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Sam’s apprehension over the Twilight Zone Mystery House was due strictly to Mystery Spot correlation, Dean knew.
This was vastly bigger, but had the same feel, the visual illusions to make a room’s dimensions impossibly skewed, furniture nailed to the ceiling, a mad scientist lab with jars of fabricated creations, an Alice in Wonderland effect as you stepped from one room and into a completely different world. Walking through it at night only made the whole unsettling vibe worse.
Dean shuddered, creeping through the main room with Sam and Cas close behind, and stalling in the center.
Each door from the room led in a different direction making Sam close his eyes, shaking his head in dismay.
Dean felt bad for him. The Mystery Spot was a nightmare Sam had been trapped in, the aftermath leaving him with months of jerking awake in the dead of night and paranoid hovering by Dean’s side. He still full-bodied flinched when Asia came on and would blindly slap at the radio to change it or turn it off.
Dean flicked a glance after Cas as he drifted from the room through the door leading to a ballroom, frowning at the awed wonder on his face before Sam distracted him again.
“This is bad, Dean. This is so bad.”
“Sammy, breathe.” He slapped his arm. “Just some cursed objects bought at an estate sale ending up in the wrong hands again. We do this all the time.”
“We should stay together. All of us. Cas. Where’s Cas?”
He gestured. “Wandered off that way. Sam, if we split up, the faster we’re done.”
Sam stared through the door Cas had gone, taking an aborted step. “The sound’s coming from there. That’s why he went.”
“What sound?”
“You don’t hear it? The song?” He took another step forward, blinking unfocused eyes and swaying on his feet, before shaking his head, gaze clear and sharp with fear. “Dean, some serious magic is in there. How can you not feel that? Hear it? She’s singing.”
Dean placed himself between Sam and the doorway, arms outstretched. “Sam, I don’t know what you hear or feel, but pretty sure that means you do not need to go through the door.”
“But Cas-”
“I’ll go after Cas. You go in the opposite direction. See if you can’t find the porcelain doll and music box.” When Sam’s face shifted to dreamy again, Dean gave him a shove. “Go, Sam!”
Sam hesitated another moment before tearing his eyes away and forcing his feet in the other direction.
Pocketing his EMF reader, Dean pulled his gun instead, keeping it lowered as he tried to pick his way through the pseudo ballroom. The walls were lined with mirrors and elaborately decorated mannequins arranged as active guests. Their blank faces and dark shadows gave him a chill. He hissed for Cas and got no answer.
When he finally caught sight of the back of Cas’ trenchcoat, he skidded to a stop, ducking behind a table to peek around the false party-goers.
Cas’ arms were outstretched, steps an awkward shuffle, and eyes half-lidded as he reached toward an oversized gilded dressing mirror in a corner.
Dean pushed to his feet, gun out straight as he edged closer, shifting to follow his line of sight. “Cas.” No reaction. “Cas!”
Something about the mirror made Dean’s skin crawl. He didn’t hear anything, but as he crept closer, his eyes widen. Cas wasn’t reflected in the mirror. Instead, there was a woman, singing and hands outstretched as though to meet Castiel’s, the distance closing between them as Cas walked to the mirror.
Or door.
“Cas, don’t!” He fired his gun as the angel’s fingertips touched the flat surface, liquid ripples then imploded in a shattering of glass shards, a backlash of magic sending Dean and Cas flying off their feet.
Dean landed on his back, sliding and rolling across the polished black and white checked floor and struggling to right himself, shoving up on his elbow, then to his hands as he got his feet under him and rushed forward, ears ringing.
“Cas!”
He’d crashed into two mannequins, their forms and costumes cushioning him for slamming into the mirrored walls. Dean grabbed one, tossing it to the side by fabric and lace.
“Cas!”
Footsteps pounded through the far door. “Dean!” Sam skidded to a stop, eyes focused on the destroyed mirror and panting. “What happened, what--” He looked at his brother who stood frozen over Castiel, then down, pulling up short and shaking his head as if to correct his vision. “What happened?”
