by a witch holding hands with a demon and he was obsessing over a stupid trench-coat?
“It's Dean!” Castiel was saying, slowly, probably realizing that he hadn't heard a single word he had said. The tone of his voice was calm, soothing. And yes, Sam was definitely psychic again: he foresaw a broken hand in his immediate future.
“We might have a problem.” Castiel finished.
“You think?” Sam said in disbelief and flinched as soon as the words came out from his mouth, recalling that those wore the last words he had said to Dean. He felt his knees giving out, and was sure that if it weren't for the wall holding him up, he'd have probably dropped on the floor.
He should move. He was supposed to. Too bad he couldn't remember how to move. He still had an issue or two with the whole breathing thing. He was frozen in place.
I froze...
You froze?
One would think that he might have gotten used to death. To Dean's death. He had lived it, over and over again, courtesy of Gabriel. He had seen his brother die, he had seen him being torn apart by hell hounds. He had had to bury him.
But that time was different. It felt worse and Sam couldn't move a single muscle.
His musings were interrupted by Castiel, who looked definitely annoyed now, as he took him by his shoulders and dragged him toward a corner of the warehouse.
“You need to see this!” Castiel said.
Sam blinked and opened his mouth to speak, but whatever curse he had been about to say - and spending a little eternity in the cage with Lucifer and Michael had done wonders to his repertoire - was interrupted when he saw moving what he had mistakenly confused with a pile of rubble in a corner.
“Dean!” He shouted, his numbness forgotten as he pushed away from Castiel and ran toward...
...a woman?
Sam fell to his knees. “What the...” he trailed, leaning toward the woman - the naked woman covered with Castiel's trench-coat - on the concrete floor. He felt Castiel moving, he was behind him, but Sam didn't dare turning toward the angel.
The woman was unconscious, her long blonde hair was a mess of dirt and tangles, her face peaceful, and Sam had to shake his head. When he had first seen the woman, he had been sure it was his mom. She wasn't, of course, but the resemblance to the young, pregnant woman he had met in 1978 was there.
“It's Dean.” Castiel simply said.
Oh, God...Sam thought stretching a hand to touch the woman...Dean, but letting it drop. He turned toward the angel and said, “He's...she's...” he stopped, feeling on the verge of hysteria. His soulless self had been a douche-bag, he had been a sick fuck, but God, did he miss that zen calm he always felt in that moment!
“Cursed!” Castiel supplied.
No shit, Sherlock. Sam thought shooting him an angry glance. Castiel shrugged and Sam closed his eyes for a moment, and of course Dean chose that very moment to come to: Sam opened his eyes meeting Dean's very green eyes, and there was no doubt it was his brother's eyes, he'd recognize the look in them everywhere.
He had even dreamed about Dean's eyes while in the cage - though he would never admit that to anyone, especially Dean - it had been soothing.
Who the hell was he kidding? Those dreams had been his only tether to sanity, to humanity.
“Sam?” Dean said. He paused and cleared his throat before trying again, “Sammy?”
His brother was scared, it was clear in his eyes, but there was something else: he was pissed off. Very, very pissed off. Sam knew that, even before Dean said, “Dude, what the hell? I'm a chick!”
* * *
That was a fuck up of epic proportions. Dean Winchester - yes, Dean fuck you very much! - was beyond angry or scared or whatever the hell one was supposed to feel when fate, God or a witch decided to fuck someone up.
There weren't words in existence to convey how utterly, royally pissed off he was feeling right now.
He hated witches. That was nothing new, but he really hated them; he hated the bored emo teenagers who decided it was cool to mess with magic, he hated the bored rejects from Wisteria Lane, and he resented the fuck out of the true believers. Those bitches? Like Ruby had probably been when she was alive? Those were the worst.
The chick who had been holding hands with a demon while fucking him up? She took the fucking cake and she'd be dead meat when he found her.
If you find her...
He fumed, ignoring his last thought and rested his back against the bathroom door, clutching against his chest the tee and the boxers he had taken from his duffel bag right before he had run into the bathroom. He needed time to calm the fuck down, and he sure as hell couldn't do that in the same room with Sam, whose emotions were still too raw so soon after being resouled and Castiel in his best: “It's not like I don't feel human emotions, I simply don't get you morons” head-tilt. So the bathroom was the only logical place where he could stay for the moment.
It had been humiliating, he thought shaking his head. He had woken up feeling numb, only to be scared half to death by Sammy's puppy eyes directed at him...and they were in full force. As if it hadn't been enough, he had realized he was naked, draped in Castiel's trench-coat.
Everything had been still too blurry, fuzzy, yet he had recognized the smell and while a small part of himself had actually found it comforting, another - and he honestly had no clue about which part was smaller or louder - had already started to freak, even before he talked and realized what had happened.
Sam had helped him to sit up, and Dean had resisted the urge to snort, when his brother had been careful to keep the trench-coat from opening, while Castiel stood there watching them, his hands in his jacket's pockets and Dean hadn't been able to tear his eyes from the angel, his mind racing, trying to remember what the hell had just happened.
He remembered the cold flames engulfing him, he remembered the feeling - all to familiar - of being ripped to shreds. He had thought that it was the end, that he was going to die during a lame salt and burn job gone wrong, and his only thought had been almost childish. It wasn't fair, he had thought. It wasn't fair dying in a warehouse in the middle of fucking nowhere, just when things had actually started looking up.
It just wasn't fair, not when Sam had started putting himself together and they were learning to be brothers again. Yes, his brother was still waking up screaming from his nightmares, he was feeling like crap from a million things he refused to talk about, but it was him. It was really him! And Dean didn't want to leave him. Not if he could help it.
