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1
John Winchester taught her how to wield many things.
Basic, of course, was the heft of their namesake in her grip, the barrel dwarfing Deanna's palms. She was old enough to hold it, so she was old to be trusted. To look after Sam.
The loading of bullets, the gruff way that John led her with words as cold as iron rods.
The weight of the terror that she felt when watching him spraying ghosts with bullets on her first hunt, now transferred onto her, shaking salt into an uneven circle and hoping that it was good enough.
The books she tried to crack open as much as a smile on John's face, followed by small pride when she deftly used a piece of knowledge to tame a phouka, distinguishing its boredom from the malevolence of a common shapeshifter.
She had to wield those things, be the protector for Samantha--
As Samantha was born with Mary's eyes, or so she pieced together when John, lost in the depths of the bottle, would mumble out.
Sam's the splitting image of Mary, God-- it's not so hard to look at you, Deanna. My, how much you've grown already. Being a good older sister, huh? Cigarette and pocket lighter a trail of warmed ash across her face, as John's given up on his nails. She hadn't then, yet. My, what an easy face to look at.
She learned that her face earned the compliments the most.
John seemed to know it, too, as he never left bruises on her face.
---
2
Switching schools went down to a routine.
Along with her little pocket items and gun tucked into the back of her pants, she carried her own little armoire with her. Had to be careful to hide this part from John, as when he found out about the chapstick for her lips dried even more from exposure to cold nights burning remains, still working on building her muscles to dig out graves.
John wielded words in wide slashes, at her weaknesses.
"You think monsters care whether your lips are dry, girl? How much was this piece of trash? How much?"
The first few schools she went to without it, in her utility jacket and functional ripped knee jeans, people called her all sorts of names. She decked a girl for calling her a lesbo.
She found it difficult to work around her oddly constricted throat when Samantha, ever-curious, asked what name they called her.
"Les-bean? What's that?"
"It means... they think I'm a girl who likes girls."
"I think Michelle at our school is cute. Is that bad?" At this, Deanna double-checked that there was no key unexpectedly jingling the motel room lock.
"No, no Sammy," she hastened in a whisper, Samantha's widening, tearing eyes doing wonders to help her clear her throat. "It's not bad... Just don't let dad hear you say that, ok?"
"Dad's never here anyway," Sammy grumbled. "He's not at school, why'd you get so mad?"
She tried to force the words, they were calling me stuff that weren't true, but they didn't sit well on her tongue, so she held Sammy's hand.
"Samantha, I'm sorry." At this Sammy looked up, because she knew that when Deanna used her full name, she meant business. "I'll not stir up drama and get us kicked out of the next school, ok?"
Unfortunately they did not stay long enough at the following schools to fulfill that promise. But they stayed long enough for Deanna to scrounge up a few coins and thrift clothing and shoes decent enough to walk the hallways with a confidence she faked. A few times she had to remind herself that she faced ghosts; pre-teens weren't that scary in comparison.
They weren't especially scary when she used half-full mascara bottles palmed from not yet cleaned motel rooms or lipsticks scrounged from laypeople they were helping (hey, that's how the Winchesters got paid) to bat her eyes at the nerds, the jocks, everyone alike. To let her live, let her stay, blend in as one of their own. Sculpt a jaw a little softer, paint her eyes more doe-like.
And as soon as she'd pick up Sam and walk home with her, she'd methodically wipe it off her face. Let her jaw be as fierce and square as it was made. Take the stuffing out of her bra and let her lips be grim, her eyelashes shorter.
Let her face be monstrous to face monsters.
Protect Sammy-- who has Mary's eyes.
The irony that one child remembered Mary, and one child brought the remembrance of Mary, the perfect storm in their small teacup of impermanence.
---
3
As she gained more experience and leeway fighting monsters, the fighting between John and Sammy worsened.
She prepared herself to answer Sammy if she ever asked, why does John hate me so much? But curiously, Sammy never did, and tried to drag her into taking a side when Deanna tried to keep the peace.