Dean knelt beside Cas’ still form, brows knitting together as he cataloged the cuts Cas shouldn’t have, only a slight tremor to his hand when he reached out to shake the angel’s shoulder. “...Cas?”
Dark, thick lashes fluttered, eyes moving behind his lids as his brows knit together.
Dean jabbed a hand at the destroyed mirror. “Sammy, find out what the fuck that was and what it supposedly did.” Cas gave a weak groan when Dean shook him again before his body went lax, head lolling to the side. “Shit.” He looked him over from head-to-toe, shoving down the part wanting to freak out because, well… “I’m gonna have to carry him to the car. Sam, did you find the doll and music box?” he demanded, sliding an arm under Cas’ knees, the other behind his back, before carefully pushing to his feet.
“Uh, yeah. They were still in a box. Blessed them both, hid a gris-gris in them just to be safe. They’re good.”
Cas’ head settled against Dean’s shoulder as he adjusted his grip, his long hair falling in a tangle of waves and curls, his clothes swallowing him. The bleeding cut on his cheek had stopped, but the one near his temple was deeper and would need a butterfly stitch, at least.
“Are you sure that’s-”
“Sam, just get me whatever you can find on that mirror,” he growled, turning and stalking away. “It’s new inventory. Get me the papers.”
“He’s bleeding!”
“I know.”
“He's not supposed to bleed! He’s an angel!”
“I know.”
“He’s- he’s--”
Dean whirled sharply, adjusting Cas’ dead weight. “A girl, Sam. I know.” He nodded to the empty gold frame. “But I am pretty sure whatever the mirror siren or whatever had planned would have been a lot worse than this, so maybe let’s figure out what that was so we can figure out what this is and then fix it.”
His brother nodded rapidly and took off at a bound, long legs carrying him from the room and out of sight before Dean could release a full sigh.
He looked down at Cas’ face, familiar and yet so very not in a way that was all manner of wrong. He set his shoulders and heaved a sigh, stalking from the room.
“Cas, buddy, you owe me a drink.”
Dean’s head throbbed in time with his heart when he woke up in the morning, eyes and mouth both desert dry and gritty.
He pushed himself up, rubbing his face. Stress headache? Dehydration? Caffeine withdrawal? Wasn’t a hangover, at least.
Brushing his teeth and splashing his face with water helped only minimally. He regarded his reflection, straightened his robe and wondered how even chasing sleep, rest seemed to elude him. An exhaustion had settled into his bones that went beyond poor sleep patterns and bad dreams.
He needed coffee.
And water.
And food.
And ibuprofen.
And a damn vacation.
The candle was burning at both ends, and honestly, he’d given up trying to figure out how much was left.
He staggered to a halt when he reached the kitchen, surprise and confusion winning out over his hunter instincts at the sight of a woman in a man’s dress shirt and socks, her long hair a dishevelled mess, and long, fit legs exposed as she stood with her hands braced on the counter, fingers tapping an impatient rhythm as the coffee made.
Heat rushed his face at what clearly looked like a morning-after where everyone had a good time. Did Sam…?
He cleared his throat. “Um…”
She turned her head, blue eyes and dark lashes glancing over her shoulder. “Good morning.”
And holy shit, the day before came back to him a rush that made him dizzy.
“Cas.”
He straightened, turning toward Dean, raking a hand through his tangle of hair. The front of the shirt where the top buttons were undone widened, revealing a hint of cleavage, the hem rising on one side with the movement, drawing attention to exposed legs, naked but for the black dress socks he still wore.
“How long was I out?” Cas asked. Dean just stared. He touched the small butterfly stitch above his brow. “Thank you for this, by the way. I’m sorry I worried you.”
Dean came forward a step, brain and eyes unable to reconcile what was in front of him, setting his teeth on edge as ingrained wariness and caution had him lean away.
Blinking, Cas tilted his- her?-their?- head, brows drawing together. “Dean?”
“What day did we meet?”
“Wha-?”
“Answer the question.”
“September 18th.” His brows drew together, turning with Dean as he kept to the perimeter of the room.
“What’s my middle name?”
“Michael.”
“How did we meet?”
