Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first indication that there's something off is that he's actually comfortable and relaxed but for the headache settling in behind his left eye. The second, after he's sat up and blinked at the surroundings, is that he doesn't have a damn clue where he is.

The inoffensive decor and the quality of the sheets are screaming hotel rather than motel, but that's not exactly their MO and he has no recollection of checking in. Goddamn, he doesn't even know what state he's in, the disorientation feels like the last time he time travelled and why would he be in a hotel this fancy, anyway? It’s not five star standard, maybe, but Dean’s more used to pay-by-the-hour-joints than the kind of places that give the little bottles of shampoo. Or, you know, clean towels.

The Mark is quiet, which is the first time in a long time, and a blessed relief. His blood doesn’t feel like it’s boiling under his skin, his pulse rate is normal and he doesn’t even feel angry. The usual messed-up hunter level of angry, maybe, but not the Mark of Cain angry, which is usually an all-consuming itch. He could be anywhere, but he’s at least pretty sure that this isn’t mark related.

He can feel that he's not alone, though, hunters instinct. The hotel room stretches beyond the alcove which contains the bed, so his vision's obscured. Answers are probably beyond the other side of the wall.

Dean gets up.

His head throbs, which is reassuring because it means he was probably just drunk. He can’t remember why he’d be pickling his liver, but they’ve been dealt enough shit lately that it’s not implausible. He’s having a hard time remembering anything, actually; he’s pretty sure they were working a job somewhere in the Midwest, but then again that's true like ninety percent of the time, and when he pushes at that memory it gets more unfocused, dreamlike, and it’s… well, it ain’t normal. Even in the midst of his worst hangovers, and he’s experienced a few, he’s never had so little access to such a large amount of data.

His thumb lands on the Mark again, just in case. It doesn’t fit. He remembers every fucking awful second of all of it, even if it’s difficult to focus on. The fear’s still there though.

"Dude, what the hell happened last night? Feel like I just woke up in the Hangover Part III." Dean says, stepping beyond the archway.

He's expecting Sam.

It's not Sam.

There's a woman, and there's at least something about her face that seems familiar, even if he doesn't remember her per say. She's also frigging attractive. Brunette, blue eyes and, damn, that's a mouth, and she's just finishing buttoning up her white shirt over a black skirt when she fixes him with an unwavering gaze. The clothing smacks of professionalism, the dark hair is sort of naturally messy and she’s frowning at him like he’s a complete and utter moron. Dean’s glad the mark’s covered up on his arm, even if he doesn’t know why.

She’s dressing in the room next to the one he woke up in, so Dean’s going to take a wild guess and say that they definitely fucked, and that Dean already accidentally blurted out that he remembers jack shit. And called her a dude.

Awkward.

"Man I wish I remembered you," Dean mutters, more to himself, pressing a thumb to the ache in his temple, attempting to coax some kind of memory out of it. She looks like she’d be his type if he got to be the kind of guy who got to settle down and introduce someone to his family, rather than occasionally have one night stands (and, honestly, not even that often anymore; cheap sex lost its appeal somewhere along the way) and who’s family constricted to one person and a couple of added extras a long time back.

He’s got nothing. Nothing whatsoever to put him in this hotel room with this hot chick.

Still, it at least explains the hotel room, if not his whereabouts or how the hell his game managed to pull him someone like this chick. She seems kind of classy and the hotel’s too nice, really, for a probable drunken fumble that he doesn’t even remember.

Hell, he doesn’t even remember drinking.

Also, he woke up fully dressed which doesn’t exactly fit with the current picture. That’s a hunting norm, maybe, but not if he was with someone.

"So, uh, should I be heading for the exit before you hit me?"

She looks kinda pissed. Intimidating. And a bit confused, actually.

"Dea?" She finally says, tilting her head slightly. Her voice is deep velvet but with more bite, like she smokes sixty a day and gargles whiskey.

It's then that Dean sees the tan trench coat on the sofa. Then he's snapping back to this chick, with the slight head tilt and the piercing blue stare and that mouth and, holy shit. Holy fucking shit. That's Cas.

Well, obviously it isn’t, because she’s a woman. He recognises the curve of her lips, though, and her stare feels the same. Worse, he stepped into her personal space without really registering, so now they’re too close and not blinking at each other, just like they used to do every other day before things got so damn fucked up.

"...This isn't a hangover, is it?" Dean asks.

This… chick Cas doesn’t seem confused about her sudden gender-swap. If anything, she’s sending a squinty glare in Dean’s direction (trippy as fuck, for the record) and trying to dissect him , like he’s the strange entity in this whole encounter. In all fairness, he’s the one who doesn’t know where he is or how he got there, so that assessment could be wholly accurate.

Also, she called him ‘Dea’ which… yeah. Okay.

“I would guess not,” She says, “Hello…”

“Dean,” Dean subsidies.

“Hello, Dean,” The female Castiel says, at which point Dean decides this is a really weird frigging day, and that he’d have preferred a hangover.

*

Castiel has breasts.

He’s aware that that’s not the more pertinent information to come from this whole morning, but his brain got stuck on that fact shortly after they ordered coffee from the café across from the hotel. Now he’s halfway through his filter coffee and it’s still up there in his top ten thoughts, and from the pinched irritated look on female Castiel’s face, she’s fully aware of that fact.

Also, there’s a big difference between knowing his best friend is a genderless wave of celestial intent and actual confronting that fact before he’s consumed caffeine.

“So,” Dean says, “You know me… as a chick.”

“Deana Winchester,”

“You got photographic evidence, or something?” Dean asks, because… because Castiel, who has breasts by the way, has thus far tried to tell him that he’s probably from an alternate reality and that in this world, Dean’s a chick too, and his sluggish brain is not okay with this explanation.

Sure, they’ve seen some shit in their time, and it’s not like this is their first rodeo with alternate realities but…. A gender swap world?

Castiel rolls her (weird, really goddamn weird) eyes and pulls out a phone from her pocket, deliberately presses a few buttons in a way that only grandparents and technologically challenged angels do, before turning the screen to face him.

“Dude, I’m hot,” Dean says, reaching out for the phone and squinting at himself. In the picture she’s (he’s?) asleep, which is kind of creepy but seems like something Castiel would do, breasts or otherwise, but he can recognise himself in some of the features. And his Mom, actually, which… okay. That’s him. As a her.

Jesus.

He is, however, all kinds of thrilled that he makes a totally bangable chick. He definitely would, even if that’s kind of messed up.

Cas smiles slightly and sips her coffee.

Castiel has breasts.

“Where’s Sam?”

“At the bunker,” Cas says, looking down at her hands which are pretty nice hands, actually, even if it looks like she (or, maybe it’s more accurate to say girl-Jimmy Novak), bites her nails. It looks too human on her, like she owns her body a hell of a lot more than Cas ever has. It’d be jarring if he wasn’t already jarred to his limit.

“Uh, you ordered food?” Dean asks, because that’s caught up with him, and his head is still pounding like a motherfucker, and apparently he’s in a gender-flexible reality where he’s normally a woman, their food hasn’t arrived yet and he’s starving. “You eat?”

“I’m… human,” Cas says, tilting her head slightly. “What year is it in your reality?”

“Twenty fifteen,” Dean says, frowning, “You’re uh, halo-ed up again in my world.”

“And I have a male vessel.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “You in twenty fifteen?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, “Our timelines must have diverged at some point. I assumed I raised you from perdition.”

“Hell rescue, check,” Dean says, taking another sip of his coffee, “How did the apocalypse go down in girl world?”

“Lucifer and Michael are locked in the cage. I staged a partial rescue of Sam, which didn’t go entirely to plan.”

“Uh, Leviathan?” Dean asks, even though he doesn’t really want to. He likes to pretend the whole shit storm with Cas and the souls never went down, but bringing up the Leviathan seems like the most subtle way of doing it. Even so, Cas glances downwards.

Her expressions are also sort of familiar, even if her features are more delicate and feminine and well, girl Cas is kind of striking. He’s not sure he’d describe her as pretty, exactly. She’s attractive, definitely (which, well, that’s a mindfuck), but pretty isn’t the right word.

“Purgatory?” Cas asks, glancing back up at him with a gaze so deep and smacking with meaning that it throws Dean off for a minute. Not as much as the breasts and the fact that Dean’s a chick here, but enough that he gets caught up in Cas’ gaze.

Dean nods.

“The trials, angels falling?” Dean asks and, frigging finally, the good woman is bringing over their food. “Did I, uh, get the black eyes in your world too?”

Cas visible balks.

“Guess not,” Dean mutters, glancing down at his bacon, eggs and pancakes feeling slightly less hungry than he did a few minutes ago. Not enough that he doesn’t pick up his knife and fork and start devouring his breakfast, mind, but a little.

“You became a demon?”

“Briefly,” Dean says, through a mouthful of bacon, “Good times. Hold fire on the holy water, Cas, I’m cured.”

“You still call me Cas,” Castiel says, lips quirking upwards slightly and, damn, that’s a nice smile. Nice that he’s the one that’s caused it, too.

This is dangerous territory, and fucked up too.

Dean polishes off most of his breakfast even though his head still hurts and he feels vaguely sick, but it takes a lot more than travelling into a gender-bend world to put him off his damn breakfast. Cas is watching his eating habits with open curiosity and affection, which Dean figures means he eats this way when he’s a girl, too. At least that’s something that makes sense.

“Wait,” Dean says, frowning, “What’s with the nice digs? Why are you and, uh, Deanna, Dea, wherever we are without Sam?”

Castiel’s slight panic is almost audible.

“We’re… working a case,”

It’s the exact tone of voice that his Cas always uses when he’s pulling crap out of thin air, like he’s sure that confidence and his stupid blue eyes are going to pull him through. Dean’s not entirely sure why female-Cas would lie to him, but it’s definitely made up.

“Right,” Dean says, “How’s that going?”

“We finished yesterday.”

“What were we hunting?” Dean asks, because he doesn’t believe her for a hot second and, well, he’s enjoying watching her flail. He’s probably going back to hell for thinking it, but that doesn’t mean he can quit it.

“A vampire.”

“Just one Vampire. Pretty unusual behaviour for a vamp.”

“Well,”

“You’re a shit liar in both genders,” Dean says, frowning at her… and then he’s back to thinking about Castiel doing up her shirt in their one bed hotel room. He’d waved away the single double bed before because he’d been assuming she was winged up, but… no. Female Castiel is human and needs to sleep. And Castiel was, like, mid getting dressed in their shared hotel room. Sam isn’t here. They’re not working a case. “Dude, is this a dirty weekend?” Dean asks, dropping his voice and raising his eyebrows, “Am I sleeping with you?”

Cas’ silence speaks volumes.

Well, shit, at least some of his early assumptions were correct. The version of himself that slept most of the night in that hotel room totally got laid last night. Holy shit.

“How long we been hooking up?”

“Since Purgatory,”

“That’s what the whole intense squinty look was about, huh?” Dean asks, “So, fighting off Leviathan, covered in sweat and grime in monsterland does it for you?”

“Dea initiated things,” Cas says, narrowing her eyes at him and, actually, that just about figures. Purgatory wasn’t exactly a frigging aphrodisiac, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’s conflated the fight or flight instinct with a fight or fuck instinct. Adrenaline. Finally getting Cas back after spending all that time searching through Purgatory, and the year before that when everything was so fucked up between them, Cas losing his damn memory; he hadn’t exactly realised how much he’d been fucking longing for the guy until he found him by the water, then he got to actually hug him and, yeah. Okay. It’s not totally off the wall that if they threw in some unresolved sexual tension that chick-him would have done something about it. Purgatory was pure like that. The rest of the damn world was far enough away that it was almost liberating. “I assume that means we’re not involved in your world.”

“Involved?” Dean repeats, because that’s a hell of a word choice. “No, we ain’t. So girl-me is into chicks?” Cas just looks at him a little more, with her eyes and her fucking breasts (and he can’t, with that, he just really can’t), and Dean’s pretty sure that he keeps screwing up in some way, which sucks. If they’re not currently dealing with the Mark of Cain, then he figured they’d be okay. If they had a little more time, but… here he is, in a world where they’re actually screwing and he still can’t have a damn conversation with the guy (girl) without messing it up.

“This conversation is pointless,” Cas says, “If we’re sleeping together then you’re either entirely unpreoccupied with my vessel, or clearly you are interested in women. I don’t imagine having different genitalia has any effect on your human grasp of gender being important so, yes, Dean, Dea is interested in intercourse with women.”

“Just women?”

“I don’t think we should talk about this,” Cas says, standing up and pulling out a note to cover the check, which feels strange because he’s never seen Cas pay for anything before, in female or male form, then pauses to look at him. “Do you have a photograph of my male vessel? I’m also curious.”

It’s only then he checks for his phone which, by some strange miracle, is in the pocket of his leather jacket. It must have been in his pocket when he switched realities. He still doesn’t think he has any photos of Cas, though, because he just never took any. Doesn’t have many photos, period.

“Not sure,” Dean says, passing it over, “Pretty sure that’s just case stuff, but Sammy does some weird crap sometimes. Take a look when we’re on the road.”

“You trust me?”

“Man, you might have changed junk but you’re still my best friend. Yeah, I trust you. Can we go?” Dean asks, stepping outside with girl-Cas following him behind. The few seconds of fresh air got walking to the breakfast joint helped with his head, but nothing will help as much as driving.

“You trust me,” Cas repeats, “But we’re not sleeping together.”

“Dude, I know people isn’t your strong point, but that happens between two people quite a lot,” Dean says, aborting his walking motion the second they’re on the sidewalk, “Where did I park?”

“Are we headed back to the bunker?”

“Hate to cut your sex marathon short, buddy, but it doesn’t look like it’s happening,” Dean says, “And I don’t know jack about alternate universes, so the Bunker seems like a good bet. Get Sam doing some research.”

The Impala is reassuringly exactly the same in this universe, unlike the last time he was catapulted into some freaky-deaky world where supernatural was just a frigging TV show (which Dean’s pretty sure happened in this world too, because Cas referenced them having previous experience with this sorts of thing). He’d had a god awful moment where he half expected the thing to be pink, but stopped before letting it spill out his mouth. He’s pretty sure that wouldn’t have done him any favours in Cas’ eyes.

“I’ll leave you to get reacquainted whilst I check out and get our belongings,” Girl Cas says, leaving him alone for the first time since he work up and stumbled into bizzaro world, where Castiel has breasts by the way, and Dean’s actually the woman who’s sleeping with her. It’s actually stupidly thoughtful of her to leave him, too, because his baby is the one damn thing that’s felt normal. Cas still knows him, even if really he knows her.

The pain in his head redoubles, though, the second he hasn’t got conversation to focus on. It’s searing, white hot, and feels like his damn skull is about to pop from the pressure. Cas finds him with his knuckles pressed into his forehead, shaking slightly, after she’s checked out and thrown their duffels into the trunk.

Dean’s glad Cas dealt with their stuff, if only because he’s not sure he wants to know what the hell they packed for a dirty weekend in a nice hotel because, well, he’s not sure he can handle that kind of information.

“Hello Dean,” She says, sliding into the front seat. That causes another flare of pain and confusion and, fuck, this whole thing is crazy. Dingo ate my baby level of crazy. “I could drive if you are feeling too unwell.”

“You?” Dean asks, which helps him focus a bit. Concentrating on the present rather than how damn strange this whole thing is makes it all a little more manageable. “So we do the woman on woman horizontal tango in Purgatory and then I hand over my damn car keys? I know me. Vagina or not, I ain’t buying it.”

“It was worth a try,” Cas says, her lips quirking up into a slight smile. That gets his brain spinning in a whole different direction, because now he’s trying to work out how girl-Dean and girl-Cas must interact with each other which is, well, is complicated and really frigging strange.

Apparently they were listening to you shook me all night long when they pulled up at the hotel (loudly; much louder that Sam usually lets him play AC/DC), which nearly causes him to jump out of his fucking skin when he turns the stereo back on. It conjures up a much too real image of girl him, this Deanna, drumming along on the steering wheel in the damn parking lot before they booked a room to fuck. Hell, maybe they were headed some place useful before the damn song came on then they both just decided to screw it, take a vacation. Cas is human in this world. Deanna was never a demon. Sounds kind of nice, actually.

“You thought it was amusing,” Cas says, when Dean’s jumped, turned the damn thing off then just stared out the front windscreen like his brain’s completely switched off. “Well, not you, you."

“Where are we?”

“Just outside of Liberal, Kansas.”

“Liberal? Guessing Dea thought that was damn hilarious too,”

“I find it remarkable that even you don’t find your own jokes amusing,” Cas says, tilting her head at him, “Sam will find this… interesting. I should call her.”

“Her?”

“Your Sam is a Samuel?”

“Dunno why I’m even surprised at this point,” Dean mutters, “Course he…she is. And I’m guessing I inherited this car from my Mom and my Dad died in a fire in Samantha’s nursery?”

“Yes,” Cas says, “Joan Winchester purchased this car because you told her to do so in 1973.”

“Man our lives are weird,” Dean says, “All right. I’m gonna need a map.”

“I could direct you,”

“We been here a lot?”

“You like the burgers,”

“Dude, you could’ve said there was a burger joint,” Dean says, “Picked something up for lunch.”

“This is… very strange,” Cas agrees, “You are very you in a lot of ways.”

“Preaching to the choir, Cas,” Dean says, putting the car into gear and pulling out of the parking lot.

He only really needs Cas’ directions to get him back on the highway, then he picks up on where the hell he is. There’s too much city driving for any of this to be worth the joke, which means he probably missed a really good burger. Cas spends most of the time going through the photos on his phone – commenting sporadically on whether various cases are familiar or not (and Dean’s struck by the fact that Cas recognises bits and pieces from a lot more cases than the Castiel from his world would) – and actually finding a photo. Sam took it the night they had pizza and beer with Charlie in the Bunker, which was a damn good evening, then sent it to him. He’s in it too, with Cas and Charlie.

“Is this a female Charlie?” Cas asks, squinting the photo.

“Charlie’s a dude here?” Dean asks, “That, I gotta see.”

Then his skull is white hot blinding pain and he can’t see past it, can’t think past it, because everything is just pain . He must black out and either Cas grabbed the wheel or he managed to pull over and hit the break before it got bad, because when he can see again his knuckles are white clutching the wheel and they’re half in a ditch. He still feels weak, nauseas, and then –

– he and Sam are picking through a motel room and there’s blood, a trail of blood, and there’s this deep well of angry dread sitting in his stomach and no this can’t be happening, not Charlie, not Charlie –

“Dean, Dean,” Cas, female Cas with her voice that’s deep, but not nearly deep enough to be effective, tight grip on his arm.

The car comes back into focus. With it comes the nausea. He’s out of the car throwing up his breakfast before he’s really thought the action through, which at least means he doesn’t get vomit on the seats. This may not be his reality, but it’s still his car.

A hand lands on his shoulder. Cas passes him a bottle of water, concern itched on to her features. He drinks half of it and it helps.

“Drive,” Dean says, passing her the keys and closing his eyes.

*

By the time they’re pulling up into the garage of the bunker, he’s feeling a little better. Cas drove very carefully but quickly the whole way, as if she’s aware of how sacred the Impala is, and focusing on that drove away his still-pressing-in-headache. Cas picked him up some plain food from a gas station (Cas in this world knows that cars need filling up, apparently, which makes his gut ache for an entirely different reason) which he managed to eat on the road, but he’s getting to the point where he wants another meal.

“What did we tell Sam?” Dean asks, voice coming out as a rasp. They haven’t spoken much since Cas took over the driving, settling into a slightly uncomfortable silence. Not that the silence was awkward, which it probably should have been, but instead it was tense . None of this should be happening. He shouldn’t be in this reality and he sure as hell shouldn’t have a splitting headache and nausea. There’s something going on here and it’s probably nothing good, either. It never fucking is. “About where we were?”

Cas looks at him. There’s a continental in the garage, too, so apparently Cas kept her pimp car in girl-world. He’s not sure what he should feel about that in the slightest.

“We told her we were in Liberal, Kansas.”

“For a case?”

“No,” Cas says, cutting the engine and dropping the keys on Dean’s thighs. “I believe Sam referred to it as a mini-break to ‘get it out of our systems’, I don’t think Dea attempted to justify it at all.”

“Sam knows?”

“I don’t think I would like your reality,” Cas says, and it’s curt, cold and feels like a punch in the face, “I called Sam whilst you were asleep. She’s started research.”

*

As a girl, Sam’s hair isn’t that much longer than it is currently, which he’s definitely going to rib Sam about when he’s back in his own world. She wears the same combination of plaid and denim and leather, but with a strap top underneath rather than a t-shirt. She’s a few inches shorter, but still tall for a chick. It’s trippy as fuck and even worse when he can tell that she’s taking in his appearance and trying to see Dea through him.

“Huh,” Sam says, after a few seconds.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says, stepping a little further into the room. It’s more or less the same as how they keep the Bunker, if a little more cluttered. “What’s a guy gotta do to get a beer round here?”

“You vomited several hours ago,” Cas says, “Alcohol is inadvisable.”

“Okaaay,” Dean says, raising an eyebrow at her but receiving nothing back.

“How’s research?”

“Well,” Sam says, glancing back at her stack of books. “There’s not much. Pretty sure we’re some of the only people to have ever been dropped into an alternate reality in the past few centuries, and that was a spell powered up by a couple of angels. You probably know more about that than we’d find in any of these books. From what I can work out, though, Dea will have swapped places like you thought. She’s probably fine, Cas.”

“I doubt it,” Cas says, fixing Dean with a calculated look. “Is there anything about diverging timelines?”

“Two parallel worlds like this,” Sam says, “Pretty sure it shouldn’t be possible.”

“I thought as much,”

“Could have mentioned this in the car, lady.”

“I don’t appreciate your tone, Dean,” Cas says, and that expression is just so Cas that it’s enough to have his jaw snapping shut. “What has the power to do this, other than angels? A witch?”

“A witch on steroids, maybe,” Sam says, then her gaze drifts over to him and sticks there. Her lips quirk up slightly.

“What?” Cas snaps.

“Just, male Dea is kind of Dea’s type,” Sam says, the smile breaking out a little wider. Dean knows that shit eating grin of old and it’d be comforting if he wasn’t caught up on the answer to the question girl-Cas dodged earlier: his female self isn’t just interested in women, apparently.

“I suppose I can see the appeal,” Cas says, her voice sharp, as she drags her gaze up his form. It’s uncomfortable because those are Castiel’s eyes. Maybe Dean checked female-Cas out earlier, but that was before he knew it was Cas.

“Hey, quit objectifying me.”

That makes Sam smile even wider.

“I have the photo of my male vessel I mentioned,” Cas says, pulling Dean’s phone out of the pocket of her trench coat and handing it over to Cas.

“Woah, I take it back,” Sam says, “ You’re Dea’s type.”

“We’re not,” Dean begins, then aborts, starts again, “My Castiel isn’t –“

“Isn’t your Castiel,” Cas says, sharing a meaningful look with Sam that Dean doesn’t like.

“I don’t swing that way.”

“That’s Charlie in the photograph,”

“Yeah,” Sam says, “This is...”

– stepping into the bathroom, blood, the smell of it, Charlie in the bath. No pulse. She’s dead she’s dead she’s said ‘you’re going to get me killed’ and she’s –

“Charlie,” Dean says, then his knees are giving way underneath him. For a human, Castiel has damn quick reflexes. Her hand is on his back, steadying him, before he has a chance to fall. She steers him into a chair then he’s got one of her delicate nail-bitten hands cupping his face, keeping him looking into those familiar blue eyes. Dean’s supposes that this isn’t as weird for Cas. For most of her existence, she didn’t have a gender. It’s just a human construct. It just happened to be the case that the most appropriate vessel at the time happened to be male in his world and female in this one.

“Dean, what it is?”

“I…pretty sure,” Dean says, mouth dry, “Pretty sure in my world Charlie’s dead. Must have happened pretty soon before I conked out. I don’t, I don’t really remember. It hurts. She was, she was in a bath. We were, me and Sam, think it was our fault. I don’t…”

“You need to stop thinking about it,” Cas says, their faces level, close. “Listen to me, Dean, it is very dangerous to push at these memories. You’re not supposed to be here and your mind is rejecting the situation –“

“– you’re telling me it is,”

“So you must stop thinking about it,”

“Then distract me or something, Cas.”

“I’ll call Charlie. Check up on him,” Sam says, somewhere in his peripheries. It’s difficult to focus on anything but the blue of girl-Cas’ eyes. He’s pretty sure he’s drenched in cold sweat, shaking, stomach rolling over. The gas station food is threatening to resurface.

“Hey guys,” Another voice says, and it’s almost familiar, and Dean’s breaking Cas’ gaze to follow the sound of the voice before he can stop himself. The second he does he’s reaching out to grab Castiel’s arm, heart pounding, mind swimming.

“Dean, what is it?”

That’s Kevin. It’s not really, because the person standing in the doorway is female. She looks a hell of a lot like a young Linda Tran, but too skinny, pale and with a touch of the crazed-cabin-fever look Kevin got when he hit the books a little too hard. It’s definitely this world’s version of Kevin, though, and she’s definitely solid. The lights aren’t flickering and the air’s warm. She’s alive.

“I killed you,” Dean manages, then he vomits on female Castiel’s shoes.

Chapter Text

It’s a testament to how bad everything’s been lately that this isn’t the shittiest he’s felt. He’d known that the past few years had been one long stream of mistakes, but facing the fact that if they’d done things differently both Kevin and Charlie would have been alive and well (Charlie answered on the first ring and decided that he definitely needed to see Dean as a dude, so he’s driving out now) isn’t exactly a walk in the park. Some point along the way, they screwed up and they screwed up bad. Female Cas is right; she wouldn’t like his reality. He certainly doesn’t, not compared to this fairy tale world where Kevin’s fine, Charlie’s all good, Castiel is a human and seems fairly content with that and no one’s ever been a demon. No one’s even mentioned the damn Mark of Cain which, thank God, is still quiet.

“Uh, Dean,” Sam says, knocking on the doorway to his bedroom in the bunker. Well, Deanna’s bedroom, but it’s mostly the same but for a couple of extra photos of the three of them, one with male Charlie and a picture of someone Dean thinks might be a female Bobby singer. She’s got the hat for it. He’s still got a couple of weapons mounted on the walls, the male version of his Mom on his bedside table, his fucking skin mags. He likes Busty Asian Beauties in all realities, which is sort-of reassuring and sort of strange, given everything; he’s opting not to touch that whole area, mostly because he’s fucking terrified of it. “Charlie left a couple of t-shirts and a pair of jeans last time he was here,” Sam says, “They might fit, if you wanna change.”

“I’m wearing Charlie’s clothes now?” Dean asks. This day just keeps getting weirder and Dean’s just about had his fill of bat shit crazy, but it doesn’t look the crazy-train is rolling out of town any time soon.

“It’s that or Mr Trans,”

“Fucking hell,” Dean says, “Thanks, Sam.”

“And whenever you’re ready to talk…”

“Well, you’re exactly the same,” Dean says, swallowing, “All right, let’s get it over with.”

“Karen’s pretty spooked,” Sam says apologetically, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear and, fucking hell. Female-Sam looks more like their Dad than their Mom, which makes it even tripper that all those familiar features and expressions made feminine. “Cas reckons the key to this is working out where the timelines diverged.”

“Well, that’d be swell, if I didn’t nearly pass out every time I thought about it,”

“She says you were okay over breakfast,” Sam says, “That it might just be short term memory that it’s dangerous to think about. You feeling better?”

“Kevin and Charlie are dead, Sam, and apparently that didn’t have to be the case. No, I am not feeling better. I’m not gonna throw up again, if that’s what you’re meaning.” Dean says, the lump in his throat turning painful as the words come out. As much as the fact that facing down a female version of Sam feels like missing a step on the stairs, it’s still bizarrely easy to talk her. She’s so frigging Sam. She’s his brother which, yeah, means she gets it.

“That’s fair,” Sam says, “I’ll give you a minute. We’re in the kitchen.”