"That's the longest Dad's gone without talking to us. Again."
"He's busy protecting the world, Sammy-- you know that."
"No, because we're his family, and we should be his world!" Deanna forced herself to hold her ground when Sammy sat up from the only, three-legged chair in their motel room, and towered over her a good inch. When did Sammy get so tall? The non-lizard part of Deanna asked her, which also dryly answered that usually Sammy seemed shorter because she hunched over books. "De, can't you at least acknowledge that he doesn't act like a father should? That he leaves us high and dry?"
"Sammy," she replied, and hated how her normally deep voice sounded more high-pitched, now, "We're not high and dry. Look, he left us with enough money, ok? And I can pick up a few shifts now, I'm old enough."
"What about school?"
"Of the two of us, you're the one who can make it in school," she said, with a finality. Feeling like a bowstring pulled taut between arrow and bow, just like the one she stretched in that one harrowing hunt to silence a nue ("Bobby, here, in South Dakota?" "Beats me, kid"), she swipes her leather jacket, purse and her keys. "Which reminds me, I have another shift tonight. I'll come in after midnight so don't wait up for me, okay?"
The cold air feels bracing, chilling the barely contained heat in her body.
She needs to focus tonight, focus that's increasingly hard to get now that things are more difficult in school--
Sammy's grown increasingly perceptive, which means that Deanna needs to outright lie to her now. They are indeed high and dry, and during their extended stay here she's exhausted all of their watering holes.
There's a different tactic she's considered, leaning into the conversation of her peers with faked disgust.
"Ugh, gross," she feigned, "There's a place in town where girls even do that?"
"Yeah, Gabby's so desperate that she goes to..."
She finds a stall and changes into her most mature face and a dress that feels at least 10 years too old for her, heart pounding and palms sweating. The last meal, a peanut butter sandwich of which Sammy got the lion's share, flickers into view.
The bar seems seedy and instantly sets off her skin crawling, the same when a hunt's about to go bad. A few men eye her skeptically and glance away when she returns their stare. One mutters under his breath, "jailbait", and moves purposefully away from her when she sits at the bar. But many more eye her with interest, linger beneath her eyes and right at her chest.
It is reassuring to know that although Sammy's definitely more gifted in that department, she still has enough to ensnare her prey.
She doesn't know if she feels like a hunter later, when stale ale breath perspirates the curve between her shoulder and neck, and when grimy hands paw underneath her dress. She has picked up some things from being around other hunters, mostly male. What they like, what they don't like in women, what she hears from above when sleeping over at say, the Roadhouse when the men have their own "bonding time." But she wasn't prepared for forcing her limbs to move, to find this most definitely harder than the appendage the man is now ramming into her, with no spark of pleasure or delight.
"Frigid bitch," he says after he comes with a groan. "You said it would be worth my time."
But I lost my virginity to you, nameless man, she thinks, the stall door barely swinging behind him as she counts out the dollars, way less than what was promised, and you didn't even give me enough for the two of us.
That day, she lets her tears ruin her mascara.
And because tears never fed her a river, she learned to perform, fake moans and writhing, all the while her head drifting and wondering.
---
4
Castiel is... something else.
While Deanna is all about performance, of tilting her head just so to look coy, the head tilt on Cas (or Cas' vessel, as she is fond of reminding her in the early days) is merely inquisitive. Deanna forms her mouth in a moue when pondering what a male witness says to encourage them to say more, when Cas just fixes Deanna and Sam with an unending stare-- more Deanna than Sam, lately.
The stare is something else. Deanna's had men's eyes track her down a one-track lane, and former classmates at school tittering around her with jealous stares when eyeing her with the school jock. She's been eyed with wariness by hunters patting John on the back, and with downright suspicion or blame when tag-teaming goes wrong.
