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It’s not fair. You thought he would turn out looking like one of those dwarf women in Lord of the Rings if this ever happened: stocky and still masculine, the only drastic changes being longer hair and growth of certain body parts that were previously nonexistent.
But lo and behold, the latest prank in Gabriel’s long line of tricks that walk the line of funny and fucked up has rendered Dean Winchester a fucking Victoria’s Secret model. He went from Ken to Barbie. And if he was Barbie, then that made you Barbie’s less flashy, less buxom friend Midge.
Now normally when you are in the presence of other women, you don’t feel aesthetically inadequate. You like to think everyone’s body is a masterpiece—descended from cool-as-fuck stardust—and you extend that belief to yourself.
But come the hell on! No one should be this hot. This was the kind of unattainable beauty a person can only reach through extensive hours of exercise and Photoshop. His pre-existing delicate features only amplified his beauty when paired with his now feminine physique. His hair was still the same length, but he nevertheless looked like a Disney princess; he was a solid Rapunzel, hands down. He had a significantly smaller frame when compared to his former one, with soft curves and less robust muscles. He could probably still throw a damn good punch—it’s just that his appearance didn’t send out that ‘you won’t like me when I’m angry’ vibe anymore. You were no expert in bra sizes—but if you had to guess, you would place him somewhere between a C and a D cup.
Jesus Christ! You had been ogling him for the past five minutes since Gabriel snapped his fingers and left you to deal with the aftermath: a slack-jawed Dean who was still marveling at the metamorphosis his body had undergone. You were somewhat surprised he had yet to cuss up a storm in proper Dean Winchester fashion—but you sensed that his proclivity for excessively using expletives would probably return to him with a vengeance. Just give him time.
Dean had been too enamored with his reflection in the compact mirror you lent him—to prove that he was indeed ‘a chick’ as you had exclaimed once the mystical fog from Gabe’s trick dissipated. “Son of a bitch,” Dean breathed out in a hushed whisper of astonishment with a voice that was of a low, feminine timbre. His head snapped to you with a confident, playful smirk and proclaimed. “I’m a babe!” Aaaaaannnnnnnd you were snapped out of your trance of envy mixed with pansexual attraction. Rolling your eyes, you sassed, “I don’t think you grasp the seriousness of the situation here, Deanna. You just had a mystical sex-change operation, performed by Gabriel of all people. If it were done by a witch, we could at the very least kill them to revert you back to normal. But no—you’re at the mercy of a sugar-junkie archangel. You’re stuck like that until the novelty wears off for the twisted bastard.”
Yep, that managed to wipe the smirk off his unfairly attractive face. With a huff, Dean responded with ample amount of snark, “Well, fuck it all. Might as well get comfy then.”
The first day of the change was uneventful—excluding Sam’s reaction when he returned from his morning jog. You definitely enjoyed him losing his shit over mistaking Dean for an intruder.