He opts for swapping into boy-Charlie’s clothes, even though they’re not exactly to his tastes (or anyone’s apart from Charlie’s, probably), just because he’s thrown up twice and been wearing his clothes for however long now. He can’t remember how long because he can’t remember what he was doing; he’s been pretty juiced up on the Mark, though, and there’s dried blood on his shirt that probably isn’t he is, but he doesn’t want to think about that. He just changes. If he’s stuck like this for long, though, they’re going to have to go out and buy some new damn clothes, because these jeans are stone’s throw away from being skinny jeans and he ain’t wearing them in any fucking reality.

It turns out Deanna has a couple of medium sized plaid shirts that must be pretty oversized on her but is enough that he still has something to cover up the Mark, both because he’s pretty sure the girl-him doesn’t have it and because he does not want to talk about it. Cas recognised it straight away in his world and it’s too much to hope that female Castiel won’t have plenty to say about it and, well, he’s pretty much done with having all his mistakes held over his head.

“We have questions,” Cas says, when he joins Cas, Sam and Karen (apparently) in the kitchen. It figures, because he didn’t exactly elaborate before. Cas pretty much carried him to bed before the conversation got much further. She’s a hell of a lot stronger than she looks. She’s also out of her trench coat and wearing a hoody, which smacks a little too much of human-Castiel. He gets that’s because she is human, but it still hurts plenty. Fuck. This could have been his world, with Cas wearing his humanity in in the bunker.

“I’ve got a question for you,” Dean says, sitting down, “I popped into this reality with my smart phone and my leather jacket cause that’s what I had on me at the time. You two were doing whatever it is you do in the dark in some hotel. That mean Deanna showed up to class in her birthday suit?”

Cas’ eyes narrow.

“Cas?” Sam prompts.

“Possibly,”

“Awesome,” Dean exhales, “Well I’m sure that won’t be awkward at all.”

“Because of your Castiel?”

“Doubt he was there,” Dean says, frowning slightly. He gets three pairs of eyes staring at him for that, which is creepily familiar. “He, like, guest stars.”

“I don’t understand that reference.”

“Sometimes he’s there, most times he’s not,” Dean says, “Angel business.”

“Sounds like four years ago,” Sam says thoughtfully, “Let’s… work backwards. Starting from the first thing that doesn’t make your head hurt.”

“How about when you killed me ?” Karen asks, eyebrows raised. Dean’s stomach drops. He’s already had to apologies to Kevin for this before, when he was a goddamn ghost and Sam hated him for fucking everything up. He doubts this version of Kevin will be as understanding; dying put things into a different kind of perspective, and probably one that makes his actions seems a little better. He owes the guy a hell of a lot more than an explanation.

“Sam… my Sam was being possessed by this angel, Gadreel.”

“Let Lucifer into the garden, Gadreel?” Cas asks, the anger barely controlled.

“Yeah, you were pretty angry when we worked out who he was. He showed when I sent out an open prayer for help. Told me his name was Ezekiel, you said he was good people so I… gave him the all clear to trick Sam into saying yes. Metatron got to him. Burned your eyes out. I’m sorry… Karen. Your death is on my hands. I was supposed to be protecting you.”

“Why?” Sam asks, voice low.

“The trials. Sammy was dying. Couldn’t let that happen.”

“Where was I?”

“Angels,” Dean says, swallowing, “You… Metatron. The spell. Angels were falling left right and centre. You weren’t answering my prayers, my phone calls. Turns out you were human. What… what happened in your world?”

“I left to assist Metatron after I had fully healed Sam from the incomplete trials.”

“How,” Dean breathes, “How did that happen?”

“You asked me to stay during the trials,” Cas says, “So I stayed.”

“Just like that, huh?”

“So in your world I’m dead because you couldn’t get your head out of your ass long enough to talk to each other?” Karen snaps. Dean can’t argue with any of that, because he never dreamed that any of it could be as simple as one little question. The fact that Cas, even if it’s the wrong Cas, can say that like it’s so fucking simple makes his chest ache. Actually, scratch aching, makes his chest feel like it’s splitting in two. Fuck.

Instead, he settles on staring at his hands. His knuckles are bruised. There’s blood framing his fingernails and he doesn’t have a damn clue whose it is or how it got there. There’d been blood on the t-shirt under his shirt, too, and it had seeped through is jeans. He didn’t think about it. Just stripped them off and put them in the washing machine on automatic.

No one says anything. There’s nothing to say.

“Whose blood is that?”

“I don’t,” Dean begins, then he’s hit with another wave of his headache and, and, he’s kneeling over Cas with an angle blade in his hand, and he’s going to do it, he’s going to ram the thing into his chest and watch him bleed out on the floor. He’s angry. Cas isn’t even fighting back. He’s trying to fucking reason with him and Dean asked him to take him out, but now it’s too late, because the Mark is throbbing and his head is spinning and… he changes direction, the blade pierces book not flesh, but he still means the threat when it falls off his lips. Next time I won’t miss. “Yours,” Dean finishes, “I think I nearly killed you.”

He gets a minimal emotional reaction before he gets Castiel’s usual poker face and a slight head tilt. Dean’s not sure how the others are reacting, because they’re outside of his view of Cas and he needs to look at him right now. He fucking deserves to look Cas in the eye and deal with what he did. What he nearly did. It’s the wrong Castiel, but the eyes are right, and just… there’d have been no coming back from that. He wouldn’t survive it. He couldn’t. Fuck.

“That’s not possible,” Cas says, eyebrows furrowed, “I’m an Angel in your reality.”

“Well,” Dean says, throat dry, stomach turning over again, then he rolls up the sleeve of Deanna’s shirt to reveal the Mark. “I’m juiced up too.”

Cas is silent for a few seconds.

“Damnit, Dean.”

“That’s what you said last time,” Dean smiles, even though there’s nothing funny about it whatsoever. He’d like to cut his own stomach out, because everything is awful. He’d known that he screwed up big time, but there’s a difference between carrying that feeling round in the pit of his stomach than facing it head on. He thought he’d been guilty before, but it’s nothing to now.

“What is it?”

“Evil,” Cas says, as Dean drops his sleeve and lets out a huff of laughter.

“Helpful,” Dean nods.

“Why did you do this?”

“Abaddon,” Dean says, standing up just because he’d rather be in motion. Karen is still staring at him, eyes slightly narrowed. She hasn’t spoken since her outburst. Sam is watching this whole thing like it’s some kind of tennis match, glancing between the two of them with her eyebrows furrowed.

“But we killed Abaddon,” Cas frowns, the familiar shape of her lips tilted just fucking so, and… yeah, that is a crappy day. It’s not just weird as hell, it fucking sucks too.

“You can’t kill a Knight of Hell without the first blade,” Dean snaps.

“We, uh, cut her up and buried half a ton of cement on her under a devil’s trap,” Sam pipes up, “Your idea.”

“We sewed her back up,”

“Ew,” Karen pipes up.

“For the trials,” Dean says, hands buried in the pockets of male Charlie’s stupid jeans. He needs to justify at least one of the stupid mistakes he’s apparently made in the past couple of years, because, because… Abaddon is buried under a shit load of cement and apparently no one had to become a demon for it. Kevin. Charlie. Hell, even Cain got to stay retired.

“Curing Abaddon would be an infinitely more difficult task than curing any other demon,” Cas says, head titled. “I instructed you to dispose of Abaddon’s remains as soon as I was aware you had apprehended her.”

“Well where the fuck were you, Cas?” Dean demands, turning to face her, heart throbbing.

“I don’t know, Dean, where was I?” Cas says, looking right through him.

“Hell if I know,” Dean snaps, “Hiding in goddamn Biggerson’s and breaking the world all over again. You ran off with the angel tablet, you showed up bloody and needing help and I stopped asking. Maybe I’m the only representative of my world here, but this is not all my fault,” Dean says, aborting his movement to glare at the pair of them – Sam and Cas, in female forms – because everything feels like an accusation. He’s not blaming Kevin, Karen, for being pissed; she’s innocent in this. Always has been. “Did that happen in this world?” Dean asks, eyes fixed on Castiel. “The angel tablet?”

“Yes,”

“We were together,” Dean says, eyebrow raised, “And you still didn’t trust me?”

“Yes,” Cas says. She looks guilty, but the yes is still audacious enough to set off every single one of his nerves and, what the hell, Dean’s not sure he likes this reality either. Yeah, it’s a better fucking options by all means, but Cas still damn nearly killed him over a hunk of rock with the word of God carved into it, and they were sleeping together at the time. Frigging committed to each other, looks like, if Cas’ distinct irritation at Dean’s suggesting anything to the contrary is anything to go by.

And what did they even get from the angel tablet?

“Great,” Dean nods, “Great.”

He’s honest to God about to storm off and hide in Dea’s room until he’s calm enough to sleep, but his dramatic exit is cut off by Charlie’s entrance into the room. He’s so obviously Charlie, with this bright red hair and a familiar smile and general exuberance, and this is the nearest thing he’s getting to ever having Charlie back again. He watched her body burn. She said they’d get her killed, once, and they did. They killed her.

“Kind of entering at a tense moment, huh?” Charlie asks, and the voice is all wrong, he’s too tall, he’s too male, but it still sparks up the kind of grief that makes him need to start breaking things. It’s still too raw. “Wow. This is some serious AU madness,”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Dean says, swallowing. He doesn’t want to look at his hands because they’re still smeared with Castiel’s blood, but he doesn’t want to look at Charlie either.

"Dude," Charlie says, dragging his gaze up Dean's form and, no, nope, that's one thing to far. His brain cannot commute any more weird today. Charlie checking him out is like, way over the threshold of things he can reasonable expected to handle within a twenty four hour period, particularly when this female version of Castiel wouldn’t let him have any beer. Dean is out.

"No," Dean says, "I'm done. I am so freaking done. I am out of here."

"Touchy, much?"

"I'm being checked out by lesbian pseudo sister, my brother gets periods, there's a picture of my Mom as a dude next in my room and apparently I'm sleeping with an ex-angel -"

"I assure you, you will not be sleeping with any ex angels I am aware of,” Castiel says, her not quite deep enough voice still plenty commanding and cutting in that way that Cas has always been able to manage. And it just… it fucking hurts.

"I get it, dude, you hate me. You miss your little girlfriend and I'm a poor replacement. Well guess what, sweetheart, I didn't exactly ask to be here either."

"Do not condescend me," Cas says, standing up. She's a few inches shorter than she should be, but her words still have the same power. "I don't care how tolerant my counterpart is, you will show me some respect."

He knows full well that he’s acting like a dick, but he’s somehow still not expecting Cas to call him out on it like that. The lump that’s been at the back of his throat since Kevin was bought up in conversation has turned even sharper and, damnit, he’s so bad at not pissing Cas off. Dea must be a miracle worker to somehow fix up their relationship into something solid, with dirty weekends and Sam in the know and, just, enough substance for it to be worth defending from Dean’s derogative, off-hand comments about it.

"Woah, this is, like, straight from the Supernatural books," Charlie says, which knocks him out of his personal pity party a little, but only a little.

"They gonna follow me round in every damn reality?"

"Probably," Sam pipes up.

"Is the Mark affecting you here?"

"No," Dean answers, and suddenly he's just impossibly tired. He's exhausted. He wants to sleep and sleep and sleep and wake up before any of this crap happened. His body is catching up on the fact that he hasn't managed to keep any food down all day, his head is still pounding and he's exhausted.

"The Mark is the reason you became demon?"

"Yeah," Dean says, "Metatron knifed me. Woke up with black eyes." "And myself or Sam cured you?"

"Sam, mostly," Dean says, "You were running on someone else's juice."

"I stole someone's grace?" Cas asks, lips twisted into a pinched frown. "We use very peculiar strategies in your reality."

“Are we done judging my life choices?” Dean asks, “Or would you like to belittle me some more?”

“You started it,” Cas says which has him caught between affection and irritation, because this… girl is an angel of the Lord who watched the earth’s formation, but is now engaging in dumb, petty bickering. Mostly, he defaults into irritation. He huffs back down into his chair and settles resting his forehead on his knuckles.

“You were much less of a dick before you had backup,” Dean mutters, gesturing at Sam, Karen and Charlie with his free hand.

“Um,” Charlie says, hand raised, “What’s the Mark?”

“I’d like to know that too,” Sam says, still glancing between the two of them like he’s not entirely sure whether they’re about to start yelling or making out. Dean’s wound up enough that he’d pretty much forgotten that Castiel is enigmatic and damn attractive when packaged up as a woman – Jenny Novak, or something – because their interactions are sparking that familiar feeling of unyielding frustration that have been driving him crazy for years. Nothing ever gets fixed. It’s just layers on layers of different ways they’ve screwed each other over haunting their every conversation, relenting only when it’s overshadowed by the next way the world’s ending. It’s equally grating when faced with this other Cas, who seems a hell of a lot more bitter about a load of Dean’s mistakes than the male-version of Cas is (or maybe she’s just more vocal about it), even if those mistakes happened a whole world away from anything that affects her. She doesn’t really have a right to be pissed about it, but by that logic he’s not supposed to be pissed that Castiel still damn nearly killed him whilst they were in something akin to a relationship. He is.

“Mark of Cain,” Dean says, “Bad mojo.”

“It’s a curse. A curse that predates history. It corrupts, contaminates and consumes,”

“That,” Dean says, pointing in Cas’ direction without looking up. “I’m losing it. I’m also pretty sure I haven’t slept for a week, so, I’m out,” Dean says, standing up and debating sneaking a bottle of whiskey from the kitchen on the way back out, or if Cas is gonna try tell him off for it.

“Where’s Cas going to sleep?” Charlie asks, which throws Dean off for another minute because right, they’re in some kind of relationship over here, have been for a few years. It figures that when Cas showed up, human and homeless, she’d have just settled in Dea’s room.

“I need to change the sheets or something before I hit the hay?”

That’s apparently not the right thing to say, because he gets Cas’ rolling her eyes excessively , before she’s up and stalking towards his, her, their bedroom in front of him. By the time he’s there, she’s picked up a couple of bits of clothing that must belong to Cas and is riffling through a drawer with underwear in, which is so horrifically uncomfortable that Dean doesn’t know where to look. He doesn’t think he can handle knowing what kind of underwear Cas would wear in either genders. He’s not really sure he wants to know what kind of underwear Dea wear as a chick, frankly. Perving on himself is a little too weird.

“You don’t have to move your crap,” Dean says, when he’s managed to find his voice. In his world, Cas has been in his bedroom about twice; here, Cas is rummaging around like she owns the damn place. Dean’s never had Cas own space like this. He was never around long enough. “I can crash out it in one of the spares. I didn’t…”

“I’m not ignorant to the fact that this must be uncomfortable for you, Dean,” Cas says, turning round with a fucking bra in her left hand and, oh yeah, Castiel has breasts. Right. “Traveling between realities is unpleasant at best. Even if there weren’t significant differences between these realities it would be difficult.”

“More significant than the fact that we’ve both got breasts over here?”

“Yes, Dean,” Cas says, her lips quirking up ever so slightly in an expression that’s akin to affection. It’s been quite a while since Dean’s earned one of those smiles and it makes looking away impossibly difficult, even though she’s the wrong Castiel and it’s not the same. It still has the capacity to make his stomach turn over in the way that Cas being safe and happy has done for years. It’s harder to rationalise that feeling away when they’re stood in their apparently shared bedroom and this world doesn’t appear to be ending, weird reality swapping aside. It’s frigging weird that this officially counts as a respite case on his end, but that’s just how the world is. “Sleep well.”

“That’s optimistic,” Dean mutters, deliberately looking away because holding eye contact seems too significant and too much like he’d just fall in it, which pushes at the hundreds of moments and interactions that he doesn’t allow himself to think about too much. “Night, Cas.”

He spends ten minutes riffling through drawers to try and locate some whiskey and something which doesn’t belong to Charlie to sleep in, but promptly gives up when he stumbles across tampons.

He doesn’t need a drink quite that badly.

Chapter Text

It takes a few seconds after she's pealed her cheek off the impala's upholstery before she registers that she's butt naked. It wouldn't be the first time, but it's about as uncomfortable as it's always been, and it's far too light to be this naked.

Dea sits up, hits her head off the steering wheel and swears. Her head hurts. They're parked somewhere pretty damn public for her to be this naked. Cas isn't anywhere, either. She probably went for some hippy morning walk, or worse run, but she could have at least covered Dea the fuck up before she abandoned her (the damn trench coat should be good for something, at least). She's supposed to be getting the hang of this human stuff, but apparently not.

Also, Dea feels as hungover as fuck. She doesn't remember how the hell she wound up naked in the front of her damn car, but she's betting it was probably Cas' fault. She'd have been all fucking cute with her damn pouty frown and the squinting and then Dea's good judgment about when and where to get naked will have been shot to hell. Damn.

A quick scrabble round the back seat wins her a shirt, which at least means she's covered enough to sit up and look for her phone. It's nowhere obvious, but her other phone is in the glove box as per the status quo. She brings up Cas' number and fires off a quick text to say that she's going to kill her, then properly turns round to locate the rest of her clothes. Nothing. Not even a damn bra.

"Huh," Dea swallows, glancing out at the road. They’re on some indeterminate stretch of highway that could be anywhere, frankly, and she absolutely doesn't remember how they got there.

The shirt she's currently wearing is bloody.

So, hunt. Probably a hunt that's going south, if she's out here alone right now. She's pretty sure she left the bunker with just Cas, so at least there's only one person missing. And their clothes. Except for a bloodied shirt that whatever funky shit they're hunting graciously left for her.

Dea hits call on the other phone, except... the number's wrong. She knows all three of Cas' numbers and all of her past numbers as a matter of safety, and this.... this ain't one. Dea cancels the call and stares at the cell for a minute. Cas hasn't replied yet, but that's not surprising given its the wrong number and she's probably currently tied up and bloody somewhere. Hopefully, she's at least dressed.

Dea types in the actual number and hits dial. Each unanswered ring has her blood pressure increasing, then finally it stops. The answering hello is some dude in a bad mood. Dea's so thrown she forgets the usual conversion of phone conversations and just freezes.

"Hello?"

"Who is this?"

"Jeff,"

"Wrong number, sorry." Dea mutters, then she's hung up and is double checking. It is the right fucking number. She’s sure of it. She rings again.

"Hello?"

"How long have you had this number, Jeff?" Dea asks, trying to sound vaguely like she's not freaking the fuck out. She is. The initial calm is giving way to full blown panic, because… because her hunter spidery sense are tingling and something is majorly wrong.

"Six years," Jeff says, then hangs up on her.

Dea swallows. Her head is pounding. She's still butt naked but for a shirt and something about this is absolutely not normal.

She's got a reply from Cas. Or at least the number her phone thinks is from Cas.

The text just reads I don't care.

Dea's thrown for a second till she reads back her own message. She'd just written 'I'm going to kill you' with no further explanation, so either Cas thinks it's just hilarious that she left her butt naked in car, or she's being gratuitously sentimental. The latter is more Cas like, but it doesn't really fit. Something's up.

Dea hits call. She gets an answer on the second ring, but it's three seconds of loud breathing and a rough gravel of 'Dean.' The voice sounds pained. Dea hangs up without speaking and stares at the dashboard. What the fuck.

The Cas number calls back immediately. Dea slides her thumb over to answer, heart pounding.

"Dean, listen to me," The voice says, pleading even. "You don't have to do this. Sam is on the edge of something. We can help. I can help. Stop hunting. Come back to the bunker -"

"The bunker?" Dea questions. There's something imploring about the amount of raw emotion packed into that voice and Dea doesn't know why it's so damn compelling, or why it makes her chest hurt. She feels like fucking crying and she almost never cries but, fuck, this guy on the other end of this phone is hurting. He also knows of hunting, the bunker and Sam, which is the important thing about this whole conversation. Whoever he is, he knows crap.

The voice cuts out, then it's drawn in, rearranged, clinical.

"Who is this?"

"Forget that, dude, who the hell are you?" Dea asks. "Why are you answering my girlfriend's cell? And how the hell do you know about hunting?"

"You're a hunter," The voice says, flat.

"I'm frigging batman. Now start talking, chuckles."

“I don't know who you are. This could be a trick."

"You know Sam? Well, snap."

"Tell me who you are," the other voice says, "They might have told about you."

"They?" Dea questions, reaching for the glove box to find her other cell to call Sam, one hand scrambling for the cell and one holding the shirt over her chest. It's a big shirt. The buttons don't do much by way of covering up her modesty.

"The Winchesters."

"The Winchesters?"

"Sam and Dean Winchester."

"What?" Dea asks, "Sam and Dean... oh, fuck," Dea continues, as a photo falls out of the glove compartment and Dea catches it, except it's a photo of two guys in plaid in front of the Impala, and the tall one looks a hell of a lot like her sister. There’s a second of a blonde woman and a kid. As far as Dea’s concerned, babies look about the same whatever gender, and he’s seen a version of this picture before. That’s her Dad as a chick. These photos are in the glovebox of her baby. She’s naked, there’s no damn clothes anywhere and she can’t remember how the hell she got there. "Cas?" Dea ventures, throat tightening.

"Who is this?" The voice asks again, this time more suspicious.

"I'm Dea Winchester. I'm bare ass naked in the impala in the middle of bumfuck, nowhere, and I think we've got a massive fucking problem."

*

"I apologies for the lack of female suitable clothing," Cas says down the phone, as Dea drives back down the highway she was apparently driving down when.... whenever whatever happened happened. There was a duffle under the seat stuffed with obviously worn boxers that she wasn't planning on touching ever until the next damn apocalypse, but there was a pair of jeans too. They don't fit. They're too big just about everywhere, but it's better than perching her bear ass on the front seat until Kansas.

Cas suggested staying on the line after Dea mentioned the headache and Dea wasn't about to complain about some kinda of company, even if Cas is the wrong freaking Cas. Especially so, in fact, cause if she doesn’t have Cas’ deep voice rumbling at her then she’s going to start freaking out.

"Be weirder if you had some," Dea returns, speaking at the cell that's resting on her knees, on speaker. "Pretty sure we were headed out to liberal, Kansas in girl world. You know where macho man was headed?"

"No."

"You guys have a fight?"

"That is... an understatement"

"Don't take it too personally, Cas, we're kind of an asshole sometimes," Dea says, “Where’s Sam?”

“He… I’ll tell him you’re here,”

“He,” Dea repeats, shaking her head, “Dunno why I’m even surprised at this point. Course she… he is. I’m guessing I inherited this car from my Dad and my mom died in fire in Samuel’s nursery?”

“Yes,” Cas says, “John Winchester purchased this car because you told him to do so in 1973.”

“Man our lives our weird,” Dea says, “Okay. So I drove out here after a fight? That’s weird, dude, I’m pretty sure we were getting along fine back home.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Castiel says. He still sounds vaguely in pain, even if he’s still a lot more put together than he had been when he first answered the phone.

“Yeah, about that,” Dea say, “That was a super cagey answer about Sam. I know when you’re keeping things from me, dude, whatever body you happen to be in. Quit it. Where’s my sister? Brother. Whatever.”

“He… he’s with Crowley’s mother,”

“Crowley has a frigging mother?” Dea asks, nearly swerving off the road.

“She’s unpleasant,”

“And Crowley’s a dude?” Dea asks, “A son of a bitch, you might say.”

“This is… very strange,” Cas says, “You are very you in a lot of ways.”

“Preaching to the choir, man,” Dea says, “Hey, what do you look like? There’s pictures of me and Sam in here, but none of you. I’m pretty hot as a dude, huh? Kind of pretty though.”

“I… I don’t know how to contribute to this conversation,”

“You sound hot,” Dea says, rolling back her shoulders. She’s come to the conclusion that the bloody shirt she’s wearing was used to wipe blood away, rather than actually being blood on. It doesn’t especially make her feel better about the fact that that’s the only damn thing she’s got to wear. “What’s with Sam’s hair?”

“How far away are you?”

“Couple of hours away,” Dea says, “My head, man. Feels like someone stuck a knife through my left eye. This a normal side effect for swapping realities?”

“No,” Cas says, “I don’t think so.”

“Okay, I better concentrate on the road, I guess,” Dea says, “Call me if I’m not back in a couple of hours okay, Cas?”

*

It’s difficult to explain how freaking ridiculous Dea feels walking into the bunker in some dudes bloody clothes that she has to hold up to maintain levels of dignity. It’s just Cas, sure, but it’s not her version of Cas. It’s some dude that’s technically never met her, so she feels she has to at least try and maintain a semblance of boundaries.

That falls by the wayside the second she sees Cas’ face.

“What the fuck happened to you, Cas?” Dea asks, stepping forward, crossing the length of the bunker in a second because… because, holy crap, this may not be Dea’s Cas, but this guy is still beat up pretty badly. Split lip, bloody nose, still smudged in blood. Dea’s up in her personal face, cupping his jaw to get him looking at her to inspect the damage a little better before she’s had a chance to process.

“I… I’m healing.”

“You’re healing?” Dea asks, tilting his chin to inspect his busted up lip, using a thumb to wipe away a trail of blood. Cas’ lips are the familiar curve, familiar frown, familiar baby blues, even if now they’re looking down at her. “You’re healing . Alright, buddy, let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Dean, Dea… this is unnecessary,”

“Nope,” Dea says, “You, go sit.”

“Your clothing really doesn’t fit,” Cas says, as Dea guides him into a chair.

“Yeah, well, I don’t got the right junk. Don’t know whose blood this even is. Guess male me’s kind of skanky.”

“I think it’s mine,” Cas says, when Dea returns with a bottle of vodka and a damp cloth.

“Well that’s something,” Dea says, “Wait, what the fuck, Cas. I left you like this? Bleeding out over the place?”

“I…this is very awkward,” Cas says, glancing away. It takes a fair amount of concentrated effort for the guy to look away when Dea’s wiping blood off his face, but he somehow manages anyway. Cas’ skin is a little too healed underneath the blood, which sends Dea back to I’m healing..

“You talking grace healing?”

“Yes,”

“What?” Dea asks, swallowing. “You’re an angel?”

“Show me your arm,”

“What?”

“Just do it,” Cas grates out, reaching forward to push up her sleeve up. Dea just stares at this… stranger, really, who happens to be some bizzaro version of her freaking girlfriend, and his thumb running over the crease of her elbow. “Oh,”

“Look here, asshole. I don’t care who you are in another frigging reality, you keep your hands off the merchandise,” Dea snaps, snatching him back her arm. “Right now, you are nothing to me but my ticket to some answers, so quit this enigmatic crap and tell me what the hell is going on here. Why are you bloodied up, why was I freaking naked and why is my… brother engaged in a one on one with Crowley’s frigging mother?” “

Where were you before you woke up here?”

“With you, human, female you, in a hotel in Kansas.”

“Were you…. naked?” Cas asks. The guy looks a little more healed already, actually, but his stupid fucking tie is lopsided and bloodied. This Cas apparently still wears a trench coat all the damn time. He’s also doing that head-tilting confusion look that Dea’s almost missed on her Cas, as she hasn’t done it for a while, but it feels all wrong. It’s the angelic other-ness that this Cas hasn’t quite lost, which has always felt like this massive barrier – this crappy sense of distance that tastes a little like failure. It doesn’t help that it’s growingly clear they’re on totally different frigging pages.

“Maybe,”

“I suspect that is why you were naked,”

“So whoever made me jump realities couldn’t spare the courtesy for me to get freaking dressed?”

“You… you… on the phone earlier,”

“You okay there, trench coat? Having some kind of software failure?”

“You asked me why I was answering your girlfriend’s phone,” Cas says, voice an almost-familiar mixture of confusion and curiosity which, oh crap, probably means that the male version of Dea is even more dumb and stubborn than Dea was for fucking years and years. Oh, hell. Figures having a dick would make him six times dumber about basic feelings.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Dea says, shaking her head. Cas’ frown of confusion increases slightly, that achingly familiar blue gaze searching his features. “We’re not even hooking up yet, are we?” Cas’ expression says it all. “Well, that’s a frigging tragedy. You’re even hotter than I guessed from your voice, even with the blood.”