Full lips pushed into a frown. “In a barn.”
“How did we meet? ”
Slim fingers touched his chest. “I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.” The hand fell, eyes flicking over Dean’s form as Dean took him in from head-to-toe. “Dean... it’s me.”
Which, yes, part of Dean knew and even recognized, despite the obvious changes. Dean had been the one to carry him to the car and then to his room. It was Dean who had removed his coat and tie, and even apologized as he removed Cas’ slacks and tucked him into bed, securing the blankets around him. It was Dean who’d cleaned the cuts and done the butterfly stitch. And it was Dean doing all he could to suppress the part of him that had wanted to freak out and panic over whatever had apparently gone very, very wrong.
The coffee pot beeped its completion, green eyes flicked to it, then back as Cas took a step back holding both hands palms open.
“Dean. It’s me.”
He was breathing too hard. He swallowed, tried to conciliate the change in his head while instinct had muscles coiled tight at the stranger in his kitchen. The stranger with Cas’ head tilt and perpetual frown, the impossibly blue eyes and unruly hair.
“I know,” he said. “Doesn’t make it less unnerving. Like an optical illusion that just won’t quit.” His eyes raked over him again, brain then supplying the earlier misunderstanding of the situation, of a woman wearing little more than a man’s shirt and a pair of socks. He flushed and jerked his gaze away. “Cas, are you wearing anything under that shirt?”
Cas watched him with narrowed eyes. “My clothes are too big. I went through Charlie’s left behind things and was only able to find underwear that fit. Her jeans were too small and her shirts would cover far less than this.”
His flush burned hotter at the mental image of the woman in front of him, of Cas, dressed only in boy shorts and a t-shirt.
He felt sick. Eyes averted, he yanked off his robe and held it out on the tips of his fingers.
“Here. We’ll get you proper clothes later, or something to make due in the meantime.”
Cas didn’t move, looking from the blue robe to the man holding it. “Dean, what’s wrong?” He frowned, looking down and gesturing to where the hem of the shirt fell to mid-thigh in front and back, the sleeves rolled up to expose his hands. “I’m perfectly covered--”
“Cas. There is not a single situation where a woman is wearing a man’s shirt first thing in the morning and fun times weren’t had by all the night before. It is disconcerting. Please put something on.”
Tentatively, Cas crossed the space between them, taking the robe and slipping it on with uncertainty. When he’d-she’d?- tied it, Dean let out a breath and stalked over to the cabinet, snatching up a coffee mug, hesitating a moment before sliding it closer to where Cas stood.
Cas caught it with one hand, eyes tracking Dean as he filled his cup and moved over to sit at the table, putting space between them.
Dean watched Cas pour coffee, tried not to note the width of his shoulders or the way the robe was cinched around a slim waist.
When Cas turned, mug in hand, to lean against the counter Dean dragged his gaze away.
“What happened?”
“I don’t remember much. Entering the shop, the song—“
“Sam mentioned a song, too.” He shook his head. “Cas, I didn’t hear anything. Whatever she was though, she had you in a trance. Almost had Sam.”
Sneering when he sipped his coffee, Cas scooped cream and sugar into the mug, stirring with a shrug of shoulders.
“I don’t know, Dean. Next thing I knew, I was waking up with a headache and hungry.” His eyes fell. “Coffee seemed priority once I couldn’t find clothes.”
“You seem calm.”
He turned, brows drawn together. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Dean balked, shoving a hand at his appearance. “Cas, you touched a cursed mirror some mirror siren was trying to drag you into or something and now you’re not only a woman but apparently human! Why wouldn’t you be freaking out?”
Blue eyes flicked to the seat across the table, then reconsidered. Placing a hand on the edge of the counter, Cas hopped up in one motion to sit, ankles crossed.
Hair spilling over his shoulders, the front of the robe and shirt opened, once again drawing Dean’s eyes to the soft curves beneath that normally weren’t. The image he made was sweet and effortlessly attractive.
Dean's stomach turned, a sour twist that made him look away. “What pronouns do I even use for you now?”