It wasn't fair dying now that he had finally reached some kind of a truce with Lisa, mostly for Ben's sake, and he was allowed to see the kid and Ben had forgiven him for what he had done that night, for scaring the crap out of his mother and shoving him against a wall.
It wasn't fair dying right after Castiel had pulled his head out of his ass long enough to answer to his silent prayers - which admittedly sometimes sounded a lot like apologies - and had actually shown up in the warehouse.
That just sucked!
Turning into a chick, because of a curse, though, came a close second. He sighed, trying to calm down. He was alive, that was all that mattered. Granted, he felt like shit, but he hadn't died.
Sam had still his soul - puppy eyes full of concern being hard evidence of it - and Castiel was still in their motel room, probably sporting his head tilt number 5, the one that meant: “I have no time for this bullshit”.
He stifled a groan thinking about Castiel and what had happened in the warehouse, after he had woken up, how Castiel had scooped him up in his arms when he had almost passed out from dizziness. He refrained from banging his head against the door at the memory.
He had pushed Sam's hand away, refusing his help and had tried to get up, hating to feel the two men's eyes on him.
“Dean...” Sam had started.
“I'm fine!” He had barked and had started, surprised at his own voice. The movement had made him feel even dizzier and he had had to close his eyes to stop the world from spinning around him.
He hadn't even had time to give a warning, he hadn't even really had time to brace himself for the fall, when he had felt Castiel's hands on his waist, catching him and Dean had realized that he had never noticed how warm the angel's body really was.
He had complained in the past about Castiel and personal space, about how the angel always seemed to forget that such thing even existed, but they had never been that close. And to be fair he had never been naked when it happened. Or a woman...or both. But that was definitely beside the point!
Dean opened his eyes, refusing to look in the mirror, refusing to dwell on what he had just thought, he just frowned in puzzlement when he realized that although Sam had been closer to him, he had known it had been Castiel who had caught him. Even before he opened his eyes.
It had been embarrassing, but that had been just the beginning; because Castiel had surprised him, ignoring his words and had effortlessly scooped him up in his arms. The angel had made a sound that had sounded suspiciously like a snort ignoring his protests and only then had Dean opened his eyes, refusing to look at the angel, casting a glance at his brother instead, noticing how Sam had been looking straight ahead of him, a blank expression on his face although his eyes told a whole other story.
And how the gigantor had mastered the art of having stares that conveyed so much, was beyond him! Sam's stare had been filled with puzzlement at Castiel, amusement, a hint of hysteria and a general what the fuckery Dean wholeheartedly agreed with.
And yes, he read his brother like an open book, especially when he was souled and had didn't act like a dick of epic proportions. So fucking what? And he had boobs now, too, he was definitely entitled to wax poetry, in totally platonic, brotherly, non creepy way, about his brother's eyes!
It had been humiliating and embarrassing, especially when he had realized, once they had zapped back to their motel room that somewhere, somehow, he had circled Castiel's shoulders with an arm, to balance himself. Like a goddamned girl! Like a fucking damsel in distress!
“Dean?” Sam's voice behind the closed door made him start, breaking his train of thoughts. “You alright?” His brother asked.
“Yeah, fine...just need a sec!” He said casually...and God! He hated his voice! He sighed, steeling himself for what he was about to do. He still had no clue about what he looked like.
He'd rather not know. He'd rather pretend that it was just a bad dream, but he knew better. And as much as he wanted to live in denial, sooner or later he'd have to get it over with it, so he took some steps and looked at himself in the mirror. And cursed.
He was chick! He really was! And he kinda looked like his mother. Rather, he looked like his mother would have if she had spent a lifetime on the road, had gone to hell and spent the last few years fighting the Apocalypse and had busted her ass trying to get Sam's soul back from hell. Oh, and if she had drunk herself into a stupor more often than not, just to get some fucking sleep for the past three o four years.
He had long blonde hair. Really? How was that for living the cliché? He thought with a snort. Long honey blonde hair, pale freckled skin, green eyes, full lips, feminine features. Yep, definitely a chick. Not even a hint of masculinity in his features. On closer inspection he realized that the resemblance to his mother was only apparent. It wasn't just the hardships and the different lives they had lived. His mother had been a babe he, on the other hand, was a mess. And not a hot one and he definitely needed to take a shower.
“I can do this!” He said, nodding at the chick in the mirror. Now if only he felt as confident as his voice sounded.
He could hear Sam and Castiel talking through the thin walls, but their voices were so low that he couldn't make out what they were saying and although he was grateful to Castiel for having showed up and saved the day and for the trench-coat thing, he really wished he'd go away. Didn't he have a civil war up in Heaven to think about?
He slid off the trench-coat and stupidly closed his eyes when he glimpsed his naked body in the mirror. He. Had. To. Keep. It. Together. So, he had boobs and other lady's parts. It wasn't anything he hadn't already seen or touched hundreds of times! It wasn't a big deal!
Yet, as he got in the shower stall, he thought about the fact that the only thing he had really noticed about the sneak peek he had got from the mirror, was how big Castiel's print on his forearm looked. It was only logical, he reasoned, he was smaller now, thinner, but it had been like looking at that damn print for the first time.
He didn't even notice the mark any more...it was just there, like his too big eyes or those lips which sometimes looked like a cosmic joke to him.
Such delicate features for a hunter...
Dean closed his eyes, letting the almost scorching water wash over him. He was freaking out, which was totally understandable given the circumstances. He tried to relax under the spray of the shower. He just needed to calm the fuck down, call Bobby, listen to him bitch at them for a while and then hit the books. Everything would be fine.
First thing first, though: how could he take the damn shower and getting himself clean without feeling like a perv?