“Dea,”

“Three years, in my world.”

“Your male counterpart is responsible for my current injuries,” Cas says, his mouth an unhappy slant.

”What?” Dea asks, stepping back and just staring. Castiel should already be healed by now, Dea’s pretty sure. It’s been a while since she’s watched the grace-healing first hand, but she’s pretty sure fairly superficial wounds – Dean inflicted wounds, no less – shouldn’t be taking hours. It must have been quite a lot of time, too, for Dea to drive away then turn back again. It was probably a sentiment thing. This Castiel was probably fucking wallowing because, unless essentially everything is different about this reality, the guy’s in love with her, him, and Dean just beat her up after a row. “Roll back the bullshit, Cas, start from the beginning, and please please tell me my brother isn’t shacking up with Crowley’s Mom.”

*

“- I'm being possessed by a frigging tattoo? You're telling me I've got some freaky dark mark –”

“- the mark of Cain does not summon Voldemort.”

Dea blinks, stares, at the pinched confusion.

"You... what?”

"Metatron implanted all the stories ever written in my head."

"Just reached my weird threshold. Holy shit."

"My understanding a Harry potter reference is... the height of your weird threshold?" Cas asks, blue eyes concentrate on Dea’s, in that super-intense way that normal humans don’t do. Dea’s version of Cas still does that; the penetrating way of staring which makes Dea feel like she’s under a damn microscope. “You have been dropped into a different gender stop reality with no explanation and that is your weird threshold.”

"You just talked to me about you know who, dude.”

“Who do I… oh, I understand.”

Dea’s about to express a little of how that inspires a wave of exasperated affection and how much she misses her version of Cas, already. She’s kind of gutted that this Dean didn’t get to top-up (or more, totally, kick start from the beginning), this Castiel’s pop culture knowledge herself (himself?), but clearly there’s something much more serious going on in this shitty reality than that.

Dean was a demon. He’s out of control, murdering, and debatably already gone dark side. He threatened to kill Cas and Sam’s minutes away from tearing apart the whole damn world again to fix it. Charlie’s dead. He’s completely gone, sounds like, and that guy probably woke up in a hotel room with her girlfriend, who’s human now, for the record, hours after he threatened to kill her male counterpart. Nothing about any of this is good news. It’s a fucking nightmare, even without considering the emotional crises that the other Dea – Dean – is probably having about the Cas thing. Dea remembers that the first time and, hell, she wasn’t juiced up on some cursed ink at the time. This guy is volatile and angry and liable to lash out on a good day.

He damn near killed his best friend, got in his car and drove away. Wiped Castiel, and some poor, dumb kid’s blood off his face then chucked in the back of his car. Kept driving.

He’s never kissed Cas.

Dea does not want him wandering around her world (or any world, really, and if Dea’s the only one in this whole mess who has the guts to pull the trigger, then so be it). Castiel’s ringtone – notable, the one her Cas back when she had the halo – drags her back out of her head.

“Sam,” Castiel mutters, pulling out his phone and setting it on the table.

Dea reaches over and slides it to speaker before this Castiel can stop him.

“Cas, hey,” Sam says, voice both comforting and jarringly different at once, because it’s so much lower but Dea can visualise the facial expression with so much clarity. He’s driving. He’s drank too much coffee. He’s making a massive mistake and, on some level, he knows he is.

“Is Rowena controlled?” Cas asks, “We have a problem.”

“Right,” Sam says, utterly humourlessly. “I got your message that Dean took off.”

“I’ve located… him,” Cas says, “In a sense,”

“Cas,” Sam complains and, yeah, there’s a bitchface with that. The guy’s probably royally done with Cas’ cryptic crap down the phone, but Dea’s pretty sure she’s on Castiel’s side this time; there’s no easy way to say that, by the way, your homicidal brother’s been replaced by an almost-identical chick model from a parallel universe. No way that makes it sound like Cas’ hasn’t had a screw or seven knocked loose by Dean’s fists, shit.

“Hey Sammy,” Dea says, leaning forwards towards the phone, “I’m gonna need you to make a pit stop and pick me up a few things on your driver back here. A bra, for a start, couple of pair of jeans – I’ll text you the sizes – some kind of footwear. Oh, and a cheeseburger.”

“…Dean?”

“In the flesh, Samuel.”

Dea can practically hear the guy swallow, process and come to a mental state of what the fuck before he manages to come up with answer.

“Give me a few hours.”

Chapter Text

Dean sleeps for longer than he's slept in months. The mark meant that even when he slept, he never really rested; his head’s been full of the first blade, blood, the familiar itch that makes him want to kill, stab, and pierce skin. Now, he's slipped back into his old nightmares instead. They're almost comforting. They welcomed him back like an old friend and Dean wakes up after something like nine hours sleep (a hunter miracle) feeling more clear and blissfully sleepy than he has in what feels like a lifetime. He hasn’t been off-guard for months, instead skipping from restless sleep to being wide awake and alert.

His clothes have been returned to him from the laundry, along with another pile of stuff that someone must have gone out and purchased. Probably Sam, given it’s a pretty normal collection of clothing. More or less like the usual stuff they pick up from goodwill. It fits too, which more or less rules Cas out.

By the time he’s dressed and wandering to the kitchen, both female-Sam and female-Cas (it feels less pressingly weird this morning, but that’s probably because he hasn’t had any coffee yet; he’s way too tired to deal with the crazy before he’s had a decent amount of coffee) are sat at the table having some kind of debate, both of them looking like they’ve been at it for a damn long time.

“We don’t have a choice, Sam.”

“You think Dea’s gonna see it that way?”

“Dea will… understand. Eventually.”

“Well this sounds good,” Dean says, heading for the pot of coffee that’s already on the side and pouring himself a mug. “Stellar.”

“Dean,” Sam says, “You understand Dea, right?”

“Uh,” Dean says, taking a sip of his coffee. “I guess.”

“I see you found Dea’s dressing gown,” Cas comments, looking him up and down in a way that makes him feel distinctly uncomfortable because that’s Cas. Cas with long hair, breasts and the same blue eyes as ever, maybe, but Cas.

“I need more coffee for this,” Dean mutters.

“Cas wants to find her grace,”

“What?” Dean asks, raising his eyebrows, “I mean, you seem pretty settled being a real boy. Girl. Woman. Whatever.”

“If I had my grace I could return you and retrieve Dea,” Cas says, “It’s the only way.”

“Dea won’t see that,” Sam says, “I know she’s not exactly a chatty-cathy about it, but you being human and being happy about that is important to her. Right, Dean?”

“Yeah, I got no idea,” Dean says, even though… well. He remembers the allure of Cas, human and vulnerable, in the bunker; Cas rambling on about the shower pressure, Cas learning about human food, Dean cooking for him, Cas just around all the damn time. “Maybe.”

“I just think it’s too big of a decision to make without her,” Sam says, watching Dean with an all too knowing expression over her own coffee. “You guys are serious.”

“Unfortunately, Dea is not currently in a position to give her opinion,”

“So Dean gets her vote,”

“Dean does not have the same relationship with his Castiel,” Castiel says, her arms folded over her chest, this familiar petulant expression written all over his face.

“Where's Kev... I mean Karen?”

“Long distance learning for college in her room. Or grand theft auto. Either or.”

“Huh,” Dean says, “Good for Karen. Charlie?”

"Morning, bitches," Charlie says, stepping into the kitchen on cue in his own dressing gown, that's a little too like Dean's for his direct comfort. It still feels like he’s kidney’s been cut out by a butter knife every time he looks him straight in the face, but there’s a sort of comfort in it too. They don’t fuck everything up in every single possible reality.

"Hey, Charlie," Sam says, standing up, "I'll put another pot of coffee on."

"What's the deal?"

"In summation, Cas wants to get her grace back to deposit me in boy world and retrieve her beloved. Sam thinks that would probably piss my counterpart off."

"Castiel acknowledges that it will piss her off but sees no alternative," Cas says.

"Sasstiel, more like,” Charlie comments, topping off her own coffee and sitting down.

"Cas, you don't even know where your grace is. We tried before,” Sam says, all reasonable and crap like Sam always is about everything. Dean’s inclined to agree with Cas just to spite her, even though Dean’s ninety percent sure that Sam’s right.

"Dean knows it's location,"

"I do?" Dean asks, frowning at him.

"Metatron stealing my grace happens in both realities. She would have hidden it in the same location as she hid your Castiel's."

"I wasn't there,"

"What?"

"When Cas got his mojo back. I wasn't there."

"You don't know where my grace is?" Castiel asks, in a way that makes it clear that Dean’s a fucking imbecile that he’s worth a percentage of Dea Winchester and that Cas is, frankly, offended that they’re even supposed to be the same person.

"You sure this is just for the case, buddy? You seem pretty keen."

“Did you ask?”

“No, it was... it was just done. He just found it.”

“How?”

“I got no idea,” Dean says, then at Castiel's face, “Don't judge me. You got no idea what this mark does to a person. You got no clue what it's been like. And Cas? He's been lying to me for months. Clubbed together with Sam and Rowena behind my back, too busy getting Charlie killed to keep me updated on the when and wheres. Cas got his grace back, I was happy, we ate pizza and we didn't talk about it. That's it."

“So we have no plan,”

“You're forgetting that across the pond, my Sam, my Cas and your Dea are probably having the same conversation, only they've got an angel charged up and ready to go. Where would you drop me off to if you were juiced up?”

“The bunker,”

“Exactly. So we sit tight, pass the time and wait for them to show,”

“Why aren't they here already?”

“I got no idea where I was before I spaced out and woke up here, but if I... if I just finished grinding your face to the floor I'll bet I wouldn't be anywhere close.”

“Was Sam with you?”

“Nope,”

“Dea woke up, alone, naked, in the middle of nowhere?”

“Probably,” Dean shrugs, “She'll work it out.”

“Naked?” Charlie asks, raising her eyebrows. “Wow.”

“I don't like this,” Castiel says, folding her arms and fucking pouting. Dean’s definitely seen that before.

“No one likes this. Whoever did this isn't doing us a favour.” Dean says, even though he's not entirety convinced by his argument. The mark is quiet. Dean’s more in control than he’s been for about a year and, fuck, he can’t deny the fact that it’s a relief; he’ll take being this Castiel’s second best, being this Sam’s pet project, living with the fact that Kevin and Charlie didn’t have to die every single day if it means he’s not seconds away from fucking losing it every single second.

“I’m giving them three days,”

“Then what, Cas? You gonna storm heaven’s gate and demand someone give you some grace so you can play delivery guy and take me home.”

“Three days,” Cas says, narrowing her eyes and standing up and stalking out of the room. Dean can’t quite believe that he’s got a human Cas who lives in the bunker throwing a frigging strop, but then again Cas has always had the capacity to surprise him. He feels like he should be more caught up on various other aspects of this Cas: not the breasts, he’s thought about that frigging plenty, but the fact that this Cas is human and has sex – has sex with Dea for God’s sake – and sleeps in Dea’s bed and clearly has so, so many human feelings.

“What does she even do all day?” Dean asks, watching her stalk away, before realising that means he’s staring at her ass. He didn’t even mean to.

“Netflix,” Sam shrugs.

“Netflix?”

“Or hunt. Research.”

“Netflix?” Dean asks, “Cas.”

“You join her,” Charlie adds in, “For the chill.”

“Huh?”

“Like, Netflix and chill?” Charlie grins. “So tell me, Dean, are you and Sam even more patronising about me taking on the odd solo hunt when I’m a chick?”

“We don’t hunt alone, Charlie.” Sam says, prissy expression plastered all over her face. It comes across as even more patronising on female-Sam, which is hilarious just because it’s not directed at him. Sam notices him smirking, clearly, because she narrows her eyes at him.

“I’ve read the books!” Charlie says, “And I need to know everything about your reality.”

“Good luck,” Sam says, topping off her coffee in the way out of the kitchen. Dean’s pretty sure that he’s being punished for enjoying Sam’s bitch-face, because that’s the only reason Sam possibly could have for leaving him alone with an over excitable male Charlie he wants to know all about boy world.

*

He got one night of decent sleep before the whole endeavour tanks and he winds up awake well into the morning, staring at Dea’s room like it’s suddenly going to provide some kind of answer to anything. He kept going over and over everything and it was driving him damn crazy, but it was him finally processing the female version of himself is dating the female version of Cas and the fact that the female version of Dean Winchester is hella bisexual that had him giving up on the whole pretence and getting up.

Dean’s trying to find the damn alcohol in this place. He’s pretty sure some magic reality-swapping didn’t suddenly dry him out. He’s gotta be nearly an alcoholic in all frigging realities but, no, there’s no damn bourbon in any of his usual spots. He’s going through the cupboards of Sam’s crap (still the same) when he can suddenly feel Cas behind him. He nearly drops the suspicious can of butterbeans turning around, then he has Cas just watching him through the dark.

“Shit, Cas, make a noise,” Dean says, as Cas leans forwards and switches the light on. “I thought you slept now you’re all human and stuff.”

“It’s more difficult than I was led to believe,”

“Yeah,” Dean says, turning back to the cupboard. “Any damn whiskey in this joint?”

“Yes,”

“Where?” Dean asks, “I need a drink.”

Cas steps forward to show him. It’s behind all the cleaning crap in one of the cupboards Dean’s already looked in, but apparently he didn’t look far enough past the bleach; probably because he’s never known the Winchester alcohol collection to consist of a single bottle of whiskey.

“What's eating you?" Dean asks. Cas just blinks at him, which is as unhelpful as it is predictable. "How come you can't sleep?"

Cas takes this as an invitation to sit at the kitchen counter and stare at her hands for a moment. Dean's just catching up to the fact that this is Cas in the most casual state of dress Dean's ever seen her, in sweats and what looks very much like it might have been one of Dea's old t-shirts. Barefoot. Hair the kind of messy that Dean's used to.

It's strange. Dean doesn't usually get to see women like this, and it's weirder because it's kind of Cas, but... he always liked Lisa in her oversized t-shirts and dressing gown; kind of like the stuff he always thought he might want but never believed he'd get, wrapped up in domesticity and familiarity. Cas just got out of bed. It's so frigging hard working out how he feels about that his brain hurts.

"I," Cas begins, frowns, swallows, "I'm unaccustomed to doing this alone. Dea... she found me the second night after I fell. We had a ... discussion."

"Argument," Dean subsidies.

"Yes. Things were tense at the time."

"I'll bet,"

"I had nightmares," Cas says, which has Dean feeling worse than ever because, fuck, of course she did. Of course his Cas must have done. "Dea told me she had them too."

"Yep," Dean says.

"And then she stayed with me."

"Man, no wonder you think I'm dirt."

"I do not think you're dirt," Cas says, "I wasn't aware gender made a great a difference at it does. I was lead to believe it was largely a social construct."

"By?"

"Sam," Cas says.

"When did that come up?"

"Sam and Dea were being catcalled in a bar. Dea punched him in the face. Bystanders found this unusually unexpected."

"Well she's right," Dean says, "it's just that stuff affects a person. Like, you catcalled me right now I probably wouldn't punch you in the face."

“I wouldn't,”

“You know what I mean, Cas. That doesn't push any buttons for me. I haven't had to deal with it.”

“I have noticed that men receive less unwanted sexual attention,”

“Bingo,”

“But I don't understand why. You're... attractive.”

"Sam would be better at this than me," Dean says, pulling out a glass and pouring himself a measure of whiskey that gets a disapproving look from Cas. "I'm not the guy you wanna be asking."

"Why?"

"Because I'm a jerk," Dean says, tipping some of the whiskey down his throat. "Look, I'm guessing me and Dea had a crap load of different experiences based on that illogical social construct based on our junk, and that shaped us different, which is probably why this is different. Gender don't matter. It's the rest."

“It seems more illogical than most human things,”

“Not arguing with you,” Dean says, then pours himself another glass, “You wanna talk something less heavy that the frigging patriarchy?”

“I'm open to suggestions,” Cas says, and it’s about then that Dean realises this is the most amount of time his spent alone with Cas in years, and it’s not even the right Castiel. They haven’t properly talked for such a damn long time. He supposes there was Rexford, but everything about that was layered with six kind of tension, Dean hating himself every single time he fucking looked at the guy. He’s not sure it counts.

Cas shifts on her feet slightly in a way that’s total a hundred percent human, which is enough to jar him out of his thoughts and back into the present, where he’s supposed to be picking some light, airy topic to discuss with this Cas from another world, who’s frigging dating him.

Dean gets stuck between asking about Dea and asking about how Cas finds being human and both of those questions are the kind of thing that makes Dean ache down to his bones, so he pours himself a glass of whiskey.

"Why can't you sleep?" Cas asks, after the silence has stretched on too long.

"Pretty sure I just maxed out last night," Dean shrugs, "Got twice my hunter's four hours. Good to go till next week."

"Dean,"

"Bout the first time in a year I've been any close to sane. Mark's got a pretty tight hold on me. Can't close my eyes without seeing myself laying into Charlie. I slaughtered these guys. They were bad guys. Fuck knows what they'd have done to Claire, but they were still just human. Shot this kid clean in the face cause of his family. I was gonna kill you. I wanted to so damn bad, only reason I stopped was cause I was suddenly thinking about back in the crypt and how much it killed me to be begging you to snap out if it. You were trying to reason with me.” Dean says, staring at his whiskey and beginning to feel sick again. Not the kind of sick that’s spurred on by reality-travel-sickness, but just straight up, pure guilt. “First night I was just so damn exhausted I conked out. Haven’t slept for a month.”

“If I were able to help…”

“I know,” Dean says, “But that’s half the damn problem. You’re all killing yourself trying to help me, when it’s pretty frigging claim that ain’t the solution this time.”

“You’re suggesting we should have stopped you,” Cas says, narrowing her eyes at him.

“You told me you would, buddy. The other you,” Dean says. Cas tilts her head at him just so and, okay, he’s not sure Cas really did agree. They were alone together then, even if it was just for a short half an hour whilst Dean ate all their food and Cas called him out on his bullshit. It was kind of great, though, with Cas fixing that frown at the ketchup bottle and asking if it was a vegetable. He hulked out a few hours later and killed three men. “Well, I asked you to.”

“That was cruel,”

“You think?”

“Angels do not have gender,” Castiel says, “Nor do we discriminate by gender in the same way. The Castiel you know and myself were exactly the same up to the point of rescuing from hell. I would suggest there are less differences between myself and your Castiel than you and Dea. The only discrepancies would be how you, Sam and the other humans we encountered have shaped us.”

“So you’re saying I fucked up other-Castiel cause I’ve got a dick?”

“I amsaying I imagine our feelings about receiving such a request would be more or less in line,” Castiel says, eyes flashing, “A fact which you seem to have little appreciation of.”

“Oh I appreciate it just fine,” Dean snaps, “I just don’t see I had a whole lot of options. If I’ve got someone who has the power to nuke my ass before I burn the world, you bet I’m going to take it, Princess. And, you know what, I don’t need you lecturing me on this crap like you know about my life. If Cas had a problem, he’d have frigging well let me know about it,” Dean snaps. Cas is just silent for long enough that Dean can see the angel in her, still, because humans never let silences drag on for that long. “You wanna drink?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, without getting up from the kitchen table. Dean rolls his eyes but gets another glass anyway, placing it down in front of her with a click.

“Here,”

“Thank you,” Castiel says, only it’s stilted and awkward and about as unconvincing as anything Dean’s ever heard. “Who’s Claire?”

“Your vessel’s kid,”

Cas frowns.

“She was in danger in your reality?”

“I guess you never had your midlife crisis here, huh,” Dean says, frowning. “You didn’t keep tabs?”

“It didn’t occur to me,” Cas says, then her frown deepens. “Was she okay?”

“Her Mom, his Dad I guess here, well she took off. Got herself killed by an interested party, pretty recently actually. Claire lived with her grandparents. Children’s homes after they died. She was, uh, shop lifting. Nearly got herself kidnapped. She ran off. You come barrelling in. Troubled kid.”

“Oh,”

“You worrying about… this reality?”

“Yes. Carl Novak. I didn’t…”

“Well, hey, we’ll see if we can find him,” Dean says, “Dea got a laptop?”

“In my room,” Cas says, her features still etched into a frown, “Come. Bring the whiskey.”

“Now we’re having a damn party,” Dean says, picking up the bottles and the two glasses and following Cas – the wrong Cas – down the corridor. It’s a bad idea. He’s pretty sure the smart thing to do is to avoid this Cas as much as possible to avoid fucking with his head anymore, but… their interactions are almost less complicated than with his Cas. There’s a disconnected between all the pain they’ve caused each other and the actual other person, whilst this Castiel still understands. They’re managing to talk around stuff that Dean’s avoiding bring up for years, just because there’s so much damn emotion attached to it.

“Sweet digs,” Dean says, as he follows Cas into ‘her room’ which Dean’s pretty sure she’s had for a total of two nights, given apparently the first thing Dea Winchester did after Castiel became human was to talk everything out and then get her through the nightmares. Cas sends him a look at the comment too, but digs out Dea’s laptop anyway. “Bet I can guess the password.”

“Everyone can guess your password,” Cas says, expression softening a little. “Charlie once said it was the most obvious password he’d ever hacked.”

“Shut up,” Dean comments, as Impala67 works first time. It feels too brash to plonk himself down on her bed, but too awkward to frigging stand whilst they search; it’s a double, Cas has only slept in it for one night and Dea’s female-doppelganger is sleeping with her, so it’s not really clear where they stand, except Cas always had screwy boundaries. Dean sits. Cas sits next to him and passes him his glass of whiskey, whilst Dean types it Carl Novak. There’s more traffic than he’s expecting. “You know his date of birth?”

“No,” Cas frowns, taking a sip of her whiskey.

“All right, well, we’ll find him,” Dean says, trying in adding in an area with no luck, then typing in Carl Novak, Pontiac, Shop lifting . “This him?”

“Yes,” Cas says, leaning close to the screen. “He’s been arrested.”

“Just community service,” Dean says, because he can feel the waves of distress coming of Cas in droves. Her shoulders have tensed up. Dean wouldn’t have bought Claire up if he’d known it would have wound up in Cas blaming himself for shit, even if there’s a certain comfort in the fact that something good happened in their world that didn’t happen in this one. “Could be worse. Record will be wiped when he’s eighteen.”

“He robbed a shop keeper at gunpoint,”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “He… well, Claire was being manipulated. Used. He’ll work that out now.”

“Will he?”

“Probably,” Dean says, “A lot of messed up kids do a lot of dumb stuff and get passed it.”

“But I messed her up,”

“It was the end of the world, Cas,” Dean says, voice a lot more gentle than he was expecting it to come out. “The same rules don’t apply. You had to do what you had to do. Yeah, it sucks that he wound up involved, but he’ll be okay.” Cas looks utterly unconvinced. “Look, I told Cas it was a bad idea to contact her again from the off. Seems like I was wrong.”

“It wasn’t easy,” Cas says, tipping back her whiskey like a pro then placing it on her bedside table, reaching for the laptop to continue the search. He manages to find Carl Novak’s facebook and Dean’s phased with that weird alike-but-not-resemblance. “Moving past… everything.”

“With Dea?”

“I wouldn’t want to give the impression that it was easy. Dea especially found it difficult to forgive certain things.”

“But you’re happy?” Dean asks and suddenly he wants to know the answer to the question more than he can put into words. He hasn’t really been allowing himself to think about it too much. He decided he’d take it as a weird quirk of this world and not put too much thought into it… but, there’s a reality almost identical to his where he’s a woman and he’s in a relationship with Cas and, and… fuck, but he needs to know that he’s happy here, that Cas is happy, that they’ve clubbed together something out of the whole fucking mess that is their lives and they’re happy with it.

Cas sets down her glass and looks at him.

“I’d assumed you didn’t want to discuss this,”

“Pretty hard to ignore it,” Dean says, keeping his grip tight on his own, empty glass. “It’s in my face all the frigging time here, and I’m not just talking about Charlie.”

“I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable,”

“This whole situation’s uncomfortable,” Dean says, “I wanna know.”

“Dea has stopped drinking large amounts. We both sleep better. We communicate. Dea no longer believes I want to leave. I no longer believe I’m only wanted her when I am useful. Dea is providing a ‘comprehensive popular culture education’ which I do not believe I require. We engage in ‘netflix marathons’ between hunts.”

“Sounds a lot like happy to me,”

“I don’t have much experience of it,” Cas says, looking at him with those eyes and the familiar curve of her lips, and that way of staring like she can see right through to his soul. “Human emotions are baffling. The subtleties involved are… unprecedented. I believe I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.”

“Huh,” Dean says, “That’s… that’s a lot.”

“I’m in love with her,” Cas says, like it’s the fucking simple, and Dean’s so thrown by it that he nearly chokes. Instead he just winds up staring at Cas some more, till the context catches up with him. They’re in Cas’ temporary room, sat on her bed in the middle of the damn night, Cas is in her sleepwear, they’re staring eat each other like they can’t remember why they’d want to look away and Cas is in love with the other him, who just happens to be a her.

“I’ve got to… uh, sleep,” Dean says, standing up and hightailing it out of there without even glancing back to get a read on Cas’ expression, because Dean Winchester is royally, royally fucked.

He doesn’t really get much sleep.

Chapter Text

“So you do this spell, then you can just jump realities? Lay your hand on me and, bam, we’re back in girl work. You make the trade. Bring Dean back over here, then its ice cream and busty Asian Beauties all around,” Dea summarises, taking the final mouthful of the burger Sam picked up on his way back to the bunker. Dea’s the only one still eating, because in this shitty world, Cas apparently doesn’t eat and Sam’s currently too far up his own arse to think about food. Male-Sam is insanely tall, his hair is even more ridiculous than it was in the photo and he’s every bit the self-righteous, annoying brat of a little sister that Dea’s Samantha is. Apparently Sam’s stuck up attitude to greasy food transcends reality and gender, which is almost reassuring. Or it would be, if Dea wasn’t too keyed up worrying about all the rest of it. Still, it takes a lot more than stumbling into bizzaro world, where Cas has stubble and this killer-sex voice and Dea’s never even slept with him, to put Dea Winchester off her burger.

“Yes,” Castiel says, “To put it simply.”

“We need to be smart about this,” Sam says, pacing back and forth across the bunker floor, “This might be our only chance to buy a little extra time. Research the Mark.”

“Meanwhile, some jumped up psycho male version of me is playing house with my girlfriend,” Dea says, pushing the burger wrapper away across the table and wiping a smear of mayo from the corner of her lip, “My reality is not some holding pen for your problems, Sammy.”

“We don’t know that the Mark is affecting Dean,”

“We don’t know any reason why it wouldn’t be,” Dea snaps. The clothes Sam, male Sam, bought her just about fit, and she feels much better about for it. He just about nailed the plaid and jeans thing, probably because most of their clothes come from goodwill in most realities. She still feels like a helluva long way away from relaxed though, largely because Sam is so fixated upon his own Dean that he isn’t thinking straight about anything, and it’s getting on every last one of Dea’s nerves. It’s worse than when her sister pulls the I-know-better act, because this Sam has none of the shared history and therefore, as far as Dea’s concerned, none of the trust. Plus, he’s a dude and Dea fucking hates taking orders from dudes. Has done since her first run in with the typical hyper-macho hunter bullshit. “Except your wishful thinking.”

“It’s plausible,” Cas says, evenly, “I believe the Mark is tethered tosomething in the world. Theoretically, the connection could be invalid whilst Dean is in the other reality, in which case it wold just be a mark.”

“This is theory,” Dea says, “No offence, other Cas, but I’m not prepared to gamble my life on something being plausible.”

“Wait, did you say girlfriend?” Sam asks, staring at him and, fucking hell, Dea is so not in the mood to baby his little brother (sister) through some crisis of perception. This Dean guy must have kept a better lid on his deviations from heterosexuality, or else this Sam is just thrown by the concept of either of them being in some kind of relationship. Either way, that’s not her problem, not her sexuality crisis, not her lifestyle to question. She doesn’t need this when they’re already up to their asses in crazy. It doesn’t matter.