Cas lowered the mug to his lap, head tilting to one side. “Dean, I’m still me.” He gestured, kicking one leg out to emphasize his whole form. “I assume this is temporary. Some… adverse reaction to... whatever happened.” His mouth was still just as pink and full, but the new angles of his jaw, his chin, even the framing of his eyes and nose, drew more attention to them as he pursed them. “I don’t understand why this seems jarring to you. Angels and demons changing vessels and bodies isn’t new. This would be the third form you’ve seen me take, in fact.” He examined one of his hands, turning it over. “This is still my body, if that’s your worry. No one or nothing came through the mirror to take my place.”
“Pretty sure that's what she was after.” Cas looked at him. Dean looked at a random spot off to the side and waved a hand. “Sam started researching in the car and after we got home. There’s a lot of lore about mirrors being doorways to alternate worlds, or prisons, with humans either getting swept through to another world or trapped inside.” He shrugged. “She was reaching for you. I shot the mirror as you touched it. Glass and magic went everywhere. You went flying in one direction; I got tossed in the other. Twelve hours later I wake up to find you looking like the unexpected morning-after houseguest.” He downed the last of his coffee and pushed from the table. “I’m gonna go find you something to wear so Sam can take you shopping while I research.”
“Dean?” Cas called, stalling him in the door. Swallowing, Dean cast a glance over his shoulder. Biting his bottom lip, Cas cast him a worried look. “I am fine.”
Dean nodded and left the room wishing that was what bothered him about the whole mess of it.
Dean researched until his skull throbbed in a way that made him think of screwdrivers and eye sockets, reminding him he never got breakfast. Or water. Or ibuprofen. Seeing Cas had thrown him completely off-balance and unsettled him.
He left the books where they were, stalking to the kitchen to down a glass of water and medicine, then chugged a second glass before eyeing the fridge contents for whatever involved minimal effort to fix or eat and not having an appetite for anything.
He settled for a microwaved burrito and decided against heading straight back to the library. His brain and eyes were too strained from mirror universes and fae royalty and Lewis Carroll to bear reading anymore.
The hot water of a shower pounding down on him at least helped ease the taunt pull in his shoulders, the way they felt like a wire about to snap. The tension was still there, the knots and stiffness, but any relief was gratifying in a way that only reminded him how tired he consistently was.
By the time he’d gotten out and dressed, Sam and Cas had returned from shopping. Dean pulled up short halfway through the War Room when he saw Cas sitting cross-legged in a chair researching.
He was wearing embroidered jeans and a soft green sweater with a pair of converses. He’d pulled his riotous hair up and back into a ponytail, drawing attention to the lines of neck and throat.
Dean turned and went to his room.
When he made his way into the kitchen in the morning for coffee, Castiel was already there, weight shifted to his back foot and arms folded as he glared at the coffee pot waiting for it to finish.
He should show him how to set it up on a timer to make in the mornings, Dean thought as he took in the messy bedhead and patterned sleep pants, the plain, oversized shirt that sloped off one shoulder.
He left, collecting books and files from the library before heading to his room.
Hunger drew him out hours later, stomach growling as he carried his empty coffee mug and read off a tablet as he made his way through the halls. He’d taken a break from reading on mirror lore to search for spellwork involving reflective surfaces of any kind. Regardless of whether or not they found out who or what had been in the mirror, they needed to find a way to reverse the results of the magical backlash.
He faltered when he entered the kitchen. Cas was standing at the counter making a sandwich. His hair was loose this time, silken soft. Dean swallowed, taking in the red sundress and denim jacket, the long legs, tan from hours spent jogging outdoors, the simple converses. A pang of longing pierced him, knowing full well Cas was in front of him, but missing him anyway. Missing the face of a friend, despite recognizing him in a stranger.
When his gaze made its way back up, he found Cas already looking at him, a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth.
“Hello, Dean.”
God, how was Cas always like that? Effortlessly attractive and, luckily for Dean, completely oblivious to the attention he garnered. Mental images drifted to his mind's eye, the phantom sensation of his fingers in hair, of Cas' mouth so temptlingly close to his.