But Cas-- Cas doesn't seem to want anything, other than for Deanna to hear what she's saying, and for Deanna to tell her what she thinks. She doesn't seem to notice the people who stare at her, especially the men who are flustered by her intense gaze. Cas makes it seem so effortless, and at first Deanna resented Cas for perfecting the demure, softspoken woman act so well, when she realized that it was just how Cas was.
Sometimes Deann just says things just to see if she can throw her off.
"Gee Cas, going all American Psycho there with the blade, huh?
"Bert and Ernie, yeah?"
"Last time someone looked at me like that, I got laid."
Maybe she'll get an eye squint in turn, if she's lucky.
Over time she becomes more fluent in the little quirks, sees more nuances to Cas' stoicism. Men seem to take Cas' silence as acceptance of what they're saying, but she can tell when Cas is genuinely curious or just buying her time before she cuts in. When someone says a joke or some incredibly outrageous thing and, miffed at the lack of response, segues into another topic, she notices the little twitch to the right side of Cas' mouth -- always the right, rarely the left-- and the flicker of a glance in her direction, which she catches. (It's hard not to catch the blue of Cas' eyes, and sometimes she wonders if she stares as much as Cas). She learns to tell that when Cas' hands twitch, it can be a signal to let hell rain down on their opponents.
So she had a split second of warning when Castiel, garbed in full trenchcoat glory and a fringe of hair framing her face, liberated from her bun, pins her against the wall.
"I rebelled, for this?" Her voice is especially husky and dang, Deanna is warm all over. "I never took you for a coward, Deanna Winchester."
Her hunter senses ping many things: the broadness of Cas' shoulders like a swimmer's, the strength coiled in the slim arms holding her up by the chest, the way the hands are hovering so close to her breasts, the way that Cas lifts her up against the wall like no man has ever lifted her before, and they all buzz in a confusing furor conducted by the almost-glowing righteous fury of Cas' blue, almost unnaturally beautiful eyes.
When Cas hears her terrified gulp for breath, she leaves her there.
Dean's body feels oddly bereft, and she tries not to think the storm in Cas' eyes.
--
5
With each time they save the world, a weight seems to leave her face.
It doesn't seem to hurt that Cas still looks at her, too.
Only, she discovers that Cas can be silenced, that the ineffable silence of her staring and the composure of her ever-perfectly disheveled hair can be interrupted, just a tiny little bit.
It started with the heightened domesticity of the bunker and her showing Cas things.
She showed Cas the couch, so naturally showed her how to relax in it and watch TV as friends do-- "gal pals," Deanna smiled, "that girls do in sleepovers." A whole conversation with their eyes follows, in which Cas silently asks, did you get to have that? and Deanna looks down, shuffling her feet, and then Cas simply sits where she beckons. And when they fight over channels and settle on a seal documentary, Cas tells her about a time she met a selkie.
The wonderful, smoke-free of Cas and the fragile yet sturdy heft of Cas' shoulders just invite her to touch-- and girls should be allowed to touch each other, right?-- invites her in, and somewhere around the time Cas was telling her about the time she and the selkie compared collections, she stops.
"Go on, I'm listening," she mumbles into Cas' shoulder.
The ever-certain ex-soldier and commander of Heaven's armies hesitates, and then says, softly, "I was just wondering if you had fallen asleep." She then continues, at which Deanna's brain doesn't compute until oh, she's resting her head on Cas' shoulder and her neck is right there, and their arms are so close to each other, and comfort wins over any potential awkwardness over divesting her of this position.
Sometimes she feels a dizzy and unsettled when looking straight into Cas' eyes, so directs her attention to other things, like a meal she can enjoy, or old records written by artists Cas or an angel acquaintance has met, and it keeps Cas' attention. Like this angel, who has observed multiple dynasties rise and fall and had a hand in a handful, would rather not do anything else than engage in verbal sparring with Deanna on musicians. (One time, Sammy interjected with an argument-closing fact and both of them said in unison, "Shut up, Sammy!" So she wisely learned to give them room).
Until the next time the world is in trouble, and Cas flies away, and Deanna looks at her face in the mirror and tries to steel herself to pull it together, she has a hunt to close, a poor unsuspecting guy to pull.