(It does matter, obviously. It may have taken her a long ass time to pull her head out of her ass and admit that she was in love with her best friend, and maybe she’s used those exact words like, once out loud, but she’s aware enough to know that this is damned important. It doesn’t take her being dumped in backwards-land to know that fucking everything would be different if she hadn’t worked it out with Cas, but she is so not okay with taking a hands on approach about that and making this even more complicated.)

“Cas, I thought you updated him about all of this? The whole diverting realities bullshit,” Dea asks, turning to focus her gaze back on Cas. The whole thing is stuff frigging nuts, and seeing Cas with stubble makes her whole brain jar. It’s difficult to think. It’s difficult to look at this Cas with his trench coat and blue eyes, because he’s familiar but achingly different and six times as confusing.

Dea tried to sleep off some of the headache whilst Sam was hightailing it back to Kansas, which was about as successful as she’d expected it to be.

Dean’s room in the bunker was eerily similar, with a few key differences (mostly Cas’ stuff wasn’t there, because why would it be?). The memory foam remembered the wrong shape and the room spelt vaguely of man, but mostly she couldn’t quit thinking.

“I did,”

“Well sure seems like you left out some parts,” Dea says, rolling his eyes at Cas’ expression. He looks uncomfortable. It figures. She probably should have guessed that this male, still an angel, still with a stick-up-the-ass-Castiel might find the whole prospect of talking to Sam excruciating. No doubt a little too close to discussing his actual feelings, which in the few hours that Dea’s been clogging up this crappy reality Dea’s decided she’s in no doubt are exactly the same. “So, in my world, me and Cas are bumping uglies. In a relationship type sense,” Dea says, meeting Sam’s gaze straight on. Sam’s expression doesn’t change at all for a split second and that’s enough for Dea’s defensiveness to be sparked up, even if this is the wrong sibling, it still feels kind of the same, “And if you’ve got a problem with that, Sam, then – ”

“– did I have a problem with it in your world?” Sam asks, in that tone that means Dea knows full well that he knows the answer. He doesn’t sound entirely surprised, either, which isn’t a huge shock. Dea’s pretty sure that heaven, hell and everything in-between had suggested they were romantically involved in front of Sam long before they actually were. Dea’s Sam wasn’t really surprised, either.

If she were still in Dean’s place, she’d be freaking the fuck out about all of this right about now. It wasn’t comfortable doing it on her terms, but if she was half-outed by some reality swap shtick, Dea’s pretty sure it’s be a few hundred times worse. If Dea wasn’t so hell bent on taking the guy out before he turns psycho-Winchester on Cas and Sam, she might just feel for the guy.

“No,”

“Then why should I here?”

“Okay,” Dea says, “Well,”

“That’s great,”

“Oh shut up,” Dea snaps, “I’m pretty sure I wasn’t dumped in a different fucking reality to do the coming out speech a second time,”

“There was a speech?”

“Oh, screw you Sam,” Dea snaps, “Aren’t we supposed to be coming up with a plan here?”

“Okay,” Sam says, smiling slightly, but purposefully not meeting her gaze. Probably, he knows that it would only piss her off. “How about this. Cas takes Dea back to her reality, checks on Dean, see if he’s…”

“A raging frigging madman,”

“Right,” Sam says, “Then Cas brings him back, if not… Cas leaves him there, jumps back over here, we do some research, then when we have a plan…”

“No,” Cas says, “Transporting between realities is… traumatic at best. It’s feasible only because Dea does not belong in this reality and her essence is trying to escape it. My grace can latch onto the desire and propel it into action, but without that source it’s... very challenging.”

“I love it when you talk Angel librarian,” Dea says, leaning back on her chair. The effect is nothing short of hilarious. Cas, this male Cas (all healed up and looking much better for it; without the dried blood, is a awesome mix of cute and gorgeous; if Dea gets to meet this Dean, which is looking incredibly likely, interfering be damned she is going to have words with the dumb asshole) looks like Dea just cut out his voicebox with an angel blade. Dea’s missed that adorable look of confusion and alarm that she got the first few times she outwardly flirted with her Cas. Sam, on the other hand, looks like he’s torn between choking, laughing and hiding. Dea’s sure she’d be enjoying all of this a lot more if she could stop thinking about her Castiel, but it’s still amusing. “Makes me all tingley.”

“Um,” Sam says, “That’s a good point, actually,”

“Really?”

“No,” Sam says, “Not that disturbing insight into your brain. I mean… why were you reality swapped?”

“Who cares?” Dea asks, “As far as I’m concerned, its ET goes home time.”

“Dean,” Sam says, then corrects himself, “Dea. There’s got to be a reason. What if it’s like the trickster deal, and you’re supposed to learn something –”

“– learn something?”

“Come on,” Sam says, “If Gabriel wasn’t dead, I know where I’d be pointing the finger. This has his style written all over it.”

“Well if anyone’s got something to learn then it’s the other guy,” Dea snaps, “The one with the emotional problems and the homicidal tendencies. I mean, the serious homicidal tendencies,”

“No one’s denying that,” Sam says, “But if we just teleport you back home –”

“ – I would like to reiterate that angel travel is not teleportation – ”

“ – then whoever did it could just swap you right back.”

“How much does this kind of crap drain your batteries?” Dea asks, turning towards Cas, “We talking a few hours between trips?”

“I’d estimate several days,”

“Awesome,” Dea says, standing up, “Just awesome.”

“What has the power to do this, other than angels? A witch?” Castiel asks, still standing.

“A witch on steroids, maybe,” Sam says, “I doubt there’s much in the law. Pretty sure we’re some of the only people to have ever been dropped into an alternate reality in the past few centuries, and that was a spell powered up by a couple of angels. You probably know more about that than we’d find in any of these books.”

“So we’ve got nothing,” Dea says, “We’ve got nothing and you still wanna sit around with our thumbs up our asses, because you can’t accept that Dean Winchester is so far off the reservation that –"

“ – you want to run in there, all guns blazing, using the only weapon we’ve got just to get thrown back here without Cas, and get stuck here then go ahead, Dea. I’m just saying, we need to be prepared.”

“You sound just like her,” Dea snaps, “If your brother has laid a finger on any of them I swear –“

“I’m sure my female counterpart can handle it,” Cas interjects.

“Right, like you handled him earlier,” Dea says, “I saw you, buddy, he nearly killed you and you’re fully loaded. My Cas is human and if we body swapped like you’re thinking, she woke up expecting to be next to her girlfriend, and wound up sharing the covers with a het up, confused pissed off , closeted murderer. Now excuse me if I’m a little pissed right now, but can someone else get with the program and hurry this conversation the fuck up?”

“You’re talking like Dean is something you want to hunt,”

“Yeah, Sam,” Dea agrees, “And why the hell aren’t you?”

“This isn’t helping,” Castiel says, voice gravelly and deep and holy shit. Dea’s always had the hots for Cas’ voice, and she is not hating the male edition. And, another point, is that allowed? Should she be feeling some kind of guilt attached to checking out male-Castiel and liking it?

“No, damnit,” Dea says, “Let’s talk about this. What were you on the way to do, Sam? What cock and bull plan were you about to execute before I popped in and screwed everything up?”

“Rowena has the book of the damned,”

“Well that sounds like a light bedtime read,” Dea says, “More context, little brother,”

“It’s a spell book,” Castiel says, “Full of very dark magic. The mark was attracted to it. You wished us to destroy it. We did not. It was… heavily coded.”

“I… I was going to call it off,” Sam says, “But Charlie’s codex, she broke the code before the Stynes got to her,”

“Got to her how?” Dea asks, then balks at the look, “Charlie’s dead? He… She died.”

“It’s probable,” Cas begins, then clears his throat, “that because of the chain of events leading up to her death didn’t play out in the same way … that she, he I presume, is safe and well in your own reality.”

“We got her killed so we could read some fucking book?”

“Rowena can cure the mark. I’m sure of it, Dea,” Sam says, and Dea absolutely cannot deal with the look Sam’s giving him. It’s like he’s begging for forgiveness. It’s like he wants Dea to just roll over and say everything’s fine, Sammy, when it’s clearly not. It’s not. She’s been here five minutes and she’s already got a pretty good picture of how not okay everything is.

“And what’s the flipside?” Dea asks, “There’s always a flipside, Sam,”

“I don’t know,” Sam answers, and he sounds pained.

“This Rowena. She trustworthy?”

“We have to save you.”

“No, you don’t,” Dea says, “Sam, we’ve done this, over and over. Is anyone else tired of the same frigging plot line? We go round and round in goddamn circles, unleashing the next damn apocalypse in some crappy attempt to keep us all swinging. I’m not going to look you in the eye and say that’s okay, Sam, because it’s not. It’s selfish.”

“We just need time,”

“I’m not going to let you break my world because you broke yours,” Dea snaps, standing up, “And if when we get to my world and he’s still hulking out, I’ll take care of it myself.”

*

Ever since she was a kid and Joan Winchester offered up a grunted ‘nice shot’ after she iced a tin can, target practice has always kind of been her happy place. Losing herself in the focus, the motion, the satisfaction of nailing the shot; it’s easy, it’s simple and it’s completely black and white. It’s not a surprise, though, that when she’s hiding in the firing range looking down the barrel of a shotgun she pulled out the trunk of the impala before she started driving again, her hunter’s instinct kicks in and she just knows that either Sam or Cas or both are behind him. She doesn’t turn around. She just pulls the trigger. Fires. Hits. Fires again. She waits till she’s clean out of bullets before she lowers the gun.

“What?” Dea asks, without turning around.

“Nice shot,” Sam says, as Dea clicks on the safety and pockets it.

“Nice shots,” Dea corrects, turning round, “You come to talk me round?”

“More submit a plea bargain,” Sam says, “Cas, read it,”

“And to His most valued Lieutenant Lucifer, He entrusted the Mark, to serve as both lock and key. And so God separated the light from the darkness. God called the light “day,” and the darkness he called “night.” And there was evening, and there was morning—the first day.”

“That ain’t the version I remember reading,” Dea says, “What is this? Genesis: revisited?”

“It was an obscure footnote of an ancient text written in an ancient Hebrew and Enochian hybrid,” Castiel says, “It was not without challenges, but I was able to… read it,”

“I thought you were Mr Babel.”

“It wasn’t a real language,” Cas says, narrowing his eyes slightly. It’s cute. Dea’s pretty damn sure that her Cas has the edge, but the underlying adorable factor is still there. She’d kind of like a flash of the bad assery, too, but she’s not sure how to unlock it.

“Alright, alright,” Dea says, “You’ve still got it. Let us bow down to your superior intellect, professor Castiel.”

“Is the sarcasm necessary?” Cas asks, fixing him with the blue gaze.

“Yes,” Dea says, “Yes it is.”

“Can we focus?” Sam asks.

“Okay, so the mark got edited out of the good book. And what? And how did it take you this long to find it?”

“It’s not a translation I am particularly familiar with,” Cas says, “In addition, we’d been primarily focusing on the passages involving Cain, whereas – ”

“– whereas it turns out to be in the second line. Okay. And?”

“To serve as both lock and key,” Sam says, “So, Cas was right. It’s tethered to something in the world, which makes his theory that the mark won’t be affecting Dean more than plausible.”

“Who says whatever it’s tethered to doesn’t transcend realities?”

“My theory,” Cas says, “Is that the other reality, Cain is the only possessor of the mark. Therefore, that is the lock and the key, therefore –”

“The key won’t fit, the lock stays locked,” Dea says, “Okay. I’m with you so far.”

“I believe if the mark is removed, then whatever the mark is locking away…”

“Gets loose,” Dea says, “Which Sam has Crowley’s Mom looking into. We know what kind of big bad we’re talking about here?”

“No,” Cas says, “The mark is a curse,”

“A curse,” Dea says, raising an eyebrow, “You mean I’ve been turned dark side by some lousy curse? Awesome. Well that’s a real self-esteem boost.”

“The first curse, Dea,” Castiel says, “A curse that predates history. It corrupts, contaminates and consumes. A curse that corrupted Lucifer, no less. It shouldn’t be underestimated. The mark is… powerful. Whatever it unlocks is sure to be… devastating.”

“I got the power thing from your bloodied up face,” Dea says, “Maybe you’re right. Maybe Dean’s not hopped up on evil juice and he’s just hanging out with my girlfriend and my sister, catching up on Dr Sexy reruns. Fine. Happy days. You’ve still got no solution here,”

“Just give us some time,” Sam says, “A few more days to research.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Dea says, pulling the gun out of her pocket and reloading it, clicking off the safety and turning back around, “Feathers here is cute and you’re freakishly tall and this has been wildly entertaining but, with all due respect, I don’t really give a damn about your crappy reality.”

“I’m unsure how that can be taken with any quantity of respect,” Cas says, head tilted, confusion written all over his face.

“Okay, really cute,” Dea corrects, “Really frigging cute. Still,” She says, firing. The bullet rips straight through the outline of the fake guy’s heart. “I’ve got my own edition of trench coat,” Dea says, shooting straight through it’s head, “And mine puts out.”

“Unfortunately for you Dea,” Cas says, voice dropping an octave, till it’s this rough gravel that sounds like post-coital cigarettes and damn Dea’s going to have to grovel her version of Cas for forgiveness, because her thoughts are definitely in bad territory. “Your method of transportation relies entirely on my goodwill.”

Dea fires one final shot at the target-man’s crotch, then whirls around. Cas is way up in her personal business, both for general social etiquette and for general gun safety. The guy needs to wear a frigging bell, for one, but hey at least she got the chance to see pissed off Castiel.

“You threatening me, angel?”

“Yes,” Cas says, “I understand that this doesn’t fall into your remit, but you will do us the courtesy of giving a damn.”

“Why?” Dea asks. They’re nearly chest to chest and it’s so familiar , but different too. This Cas is all straight edges and stubble and it’s… well, it’s freaky. It’s just strange. This guy has got all these recognisable features that Dea’s stupidly gone on, but they’re all jumbled up different. At least seventy percent of her wants to say that this… this person, this random angel, means jack shit to her. He’s just some angel in a familiar get up, but then regular, anonymous angels don’t have the tendency to make her so fucking angry. Violent, yes, but that’s just a throwback from the job. It’s not personal. This Cas has the same maddening power to make Dea completely lose her cool, stuck between the desire to punch him in the face or just kiss him. She’s not about to do either. They don’t have the history, but it sure as hell feels like it. It feels like they’ve got years and years of history, only in this reality not a single second of it is resolved. They just met. Of course it isn’t resolved.

“Because this reality exists,” Cas says, voice low, “And whilst you’re here, it is also your problem. Sam is your brother. I am your –“

“Platonic angel friend?”

“You will show me some respect,”

“Well that’s a blast from the past,” Dea says, narrowing her eyes at him.

“And you will not harm Dean Winchester,”

“Look, buddy,” Dea says, “He don’t damage the goods, I won’t have to damage his goods.”

“Can you even harm him?” Sam asks, “Wouldn’t it cause some weird temporal alternate reality paradox?”

“You’ve been watching too much doctor who,” Dea says, but it’s officially broken through the weird tension that’s clogging up the room, then it’s just back to normal. If normal is hanging out with your brother from a different reality and arguing with the male version of what definitely is not her girlfriend, that is. “If it can bleed, it can die.”

“Give us some time,” Sam says.

“I’m listening,”

“We just want to help him,”

“I get that,” Dea says, “I do. Believe me, I get it. Been there. Lived out that story line, okay. I know. It’s compelling. Beautiful, actually, but you’re forgetting one key element of all of this. Whilst we’re here bonding over our tragic inability to break out of this cycle, the other guys are probably clawing at the walls trying to get back over here too.”

“They don’t have a juiced up angel,”

“No,” Dea agrees, “But they do have a guy who knows where their token angel’s grace is and a het up angel who knows her girlfriend woke up naked in the middle of frigging nowhere. How long you reckon it’ll take before they lose patience waiting for us to make a move?”

“I don’t know,”

“They’re us,” Dea says, “Think,”

“Three days,” Cas says.

“I’m giving you two and a half,” Dea says, pocketing the gun again and heading straight for the door.

*

It takes three hours of her wandering around the bunker and thinking before she comes round to the whole thing. She hates this. She hates that, even though these aren’t her family there’s still the same kind of emotion attached. The whole thing is whacked. The whole thing is far too off her personal crazy scale for her to deal, but it doesn’t look like she has a whole lot of choice about the matter. Either way, for whatever reason, she’s here and it’s looks like she’s gonna stay stuck here until Sasquatch and feathers are ready to make the trade. Sam and Castiel are both in the war room armed with a stack of books when Dea finds them.

“Dea,” Cas says, glancing up to meet her gaze.

“Let’s be clear here,” Dea says, pulling out the seat opposite him and slumping down, “I’m still not loving this wife swap shtick but, why not, huh? When in Rome…”

“We’re not in Rome,”

“It’s an expression,” Dea says, “Speaking of, you could try one of those sometime. Might be an alternative to the pouty frown thing, not that that ain’t a classic.”

“I don’t…”

“It’s a play on words, Cas,” Dea says, dragging a chair across to prop her feet up on. Castiel has completely lost focus on his book, and is instead just staring at her. It kind of reminds Dea of the blind panic of the time Dea tried to hook him up with this guy in some bar, except mixed with this uneasy affection. It makes sense. She can’t exactly imagine her Cas knowing what to do with a guy with a dick that was technically Dea; the whole thing’s off. Even regular people with social skills would probably find the whole thing hella confusing, let alone Cas. “Expression like phrase or word verses expression like the crap someone’s face does when they’re having a feeling.”

“I’m not having a feeling,”

“Really,” Dea grins, lips quirking upwards, “None at all, huh? Not one tiny little feeling..?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“It’s called teasing, babe,”

“I’m not…”

“Leave him alone, Dea,” Sam says, not looking up for his book, “And ignore her, Cas.”

“Why? We’re having so much fun over here,” Dea says, “I’ve missed this. You, me, Sam trying to do research…”

“I’m under the impression that in your world, this happens regularly,”

“Yeah,” Dea agrees, “But you stopped getting all flustered like, years ago. Don’t get me wrong, it’s still fun. Just kind of miss blushing virgin Castiel, you know?”

“I am not a virgin,”

“Really? Now that is interesting,” Dea says, leaning forwards, “Guy, girl, other?”

“Reaper,”

“That’s kinda icky,” Dea says, wrinkling her nose, “You learn your romantic habits from Sam or something? She’s got a thing for banging monsters too,”

“Like you can talk,” Cas says, meeting his gaze.

“Damn,” Dea says, smiling, “I’m an angel only kinda gal. One woman kinda gal, too, turns out. Now that was a shocker,”

“Did you come and find us for a reason, Dea?” Cas asks, but his expression’s softer than before. It’s good. It reminds Dea a helluva lot of the good times with Dea and the point they’ve gotten to, now, where things are easy and more or less worked out. Obviously, stuff comes up. They argue. They bicker all the damn time, but they’ve more or less nailed this relationship thing.

“Oh yeah,” Dea says, “I’m in. Sign me up. Three’s a go for the whole saving my practically demonic-ass plan. Figure it makes a change from trying to ice myself. And there's the plus that it's less likely to turn me into some therapist's wet dream.”

Chapter Text

He had a full comprehensive plan of ignoring Castiel with her frigging blue eyes, casual human clothes and her deadpanned ‘I’m in love with her’ that Dean absolutely can’t deal with, but that hasn’t exactly gone to plan. She’s about as compelling as his version of Cas is. Just as addictive. Dean still has that familiar pull into her presence just because… damnit, how long has it been since he actually got to hang out with Cas?

In recent memory, he’s got one awesome evening with Charlie and Pizza and beers, and he can’t even think about it without feeling like he’s being choked with that awful mix of guilt and grief because Charlie. Most of the past year is obscured in red haze of the Mark. Cas has been conspiring against him with Sam and, damnit, Dean’s still pissed at him, even if he has no right to given he nearly fucking killed the guy. He just kept punching and punching and –

“Morning,” Sam says, stepping back into the kitchen in her running gear, setting a bottle of water on the counter. “There any coffee?”

“Are cupids winged dicks with boundary issues?”

“You look like crap,”

“You look like crap,” Dean repeats back, in a mock high voice, draining the rest of his mug of coffee before pushing it in Sam’s direction, “Top me up, Sammy.”

“Wow, Dean,” Sam says, “It’s so great that you’re comfortable here,”

“Coffee, Sam.”

“Yeah yeah, here’s your liquid insomnia,”

“Man, you wish that was my biggest problem,”

“Have you slept since getting here?” Sam asks, sitting opposite him at the table and fixing him with a searching look. Female Sam pisses him off, basically. She’s every inch his little brother, less a few inches. He’s just not used to some random woman Dean doesn’t even know (kind of, all of that’s a little unclear and too confusing to frigging thinking about), giving him hell for everything he does. Maybe she has a point, but that’s actually not the point right now. Dean just glares at her. “I’m just saying, Dean – ”

“ – well don’t,” Dean cuts across, taking his mug back and knocking back some more coffee. “So today’s the day,”

“Hello, Sam, Dean,” Cas says, wandering into the front room, with the most ridiculous bedhead that Dean’s ever seen in his life. He thought his Cas took the piss, but this Cas has humanity and a hell of a lot more hair to work with. “Is there any coffee?”

“Are cupids winged –”

“ – Yes,” Sam cuts across him, “In the pot.”

“Thank you,” Cas says.

“Sleep okay, Cas?” Sam asks, tracking her movements across the kitchen. Even Dean can see that the Cas of a few days ago looked a lot better than this Cas, but Dean was kind of thinking he was just being sucked in by how damn human she is. Yesterday, Dean wound up utterly enthralled watching Cas’s fingers massage the back of her neck after she fell asleep on the coach. She bites her nails. She’s a grumpy pain in the ass in the morning. She most definitely has a caffeine addiction. It’s so damn human and it’s… captivating (Dean really needs to get his shit together, big time).

Still, he figured he was noticing things just because he can’t seem to quit noticing things about Cas, but Sam’s tracking her progress round the kitchen too, so maybe something’s up. It figures, given it looks a hell of a lot like this Cas has kinda been depending on Dea a lot for all this human stuff, which is equal parts terrifying and incredible. Dean’s not sure about his female counterpart, but having wave of celestial intent, bigger than the Chrysler building Castiel depend on him is a hell of a responsibility for someone who’s historically screwed up a lot. Dean’s not sure if he could sleep at night, without even throwing a goddamn relationship into the mix.

“No,” Cas says, “I’ve been researching the Mark,”

“Dude, I told you not to bother,”

“I’m not a dude,”

“The other Cas and the other Sam already researched themselves into a corner. We got nothing but bad mojo and backchat from Crowley’s Mom. You can’t save me, Cas, and I still haven’t worked out why you’re trying to bother,”

“You are still Dea,”

“No,” Dean says, “I’m not. And the quicker you get that through your breakable, human skull then –”

“ – today marks the third day,”

“That’s plants and fruit, right?”

“Why are you referring to the popular translation of genesis?” Cas asks, narrowing her eyes at him. That tugs at some deep, ache in his chest that Dean’s never given a name to, because it’s just so Cas. For all that this Cas is a hell of a lot different, she’s also frustratingly, impossibly the same. It makes his chest hurt, alongside his head.

“You were saying, Cas,” Sam prompts.

“This is the last day we’re waiting,”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “If they don’t show today, you can knock, knock, knock on heaven’s door and see if one of your pals will go pick up your girlfriend, problem solved.”

“And drop you off,” Sam says.

“We’ll see,” Dean says, standing up and shoving his hands in his pocket. He’d rolled his sleeves up before Sam had entered the kitchen and had felt too self-conscious under Sam’s gaze to roll it back down, and the Mark’s exposure makes him feel uncomfortable. Even if it’s not… even if it’s not effecting him here, it’s still the black, ugly taint on his soul, written all over his skin.

“Um, Dean,” Sam says, “You… why wouldn’t you go back?”

“Don’t you think I’ve fucked that world up enough?” Dean asks, stood up, meeting Sam’s eyes dead on. “Kevin, Charlie… there’s this kid I can’t think about without feeling like my head’s gonna explode, but I shot him clean through the head. Nearly took out Cas. Cain told me the way it’s going to go down and it don’t sound like the kind of party I want to go to. So, no, I’m not going back. I’m too dangerous.”

“You’re intending to stay here,” Cas says, voice flat.

“Oh don’t worry, Sweetheart, I’ll make myself scarce. Give you and your girlfriend some space.”

“That’s not my issue, Dean,” Cas says, voice suddenly sharp, “ Why must you always blindly work towards your own destruction?”

“No idea,” Dean shrugs, “Maybe it’s genetic.”

“Damnit, Dean,”

“Now that sounds familiar,” Dean says, forcing a grin, “Guess I do see the resemblance,”

“We can help you,”

“I’ve had enough help from both of you for a lifetime, thanks,”

“Why stick around if you’re planning to do a runner?” Sam asks, still sat down, possibly the only one in the room who’s managed to maintain her cool. It’s a little strange. Dean’s not sure when they got to the point where he started having most of his emotionally charged conversations with Cas rather than Sam (not that they don’t still have their fair share because, yeah, their relationship gets pretty intense sometimes), but apparently that transcends realities.

“We still got no idea how this crap happened,” Dean says, “If Cas doesn’t show up, we’re back to square one. Figured it’d be a dick move to piss off, just in case you need my blood, or my frigging dandruff for some reality-swapping spell,”

“If there is a spell, I doubt it would require pieces of dead skin, or that we would be able to work such a spell without a very capable witch. If that’s truly your concern, feel free to leave samples of your bodily fluids by the front door,”

“Cas,” Dean says, a smile creeping up on him despite himself, “How’s about we leave my bodily fluids out of this?”

“I meant - ”

“ – we know what you meant, Cas,” Sam says, “Dean’s just being a dick,”

“What’s the point of this conversation?” Cas asks, “You’ve decided, clearly.”

“You know, Cas, sometimes people just talk for the sake of it. Not every single conversation has to have a frigging purpose,”

“Perhaps,” Cas says, “But no one is enjoying this conversation, either.”

“So frigging what,” Dean huffs into his coffee, “You don’t just get to stick around for the conversations that have a point where everyone’s having a good time,”

“If this is some issue you have with your Castiel –”

“– oh we’re a hundred percent issue free, thanks,”

“You asked him to ‘take you out’, Dean, and then you nearly killed him. I’m having difficulties with your definition of ‘issues’.”

“Did I ask for your input?”

“Maybe you should,” Sam says, which has both of them turning to look at her, stunned into silence. “Just… this is a pretty unique opportunity to work through your communication issues,”

“We don’t have communication issues,” Castiel says, exactly as Dean offers his own “we communicate just fine”. Cas fixes her blue glare on him, with that almost familiar pout-thing that Dean can’t deal with looking out too much, because his head will probably explode.

“Trouble in paradise, huh?” Dean asks, quirking up his eyebrows, “So it’s not all dirty weekends and duo road trips?”

“Would that make this easier for you?” Cas asks, fingers gripped tight around her own coffee. It might just be a genuine question, though, which throws Dean for a minute…. Because it does. It does make it easier. There so much damn water under the bridge, that Dean can’t fathom a way that he and Cas could share a space for more than twenty four hours before one or other of them starts to drown in it. Yeah, they’ve managed okay lately (not really recently, lately, because that’s just a clusterfuck Dean’s refusing to think about), but that’s only by a lot of repression and concentrating on the latest end-of-the-world-big-bad that needs taking out. It’s like they can’t just hang out, or have a damn conversation without a purpose, or all of their careful rebuilding of their friendship around all the shit that’s gone on will just collapse in on itself. It does make it better that this… this other Cas and this Dea’s happy ending isn’t perfect because it feels… possible. There’s no frigging way they could get all their issues squared away, but maybe they could manage them.

Maybe, there’s a chance that, on the other side, they could work something out. Not… not what female Cas, with her bitten down fingernails, blue glare and familiar aura of power, and Dea Winchester have, but something where they might be able to look at each other straight in the eye without it hurting. Something, maybe.

“Do you want - ?” Cas begins, eyes narrowed and fixed on him.