This was so much worse than before. Part of his brain had relaxed, releasing a sigh of relief that now it was okay. All the things he repressed, shoved down, ignored, wanted but fought against… it was okay, like the universe righting itself because here was Cas in a form it was okay for Dean to admire. To want. To feel the way he did about him.
He felt sick.
And the strong sense to punch himself in the fucking face in disgust.
“Hi, Cas,” he managed, drifting to the table to set down the tablet, keeping one eye on the angel.
It was so screwed up. The whole situation was screwed up and making him increasingly angry with no outlet. He needed to go work it off. Maybe spar with Sam until he got it out of his system.
He wished he could fight himself. Kick his own ass. He wanted to, in a weird mix of self-loathing and defensiveness and protectiveness for Cas. It was all just a tangled mess.
There was something so revolting in being just as distracted by Cas, if not more so, in this form rather than the other. The part of his brain that told him it was okay when it so very wasn’t. He was still Cas. Would look at Dean as though he’d parted with his sanity, and that was only if Cas wasn’t offended, as he should be, that Dean would suddenly…
It felt like infidelity.
It felt like a betrayal even though he and Cas were never that; when he’d spent so long suppressing because he knew they could never be that. Because he was an angel. Because they were both men. Because Cas deserved so much better, and Dean wanted that for him as much as he wanted the impossible for himself.
He scrubbed a hand through his hair with a low growl. He was tired of the whole situation. It was the last thing he needed.
Feeling eyes on him, he faltered, looking over to see Cas leaning against the counter with his arms folded and eyes narrowed.
Sam came in the door and Cas held up a hand to stop him.
“Sam, give us a minute. I need to talk to your brother.”
Sam’s eyes flicked between them, brows raised, before he carefully backed out the door and disappeared down the hall.
Dean watched as consternation became an irritated scowl, Cas tilting his head.
“What's wrong?”
Dean shook his head, busied himself by putting the mug in the sink to be washed. “Nothing’s wrong. What do you mean?”
“I mean you are avoiding me and I want to know why.”
He moved over to the table, plucked the tablet up with only a glance at Cas. “Dude, I have been researching same as you. Trying to find a way to fix this.”
“But you are the one avoiding me. You won’t even look at me!” He gestured in frustration. “I am still me, Dean, so what is the problem?”
“There's no problem.”
“There is! What is it about my appearance that offends you so much?” He threw up his hands. “Hell, I would think you would prefer this one over the other.”
Dean blanched and looked away.
“Answer me. Is it because I remind you of someone else? What, that I’m effectively human and not useful to you?”
“What? No!”
“You think I’m not fit to fight beside you now? That I couldn’t fight and hunt as a human?”
“No, Cas!”
“Then what?”
“You’re not you!” he exclaimed. “You’re not you and I keeping walking in on a unfamiliar stranger in my home, except it’s not, because I know it’s you, can see it’s you, but it’s not you. I’m not only stressing about what that spell did but if there’s any other side effects that might hurt you, but also missing my friend because he’s not here, again, and I miss that face.” He sighed in defeat, waving a hand to encompass Cas’ appearance. “And this… it’s just… all manner of messing with my head. I just want you back, Cas-- which I know doesn’t make sense, but that doesn’t change the facts.”
Some of the tension eased from Cas’ shoulders, brows drawn together and lips pursed as he studied him.
“What if we can’t?”
“What?”
“What if there isn’t,” he held up and crooked his fingers, “‘a solution’? What if this form is my new normal?”
Dean’s mind reeled away from that possibility, horrified by how the new tension might mess up he and Cas being friends. How much he’d miss the face of someone such an irrevocable part of him. The guilt and sense of betrayal that he was attracted to one form just as much as the other, but that societal rules shunned only one of them. That it would be okay now.
It made his stomach turn.
Blue eyes played over his face, brows furrowed as Cas shook his head. “...are you uncomfortable because you’re attracted to this form? Is that the problem? Dean, I know you’re preferences--”
“Please stop talking.”
“--if you’re worried about offending me because one form is attractive to you while the other isn’t--”
“Cas, please stop.”