It's a small victory when on one night out, talking to-- Matthew? Mark? Some biblical name-- he freezes in the middle of flirting with her and says, uh, is that someone you know?
She turns around to see Cas with her arms crossed and in a mood. What ensues is a discussion about distractions, and hobbies, and Deanna inadvertently blurting out,
"Well, sometimes I feel like a Deanna and want to act like it, you know?"
"As opposed to...?"
"Being a Dean."
"Dean," Cas rolls the name over in her mouth. "I can call you that, if you want."
"Only when it's just us. I haven't told anyone else."
Cas' jaw is no longer tense with anger. She looks soft, and gives Deanna a rare smile. She clasps one of Deanna's hands between her own.
"Thank you."
---
+1
The chapstick gets the dubious honor of Chakov's chapstick.
It goes like this:
Cas is in a weird limbo where she still has grace, but not to the extent that she had before. She hasn't verified yet if she'll keep on doing human things like discriminate between tasty and disgusting rabbit food, or if she'll continue to sleep in her room and occasionally doze with Deanna during a Netflix binge. Deanna hasn't asked yet why Cas is around more often, but figured that Jack's semi-permanent presence in the bunker had something to do with it. And every time Deanna looks, it feels like Cas keeps on licking her lips, and her efforts to hydrate her baby angel in a trenchcoat have been in vain.
Cas looks at Deanna and licks her lips yet again and that's it, Deanna's done.
"Okay Cas, that's it, come with me." She sits up from her chair in one fluid, aggressive moment and thinks, oh, this is a Dean day.
Sammy and Jack look up from their game of Pandemic on the war table, Jack technically puppeteering two players with his powers. "Why, what did Cas do."
"None of your business, Samuel," she says, Cas' hand warm as she drags her along, first to fetch her purse and then to sequester them in the guest bathroom.
"Sit," she gestures to the toilet lid resting on the toilet bowl. Cas willingly acquiesces, her eyes clouded with confusion. Then she brightens.
"Not that I don't enjoy your company, Dean," she said, making Dean flush. It never ceased to amaze her that Cas would pick up on how she felt, every time. "But if I asked you the same question, what name would you call me?" Deanna pauses in her search for her make-up kit and sees Cas' eyes glittering with momentary mirth.
"Assbutt," she flings back, and Cas seems relieved, somehow picking up that Dean's frustrated, but well, it's a fixable frustration. "Ok, now that you're human-ish now for the time being, you're having more human things."
This earns out a long, drawn out yes, in that husky, amused voice.
"Like, dry lips." At this she uncaps her chapstick. Cas eyes it in bewilderment.
"I always wondered what that was. It seemed most similar to a bubble-blowing toy but that did not seem accurate," Cas deadpans, and Dean leans her right arm against the sink with an unexpected laugh.
"It's chapstick-- you keep on licking your lips cos they're dry. Pucker up."
The former? current? angel doesn't close her eyes as Dean carefully starts in the right corner of Cas' lips, the one that doesn't quirk as much in amusement. This close to steady her hand, she can feel the weight of Cas' gaze heavy on her as she slowly draws it over Cas' upper lip, from her right to her left.
The air in the bathroom seems a little stifling, so she mutters under her breath, "Without a little angel mojo, your pretty face is going to need more upkeep."
Cas' breath stutters; noticeable as Cas' breath alights her palm. Dean tries to hide a wince; tries to keep the balm gliding over Cas' lips-- tourmaline? rose quartz? flashes of nail packets swiped in stores are drowned by the warmth of Cas' cheek, the weight of Cas' stare she cannot avoid.
"You think... I have a pretty face?"
She shakes her hand, but not before the dry, pink, lips accidentally brush her fingers around the chapstick in an almost burning touch.
"Cas! A little warning! How could you not notice people staring at you wherever you go."
She denies that she yelped to this day when a fine-boned wrist unexpectedly grabs her arm.