“Hey, wait a hot second,” Dean interrupts, heart hammering much too fast considering all he’s done today is wake up, drink coffee and think, “Is Han Solo a woman over here?”

“Um,” Sam says, glancing at Cas, “Hannah Solo. Yep. What else would Han be short for?”

“Are you… are you frigging kidding me? Damnit, we’ve been wasting time. Where are my star wars DVDs. Holy shit, this is gonna be so weird. We got any popcorn?”

“I’ll drive to the store,” Sam says, “Cas, you said that the other Cas is going to need some recovery time, right?”

“A few days, I suspect,”

“So we’re feeding seven, eight if Cas is really out of it. Yeah, we’re gonna need some more groceries.”

“And beer,” Dean prompts, “A truckload of beer. You want us to wait to start the marathon?”

“Man, you’ve made me watch them so many times I know the whole thing off by heart. Go ahead. Charlie and Karen will probably want in, though.”

“Come on Cas,” Dean says, slapping the table top and standing up, “We’ve got some movies to watch.”

*

In the end, it works out that Charlie’s midway through something ‘highly important’ which is either some hacking project that is likely to secure them funds for the next year, or some form of computer game, but either way he’s going to join them for the second movie. Cas reports that Karen is still asleep and muttered something largely intelligible, but probably will join them later, which means it’s just Dean and Cas, which goes directly against the whole avoiding-Cas strategy that Dean’s pretty sure he barely even tried to stick to.

Still, Han Solo is a woman. Han Solo is a frigging chick. “Wait,” Dean says, hitting the pause button before they’ve even got through the opening credits, because a crappy thought just hit him, “You’ve watched these with Dea and Sam before, right?”

“Yes,”

“Awesome,” Dean says, “Cause I am so not taking your Star Wars virginity when Dea’s probably showing up here today. She might kill me,”

“It’s a ‘rite of passage’, apparently,” Cas says, the corner of her lips pulling upwards, “I see you feel the same,”

“Come on, man, these are childhood defining,”

“I wouldn’t know,” Cas says, “Angels don’t have the concept of childhood.”

“That explains a lot, actually,” Dean says, swallowing, “So you just popped out just as you are?”

“I didn’t ‘pop out’ of anything,” Castiel says, still clutching a cup of coffee to her chest, “Equally, human infants don’t pop out, Dean. Childbirth is –”

“ – definitely something I’m never gonna think about,” Dean says, “Ever. Just so you know,”

“And I was very different than I am today when I came into existence,” Cas says, shifting on the cushions in the sofa, pulling the dressing gown (Dea’s dead man robe, apparently) that she’d thrown over her legs further over her chest, coffee balanced in one hand. She’s back in another hoody and jeans combination and it’s… yeah, it’s no trench coat. She’s watched Star Wars before. She’s cupping her fingers around the coffee cup to warm her hands. She’s putting a lot of effort into getting comfortable. She’s a hundred percent not an angel and definitely not the same being who threatened to throw him back into hell if he didn’t obey heaven’s orders.

“Guess not,” Dean says, swallowing back the lump in his throat and looking away, because that was possibly dangerously close to checking Cas out, and he definitely feels like he’s slipped into that far too many times for him to be able to look his Cas in the eye when he turns up.

“Dea told me that Han Solo was one of her first indications that she was interested in both women and men,” Castiel says, deliberately looking away. His Cas wouldn’t have the human nous to do that. He’d have steamrolled in, gaze utterly unyielding. Dean’s not sure what the hell he’d have done, but then he’s not really sure what to say to this, either, because suddenly his brain’s a white out and there’s this tight nausea sitting in his chest because, because… that sounds a hell of a lot like an accusation.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean asks, mouth dry. He’s spent three days deliberately ignoring applying any logic to any of this and concentrating on the mark and Kevin and Charlie whenever his head tries to dissect the fact that, in this reality, Dea and Cas are sleeping together. He’s been resolutely ignoring the way it makes him feel like his stomach’s dropped out. He’s been steadfastly refusing to reason around any of it.

“Merely an observation,” Cas says, voice deep, but not deep enough. Then she reaches forward to take the remote from where it’s resting on Dean’s knee and restart the film, only suddenly Dean can’t concentrate on any of it. His head’s too full of white noise. He feels sick again.

By any luck, Dea is with Cas and Sam in the male version of the bunker, which means they know. They know . Sam, his Sam, who he practically raised, and who Dean’s died for (and would again, in a heartbeat), and who has absolutely no time for Dean’s denial routine. Castiel. The real Castiel, who’s hurt him so damn much over the years, who Dean nearly killed last time they were face to face… he knows. They know. They know.

Even if Dea has spared him that horror by keeping her mouth shut (which he doubts, because it’s too important a piece in working out how their realities deviated), his Castiel is hopefully preparing to reality hop with Dea in tow. It’s going to take a few days for Cas to recover, which means they’re both going to be stuck in the bunker, watching the female versions of themselves together, and Dean’s really, really not sure that Cas is going to do him the courtesy of rocking the denial thing. He’s going to have questions. They’re both going to have questions.

Han(nah) Solo doesn’t have the same allure as her male counterpart and Dean kind of hates himself for it.

Chapter Text

Dean’s been wearing a hole in the floor since it hit 5pm and male-Cas and Dea are still a no show. He gave up watching Star Wars a good few hours back, because it turns out there’s not enough room in his head to fit processing Leia Skywalker facing off her mother into his head and the inevitable breakdown that comes with finally realising that his life’s over.

“You know what I don’t get?” Dean asks, pausing by the doorway, “If everyone who’s a dude in my world is a chick in this word, how come there’s still…. How come its… Sam, help me out, here.”

“What?”

“You know I’m no good at this… social justice stuff. Come on, Sam. How come there’s still a frigging patriarchy? We wanna talk about stuff that’s not the same across realities? Cas was saying me… Dea… that she punched this guy in the face for trying to hit on her. But, Star Wars,”

“Dean,” Sam says, frowning slightly, “Star Wars doesn’t shape social structures,”

“No but, you… damnit. Female role models and… empowerment and, I don’t know, I’m a dude, I got no idea what I’m talking about, but, here, Hannah Solo was a hero. That’s got to mean something,”

“Were you watching with the same movie?” Sam asks, “I mean, yeah, Hannah is kick ass, but the… the intended hero of the movie is Prince Luke,”

“No,” Dean says, “No,”

“Look, I didn’t make the rules. He saved the day, got the girl.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Dean says, “Leia… is, damnit, no because Han –”

“ – look, Dean, I feel like you were this close to having an epiphany before you got side tracked by Star Wars. Maybe we reign this back a minute,”

“It’s not just me that’s different. How can the world be the same and us be all… I don’t know, Sam, I’m confused. None of this makes any sense and where the hell are they?” .

“Dean, the logic of this whole expecting them to be here is basically seconded guessing our own minds. It’s not fool proof. We just guessed that the other us would pick three days.”

“Assuming they’re coming,” Cas says.

“Oh they’re coming all right. They’re coming so damn hard.”

“Dean,”

“ – you shut up,” Dean says, turning around to wave a finger in Sam’s direction, “That is not what I meant,”

“Wow,” Charlie says, “Pure gold.”

“All right,” Dean snaps, turning around, “Hilarious.”

“Dean,”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean begins, turning around to fix his gaze on Cas instead. “I’m just –“

“They’re here,” Cas says, rising out of her chair.

Then Dean’s in motion towards the door. It’s not a conscious thought process as much as his head's pounding with Cas, Cas, Cas , and then he’s on his feet and halfway across the war room before he’s really registered what Cas, the female Cas, has actually said.

The real Castiel wears a trench coat, has the kind of blue gaze that pierces through him, and staggers through the doorway of the war room before his knees give way.

Cas’ name falls out of his lips on an exhale, then he’s crossed the room and has a handful of Cas’ bicep. Right behind him, half holding him up, is a plaid clad chick that Dean recognises from the picture on Cas’ phone, but that’s not important, because Cas is stumbling and he’s an angel, damnit, and he’s supposed to be solid and unmovable.

“Here,” Dea says, then he’s got the full weight of Castiel, which is surprisingly light for a guy who could vaporise him if he wanted to. Cas sags in his arms.

“Woah, buddy,” Dean says.

“Dean,” Cas breathes, all gravel-voice and breathy, and apparently that takes enough out of him that he sags again.

“Woah, Cas,” Dean says, as Cas reaches up to grab hold of Dean's shirt, fingers clenching tight, which gives him enough leverage to steer him into a chair.

"Hello Dean," Cas manages, as Dean follows the motion, half kneeling in front of the guy.

"Hey, hey, big guy. You doing okay?"

"The Mark," Cas says, still half breathless, his other hand reaching out for Dean's arm, his thumb settling over the mark. He'd already had his shirt rolled up, and Cas' fingers on his actual skin is... well, Dean's too absorbed in the tilt of Cas' frown, the exact grate of his voice, the way he asks about Dean first.

"I'm okay, Cas, I'm okay," Dean exhales, letting Cas' grip on his collar and his arm pull him forward. "I'm... can't even begin to apologise, I -"

"-don't," Cas says, expression dazed but oh so serious. Dean's lungs constrict, because of course Cas doesn't want his apologies. He's done. "You're... you're you,"

"Yeah, man, I'm me," Dean says, as Cas' gaze loses focus. Dean reaches out for his cheek, cupping his face, and levelling Cas' gaze with his. "I'm...”

“I missed you,"

Dean's trying really damn hard not to think about the rough skin of Cas' unshaven cheek under this thumb, because that's not going to help anyone.

"Yeah, I missed me too," Dean says, his spare hand drifting to the solid mass of Cas' knee, because he needs to keep Cas awake and in the now. It's an apology, too, for turning it into a quip and being too chicken shit to say it back. I missed you. I missed you.

"Jumping realities is... painful,"

"I got you," Dean says.

"Yes," Cas says, not letting go of his shirt.

In his peripheries, Dea and Cas are breaking apart from some kind of embrace, but that's not important. What's important is Cas, deliberately closing his eyes, loosening his grip on Dean's t-shirt and sitting up a little straighter, already recovering slightly.

"Don't do that again," Dean says, withdrawing.

"I believe that's an important part of the plan," Cas rasps out, shoulders squaring.

Dean removes his hand from his knee and stands up, clearing his throat. He needs to make some physical space between them again, so that his sanity can flood back in. There’s people here, and one of those people happens to be the female version of himself. If anyone is going to be able to see right through him, it’s probably going to be Dea, and he at least needs a good start.

“Yeah, well, we gotta work out a way of transporting you that doesn’t drain your batteries. Hey, you got some kind of flight mode?” Dean asks, trying his best not to grin but, come on.

“That was awful,” Sam says.

“No, Sammy, that was hilarious,” Dea says, stepping forward. She’s definitely wearing one of Dean’s plaid shirts, but those jeans must have been a new purchase. Skinny jeans and combat boots. Dea’s got breasts and an actual girl figure, too, but it’s not distracting like it was with Cas. Hell, he barely even noticed how girl-like Sam is; it just didn’t occur to him. She was just Sam. It’s weirder with Dea, because he’s not that used to seeing himself from an outsider perspective. Her jaw’s different. She has just above shoulder length hair. She carries herself with this bow-legged swagger that always throws him off every single time he’s ever met a version of himself. The fact that it’s happened enough times for him to recognise it is a mark of how fucking loony tunes their lives are.

“Thanks,” Dean says, “Hey, Dea,”

“Dean Winchester,” Dea says, fixing her clear gaze on her.

“In the flesh,” Dean says, raising an eyebrow. Dea matches the expression like for like. There’s a symmetry about it, with female Cas just behind her right shoulder, male Cas still slumped in the chair just behind him. Seeing both Castiel’s in the same room hurts his head less than it should, except that their similarities are even more obvious. Their whole damn relationship is even more obvious. Maybe it’s just because Dean knows them so well, but he can see it in the way their stood too close, the way Dea blatantly just dropped a hand from her waist to step forward and meet his gaze. Dea’s eye flick to Cas and back again, which probably mean’s their thoughts are probably mirroring each other too. They’re on a level.

Then Dea punches him in the face.

*

“Oh come on,” Dea says, pacing the kitchen, “You’re icing it? Worried about messing up your pretty face?”

“Screw you, asshole,” Dean says, as Cas – female Cas – carries on fussing about his fucking eye, with a pack of ice and a deliberate expression, like getting punched in the face is something that requires ice. “Quit fussing, Cas, it’s fine. She probably didn’t even break a nail.”

“And you’re helping this chucklehead, Cas?” Dea asks.

“Will you quit talking?”

“Hold still,”

“Cas, I swear to god – ”

“I’m trying to help,”

“Yeah and why is that, Cas?” Dea demands, still pacing up and down the kitchen, “What? I’m gone for three days and suddenly you’ve replaced me with this guy?”

“He is you,”

“Ex-fucking-actly,” Dea mutters, slamming her beer down on the kitchen counter, “He’s me, apparently, only he tried to kill you,”

“I wasn’t –“

“ – Whilst I appreciate the sentiment, I do not need you to defend my honour,” Cas – the male Cas – says, from where he’s sat opposite him. Dean’s head hurts. He doesn’t know who the hell he’s supposed to be looking at, except it feels a hell of a lot like they’re having a four way domestic and it’s exhausting. “I thought you agreed to help, Dea.”

“I said I wouldn’t kill the guy. I didn’t say I was going to throw him a frigging thanks for crashing my life party.”

“Okay, I think we all need to calm down,” Dean says.

“Oh I am way calm,” Dea says, “I just need you out my kitchen,”

“I need you out my goddamn business,” Dean snaps back, finally managing to push Cas’ – female Cas’ – ice-filled hand away from his eye. “And you need to get that ice away from face,”

“She’s trying to help,” Cas voices from opposite him.

“Cas, stay out of it,” Dean snaps, glaring at the guy.

“Dean’s right,” Sam says, “You all need to take a minute. Calm down.”

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean and Dea say at exactly the same time, which is so deeply infuriating that Dean feels the tension racking up to the level that him throwing a punch at the messed up chick that’s supposed to be her counterpart seems incredibly likely. She hit him first, after all. “Shut up,” Dean spits in Dea’s direction and of fucking course that he comes face to face with Dea parroting back exactly the same. “No, you shut….all right, I’m done.”

“Wow, you guys have like a hive mind,” Sam comments, sipping on her own beer.

“Dea Winchester is big baby,” Dean says, with Dea mimicking right back at him, “Dea Winchester cries through sex. Okay stop.”

“Dude, at least I get laid,” Dea says, picking up her beer and taking a swig. “Thanks for that, Cas.”

It feels a little bit like a blow to the gut, but six times more irritating. It’s the same kind of emotional blows that Sam has always had the power to deal out, but it’s worse coming from herself because this Dea has lived most of life and she must know how much that makes his stomach clench. Or not, because here they’re together.

“Dea,” Female Cas says, voice sharp, “Not now,”

“Why are you on his side?”

“There isn’t an issue of sides,” Female Cas says, standing up, “Regardless of how you feel about this other world, it exists. It is real and therefore it is important.”

“Okay,” Dea says, “Whatever you say,”

“Dea,”

“No,” Dea says, “I mean it, okay? You’re right I’m… this is hard, okay? And you’re all gung-ho about buddying up with Dean and I…”

Cas scrapes her chair back before Dea’s managed to finish her sentence, then she’s crossing the kitchen to pause by Dea, and Dean really fucking wishes he had the capacity to look away. Female Cas with Dea is more captivating than just Cas alone, though, because every single damn movement is profound. The way Dea winces at the noise. The way her jaw clenches as Cas steps closer. Cas’ hesitation before she makes the final step into her space. Dea’s hand on Cas’ plaid-covered arms (one of Dea’s shirts, Dean’s pretty sure), the small smile, the sigh, then they’re done. That’s it. Conflict deflated.

Dean swallows and tries to pretend he can’t feel Cas’ hot gaze on his skin.

He missed whatever moment it is they shared earlier and he’s pretty glad about it. Their kitchen-arm-touch almost classed as innocent. It’s not totally far off the way Dean and Cas are now, frankly, which makes his head spin far more than the punch to the eye. Dean’s not sure he can take watching a proper, honest to god moment without having a fucking heart attack.

“I need some air,” Dean says, releasing the grip on his beer (he drained it before female-Cas started fussing with the ice), then he’s up and heading outside. He needs space. He needs to not be looking Dea Winchester in the face, because she’s…. because they’re not the same. They’re not. She’s different.

She’s a much better person that Dean’s ever going to be.

It’s hotter than he’d like it to be outside, but the kind of forgets that their underground bat cave tends to stay on the chilly side all year round. It’s summer in Lebanon, Kansas and the evening heat is still hanging in the air.

“Dean,”

“Hey Cas,” Dean exhales, not turning to look at him. He should’ve bought another beer, or a bottle of frigging whiskey, but he didn’t and now he’s stuck facing this conversation with nothing but three beers sloshing round in his stomach.

Male Castiel. One of about fourteen people he’s not sure he can face right now, but the only one he out of everyone he actually wants to face.

“How are you. Dean?”

“Well, my face is fucking killing me,”

“I wondered whether you were putting on a brave face,”

“Damn, that bitch can hit,”

“I think gendered slurs might be unhelpful in this instance,”

"You gonna get on my case too? Whatever. Beginning to feel a little sympathy with all the monster ass I've kicked. Damn,” Dean says, fists bunched up in his pockets, “She’s not… she’s not me. I mean, yeah, she is, but we’re… a lot of stuff’s different. From childhood, different.”

“I know,”

“Really,” Dean says, jaw clenched, every single damn muscle clenched up, “You’re not going to give me this ‘gender is a social construct’ crap that the other guy gave me,”

“I have the advantage of being able to sense your soul,”

“My soul’s different?”

“Notably so,” Cas says, voice still weaker than it should be, rough, like the words are being dragged over gravel on their way out of Castiel’s throat.

“The Mark,” Dean says, suddenly feeling a different kind of sick.

“Is inactive,”

“Some-fucking-how,”

“Sam and I had a theory about that,” Cas says, “But, yes, the Mark has… had its effects,”

“On my soul,” Dean says, swallowing. He doesn’t know what else he would have expected, because he’s felt rotten down to his core since the second he accepted the Mark, even worse since he first touched the first blade. Maybe it’s because he’s travelled down that road so many damn times, but it didn’t take him waking up with black eyes for him to know he was bound for the pit again. He’s been able to taste the fact that he’s hell spawn at the back of his throat for a damn long time, it’s just… getting that kind of confirmation from Cas hurts. Cas is supposed to rage against anything that spells out Dean’s damnation. That’s just how it’s supposed to work. “Awesome,”

“The differences run deeper than the mark,”

“Deeper than my hell tattoo?”

“Dea described it as a dark mark,”

“Oh yeah, she’s real hilarious,” Dean comments, “What else? Uh, what else is different? With our souls.”

“Your soul is very familiar to me,” Cas says, “I doubt I would notice it on another. The fabric of your soul remains the same, but there are… discrepancies. It’s been shaped differently. There are lots of things that shape a soul.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, closing his eyes for a second, “Cas, I’m… I don’t remember a whole lot of right before. I remember the kid, but I can’t think about it without my head spinning. I woke up in the middle of bumfuck nowhere with the other Cas, and I had your blood under my fingernails. I… I had an angel blade ready to go. I know I was gonna kill you. I remember that.”

“You stopped yourself,”

“Just,” Dean says, and he can taste his own stale fear, the adrenaline, the mark pumping fury through his veins. And his head was pulsating with Cas, Cas, Cas still, but it wasn’t enough. He was still punching and punching and the angel blade was in his right hand, he was raising it, aiming, Cas bloody on the floor –

“Why don’t you remember?”

“What?” Dean asks, blinking himself out of his head.

“Because of the Mark?”

“No, I mean… it’s… I’m not saying I had full control of the wheel, Cas, but I wasn’t possessed. That was me. I knew what was happening. I was lucid I just… woke up a little out of it,”

“With missing memories?” Cas asks, voice sharp, “how many?”

“Hold fire, Cas, is this important?”

“Although initially confused, Dea was aware she was supposed to be in Liberal, Kansas, with Castiel. The confusion was down to her exact whereabouts. She had a headache.”

“Either she’s got a pretty high pain threshold or she was downplaying the headache. I, uh, remembered about Charlie half way up the highway. Pain pretty much made me black out. I threw up. Can’t think of anything that happened in the past couple of months without my head pounding. I mean… I knew it was…. That it was your blood, but the rest is… what? What, Cas?”

“Someone’s purposefully manipulated your memories,” Cas says, already turning back to the door, his steps slightly off because they guy’s still recovering from his cross-reality jet lag and because Dean’s been super aware of the way he moves for such a long time that the difference seems obvious. “You must have seen whoever did this.”

“Great,” Dean mutters, resisting the urge to draw back his fist and punch the wall only because it might led to fussing from either of the Castiel (that is, if his Cas didn’t get so distracted by the case at hand that he skipped the fussing all together). Dean’s not sure whether the abrupt change of conversation is supposed to deflect his apology, or if it’s just Cas being Cas.

Either way, it looks like there’s some kind of supernatural being messing with his head again, and Dean’s always hated the psychological crap.

Chapter Text

Dea’s well aware of the standing too close, intense shared moments that are six kinds of awkward for everyone else, not least because Sam won’t let her forget about it. Even when they were still skirting round each other, she was aware. She was aware because she was on the other end of those blue gazes and because she was the one trying to resist the magnetic pull of being close to Cas, this alien, cosmic being. So, yeah, it’s not a surprise that Dean and Cas were the ones making a scene in the war room. It’s not a surprise, but it’s still fucking weird. It’s like watching a video recording of them before they got their crap sorted, only with bulkier muscles and not as many curves.

She gets it, she really does… but then at the same time, she just doesn’t fucking get it. Dea knew she was into Cas a helluva long time before they started up. First, she shoved it down, repressed it as much as possible, because Cas was this celestial wave of intent with a bad attitude, mere specks of humanity and the ability to throw her back into the pit. She’s not sure she believed she ever would for a minute, but it was complicated. Cas’ loyalty was complicated, until one second it was completely tied to Dea Winchester. And, yeah, at that point it occurred to her. It crossed her mind about six thousand time, Dea just didn’t let herself dwell on it, because that was even fucking scarier. It being an actual possibility rather than just Dea’s dumb head was equal parts exhilarating and paralysing. Cas was so distant. She fucking died for them and then didn’t stay. She lied and betrayed her and it hurt, and it kept hurting and it was the kind of bone deep, aching hurt that Dea could never quite pass off as platonic. None of that mattered, in the end, because the second she found Cas in purgatory, she just didn’t care. It just wasn’t worth it. She just neededCas so damn bad, till all the rest of the bullshit just didn’t have value anymore. It wasn’t worth anything compared to Cas. So, yeah, she gets the fear and the insecurity and the repression, she just doesn’t get how that won for the other guy.

“Yeah yeah,” Dea says, pacing the kitchen, “The other reality is important too, blah blah. I got the speech from the other guy. I get it. Don’t bait the closeted dude with the attitude problem,”

“Considering you’re the only one in the room throwing punches, I’d suggest you’re the one with the attitude problem.”

“Yeah, thanks for that Cas,” Dea says, “And you’d have punched him too if you’d seen you all covered in blood and wallowing in his own injury,”

“So this mark thing…?”

“It’s bad, Sammy,” Dea says, frowning and pulling up a seat next to Cas, “Sam, the other one, is freaking out. Reckon he was half glad about the switch. Came up with some theory about the mark being tethered to something, which I’m guessing panned out. They were both pretty on edge trying to fix him. Couple of minutes away from doing something we’d all regret.”

“And the first difference is you two not shaking up in purgatory?” Sam asks, eyebrows raising slightly, “Huh,”

“Out with it, Sammy,” Dea says, “Whatever smart ass thing you gotta say, say it.”

“I guess I owe you an apology,” Sam says, lips pulling up into a smirk, “I always thought you were being melodramatic, but apparently the unresolved sexual tension could have been world-ending.”

“Feel better now that’s off your chest?” Dea asks, narrowing her eyes.

“Sam makes an interesting point,” Cas says, voice level, “I was unaware our relationship was so… significant,”

“Thanks,” Dea says, voice flat.

“To fate, Dea. I’m fully aware of its significance to me,”

“Alright, Cas, save the feeling our feelings till this is done,”

“Your comment implied you wished for reassurance,” Cas says, narrowing her eyes at her. It sparks off a twinge of irritation because, damnit, sometimes Cas says shit without thinking about how it sounds, but Dea knows that and she sure as hell doesn’t need attention being drawn to her crappy insecurity in front of her sister. She should have known that it would get that reaction from Cas, but still. “That combined with the, frankly, ridiculous irritability surrounding Dean is –“

“ – not the topic of this frigging conversation,” Dea snaps.

“Why are you acting like this?”

“Drop it,”

“No,”

“Damnit, Cas, later,”

“That’s Dea Winchester code for ‘never’,” Cas says, voice sharp, “I’m not at fault, here.”

“Aren’t you?” Dea snaps.

“Did you guys, uh, not sort out you argument before the reality switch?”

“Butt out, Sam,” Dea snaps, standing up, “You’re not helping,”

“What is your problem Dea?” Cas asks, standing up and getting in her personal space, blue eyes flashing dangerously. “Yes, I’ve been courteous to Dean. He is fundamentally you, which means I care as a matter of fact. Yes, I have discussed my relationship with you with him because he asked and because, I suspect, he needs to hear it. And, no, I do not approve of you punching him in the face for something he had very little control over,”

“He nearly killed you,”

“It wasn’t me,” Cas snaps, “You’re confusing realities, Dea,”

“You’re the one buddying up with the guy because he’s ‘fundamentally me’ so quit it,” Dea snaps back, “And the other Cas didn’t fucking ask for him to get a goddamn demon tattoo on his arm,”

“Dea, their relationship is none of our business,” Cas says, slowly, in that holier-than-thou way that Dea just fucking hates, because it’s so goddamn annoying. She hates how superior Cas gets in arguments, like she’s so damn righteous all the time.

“I’m not the only one involved, jackass,”

“I am not emotionally involved,”

Like hell, she isn’t.

“Yeah, well, you know what, Cas? You’re not the one who’s trying to deal with the fact that the me in another reality broke everything because he’s too damn wrapped up in this dumb idea of masculinity I’ve been rallying against my whole damn life. You think it’s easy for me to know that I’m fundamentally the kind of person who’d get even more of my friends killed? Who’d damn near kill you rather than face up to my fucking feelings? You think it’s reassuring to know what I’d have done to both of you?”

“Then imagine being the one on the other side,” Cas says, voice tilting over into gentle. It’s not like Dea doesn’t get where she’s coming from, it’s just…. Damnit, why can’t Cas quit looking at the big picture and focus in on how Dea is feeling? Just, for once.

Why doesn’t that ever get to be a priority? Yeah, there’s apocalypses and people dying and Cas is an ex-angel who’s only about half way clued up about humans and their feelings, even if she is one. It’s just Cas pulling this kind of crap sends Dea back into a spiral of thinking about the other sixteen times Cas has made some dumb decision on ‘logic’, like Cas doesn’t largely operate on her unwavering desire to do good and loyalty. She’s got too much fucking heart but still maintains this stupid pragmatic stoicism and it’s… goddamnit, it’s annoying. It’s so frustrating because Dea hates that she needs reassurance. Dea hates that she can’t just know that Cas gives a damn. She needs Cas to try. She needs Cas to work with her on this, but Cas doesn’t even know how that looks like.

“Sam, give us five,” Dea says, not looking away from Cas. Sam mutters something derogative about the whole point of them going away was to deal with their crap, makes a show of rolling her eyes and making a lot of noise, but Dea reckons it’s five times less awkward for everyone involved (not that Cas cares) if they finish their domestic alone.

“Is this ‘later?’” Cas asks, icily.

“Let me lay this down for you, Sweetheart, I am pissed because I am upset and you’re too busy being righteous and lecturing me on etiquette to notice,”

“You’re not the only one whose upset,”

“Then frigging talk to me, dude.”