“--it’ll pass as you get use to this face, and it won’t be an issue anymore, but avoiding me won’t acclimate you when it’s no different and the attraction will fade!”
“The problem’s with both bodies, Cas!” he snapped, voice louder and more forceful than he intended. Blue eyes widened. Dean flinched, eyes clamping shut as he realized what he’d just admitted. He scrubbed a hand over his face, looked away. “I’m sorry.”
The clock on the wall counted the seconds of deafening silence. Cas stared at him, but Dean couldn’t bear to look up for his own shame and embarrassment.
“Explain.”
“Cas--”
“Explain,” Cas ordered, hands balling into fists at his sides.
Eyes lowered, Dean swallowed. “It won’t fade because it’s never faded.” He rubbed his arm. “On top of missing you… I don’t know how better to describe it than it feeling like a betrayal. I know it’s you. You look like you, you do. I’d know you even if you didn’t. There's nothing wrong with how you look, really nothing wrong. But he’s the one I know. Every memory, every fight, every confused look, every laugh or smile. And I don’t want to lose him.” He laughed bitterly. “Despite how everything tries to take him away or Heaven and Hell mock me for this.”
“But… you’ve never…” His eyes darted rapidly as if pouring over their every interaction in his mind, searching for an answer. He looked up, their gazes locking, and the raw pain there punched all the air from Dean’s lungs. “Dean, you don’t love me. Not like that. Not like I want. You never have.”
Holding his eye, Dean gave a defeated shake of his head. “Cas, how could I not love you?”
He took a step forward and stopped, restraining himself to maintain the same distance. “Allowing yourself to be attracted to me in this form, when you denied it when I was in the other, you feel like you’re betraying and insulting me,” Cas repeated carefully, words slow. He shook his head. “But because of society and your upbringing, you never admitted any of this when I was in a male form, so that we were never more than..." Anger lit blue eyes, movements aborted and angry. "There is no shame in love, Dean! Gender and sexuality are human constructs! I thought you didn’t love me! Every time you called me a brother, do you have any idea how much it hurt? How all I wanted was for you to love me?”
“Cas, you’re an angel--”
“Who wants to be human!”
“You hated being human!”
“Under those circumstances!” he threw back, voice rising. “I wanted to be human and here! With you,” his voice cracked, a wet wavering sound. Swallowing, he straightened, squaring his shoulders as the glare from earlier returned and he stalked forward until Dean backed into a wall with nowhere to retreat. He shoved a finger in Dean’s face. “We are going to find a way to undo this and get me back to normal, and when we do, you and I are going to have a conversation, am I clear?”
“Crystal.”
His eyes narrowed, face angling to the side. “...you’re honestly attracted to me in both forms?”
Were it not for the clear suspicion in his expression, Dean would have blushed, instead his stomach sank with guilt over all the things he’d never said.
“Cas… you’re gorgeous. Always.” A wry smile tugged at his mouth. “It’s one of the few things Heaven and Hell agree on.”
He scoffed. “I don’t care what they think.” His eyes found Dean’s again. “I just want to know that you love me.”
“Cas, all I’ve done since we met is ruin your life--”
“Do you love me?” he demanded.
He swallowed, eyes playing over the angry lines of Cas’ expression, seeing the fear and flicker hope in his eyes. “Yeah," he rasped. "Yeah, Cas, I do.”
Leaning back out of Dean’s personal space, Cas accepted that with a nod, gaze growing distant in that way Dean recognized and dubbed Battle-Strategy Cas, brain turning over a mile a minute.
He turned, the skirt of his dress flaring as he retreated over to the counter to grab his neglected lunch, snatching up the plate and turning to leave. He paused in the door to level Dean a look.
“I mean it, Dean: we fix this, then you and I are going to have a serious conversation. Probably a few. And I am definitely going to kiss you.”
He gave a single nod. “Understood.”
Cas glared. “And stop avoiding me. I miss you, too, you ass.”
A surprised laugh bubbled out of him and Dean bowed his head in conceded defeat, one arm sweeping to the side. “As you wish.”
“And, Dean?” He lifted his gaze, brows raised. “I love you, too.”
END