"And you noticed."
Now her cheeks burn as well, and she glances down to the floor, arm still help in Cas' grasp lowered slightly. "I mean, yeah, hunters talk about old hags, why not notice when someone's pretty, too?"
"Dean," Cas says her name with so much weight, "Notwithstanding the heavily internalized misogyny in the first half of the statement, I meant that I lick my lips."
"Oh," the grout in the tiles becomes of utmost urgency. "Well, you're acting more human-- at least for now."
"Does it... bother you?"
"No!" At this she's alarmed and meets Cas' gaze. Her head is tilted in an inscrutable expression. The very thought that Cas would think that she doesn't want Cas like this makes Dean scramble for words. "No, but while we're talking about it, when are you gonna get tired of this, huh? When are you going to stop playing house and leave?"
"I don't want to," Cas says. "Unless you want me to. Do you want me to?"
Cas' gaze intensifies. She remembers sparks flying and the shadows of huge wings.
Her answer is barely audible, even to her ears.
"Dean, please look at me." Cas' other hand gently cups her cheek.
She looks up, and her eyes feel as if Cas is burning them out.
"You might change your mind," she mutters. She feels exposed, flayed, and wonders, geez, is this how demons feel right before Cas incinerates them?
"You've changed it before."
"We have fewer... distractions now. The world is saved in Jack's hands, and we are here to take care of Jack."
"Jack's not gonna be a kid forever."
Cas' eyes dart across her face, as if searching for something, before she lets out a soft, oh, escape from her lips. The hand that was holding her arm moves to her other cheek instead. Dean is leaning into Cas' grasp.
"Dean, you don't think you're worth staying for by yourself?"
Their faces have somehow moved so close, and yes, she confirms that Cas' eyes are even more mesmerizing up close than from far away. Her breath is flighty.
"How was I supposed to know you wanted that? That you're capable of that?" She meant for it to sound fierce, but it comes out as petulant and shaky in a whisper.
"It's all I wanted," Cas responds in a low voice, emphatic and urgent. "I never wanted, before-- now there's nothing else keeping us apart. And if there comes a time, I'll find my way back to you. No distractions."
All the blood vessels under her cheeks pound. Her heart leaps-- Cas handles her like something precious, something wonderful, as she lightly brushes her lips over hers. Their chapped appearance belies their softness.
Such a momentous, life-altering touch for such a short moment. Dean and Cas part just enough for their lips to still share the same breath. Dean notices that Cas looks positively, absolutely wrecked, her eyes glittering.
"Please," she hears herself saying.
And they kiss again and again. Dean burns up as Cas caresses her arms. All of her doubts and worries about defiling an angel fades in the face of how Cas skims her agile fingers along her arms, how she nuzzles the crook of Dean's neck, how she catches her breath there, warmth tingling over her skin.
"When I saw you in the pit, I could see your soul, a beacon lighting the rest of my way. My wings were burnt, my grace almost depleted from so much distance from the heavens, but when I finally held you, I thought I understood why Heaven wanted you to be saved." Cas has enough grace to whisk Dean's shirt off and mouth down her chest. "Of course, I realized soon after that I had a singular focus when it came to you.
"You are still beautiful, still Dean--" one kiss above her left breast --"Winchester"-- above her right. "Still my beacon. From these eyes," she moves back to punctuate each eyelid with a gentle peck that makes her shiver, "down to your jaw," she caresses all corners of her face, "to everywhere else." At this, Cas pauses near her chest and looks up at her with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
"Lead me home, Cas," Dean whispered. Her query felt good, and right, as being here with Cas.
"I am home," she replied, "When I see your face, I know I am home. With my beloved."
----
(Bonus:
"But that's the closest bathroom--" Jack points out.
"Trust me, you'll thank me later," Samantha said, steering Jack away. She casts her eyes to the heavens rhetorically. "So many rooms in this bunker and you two finally get together in the bathroom? I am so embarrassing you in my maid of honor speech.")