“If you’re allowed to hold your feelings ransom in front of Sam, then so am I.”

“Why are you so –?”

“– I’m sorry how I am offends you,” Cas says, folding her arms. Dea makes a noise of frustration at the back of throat then steps forward, unfolding Cas’ arms to rest her hands on her waist. Cas’ frown remains intact, but she lets her anyway. “You’re being rash and illogical,”

“I am rash and illogical,” Dea says, “Goddamnit, I don’t even know why we’re fighting,”

“Because you’re emotional and trying to compensate by being an asshole,” Cas says, voice still sharp, “Whilst simultaneously trying to blame me.”

“Okay, yeah, sounds pretty accurate,” Dea says, “But you gotta give me something,”

“What do you want from me?”

“How do you feel, Cas? How is all of this making you feel?”

“I feel like I missed you, Dea. I missed you. Humanity is difficult to navigate and this has been exceedingly confusing, even before you started projecting on me.”

“You started it by being all cranky,”

“I did not,”

“Second thing you did was get at me, Cas,”

“I haven’t been sleeping well,” Cas says, voice thin.

“Right,” Dea says, swallowing, because… yeah, this had to be the longest stretch they’ve done properly apart since humanity hit Cas hard. “I didn’t… this sucks, Cas. I hate alternative reality bullshit and I just… you know me, man, you know us. I need you to talk to me. I need us to be on the same page. This is… this is freaking me out. This has shaken me up, man, and I just…”

Cas leans forward to cup her jaw, doing that impossible thing she does where she holds Dea like she’s precious, blue gaze unyielding. Cas runs a thumb over her cheek bone, swaying closer. It’s Cas, so the movement is absolutely deliberate. Dea shuts her eyes.

“You are my priority,”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, Dea, of course,”

“Okay,” Dea exhales, pulling Cas a little closer and wrapping her arm’s round Cas’ back, “Okay,”

“Are we good?” Cas asks, voice low, but a hell of a lot higher than her male counterpart. Dea answers by leaning forward to kiss her because that has always been the easier side of their relationship. It’s nowhere near simple, but it’s a few states closer to simple than any other aspect of their relationship. Cas’ back is solid and warm underneath her palms and, fuck, has Dea missed this. It’s been a couple of days, but… goddamnit, it’s good. It’s so fucking good to have Cas curl her other hand through Dea’s hair and kiss her in the kitchen like everything’s fine. And, hey, maybe it actually is. It felt like it had been before all of this came up. They argued sometimes, sure, but Dea knows damn sure that this is the closest thing to a happy ending that the world’s gonna offer them and it’s more than she ever hoped for.

Their little moment is effectively over the second the other Cas throws open the kitchen door, Dean on his heels. Sam renters just behind them sounding a little like she’d tried to stop them baring in, but Dea’s too focused on the other Cas’ expression, then Dean. She gets a flash of some raw emotion from Cas, but mostly Dea gets to witness the moment Cas’ rearranges his expression into neutral and it kind of hurts. Dean’s jaw clenches.

“What?” Dea asks, dropping one hand from Cas’ waist, but leaves the other settled there. It’s her version of the bunker and she is not regulating her behaviour to make things easy for their not-quite-mirror-images. Not when she feels insecure and pretty shitty and Cas’ closeness helps, anyway. It took her a long time for her to allow herself to have so, damnit, she’s going to have it.

“Cas thinks some monster mind-whammied me,” Dean says, “As well as dropping me in girl world,”

“Because of the memories,”

“Memories?” Dea asks, glancing at Cas, “What memories?”

“Where were you before you woke up in the impala?” Male Cas asks, staring straight at her, those familiar blue eyes piercing into her.

“You mean that time I woke up in the impala naked?” Dea asks, “Liberal, Kansas.”

“What were you doing before?”

“Well that’s kinda personal,” Dea says, which has female Cas roll her eyes, “Netflix and chill, mostly.”

“No headaches?”

“Huh?”

“Okay, so no vomiting, no headaches, no missing memories. Yeah, someone definitely got the jump on my head,”

“So we have somewhere to start,” Sam says, “Cas, uh, either of you, what has the power to do that?”

“Human minds are relatively susceptible to interference,” Cas says, “Many creatures can tap into that,”

“Great,” Dean says, “My skull’s an open house. Come on in, all, let’s have a frigging party,”

“Cas,” Sam says, “A shortlist?”

“Angels, demons, reapers, witches, anyone in possession of the correct spell,”

“Fuck,”

“But if we cross reference that with creatures who can reality swap?”

“Few demons would have that power,” Cas, male Cas, says, frowning, “Perhaps a powerful demon with a history of witchcraft. The rest… again, power is needed, but with the right spell...”

“Great,” Dean says, “Great. Anyone pissed of an angel, a reaper, demon, a witch, or any shitty thing with access to the right spell and power lately? Oh wait, that’s pretty much our job,”

“I’m an angel,”

“Yeah, Cas, and I’ve got a slight alcohol problem and a crap load of guns,” Dean says, “We just spouting truths now?”

“It would be… difficult,” Female Cas says, narrowing her eyes at male Cas, “I was concerned pushing at the memories might cause irreparable damage, but with your grace…”

“Woah there, sparky,” Dean says, “You’re taking a trip down my memory lane, now?”

“It’s an option,”

“It’s an option? Cas, you’re talking about gate crashing my head,”

“What? You got a lot of repressed memories you don’t want coming to life, Dean?”

“Dea,” Dea’s Cas says, voice dangerous.

“Hey, screw you,”

“If you’re uncomfortable we can look into other options,” Cas, the male one, says, gaze shifting over to Dean instead. Dean swallows. Cas’ eyes track the movement. Dea kinda gets what Sam’s been bitching about for all these years, because it is infuriating. It feels like an itch underneath her skin. She wants to scream at both of them. She’d quite like to punch Dean in the face again.

“Uncomfortable? How would you feel about me digging round in your skull?”

“Do you trust me?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“What kind of deflection is that?” Dea says, because apparently she can’t help herself. It’s like a compulsion. It’s just this Dean winds her up. She’s dealt with assholes like Dean her whole damn life. She’s dealt with the macho bullshit of the hunting community underestimating the lot of them because they weren’t born with a penis. She’s dealt with the fact that the Winchester name only commanded so much respect, despite every damn thing Joan Winchester did, because they were a bunch of chicks. It’s just… it’s just that Dean must have had it a lot easier a hell of a lot of the time. Not being hit on in the seedy bars they spend most of their time in. Not being patronised and demeaned for doing their jobs. Walking into a room and commanding respect without having to earn it first. Yeah, there’s still going to hell and the apocalypse and all of that shit, but damnit would all of those day to days have been easier without the female-fed jokes and fucking demons making quips about PMS.

“Yes, I trust you,” Dean says, without sparing a glance in Dea’s direction. “You gonna be able to work out who did this?”

“Hopefully,” Cas says.

“Then yeah, let’s do this,” Dean says, “But you gotta recharge first, Cas,”

“I’m fine,”

“Dude, you pretty much collapsed your way in here,” Dea says, “Any mind manipulation can wait till you’re not running on empty,”

“For once, I’m agreeing with the brunette chick,” Dean says, “Cas said it’ll take you three days to be back up to teleporting speed,”

“Traveling between realities is entirely different to wading into your mind,”

“Maybe, chuckles, but you’re still not getting anywhere near my headspace till tomorrow. And I’d feel a hell of a lot better if you ate and slept, too,” Dean says, far too comfortable in Dea’s kitchen for her liking. He’s all bravado and confidence that Dea can see straight through and it’s maddening.

“Speaking of,” Sam says, “It’s late. We could probably all use some sleep,”

“Tell me about it,” Dea says, “I’m turning in. This is just about all the crazy I can take for one day. Cas, you coming?”

“Dean’s in your room,” Sam says, heading to cupboard and pulling out a mug, probably for some suspicious herbal something, because Sam has a weird thing about not drinking coffee after 11pm when they’re not on a hunt. They kind of are on a hunt, but they’re at that point where Dea has no idea where she should be pointing the gun, which is always the crappy part of the hunt as far as Dea’s concerned.

“What?” Dea snaps, “What? This jackass is sleeping in my bed? My bed? Did you even change the sheets?”

“Hey, I asked,”

“My memory foam,” Dea hisses, “It’s going to remember him,”

“Yeah, it kinda messed with my back,”

“I can’t believe this bullshit,” Dea says, “My bed,”

“Wow, I didn’t think it was that big of a deal,” Sam says, “Anyone told you you have attachment issues?”

“Eat it, Sammy,” Dea snaps, “Where you set up, Cas?”

“I’ll show you,” Cas says, Dea’s Cas, pausing to grab a glass of water, “Come, Dea,”

“Oh, you know I always come when you call, babe,” Dea says, following her out. Cas turns around to catch her eye in the doorway, which means they’re definitely okay.

“That’s a sexualised bastardisation of something I said at a very bad time in our relationship,” Cas says, “I’m unsure how I feel about that,”

“Not unsure ‘bout how I feel about you, though,”

“Good,” Cas says, turning to kiss her in the corridor, “It’s good to have you back, Dea,”

“Can’t believe that asshole turfed you out of your room,” Dea says, when she’s been lead into one of the spares, that now has a distinct Cas-ness about it. It’s half and half crap left everywhere and absolute order. The juxtaposition is interesting, but Cas has always been like that. “The entitlement,”

“It’s interesting how this strikes you significantly after your memory foam worries,” Cas says, the corners of her lips softened into the Castiel approximation of a smile. Dea more or less throws herself on top of the bed, face down in the pillows, “Dea, boots,”

“Such a fucking princess,” Dea says, rolling her eyes. They’re Dean’s, so they’re huge on her anyway, but she wasn’t about to buy a new pair for a couple of days. She manages to mostly wriggle one foot out without moving, then moves onto the other.

“Sam has assure me it’s perfectly normal not to want dirty shoes on the bed,”

“Sam’s a precious princess too,” Dea says, “And obviously I care you got booted out your room. No wonder you couldn’t sleep. This mattress sucks.”

“He passed out in the car. I felt giving him a familiar room was necessary,” Cas says, stripping off her t-shirt. Dea gets the briefest flash of bra, then she’s pulling on one of her pyjama tops because Cas, after lifetimes of being unconcerned with human sensation, is now a comfort-whore. She insists on buying actual sleeping wear, rather than making do with t-shirts too faded or too holey to wear in the day time. Even after a hunt, when Dea’s too exhausted to change of her blood and must incrusted jeans, Cas will insist onto something clean and cotton. “Where did you sleep?”

“Dean’s room,” Dea admits, kicking off her socks and readjusting my pillows, stopping when she finds one of her screwed up t-shirts and the sweats Cas sleeps folded under the covers. “Dude, were you sleeping in one of my t-shirts?”

“Yes,”

“Couldn’t you have done that in the beginning and saved me a night of hustling pool to get your goddamn nightgowns?” Dea says, throwing both of them in Cas’ direction, propping her head up on her elbows to continue watching Cas.

Cas catches them both with a brief smile.

“I wonder if Dean would find it more difficult to hustle pool,” Cas says, “Being male,”

“Probably,” Dea concedes, as Cas strips off her jeans, “Guess me and Sammy just have to bat our eyelashes and we’re home and dry. Although Dean is plenty pretty, though that might be a hindrance,”

“Hmm,”

“You know Cas, the other one, slept with a Reaper. A female Reaper,”

“Do you have a point, Dea?” Cas asks, throwing back the t-shirt she’d been sleeping in, “If you wish to change without running into Dean, this is currently your only option.”

“Awesome,” Dea says sourly, sitting up to peel off her own t-shirt, “Just… if the other Cas is into chicks and in love with that dickbag, he goes both ways. We’re all reversey-gender and sexuality. So, logic follows, you’re into dick,”

“Sam said male Castiel was your type,”

“Yeah, I guess,”

“Why would Dean being plenty pretty be a hindrance?”

“People assume stuff,” Dea says, pulling on her shirt, “Specially in biker joints in the middle of bumfuck, nowhere,”

“What stuff?”

“Why are you pulling a muscle trying to understand the guy?”

“Because you are going out of your way not to,” Cas says, as Dea shucks her jeans down her hips, “This way we have both angles covered.”

“He your type?” Dea asks, as Cas climbs into bed next to her, still wearing socks, because Cas does crap like that. “When you’re into hes, that is?”

“Is that a problem?”

“No,” Dea says, “We’re all reversey, so it figures it just… I don’t like it,”

Cas rearranges Dea’s arms around her waist. It’s still on the early side considering the hours they usually keep and Dea’s had impatient adrenaline pumping through her veins all day and, damnit, she only just got her reunion. Maybe it was a couple of days and they have done longer, albeit actually planned and they kept in contact in the midst, but still… Dea’s hand winds up tracing the skin under Cas' shirt, Dea counting her rib bones under her fingertips.

“I missed you too,” Dea says, the words sticking a little in the back of her throat, but she’s suddenly realised how irritated she’d been when Dean hadn’t said it, only to remember that she hadn’t either. She’d skated over it before and when they were in front of the others and suddenly she needs to be able to say the dumb crap like that out loud, the way Cas – both of them, it seems – can do it so damn easily. “And so did the other guy,”

“I know,” Cas says, “Goodnight, Dea,”

Chapter Text

The whiskey burning at the back of his throat is doing a shitty job of keeping his head clear, but Dean’s pretty sure that was expected; it’s gotten to the point where his taste-memory brings up decades worth of shit every time he hits the bottle. He still does drink, though. Last few days, he’s damn nearly cleared the Miss Winchesters out of alcohol.

The knock on his bedroom door is predictable. He reckons part of the reason he poured himself a fifth of jack rather than attempting to sleep is because he knew that Cas was going to rock up at his room soon, the way he did in the wake of Dean losing the black eyes and the way he didn’t after Dean entrusted him with the First Blade.

“Hey,” Dean says, not looking up from his glass.

“Hello Dean,” Cas says, taking a step into Dea’s room and hovering there. Dean’s pretty sure he’d feel less awkward if he looked around, picked up some of Dea’s belongings, riffled through her porn. Instead he just stands there.

“Pull up a seat if you’re staying,”

Cas sits on the other side of Dean’s bed like he learnt how to do it from reading a book. Dean can feel all of his muscles beginning to tense up, the way he always gets when they’re alone and Cas is there. First, it’s the bone deep relief, then it’s the suffocating tension, like he’s been pulled in sixteen different direction and he doesn’t know what the hell he’s supposed to do, or feel, or dumb shit like where to put his hands.

“You okay?”

“Are you, Dean?” Cas asks, fixing his eyes on him.

“No,” Dean says, refocusing on his glass, jaw clenched, “This is pretty intense bullshit, even for us. And I’m…. we fucked up pretty bad, Cas. I mean we really screwed the pooch. We’re talking a few extra apocalypses, here. Can’t even think past the body count in his room.”

“It was a joint effort,”

“That doesn’t help, man,” Dean says, “It’s me they’re trying to fuck with. It’s me who’s been taught some shitty lesson here and, hey, at least it’s stopped me wanting to kill everything, so that’s a bonus,”

“I thought we’d lost you,” Cas says. It’s not an admission that Dean’s expecting and it feels a little like Cas has peeled the top layer of his skin off, leaving him raw and vulnerable underneath.

“You did,”

“Dean,”

“Cas, I can’t sugar coat this. You did. And this, however it is that the Mark hasn’t got it’s clutches in me, this is just borrowed time. Your tethering theory has me straight back to hulking out in three days’ time. So, yeah, you’ve lost me.”

“No,” Cas says, with far more emotion packed in than Dean wants to deal with. He settles for pouring Cas a glass of whiskey, passing it too him then holding his own out for Cas’ to clink with. Cas obliges, still stony faced and serious, then he kicks of his shoes and mirrors the way Dean’s sat with his back against the head board. They’re unnervingly close and there’s something achingly human about Cas’ sock-clad feet. He feels like it shouldn’t affect him so much, when he’s spent three days solidly with human Castiel, but it’s different. It is. This is the real Cas.

Cas reaches out for his arm, a thumb resting above where the mark is. Dean’s been wearing the long sleeved shirts Sam bought for him (probably in that understanding Sam way of hers), even though it’s the middle of the Kansas summer. Even in the bunker, he’s been a touch too hot, but he doesn’t want to think about the mark. Can’t stand to fucking look at it.

“Can I see it?”

“Yeah,” Dean exhales and then, fuck but he doesn’t even know why, pulls the t-shirt off over his head. It occurs to him when he has it clutched in his right hand that he could have just rolled up the sleeves, but then it’s too late. He can’t unclench his first from around the shirt and he can feel Cas’ eyes on him and it frigging scotches. “Welcome to the freak show,”

Cas’ thumb lands on the mark. Dean resist the urge to shudder.

“It looks less angry,”

“It is,” Dean says, “It’s just a mark here.”

“I could feel it, before,”

“Could feel you too, buddy,” Dean says, “It would have hated this. It used to… it hated you being close, I mean, I’d be itching with, just…”

“Why?”

“No idea,” Dean says, flat. It’s a lie. It’s a complete lie, because he knows and he’s sure Cas knows too, but he can’t when Cas is sat in the alternate reality version of his bedroom, on his bed, with Dean shirtless and a little blind sighted. And Cas knows. Cas has seen Dea Winchester around the other Castiel. Has probably heard Dea defiantly pronounce that she loves her. Cas isn’t the smartest with people, but even he’s gotta of worked it out. It was obvious before, but now his soul’s been laid bare to frigging everyone. “Must be some angel hell-tattoo friction,”

Cas’ gaze flits up to his face, then back to his arm, then to the pentagram tattoo over his heart.

“You still got yours?” Dean asks. Cas answers by shedding his trench coat and shucking up his shirt, revealing a few inches of skin. “Guess yours is the upgrade,”

“It’s what I burnt onto your ribs,”

“Such a romantic,” Dean says, then instantly regrets it, because it was supposed to be a goddamn joke and instead it just hangs in the air. “So, uh, what’s your theory really, Cas? About what’s going on?”

“I don’t have one,”

“Really? I was hoping you were holding out on me. Damnit.”

“Dean,”

“Don’t,” Dean says, voice rough, turning to look at him. Cas has his lips slightly parted in that way of his that looks exactly the same on the other Castiel, too. As he watches, a drop of blood leaks from Cas’ nose. “Has this been happening since you got here? Goddamnit, Cas,”

“Oh,” Cas says, wiping the drop away with his thumb and staring it. There’s a part of Dean that wishes he’d reached forward and wiped it away himself, because that’s the dumb kind of excuses Dean usually gives himself to be close to Cas – wiping fucking blood away – but… but damn. They’re close right now. They’re close.

“You need to get some damn sleep,”

“I don’t have a room,”

“All right, smart ass, I’ll set you up a damn room,”

“Dean,” Cas says, “Can I… stay?”

“Here?” Dean asks.

“I’m unsure whether I will be able to sleep, but I’d like to… rest,”

“Okay,” Dean says, topping up his glass and taking another sip, chest pounding like he’s got an alpha vamp on steroids on his ass and a whole pack closing in, “Okay.”

*

His wake up call is Dea Winchester throwing open the bedroom of his, her, whatever, bedroom door in a burst of noise and self-entitlement which is abrasive and irritating as fuck. Damnit, but Dea/Dean’s annoying and Dean does not need this shitty reality check about why Sam gets so pissy all the time when he’s got sixteen hundred other crappy things to think about. “We can’t find Cas,” Dea’s halfway through saying, before she stops short and then laughs humourlessly, “Right, figures,”

And, goddamnit but Cas is still sat on the other side of Dean’s bed. It could be worse. He’s sat up with his back against the headboard and it looks a hell of a lot like he was asleep before Dea burst in, whilst Dean’s under the covers and the hunter version of relaxed.

“Dea,” Cas says, voice sleep rough and confused and god-fucking-damnit, “Dean,”

“Been awake two minutes and I’m already way past my quota of crazy,” Dean snaps, throwing the covers off himself and standing up, “You ever thought about knocking?”

“It’s my room,”

“Yeah, well, it’s my temporary room, so,” Dean says, then, “Shut up,”

“Dean,”

“I’m getting some breakfast,” Dean says, so he doesn’t have to respond to Cas until he’s had enough coffee and enough conscious thoughts to get his shit together. It doesn’t help that Cas is due to dig round his skull today or the fact that, holy hell, Cas knows. Everyone fucking knows. That’s a lot more real this side of the morning when he’s spent the whole damn night with Cas right there.Dean’s in an alternate reality where he has breasts and periods and everyone knows.

“Put on a shirt, asshole,” Dea yells after him.

Sam’s in the kitchen when Dean walks in, rubbing the back of his neck with his left hand trying to stop thinking. Sam looks up from the news article she’s reading on her laptop. It looks a hell of a lot like she’s cruising for a hunt when, clearly, they have bigger problems here. Still, Dean can’t blame her for wanting to get the hell out of this loony tunes bullshit.

“Dude, would it have killed you to put on a shirt?”

“Coffee,” Dean grunts, grabbing a mug and the pot of coffee.

“You know,” Dea says, following them in, expression set, “It wasn’t easy. Dunno how Cas – my Cas – sold the story, but it’s not like it fell into our goddamn laps one morning, you know?”

“No,” Dean says through gritted teeth.

“It sucked,” Dean says, “We fucked in purgatory and Cas still let go of my damn hand on some bullshit suicide mission. I’m there torturing myself thinking that it’s my fault, after everything, and it turns out she didn’t want to be saved. Some crappy symmetry, right there. Didn’t tell Sam cause Cas was gone, then she’s back, but it was like… it was like it didn’t make a difference. Cause, yeah, we were sleeping together, but she was still never there. We didn’t talk about it. She left, again, so. It was this secret,”

“Right,” Sam scoffs, quietly.

“Sam,” Dea cuts across, snatching the coffee pot with a look, “Now, I know a lot of it was cause of Naomi, but it… seemed a helluva lot like Cas didn’t give a damn. That, still, after everything she didn’t trust me. Didn’t want to stick around. Made me miss the apocalypse when things were simple.”

“The crypt,” Dean says.

“Right,” Dea says, meeting Dean’s gaze head on, “That was a barrel of laughs,” Dea says, “Nothing like your secret almost girlfriend trying to kill you,”

“Yep, stellar reality you got going on here,”

“She was brain washed, you asshole,” Dea says, eyes flashing in a way that means it’s definitely a sore topic that Dea’s not over, which isn’t surprising. Frankly, she’s not exactly painting an appealing picture here. He’s not saying his version is better in the long run, but till this point in the story, his seems like the better deal. “You think you’d stand up well if you were forced to murder six hundred copies of your best friend? You think you’d come out of that okay?”

“What?” Dean says, mouth dry.

“Oh right,” Dea snaps, “I forgot you two don’t talk. Yeah, that was the deal. She – he too – had to kill the copies till she didn’t hesitate anymore. Till it stuck. Six hundred. Cas knows the exact figure. Six hundred goddamn times she killed me and she still snapped out of it when I said I loved her. And, yeah, she took off before Naomi could get back in her head, but I’m pretty sure you can’t blame her for that. Or the fact that she wanted heaven shut off to stop bastards like Naomi causing any more damage,”

Dean doesn’t really know what to say. He doesn’t know what there is to say, except that he has no idea how the hell he’s going to look Cas in the eye ever again.

“That was fucking shit,” Dea says, “Saying goodbye. We didn’t… there still wasn’t time to talk much. I was pretty pissed, anyway, but if that was gonna be it… well, whatever. We’ve shelved enough shit in our time that I pretty much pretended the last few months hadn’t happened. Tried not to let the frigging irony kill me when we picked up that cupid’s arrow. We got near to talking about it, but what was the goddamn point? If that was gonna be it? So, we didn’t. Then Naomi shows up and he’s spouting that it’s a trap and Sam’s gonna die and Cas wants to go charging off, but I asked to her stay, and she did. Healed Sam and then took off without so much of a wave. I was so damn angry. And then the angels start falling. Thought she was dead. Kept thinking I should’ve stopped her. Should’ve gone with her. Should’ve done something that wasn’t get Sam in the back of the car and start driving. No calls. No anything till I’m halfway home. Just sat in the front seat praying all these dumb things I never got to say. Got the call from Cas when I was halfway back to Kansas and I…”

“Told me the whole thing,” Sam says, “Dumped me at a motel and told me to find my own way back to the bunker. Started driving in the other direction.”

“Day’s drive,” Dea says, “Then we didn’t talk for three hundred miles. Not a single fucking word. I’m too chickenshit to ask if she’s heard my prayers. Then I just start spouting all this mundane crap about being human and Cas was just staring at me. Just couldn’t stop talking. The relief was just… and then things got a little less shitty. We worked it out.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Gee, I’ve got no idea,” Dea says, rolling her eyes, “Maybe I just like the sound of my own voice. Maybe I’m trying to help you grow some perspective,”

“Got no idea what you’re talking about,” Dean says, taking another sip of his coffee.

“Can you believe this clown?” Dea demands of Sam, shaking her head, “I’m just trying to help you out, buddy, you don’t want to hear it then I’m not gonna force you. Do whatever the hell you want,”

“Thanks for the permission,”

“Hello Dea, Dean, Sam,” Female Cas says, wondering into the kitchen in her pyjamas, before making a beeline for Dea and hovering there, frowning at her.

“What?”

“You weren’t there when I woke up,”

“What are we, Twilight, now? It was three days. The clingy routine is way overkill,” Dea says, but she pulls Cas into a hug anyway, letting Cas turn it into a brief kiss before stealing her coffee, “Asshat,” Dea says, smiling slightly, as she goes for another mug rather than reclaim hers from Cas. It’s so normal and domestic and Cas was trained to kill her, sold her out, pulled her out of hell, threatened to put her back in.

“Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” Cas asks, staring at Dean with a frown.

“The hell is with the shirt police over here?” Dean asks, “This some bunker rule I don’t know about?”

“Did you find Cas?” Sam asks, shutting her laptop with a decisive click.

“Yep,” Dea says, popping the p, eyes fixed deliberately on Dean.

“Oh screw you, Princess,”

“Quit the patronising crap,” Dea says, “I am you, Chuckles.”

“Have you found anything?” Cas asks, sitting down next Sam, fingers curled around her coffee.

“Salt and burn in Texas, but I’ve got someone on it,” Sam says, “Charlie was looking into something on the east coast before Dean showed, but it looks kinda human-psycho to me, so. Not really. Nothing new on the Mark, either,”

Dean makes a vague noise of displeasure at the back of his throat.

“We believe it’s tethered to something in the parallel world,” Castiel – male Castiel – says, stepping into the kitchen and taking the free seat next to Dean. He’s back to his usual prim and proper angel status, even if he’s a little… pale. He’s radiating less concentrated power and a little more weary-vibes, but it’s an improvement on yesterday.

“So switching realities neutralises the effect,” Sam nods, “but what?”

“It’s a lock and a key,” Cas says.

“To what, Cas?” Dean snaps.

“Darkness,”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” Cas admits, looking pained. Dean’s slams his coffee down with enough force that it sloshes over the sides. He gets a double set of blue stares fixed on him.

“We got nothing,” Dean snaps, “We got jack. You want some crappy metaphors about darkness I could’ve given them to you months ago.”

“So,” Dea says, “it kind of is a dark mark,”

“Someone neutralise that,” Dean says, waving a hand in Dea’s direction, “Before you get a visual on how goddamn dark this mark is,”

“It would be easier to probe your thoughts if you’re less… emotional,” Castiel says, all stiff angels and enthralling and inhuman and distant again. Dean’s got no idea how Cas can detach himself from all of this, like Dean’s always tried to.

“Emotional,”

“Dean, I’m trying to help,”

“Yeah, that’s usually the problem,” Dean mutters, “Fine. Fine. Mind whammy my memories back. Read my thoughts. Invade the basic human privacy of my brain,”

“I’m trying to unblock your mind, not read it.”

“Excuse me for being a little antsy about you performing amateur brain surgery, dude,”

“I removed your brother’s wall before, remember?”

“Perfectly,” Dean says, standing up, shoulders tense. That’s probably about the last thing Dean wanted a friendly reminder about today, but there it is.

“Where are you going?”

“To put on a frigging shirt,” Dean snaps, then storms back to Dea’s room.

*

In the end, the great invasion of Dean’ head happens in the war room. Dean’s been shepherded into one of the more comfortable chairs before the audience flooded into to watch, like for some reason watching Dean get the inside of his head messed with is a group activity. Whatever. Sam’s eating some weird health drink that smells like death, Dea’s telling her it smells like death and both Castiel’s are relatively silent. Charlie’s come out of the woodwork in order to watch them all have a multi-way argument, because apparently it’s part meta madness and part a fascinating exploration into gender, but either way Dean’s pretty sure he wants her to quit acting like they’re characters in a book. Karen’s still avoiding him.

“You must tell me if it hurts,” Castiel says, very serious, bending down to Dean’s level.

“Sure thing, doc,” Dean says. At this angle, with Cas this close, it’s hard to concentrate on anything other than the curve of Castiel’s top lip. Goddamnit. “And you’re just… uh, supernaturally hypnotising me? No getting inside my head?”

“No,” Cas agrees.

“Okay,” Dean says, “Okay,”

“Stay still,” Cas says, then he tilts his head, reaching forward to rest a hand on the side of his face. It’s not his two fingered sleep-whammy or the full palm of the hand smiting, but he has Cas’ strangely rough fingers pressed into his forehead, palm covering his cheek. “Think about Charlie,”

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says, completely earnest, “But you said that was one of the first things that caused you pain to think about. I need you to tell me what you remember,”

“No,”

“Dean,”

“I… Sam got her to… she was decoding the book of the damned. We…we didn’t get her in the time. She was in the bath. She was… there...uh, was a lot of blood. We gave her a hunter’s funeral.”

“What happened next?”

“The mark,”

“Dean, be specific,”

“This is the worst therapy ever,” Dean says, sucking in a breath, “I went after the Stynes. I… damnit, I don’t remember. I found them. I took them out, but it’s… there was this corrupt police guy. Then there was that kid saying he wasn’t like his family. I shot him. I remember that and then you were there. I was gonna kill you, too, but I didn’t. I stabbed that book left you bleeding out on the fucking floor,”

“And then?”

“Drove,”

“Where?”

“Hell, I don’t know! Just needed to find something else to kill. Just, away. To find a hunt. Think another Hunter called with a job. So I guess I was headed there. Cas, it’s not… this isn’t working,”

“How did you feel?” Cas asks and Dean just can’t with Cas looking right up at him, hand gentle on his face, eyes unwavering. A dull headache has been building since they started talking, but Dean’s only really noticing it now. He nearly killed Castiel and he drove away, pulse racing, blood boiling in his veins, knife held in his left hand with the other on the wheel. He was on the edge. Cain told him he’d kill Castiel. He’d said it and Dean had been so damn sure it wouldn’t happen, that it couldn’t happen, because Dean – Dean, with every ounce of him, he… him and Cas – but then he’d nearly done it and he was – because he needed Cas – but he wanted to know how it would feel, what Cas would do, whether he’d see that flash of regret that Cas hadn’t stopped him before the light was snuffed out – and Dean’s never exactly acknowledge it but – and he’s got one hand gripped on the wheel imagining how he’d feel if he’d killed him – but he does, he always has, it’s just – then he’s pulling into the side of the road, controlled and clean like he's not completely losing it – they’d hurt it each other so damn much, but that didn’t change any of it – and then he’s reaching for the whiskey he stashed in the glove box a few weeks ago and tipping it down his throat.

He’s in love with Castiel and it won’t make a difference, like it never does, because Dean’s still going to kill him.

For a second, the pain is absolute. Some mangled sound falls out of his lips and then Dean becomes glowingly aware that there’s another hand on his other cheek, then the pain subsides and makes way for that blissful-grace-high.

“Fuck,” Dean says, blinking.

“You remember?” Sam asks.

“Yeah,” Dean says, leaning back into the comfiest chair in the war room and shutting his eyes, “Yeah.”

Chapter Text

“Fate,” Dean says, the word sticking in the back of his throat. It doesn’t exactly get a reaction. Sam blinks at him. Dea looks like she’s on the edge of a wisecrack. Charlie just looks plain confused. “I just… yeah, I think it was Fate. That blonde librarian chick with a stick up her ass. That one.”

“Fate’s a… a blonde librarian?” Charlie asks, his eyebrows rising.

“Atropos. Why would she bother you now?” Castiel, the male one, still kneeling at Dean’s feet, frowns.

“She seemed pretty intent on dicing us last time. Better question is why she popped my ass over to another reality rather than sticking me through my front windscreen and getting me run over by a truck,” Dean says, flexing his fists, “Cas,” Dean prompts, which is enough that Cas stands up and gives Dean the space to stand too. He wants to move. He's suddenly restless.

“I dealt with her,”

“You dealt with her?”

“We negotiated,”

“You negotiated,” Dean repeats, “Right. You negotiated resinking the titanic with Balthazar and made thousands of people never exist to save our asses. What about that sounded like a long lasting deal?” Dean asks, then turns when Dea makes a noise of the back of her throat. “What?”

“Nothing,”

“Screw that, Dude. You got something to share with the class, share with the class,”

“Forget it,”

“Dea,”

“Just,” Dea says, “Find it interesting you remember that,”

“What?” Dean says, “Cas wanted us to remember it,”

“Right,” Dea says.

“Am I missing something here?” Dean asks, “What’s the big secret,”

“Balthazar unsunk the titanic on my orders,” Cas says, “For the souls,”

“Purgatory,” Dean says, meeting Cas’ eyes, “Okay. So why do I remember? You gotta have thought we might have worked it out,”

“You trusted me,” Cas says, glancing away, lips poised into a frown. Dean’s definitely overdosed on having his crappy, messed up history with Cas thrown in his face. Frankly, they’ve got enough problems in the present without thinking about all the rest and Dean tries not to think about any of it, because that means recognising that it hurt and that means prodding how he feels about that and that means thinking about the why he feels like that. “It was a strategic error,”

“So why did you then?”

Female Cas and male Cas look at it each other, eyes fixed, and it sparks up a nervous frustration.

“What?” Dean snaps.

“Don’t sweat it, macho man,”

“I’ll sweat whatever I like,” Dean says, “What? Anyone gonna fill me in here?”

In the end, it's Sam who breaks the quiet.

“Uh,” Sam says, “I’m just spit balling, here, but I remember - Balthazar…. Uh referred to Cas as...”

The other angel. The one in the dirty trench coat who’s in love with you.

"No," is what comes out of Dean's mouth, which isn't helpful or constructive, and he regrets it almost immediately. It's done, though. It's already fallen from his lips and that's enough for Sam to shut up and his Cas to rearrange his stoic expression. Dea’s expression of abrupt distaste is pretty telling too and, goddamnit, Dean doesn’t need this. He doesn't need it.

"We need to establish why Fate would have intervened." The other Castiel's expression is more open, as she frowns at him, eyes too wide and blue. "What were you doing?"

"No idea."

"Think, Dean, you were driving away from the bunker. Then what?"

"You mean I was driving away from your beat up ass with the Mark taking over my goddamn mind. What else do you want? If the Mark doesn’t work here, way I see it Fate's dealt us a winning hand for once."

“I know when you're bullshitting, Dean, what were you intending to do.”

“I don't remember,”

“Bullshit,” female Dean says, arching an eyebrow.

“Could keep a therapist employed for life with the level of hate you're throwing at me here, if you could find one that'd believe this shit,”

“You got us in this mess, tough guy.”

“And how d'you work that out?”

“Fate ain’t the one showing up at my car,”

“Could’ve jumped you when you’re asleep,” Dean says, “Not like you two were on guard.”

“You think frigging Fate is more likely to intervene with two chicks in a relationship shaking up in a hotel room or a guy possessed by a tattoo on a murder spree.”

“I suspect Dea is right,” Castiel says, “Fate has different vision, similar to angels. She can see dimensions humans cannot.”

“What, like infrared?” Dea asks.

“More, the future,”

“You can see into the damn future?”

“No,” Cas, male Cas, says, “It's a matter of seeing what acts are likely to have impacts on the future. It's a basic requirement for time travel; angels are able to see what events have great effects before the events have happened, to an extent, although not to the same extent as Fate. I see nothing significant about two consenting women engaging in relations,”

“Really? Nothing significant. You sure about that, Cas?” Dean asks, which is about the closest he’s ever gotten to verbally acknowledging that this is even happening to Castiel. He’d been pretty much pretending that there wasn’t a gender-swapped version of themselves coupling up somewhere and now he’s referred to it, out loud, to Cas, it feels a little like they’ve crossed over a line.

“Significant to us, not significant on a cosmic level,”

“I'd call it cosmic,” Dea puts in, “The stuff Cas can do with her tongue is frigging supernatural.”

“Unhelpful, Dea,” Cas says, “but I appreciate the compliment,”

“So,” Dean says, clearing his throat. "Angels have got like, freaky deaky vision where you can see the butterfly effect, except you're short sighted and Fate has got the right prescriptions to see what's important.”

"I don't understand what visuals of small winged insects have,"

"The death of a butterfly would not change history," Cas says, "Most human deaths are insignificant, too. Reality has a way of rerouting itself to the correct destination under most accounts."

"Zachariah said all roads lead to the same destination."

"Incorrect, as well we proved. The destination is not set, but to a degree large changes must be made to make a significant difference. Some moments or people are disproportionately significant, yourselves two of them. Angels can sense those, which is generally a sign to leave well alone.”

“Or to call a fuck it and change destiny,”

“Yes,” Castiel says, “It’s more difficult to tell when you’re physically or emotionally involved, and it's particularly clear when traveling through time. For Fate to intervene like this, you must have been about to do something cosmically significant.”

“That's all well and good, Cas, but we started the apocalypse and stopped it again. We've ripped open dimensions. We've nearly sunk the damn world time after time; why now?”

“I don't know,”

“Awesome,”

“What were you going to do, Dean?”

“Nothing,”

“Dean,”

“It was… I had a plan. A backup plan,” Dean says, jaw clenched, “but,”

“Dean,” Cas says again.

“I was gonna summon Death,”

“Why?”

“Because, damnit, you promised you'd take me out, Cas. And clearly, you didn't have the juice. Sam proved he never would. Crowley ain’t got the mojo and... and the Mark doesn't stop if I die. It’s not letting go. It's a one way ticket to black eyes. I was a knight of fucking hell.”

“And from what I can work out, Dean, all you did as a demon was sleep with waitresses and drink too much,”

“Yeah, Cas, and how fucked is it that I'm killing more as a human than I did as a demon?”

“You were intending to have Death kill you?” The other Cas asks, but Dean’s still talking to his Cas, with his stupid blue eyes and the years of screws ups and missed opportunities that… just, tension and resentment and longing and need.

“Kill me, trap me in the abyss, whatever. Main thing was... uh. Sam. Fuck, Cas, this was the back-up plan. It was a goddamn idea,” Cas just gives him a look, “Sam won’t stop. I figured he’d follow and I could… convince Sam to let Death take us both,”

“And you thought I would just allow that to happen?” Cas asks, voice radiating with thunder.

“Yes,” Dean says, “I thought you'd use a little common sense after everythingand deal.”

“Deal,”

“Go back to heaven. Hover round Claire till she tells you where to stick it and maybe a bit longer after that. I figured you'd be just fine.”

“You're wrong,” Cas says, all concentrated rage and compressed power, “If you truly believe there is anywhere Death could leave you where I wouldn't find you, or any dimension I wouldn't rip up to save you, then I haven't been making myself clear.”

Dean's mouth tastes like ash.

“Guess it's a good job this decision ain’t up to you,”

“The decisions are never up to me.”

“What?”

“Every time you make reckless and illogical decisions you bypass my opinion – ”

“- Cas, you don't exactly have a tight record of making good decisions,”

“I am a part of this, Dean. Stop excluding me from your little club.”

“Name five times a decision you've made hasn't directly fucked us,” Dean snaps. Cas’ eyes narrow, his shoulders tensed up and Dean’s reminded by just how intimidating that is and how much it triggers Dean’s instinct to push him further. He's being out of order. It's not like Dean has a record of good decisions, either, and Sam's got a few screwups under his belt.“You’re family, Cas, but this is bigger than us. It’s not your mess to clean up,”

“My feelings about this matter,” Castiel half yells and, damnit, Dean’s not sure he’s ever heard Cas talk about feelings before. He’s wanted it. He’s wanted, for so so goddamn long, for Cas not to be so impenetrable. For Cas to say how he feels. For Cas to give a little indication that he gives a damn about all of this stuff. He gets grand gestures where Cas sinks boats and gives up armies for Dean, but he’s pretty sure all he’s wanted is for Cas to allow Dean past the angel-barrier.

“No, they don’t,” Dean says back, voice raised, heated, “Neither do mine and neither do Sam’s. It’s done. We can’t fix this, damnit. It’s over.”

“Not according to Fate,” Cas says, voice clipped, then he’s storming out.

Dea gives him a slow clap because she’s a frigging bitch with no tact and no sensitivity, even though Dean’s pretty sure she knows exactly how he feels right now.

“Nice job,” Dea says, quirking up her eyebrows.

“Screw you,” Dean snaps back, hands balled into fists. "You know Cas wants her grace back? You might have noticed if you hadn't been so absorbed in your little happy ending narrative. She wants it back and you're pretending not to notice. So sort out your own relationship crap before sending your judgement my way," Dean finishes, dislodging the knife in his pocket and dumping it on the desk before headed to the driving range for target practice.

Chapter Text

Dean leaves behind a knife and the loudest silence Dea’s experience for a long damn time.

“Do you want your grace back?” Dea asks, turning round after five long seconds of silence. Dea’s not entirely sure how anyone’s ever described Castiel as stoic or unreadable before, because right now every single one of her thoughts is written all over her face. “You want your grace back,” Dea says, “You want your grace back. Great. Frigging fantastic, Cas.”

“Dea,”

“No,” Dea interjects, “We’ve been through this. We don’t do this anymore, Cas. We talk about crap like this. We don’t just let this stuff build up because it was always comes back to screw us,”

“I – ”

“ – you think I’d act like a bitch about it? Come on, Cas, d’you think I’m that frigging shallow that –?”

“You – ”

“ – why wouldn’t you just talk to me about this?”

“ – you’re not letting me talk about it, Dea,” Cas interjects, which is a good enough point that it derails whatever Dea was going to start snapping next. She doesn’t quite manage to reign it in enough to stop exhaling in frustration, though, which has Cas’ roll her eyes at the ceiling.

“Think this is my queue to leave,” Sam says, grabbing her laptop and standing up, “You guys enjoy your fight,”

“We ain’t fighting,”

“Sure,” Sam says, grabbing a book too, “Uh, you think I should talk to Cas? The other one.”

“No,” Dea says, at the same time that Cas says “Yes.” Dea turns around to quirk an eyebrow at Cas because, frankly, that sounds like the worst idea she’s ever heard. Dea tried speaking to Dean, who’s technically the same frigging person, and that totally tanked. How the hell is Sam gonna get through to the malestiel?

“No,” Dea says, “Sam, no offence, you don’t know the guy. What are you gonna say?”

“You know me,” Cas counters, “Angels neither have nor have a concept of gender. The only differences between myself and Castiel should be from recent years,”

“And a pep talk from Sam would have helped you when we were in the weeds?”

“Perhaps,”

Well, fine.

“Up to you, Sammy,” Dea says, some of the tension disappearing from her shoulders as she looks at both of them. A lot of crap has been dragged up today, but at least it’s served to remind her just how far they’ve come. They’ve been through a lot. Dea’s still surprised most days of the week when she wakes up and Cas is right there“Just, don’t broach it with Dean. Guy needs space.”

“Dea,” Sam says, “I gave you thirty five years ‘space’ to come out in your own time. I know how that conversation goes,”

“Bitch,”

“Jerk,” Sam says, almost smiling, “I’ll keep digging into the Mark,”

“You do that,” Dea mutters, leaning on the edge of the table and picking up Dean’s knife. Dea’s pretty sure it’s actually one of hers that’s usually kept in the space between the bed and the wall. It figures that Dean took a proper stock take and decided he’d feel better armed.

Sam leaves behind a second awkward silence in her wake.

“How long?” Dea asks, which apparently isn’t a popular question.

“You always automatically assume the worst of me,” Castiel says, her voice clipped, “And yourself.”

“Call it a character flaw, Sweetheart,”

“There’s literally nothing else you could call it,” Castiel says, folding her arms, mouth curling into that familiar pout. Dea’s won that expression a thousand times over, but it still tugs at her gut. It still makes her want to close the distance and start spouting sentimental mush. It still feels a little like some angry spirit has reached into her chest and gripped hold of her heart. Damnit.

Dea brings the knife down into the table with a dull thunk.

“Okay,” Dea says, after a few more moments of thick silence. Cas pouts more furiously than before, so that Dea gets its supposed to indicate that she’s curious as well as profoundly irritated. “You want your grace back, we go get your grace back.”

Cas reaches forward and kisses her like it’s going out of style.

*

Castiel is both frustratingly serious about everything and the most fun Dea's ever had. The more they settle into this relationship thing the less intense and emotionally charged every single damn moment is, but it's still high octane crap a lot of the time. They get wound up at each other easily. Neither of them have a damn clue what they're doing. There's years’ worth of resentments stamped down and then brushed over. It's like, even though they're okay, and Dea's pretty sure they're stable (or an approximation of it), Dea still slips into this insecure, needy bitch when things go wrong. She gets to believing Cas is gonna walk out, or that she doesn't care, or that she does but not as much as she cares about fixing heaven, and then everything gets clogged up and serious and they both forget that, yeah, they love each other, but they also actually enjoy each other’s company.

They'd gotten that way right before Dea was deposited in boy world. Some argument based on some long buried conflict came up on a hunt, then Dea starting snapping at her, then Cas started getting passive aggressive, then Dea was trying to make a point, then Cas was frigging sulking, till Sam got fed up enough that she told them to piss off, argue it out, get laid and come back when the whole thing was out of their systems.

And it was, before the switch. Dea drove too fast down the highway bellowing out ACDC, while Cas' smile grew from the passenger side. By the halfway point, Cas was laughing at her jokes again. By the time they got to Liberal, Kansas, Dea was pumped that they got a whole few days of privacy and free time. No hunts, no research, no big bads. Just the two of them shacked up in a nameless hotel with Dea giving Cas lessons on pop culture and testing out her humanity. It was ace, actually. It was awesome.

Then all this bullcrap came up.

It makes sense that Dea feels so much better about everything after they've fucked it out.

Dea’s got a thumb tracing circles on the soft skin of Cas inner thigh, their legs are tangled together and Cas is smiling about some crappy joke Dea made and it’s so, so good. It’s everything and it tugs at her in sixteen different directions that her male counterpart doesn’t get this. He doesn’t have Cas, and Dea knows full well how that sucks. Knows how that feels. Know how fucking confusing it is, all hours of the day, even without being in denial about her sexuality (because, yeah, she tested it out with Dean, and she’s pretty sure that that denial is a helluva lot deeper buried than Dea’s ever was; Dean might just believe his own brand of denial).

“Will you, uh, still wanna do crap like this when you’ve got your mojo back?” Dea asks, pushing back the part of her brain that’s calling her selfish and needy just for asking. “I’m in either way, I just…”

“Yes,”

“Awesome,” Dea says, shutting her eyes. Cas shifts, untangling their legs, till Dea can feel her penetrative blue gazed fixed on her. It’s the same as it’s always been, except now sometimes Cas is naked.

“Dea,” Cas says, voice deep and commanding, “Look at me,”

“Kay,” Dea says, opening her eyes, feeling inordinately exposed. Yeah, maybe she’s naked, but that’s never really bothered her, and definitely hasn’t bothered her around Cas for a long ass time. They’re passed that. It’s the vulnerability thing that’s still hard, given how hard she’s been fighting her whole life to prove she isn’t.

“We slept together before I lost my grace,”

“But it sucked,” Dea says, “Well, no, the sex was pretty good,”

“I’m in love with you,”

“Yeah,” Dea says, “I know that, I just… you know.”

“I do,” Cas says, “What else is bothering you?”

“Is…. Damnit,”

“Dea,”

“I’m an asshole for even thinking it, Cas,”

“Tell me,” Cas says.

“Am I not enough for you? Are you not happy how things are? Not like, now. This sucks. I mean, with the status quo,”

“Yes,” Cas says, “I’m happy, Dea. Humanity is… complex. I don’t understand why I constantly need to pee. I get hungry all the time. I can’t sleep. My right knee hurts and I don’t know why. Sometimes I’m inexplicably sad. My uterus bleeds, Dea. I have to get my hair cut. I have to change clothes every day. I have to travel by car. I’m not human. Not truly. None of this makes any sense to me.”

“Kinda thought you’d gotten used to it, though,”

“I had,” Castiel agrees, “Because I wasn’t aware my grace was an option,”

“But the other Cas got it back,” Dea says, “I just… want you to stay.”

“I want that too,”

“Don’t say that,” Dea grimaces, “That’s code for there’s some greater good I gotta do instead and I’m so, so over that bullshit.”

“There might be, at some point.”

“I know,” Dea sighs, “I tried to help the other guy out. Didn’t go down well. Should’ve figured.”

“He’s very like you, but certainly not the same.”

“Shame,” Dea says, “Reckon we could have gotten creative with some stuff if he wasn’t so damn closeted.”

“You’re referring to sex,”

“Gold star,” Dea says, reaching for her shirt, “Come on, Cas, could have been fun.”

“Where are you going?”

“It’s the middle of day,” Dea says, “And we got our gender swapped doppelgangers having a relationship crisis outside. Seems like a bad time to stay in bed and screw some more, no matter how hot you are.”

*

It’s honest to god an accident that she walks in on Dean and male-Castiel having some kind of moment, but by that point she’s stuck in the room trying not to draw attention to herself. Anyway, it’s not like she isn’t curious. Dean is her with a frigging penis and apparently that turned her into even more of a dick, and Sam dropped the love bombshell and Castiel stormed off after declaring his feelings matter. It’s pretty intense and Dea would be lying if she said she didn’t give a shit. She is emotionally involved, just like her Cas said, and she’s pretty frigging sure that’s justified.

“I don’t regret it,” Dean says, jaw clenched, fists clenched, everything fucking clenched. Dea’s pretty sure she doesn’t look like some crappy personification of angst when she’s upset about something, but the evidence suggests she does. She can hold onto the hope that Cas knocked a lot of things loose in her head, but still. She might just have a lot of man pain.

Dean’s stupidly pretty for a guy, too, eyes shining, staring at Castiel; Leaning forward, but slight enough that it might just be subconscious.

“God help me, Cas, but I don’t regret it. He bought you back.”

“Dean,”

“You died, Cas,”

“It’s happened before.”

“You were human,” Dean says, “With half of heaven on your ass. You… you were right there and I was too late. I needed you and you… I was headed back to the pit long before the goddamn Mark,”

“Dean,”

“Kevin didn’t have to die,” Dean says, jaw set, “but I got to keep Sam. And you. And I’d do it again, for either of you. In a heartbeat.”

It’s overdramatic and self-indulgent, even if it is true (that Dea doesn’t doubt) and it’s fucking annoying. How frigging dare this asshole solemnly declare that he’d sentence their friends to die without acknowledging the fact that that shitty, selfish desire is called being in love? It’s not like that makes it okay, but if feeling it is gonna have apocalyptic consequence, then he at least ought to name the reason to that destruction.

I’m sorry I fucked up this whole reality, but it’s because I’m in love with my angel best friend and I didn’t know what the hell to do with my feelings, so I repressed them and screwed up our whole relationship and made a hundred bad decisions and I can’t regret them because I need him. . Easy. It’s simple. It’s so goddamn obvious.

“We make quite the pair,” Cas says and there’s a little humour there, which is good. It’s how she’d want Cas to derail her self-destruction self-pitying monologue. Male-Cas is definitely trying, here, and Dea’s almost inclined to say that they’re actually making progress.

“Except we don’t,” Dean says, fists clenching even further, “We’re not.”

“You’re aware angels are utterly indifferent to sexual orientation,”

“Guess that’s where we differ then,” Dean says, and it’s about as unconvincing as Dea’s ever heard anything and it’s only made worse by the fucking ridiculous bro-shoulder-pat Dean goes for next. His hand doesn’t even linger there; it’s so goddamn platonic it’s a little unnatural, like he’s mentally planned it out a few dozen times before he actually went for it. It’s kinda weird how the uncomfortable overcompensating can wrack up the sexual tension and it’s weirder still that Dea can feel that out like she’s actually involved. She hopes she was never this bad. “Night, Cas,”

Dea gets a flash of Dean’s unguarded, unclenched expression headed her way before Dean registers she’s there and scowls. It’s too late, though, because his blanket denial routine just burst wide open.

Dean definitely knows.

*

Okay, so, she’s emotionally involved. She’s emotionally involved enough to follow the guy into the kitchen and she’s emotionally involved enough that she is definitely going to crack this macho man, because all of this stopped making sense a while back and Dea’s pretty sure she should be able to understand herself. Sam’s always bitching about inner peace (like any of them have ever had a shot at that) and the rest of her hippy find-yourself crap so Dea’s gonna go ahead and call this personal-growth.

Just, directed at the dude version of herself with the issues who definitely knows he’s into dudes and, specifically, way into Cas. His personal growth.

“Jackie Taylor,” Dea says, grabbing herself a beer and leaning against the kitchen counter, quirking an eyebrow up in Dean’s direction. The look she gets back isn’t recognition, but it might just be acknowledgement, and she’s gonna push ahead anyway. “That school where Sam bullied that girl that went vengeful spirit on our asses.”

“Jack Taylor,” Dean counters, getting his own beer, “On the football team.”

“Cheerleader,” Dea says, “She told everyone. Was dating Adam Heckerling. He asked if he could watch. Probably one of Sam’s first hints, but then she was pretty involved in her own crap.”

“Threatened to punch me in the face if I told anyone,” Dean counters, expression tight, “Then threatened to set someone on Sam when I laughed in his face.”

That’s an acknowledgement. That’s an honest to god acknowledgement which, for this guy, is nothing short of an actual revelation. Dea’s dealt with some end-of-world-stuff and this feels like it might just be up there on her list and, hell, it didn’t take that much pushing. She name dropped one girl (guy?) and he fessed up.

The differences are interesting too. She’s pretty sure Sam would eat this crap up and dissect it to death because, yeah, one of her constant battles has been stopping dudes sexualising her sexuality, but that doesn’t happen on the flipside. So, male Jackie probably woudn’t have spread it round the whole frigging school to get a little attention. He just wouldn’t.

“So this whole I don’t-swing-that-way straight-man routine is just propaganda,” Dea says, narrowing her eyes slightly, taking in the too familiar green eyes, with the frown and that jaw.

“I don’t,” Dean actually fucking grunts, getting himself a beer.

“Dyna Scott,” Dea counters, “Fifth grade,”

“Dylan,” Dean counters, “Helped me in math. Good kid.”

“So, what,” Dea says, “That stuff happened, it just doesn’t count?”

“Works for me,” Dean says, headed for the door, “Good talk,”

“Grace Hunter,” Dea says, “Two weeks after Mom left to hunt on her own. Best sex I ever had,” Dean stops before he gets to the door to arch an eyebrow at her. “Before Cas,” Dea adds. Dean huffs a laugh at that but, fuck him, because that’s different. Different worlds away. Sex with some random (hot) chick who happened to know their way around women and sex with Cas, frigging Castiel, aren’t even comparable.

“Nope,”

“Leesha. South Dakota salt and burn case. Redhead. Kinky as fuck,” Dea says, which draws another blank, evidentially.

Dean sets his beer down.

“Nick Relton,” Dean says, meeting her eye with a hard stare.

“Nick… Nick..,” Dea says, narrowing her eyes to think before she gets it. “Nikki. Seventeen. Mom got back from a hunt and nearly walked in on us fooling around. Sold her some bullshit story about trying on bras. She was just pissed I’d let someone else in our motel room. Got pissy about me having my priorities straight. Pretty crappy sex.”

“Happened a little differently on my side of the pond,"

“Dad didn’t believe your half naked wrestling story? Figures,” Dea says, “So, what?”

“What’s your angle with this?” Dean demands, eyes narrowed, which is a diversion tactic Dea’s used a thousand times over. Sore topic, but then it usually is when it comes to their parents. Dea can’t imagine that changing any with gender. “You just enjoying trying to fuck with my head? Is this entertaining for you?”

“Believe me, macho man, no one is enjoying this,” Dea snaps back, “I just don’t understand why the hell you let the world burn when we both know how you feel and the whole damn world knows how Cas feels. You can’t lie to me, Dean, I am you."

“You’re not me,” Dean says, intonation flat, no expression. Denial, Denial, denial.

“Hannah Solo,” Dea says, quirking up an eyebrow, “India Jones. Except, they were badass right? Everyone’s supposed to be attracted to them. Then there was Dylan, but he was nice to you and, hell, it didn’t mean anything, right? Jenna Miller. Catherine Fitzgerald, but then again she – he – cornered you after school, so that’s on him, right? Except by the time we’re talking about Jennifer Brady and Nikki Realton, that’s a lot of excuses. That’s a lot of exceptions. I’m not saying it was a barrel of laughs. I’m not saying it don’t against all your instincts because, damn, that heteronormativity gets all over everything, I’m just saying. This is bullshit.”

“Look, lady, you keep getting nostalgic all you like. I’ve got better stuff to do,” Dean says and he’s back to seeming breezy and unaffected by all of it, like he doesn’t care how contradictory it is to accept he has a whole history of being into dudes but maintaining that he doesn’t swing that way. And, yeah, Dea knows what it’s like to live that. She knows that the couldn’t-care-less-shtick is just a dumb façade. She knows it took Cas, human and alone, to shock Dea into coming out to Sam.

Somehow, it’s still managing to piss her off.

“Your siren was a goddamn man,” Dea yells in his face, “Your siren was a man. Process that.”

“Okay,” Dean nods, “I think we’re done here.”

“So that’s it,” Dea says, folding her arms, “Daddy issues. Whole mystery solved. Dad found out, he had your ass for it, so you repressed everything so hard you can’t admit it three decades later? Even for me, that’s pathetic. I mean, wow.”

“You know what,” Dean says, “Dad may have been many things, but he damn sure loved us. Yeah, I got a lecture. I deserved it for letting some random guy in our motel room because I wanted to get some. It mattered because it made us vulnerable. Cause people could use it against us. My head wasn’t in the game. He said my fucking around was gonna get us all killed. That he expected more of me. That he was disappointed about my decisions and he never mentioned it again.”

“You, we, were seventeen,”

“And I was in charge of looking after Sam whilst Dad was away,” Dean says, “Dad wasn’t homophobic, he had other priorities.”

“No,” Dea says, “He was too wrapped up in his own crap to see what was going on with you. Sounds familiar,” Dea says. “Fine. So Dad didn’t acknowledge your sexuality and you figured you wouldn’t either, because it was much easier to fit into this square box of exactly what Daddy wanted from you. So instead of doing something for yourself, you towed the company line. You followed orders. You took his words to heart and acted like that was enough to squash part of your identity. Well, sorry dude, that’s not a whole lot different to what I said before.”

“There a lot of female hunters in your reality?”

“No,”

“No,” Dean repeats, “So I’m guessing you had to prove yourself. I’m guessing you’ve been patronised and undermined a lot,”

“Don’t forget hit on,”

“Right,” Dean says, nodding, “Hostile environment.”

“Misogynistic,”

“Misogynistic,” Dean says, inclining his head, “So I’m getting that means being a female hunter is a pretty important part of your identity. Cause you had to fight for it. Cause you had to work harder for your connections to take you seriously. To get let in to the big fights. To get your credit. Now, I’ve got no idea how that feels. I got no idea. I get respect handed to me on a platter, you have to earn it. Yeah, it’s a pile of crap. I’m not saying that’s fair. Not saying I’m not part of the problem but, for you, that box? That was never gonna fit. You’re a hunter and a woman, so you have to reject the whole concept of what people think of as woman and hunter. That’s important to you. I get that.”

“Keep talking,”

“Dad fit slap bang in the middle of that box. He was a man’s man and a damn good hunter.” Dean says, “So he gets respect for it. He slotted in to that hunter mould. Didn’t challenge anyone’s ideals and it was easy for him. He fit and it made every single damn thing easier for him, so that box? Always looked pretty damn good to me. That’s how everyone expected me to be, anyway. To take after Dad. A hunter and a man and, okay, so there were some rules on how you’re supposed to be, but whatever. It was easy and, you know what, you don’t get a whole lot of easy wins in this life. Sam and Dad were butting heads and I was trying to keep everyone together and, hell, if being how everyone expected to me made everyone happier then, yeah, I was gonna do it. We were moving around so much, it’s not like I got to have friends, and I worked out a new school routine that made life easy pretty early on – sure you did too – and, you know what, only schools I ever got any shit were the ones when I made waves. Acknowledged I had feelings. Looked at a dude too long in the changing rooms. Kissed a boy. Didn’t seem like it cost all that much not to do those things,”

“So you took the easy way out?”

“Damn right I did,” Dean says, “We didn’t have time for me to fuck around when there was an easy solution. And then it got to the point when that was me. And yeah, okay, I was pissed when Dad left and I figured I’d act out and pick up some guys. Some warped plea for attention, I guess, not that anyone was around to notice. You know how damn hard it is to pick up a guy on the road, the places we go to? Got beaten up once. Got fucked by some guy who called me a faggot when he was done, which was awesome. A real fucking treat. And, you know what, I didn’t feel empowered or released or like I’d gone on some frigging spiritual journey to find my identity, I felt like absolute shit. And it hurt like hell. ” Dean says, setting down his beer.

“Ran into a hunter in the next bar, next night. Started thinking about what would happen if he’d seen, you know? If word got out that John Winchester’s son was gay, not that I’m… that’s the way they’d see it. Lot of Hunters are jumped up rednecks, not exactly known for their acceptance. Figure you know that. Probably been hit on by half of them. Why let them judge me on something I didn’t even want? Then I got to thinking if the demon found out. If they used that to get to me. To dad. Hell, to Sam. He was at college with no frigging idea and being distracted by something like that could get someone killed. I hadn’t gained anything from it. It’s not like there were compensating factors,”

Yeah, Dea doesn’t tend to pick up at men at the places hunters usually frequent. Women, sometimes. She’ll scope out the nicer joints, but she can see the issue.

“I told Cassie,” Dean says, exhaling a humourless laugh, “Along with everything else. She said it made her uncomfortable. Walked away thinking she might just have stuck around to listen to the full story if I hadn’t told her that, but probably not. And then I decided I was done.”

“You decided you were done being attracted to men?” Dea asks and it sounds every bit of sceptical as she feels. She doesn’t even regret it. You can’t decide that. “You hit the highway to the Bible belt and get someone to pray the gay away?”

“You have to fight to have your identity accepted,” Dean says, a little heated now, “I don’t. So why am I gonna fight to fuck with perceptions of me, when not one good thing has come out of it for me? I got no best-sex stories. No adorable little meet-cutes. Not one time have I walked away feeling good about it. Not ever, okay? I got violence, threats of violence, disgust and shame. Who the hell do I owe to define myself by that? Why the hell do you get to decide your identity and I don’t?”

“So you’re a coward,”

“I picked my fucking battles. I figured when I chose to be a hunter I chose to be every damn thing people expect from a hunter,” Dean says, “And, yeah, you didn’t get that opportunity and that sucks for you, but luckily it’s made you a better person than me, so congratulations.”

“You could get Cas out of it,” Dea says, throat thick, because she might just get it. She might just understand and that terrifies her because she doesn’t want to. She can’t. It all matters too much. “You could get Castiel. How is that not worth it to you?” Dean’s jaw clenches. “You know he’s in love with you.”

“You know I nearly killed him three days ago?” Dean demands back.

“Why didn’t you tell him the crypt?”

“I did,” Dean says, “Basically. He knows.”

“What did you say?” Dea asks, reaching for another beer.

“I, uh, I said I needed him.”

“That doesn’t mean what you think it means,” Dea says, “Not to Cas.”

Dea learnt that the hard way.

“I can’t,”

“Don’t get me wrong, dude, I struggle with the chick flick stuff. I do. Sometimes it takes a goddamn crowbar to break into my chest, but sometimes you gotta get out the big guns. If the angel who pulled you from hell is about to be brainwashed into beating you to death, call me sentimental, but you drop a frigging L bomb.”

Dea recognises that expression as an early warning that Dean’s about to shut the whole conversation down, even if she’s usually the one on the other side of it. Honestly, she’s pretty surprised she got this much from Dean. She was expecting a hell of a lot less and that might just have been easier to deal with than this.

“I’m gonna get him killed.”

“If that’s some bullcrap worry that someone’s gonna use your feelings against you, too late. That ship sailed, dude. Everyone already knows.”

“No, I mean. I mean…I’m gonna be doing the killing. You saw him,” Dean says, staring at the table, “Before.”

“Yeah,” Dea says, “You pretty much decimated the guy, but you stopped. Sam – your Sam – said something about some chick curing Cain for decades,”

“Right,” Dean says, shaking his head, “Until he went on a hundred people strong murder spree because he got a little antsy beekeeping. Colette. If only she was immortal, huh?”

“Cas is,” Dea says, “Immortal.”

“Cain told me that...” Dean says, swallowing, then glancing downwards, “Dunno how much you know about the first blade or our little prize fight but, uh… Cain got time to lay some wisdom down on me, before I iced him. He told me how it was gonna go down. Me. He said I’m gonna kill Crowley,”

“Sounds like a win to me,”

“Then Cas,” Dean says, eyes a little glazed over, grip so tight on his beer that Dea’s a little worried it’s about to explode, “Then Sam. And then I’m gonna kill the world.” There’s not a single word Dea can say to that. “So I can’t. Not now, not ever. No matter what I want. So I’m waiting till Cas is strong enough to go home just in case anything comes up, then I’m gonna disappear. Cas is gonna head back, alone, and I am going to deal.”

“Okay,” Dea says, nodding slowly, “Take any supplies you need.”

“Thanks,” Dean grunts, going to drain the last of his beer, but stopping when he realises there’s nothing left in it. It’s been empty for a while. “Did you, uh, talk to your Cas about the grace thing?”

Dea’s taking that as an apology for messing in her relationship.

“Yeah,” Dea nods, “We’re gonna go find her grace after this is all cleaned up.”

“Good,” Dean says, looking a little pained, “Good for you.”

*

“I love you, okay?” Dea says, chest pounding, because it's pretty much the third time she's ever said it, but, damnit, Dean got to her. Because Dea would do the same. Because they are the same. Because, in another world, she might just kill Castiel. “You’re everything. You know that right? You’ve always known that.”

“It took me a while to catch on. It was very human of me,”

“But, since you’ve been human,”

“Yes,” Cas says, “I know. Do you need me to hold you?" Cas asks which, so much fucking yes, and then Dea is kicking the door shut behind her and basically face planting onto Cas' lap, because Cas is perfect whilst Dea’s a damn mess who pretty much just sanctioned Dean breaking the other Cas’ heart.

She did that. She basically confirmed it was the right thing for him to go. To walk out on Cas and Sam. To just leave.

“Spoke to Dean,” Dea mutters into Cas’ lap, as she runs her fingers through Dea’s hair, “He raises some good points for a guy who’s got a dark mark.”

“This is a very emotionally difficult situation for everyone,”

“Even you, Pinocchio?”

“I’m a real girl now, Dea,”

“Hah,” Dea says.

“I’ve been thinking about my body,”

“Yeah, I do that a lot,” Dea leers, sitting up, “What about it?”

“I want to age,” Cas says, like she’s talking about buying a new shirt, not about the crappy process that two thirds of the planet are trying to avoid; chasing good health and youth all the damn way to their death beds. “Also, sex is better when I’m human,”

“Knew it,” Dea says, “Knew it.”

“It’s like hunger. It’s much more satisfying when it fulfils the need. When I’m an angel, I only feel the satisfaction.”

“So, whatcha thinking?”

Dea asks, hating herself, just a little, for the tiny hope that Cas will decide she doesn't want her grace back.

“Perhaps there’s a way I could partially restore my grace,”

“Could look into it,” Dea agrees “Tell Sam we’re researching how to keep your humanity-Viagra, she’ll be into it. Humi-agra. Viagra-manity. Cas, sounds like a frigging wale. Viagramanity.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Dea exhales.

“In which case, please take off your boots or remove your feet from the bed. ”

“Such a fucking princess,” Dea rolls her eyes, kicking them off before burying her face in Cas’ side.

Chapter Text

“I have a confession,” Castiel says, suddenly in the doorway of Dean’s room, expression almost unreadable. Dean’s back to drinking whiskey in Dea’s bedroom and staring at the wall and he’s pretty sure the last thing he needs right now is dealing with Cas. His head’s fucked. He feels a little like he’s had his brain pulverised then pumped back into his skull. His chest aches. He doesn’t exactly feel good about the fact that he spilled out his whole soul – even if only to himself as a herself – but there’s something to the fact that Dea agrees with his plan. She gets it. She gets him, now, even if she basically hates him. He’s pretty sure that’s reassuring.

“Yeah?” Dean says, not looking up from his glass of whiskey, trying not to grind his teeth, even though he knows it would probably help. He might just need Cas to go away, but he fucking hates telling Cas to leave.

“I overheard part of your conversation with Deanna,”

“You mean you eavesdropped,” Dean corrects, stomach turning over, because he was wrong before. This is the last thing he needs. This is the absolute fucking last thing he needs. “There’s a difference there, buddy.” Cas blinks at him. He looks pretty guilty about it, but that doesn’t help, because there’s a lot of crap that Cas isn’t supposed to know about. No one is supposed to know about that. With Dea, he was clearing the air. He was trying to make her understand, because Dean wanted to understand her too, but Cas… he didn’t need to know all that crap from when he was a teenager. Even if… even if something was gonna happen, Cas didn’t need to know that. He didn’t need that information. “That was a private frigging conversation, Cas, you had no right to do that,”

“I know, Dean, I’m -”

“– it’s done,” Dean snaps, “How much did you hear?” Silence. “How much did you frigging hear, Cas?”

“I was following you,” Cas says, “After our conversation. I wanted…”

“Forget it,” Dean says.

“I left when Dea mentioned me,” Cas says. Dean doesn’t immediately tell him to fuck off, which Cas takes as a cue to sit down on the other side of Dean’s bed, which isn’t exactly what he meant. “I thought you wouldn’t want to be alone.” He probably doesn’t, actually, he just doesn’t want to be around Cas or Sam or any other person he knows, either. Now kinda sounds like a great to point to get back to the Dean Winchester time old classic tradition of picking up women in bars, because that would help. He’d no doubt feel crappy and unsatisfied after (he doesn’t know when the dissatisfaction crept in, but he’s blaming Cas), but it would help for a little while. “Dean, I wanted to understand you.”

“You understand me fine,” Dean grunts, letting his head fall to the back of his head board and slamming his eyes shut. It means Cas probably heard all the crap about his childhood and his Dad and Cassie, but left before Dean near enough said he was in love with Cas, and before Dean said he was going to leave. It could have been worse. He’d probably have never talked about any of that crap ever again and, hell, maybe Cas deserves to know. He’s gotta be wondering why the hell they’re not screwing in this reality, if everything the others have said about how Cas feels is true. “Can we not talk about this?”

“Okay,”

“It’s not… aint like it’s some big guarded secret that I’ve spent my whole life repressing. It’s just not relevant. I don’t… I don’t engage. It doesn’t matter. It’s just this thing.”

“You gave up a lot to hunt,”

“Cas, of all the dumb shit I gave up for hunting, that’s pretty far down the list,” Dean says, eyes still shut, because this conversation is much easier if he doesn’t have to look at Cas, who knows about fucking Dylan Scott, for fuck’s sake. Damnit, Dean wishes Cas hadn’t heard that. Or at least that he’d pretended he hadn’t heard of it. Screw Cas for having a conscious that kicks in half an hour late.

“Dean,” Cas says, “I am not an American high schooler or a closeted drifter you picked up at a bar,”

Dean’s eyes snap open.

He’s suddenly aware that Castiel is very, very close. Closer than he’d been last night, when he’d fallen asleep on the other side of Dean’s bed. Closer than those times Dean’s had to ask him to back off. Personal space, Cas. Closer than he’s ever been, actually, so that Dean’s paralysed in that blue, blue gaze, still with his back to the headboard, suddenly painfully aware of his breathing.

Cas is coming on to him. He thought he was, earlier, when Cas said that crap about not being bothered by sexual orientation, but Dean thought he’d shut him down pretty thoroughly, because Dean does care. He doesn’t swing that way. He might have done, before, once or twice, but, not anymore. Not now. He doesn’t… he can’t. It’s barely even about the Cas-is-a-guy-thing, either (because, technically, he’s a wave of celestial intent anyway; he doesn’t have a gender, he’s just living in a body with a dick, which counts as being a dude as far as Dean’s concerned). It’s never been about that with Cas. It’s about everything else. It’s about how they’ve hurt each other so many times. It’s about how Dean couldn’t trust himself not to ruin him. It’s about Dean caring so much it scares him. It’s about how selfish Dean is when he cares like that. It’s about what he’d do to keep him.

It’s about what others would think, just a bit. Sam he can deal with, but he knows that kind of crap gets out. People have suggested stuff before. He’s damn sure it’d take one monster to start spouting stuff for it to be common knowledge that Dean was screwing an angel, with a dick, and he can’t imagine that causing anything but unnecessary shit for all of them. Yeah, it makes him a fucking coward, but the idea of the backlash is just… too much.

But, then, Castiel isn’t a scared high school kid on a football team or some rough guy in a bar. He’s got a point.

On the other hand, violence, threats of violence, disgust and shame have been cornerstones of ways they’ve betrayed each other over the years. It’s not like that’s ancient history. Dean nearly beat him to death last week and he still can’t think about that before reaching for the mark and pressing his thumb into the flesh.

Cas catches his hand before it gets to the crook of his elbow.

“Dean,” Cas says, that stupid fucking deep gravel in his voice, close enough that Dean can feel his breath. Dean’s lips part of their own accord and then he’s just gaping at him like his brain’s dropped out, which it kinda feels like it has. “What are you thinking about?”

Nothing.

“Cas, you…”

Sam already knows. He’s been playing host to the chick, bisexual version of himself and Sam’s way too smart not to see straight through whatever method Dean’s going to pick to gloss over all of it. Hell, Dean was pretty surprised when Sam didn’t dig into the siren thing that hard and just accepted it at face value. Now, though, Sam definitely knows. Whether he pushes Dean to talk about it (not that he’d get any success) or not, Dean’s not sure, but he knows. He won’t care.

Cas knows.

He has a point.

“Dean,” Cas says, voice wrecked and, fuck, Dean can’t do this. Castiel is absolutely definitely about to kiss him and he’s spent so long not thinking about how much he’s wanted it, because it was dangerous and he needed not to fall down the rabbit hole; but there’s Cas and he listened to Dean baring his soul, and he thought Dean didn’t want to be alone and he’s frigging hitting on him and this nauseas giddiness is settling in his gut, but he can’t. He can’t. He can’t do it.

One second he’s frozen, the next he can see Cas’ blood under his fingernails, then he accidentally slams his head against the wall in his effort to stand up as quickly as possible. Half his glass of whiskey sloshes over his t-shirt. Pain reverberates round his head.

“Sonuva –”

“Dean,” Cas says, eyes narrowing in concern, then he’s making to stand up and follow Dean’s ungainly progress to the other side of the room, because obviously Castiel doesn’t get that Dean nearly knocking himself out to get himself some space isn’t an invitation to get closer.

“Cas,” Dean hisses, waving a hand at him to keep him away, other hand clutching the back of his head. “You. Stay. That side of the room.”

“It’s good to see your being mature about this,”

“There’s no ‘this’ to be mature about,”

“If you really feel like that then –”

“ – Cas, come on,” Dean says, heart lurching in his chest. Cas gave him another opportunity to shut him down and Dean didn’t let him finish, even if most of his atoms are screaming in protest. He doesn’t do this. “You… you know I can’t,”

“Why?”

Dean swallows.

“This is difficult for you,” Cas says, swinging his legs over to Dean’s side of the bed in a gesture that’s confusingly human, like Dean needs anymore frigging confusion. His brain’s screwed. Coherency left a long ass time ago, “but you cannot continue to wilfully ignore –“

“- why?” Dean asks, “Why the hell can't I, Cas?”

“They are happy.”

“Cas, we are not the same people. I’m not. You said yourself my soul is fucked –”

“ – that’s not –“

“You want happy? You piss off and talk to her,”

“I don’t want to talk to her,” Cas says, “I want you to explain what’s different.”

“Everything,”

“You know I'm in love with you,”

He does know that. He knows that. He’s known that for a helluva a lot longer than he’s been prepared to admit it himself, because that made every crappy thing he’s done to Cas a hundred times worse. It’s different having it yelled in his face.

It feels like he’s been slapped. It stings.

“Damnit, Cas, I can't deal with this –”

“You know Dean. This isn't a surprise,”

“You think this is good timing, Cas? I tried to kill you -"

“I don’t care,” Cas says, standing up again and forcing himself into Dean’s personal space like he owns it, and Dean really, really wants to kiss him. Cas has opened the floodgates with this confession crap because now it’s been acknowledged. They’ve been smooth sailing through this whole thing for years and now Cas has fucked it all up. He’s fucked up everything because how the hell is he supposed to look Cas in the face without drowning in his goddamn feelings, now that they’ve talked about? Yeah, maybe it was more yelling than talking, but they’ve opened the hell gate now. There’s no smoothing this over and squashing it back down. He can’t function like this. He’s done.

“I know you don’t care, that’s half the damn problem,” Dean says, “Cas, I’m not good enough to – ”

“You cannot sell that bullshit to me,”

“I can’t,” Dean says, voice cracking. He’s weak and he’s a screwed up mess and he cannot deal with the way Cas’ eyes widen in something a little like sympathy, only tinged with irritation. Of course Cas is pissed. Of course he’s pissed. Dean’s a grade A asshole who’s been acting like this thing between them doesn’t need talking about for years because he’s too much of a coward to deal with the consequences. Castiel steps closer – Dean can feel the electric heat of Cas’ body when he’s this fucking close - and tilts his head at him. It’s the same expression he wore when he delivered you don’t think you deserve to be saved (which, yeah, he didn’t). Even then, Cas had the ability to stare right through his chest and scoop out the shitty, dark bits of his heart that he pretends aren’t there with a few words. Even then, before everything they’ve been through.

“Why?”

“Would you have done it?” Dean asks, jaw clenched. Cas is standing so damn close and a few seconds ago Cas was about to kiss him. Dean can’t. He can’t. But Cas is right there and Cas is in love with him and he’s not a dumb high schooler or a stranger and all he wants to know is why. It’s just, Dean doesn’t have an answer. Not a good one, anyway. He’s got plenty of damn answers, but they’re all messed up, screwed up reflections of the worst bits of Dean Winchester, but he... “Would you have done it?” Dean asks again, mouth dry, throat tight, chest pounding. Cas' eyes narrow in confusion. “Stayed. Would you have stayed for the trials if I'd asked you too?”

“Yes,”

Dean grabs a handful of Castiel’s shirt. He's pretty sure there's a large part of him that wants to punch him in the face, because that means it's Castiel's fault that all of this shit happened, because he should have known that Dean wanted him too. He shouldn't have had to ask. He should have just known and that should have been enough, but it wasn’t. There’s so much blood on their hands and Dean needs to pull him even closer way more than he needs to hurt him. Cas just follows the movement till their chest to chest, like he isn’t a fucking angel and like Dean actually has the power to drag him around, and then Dean kisses him. He doesn't mean to, but suddenly it's happening. It’s happening.

Fuck, it’s happening.

Cas is kissing him like he goddamn means it, which he does; he doesn’t doubt that, hasn’t for a long time. Dean’s so angry at him. He’s been angry at him since the day after the apocalypse when Castiel abandoned Dean and pissed off back to heaven, there was just never time to deal with it. It figures; he’s been in love with him for longer than and he never dealt with that, either. Cas dragged him out of hell, fell from heaven and gave up a whole fucking army for Dean and he’s got a hand cupping his jaw and pulling Dean in closer. He tightens his grip on Cas’ shirt. Cas’ chest is warm. His head’s too full to take in all of it at once because this is Castiel. Castiel’s tongue and teeth and hands and body heat. Castiel, angel of the lord Castiel, who’s pushy and pissed off and demanding, but has still managed to derail this fucking kiss into something soft and slow. He’d started it bitter and heated and years of pent up longing and rejection, but Cas slots them together just so, so that he’s kissing him in a way that leaves no doubt that Cas loves him. He couldn’t be that goddamn sincere about it if he wasn’t.

Dean hasn’t been kissed without their being a destination in mind for a long time and it brings ice cold reality sloshing over him all at once. The mark. His soul. He’s leaving. Even Dea thinks he should leave. Dean pulls away.

“Cas,” Dean mutters, jaw set. This close, Dean gets to absorb every inch of Castiel’s expression as he works out what’s about to happen. He gets his eyes flicking to Dean’s, then to the hard line of Dean’s lips, then the clenched fists, then back to meeting his eyes again. He gets, up close, Cas’ minute emotional responses; frustration then resignation. By the time Cas is frowning at him, Dean doesn’t even have to say anything. Cas has got it. Dean’s projecting it loud enough for socially illiterate angel Castiel to get it and it breaks his chest clean open all over again. He’s the worst.

“Okay, Dean,” Cas says, taking a step back. Dean just kissed that stoic frown, ran a thumb over his jawline, a hand through his bedhead. There’s no salvaging any of it now. It’s done. “Goodnight,” Castiel says, clipped and impersonal, then he’s straight out the door.

Dean’s not entirely sure what Fate’s game plan was when she messed with his memories and dropped him in a different alternate reality, but if she was aiming for him to hate himself even more than usual she’s definitely nailing it.

Chapter Text

“We’re out of onions,” Dean declares, half way through the next day, whilst everyone’s sat around debating the best way to save his ass, like he’s still in salvation’s reach. Personally, Dean’s spent the day inhaling caffeine and trying not to drown in the sea of his internal bullshit. He didn’t sleep last night. He’d be drinking if he didn’t think he’d get crap from everyone for it. “I’m gonna do a supply run,”

“Dean, I’m sure we can deal without onions,” Sam says, frowning at him over her laptop. She’s been staring at a webpage with an alternative version of the Cain story written on an angsty teenager’s blog, who had real issues with the catholic school she was forced into seems like, for the past forty minutes. Dean’s pretty damn sure his version of Sam found the same webpage and was desperate enough to try and take it seriously, too, and it doesn’t improve his mood any.

“Dea was gonna make burgers,”

“So she makes them without onions,”

“Dude,”

“Or she makes something else,” Sam says, rolling her eyes, “I did a supply run like two days ago, Dean, we’re good. And I bought onions. Did you look in the cupboard?”

“Sammy, I’m telling you, we’re out of frigging onions.”

“He’s just trying to flake out on research,” Dea says, not looking up from her own book, even though she hasn’t turned a page for at least twenty minutes, “You’d think he could try for a little appreciation, given we’re all trying to save his ass.”

“Screw you, Buffy,”

“Yeah, I’m gonna go ahead and assume that’s a pop culture reference that doesn’t translate across realities.”

“Teenager vampire slayer,” Castiel, male Castiel, puts in, flipping his own book shut. He’s avoided Dean the whole morning (or maybe Dean’s been the one doing the avoiding, but the end result is the same), but then Dean was pretty much expecting that. Counting on it, even, because he hasn’t got a damn clue what he can say to the guy after they pretty much made out last night.

“Nope,” Dea says, hand rubbing the back of her neck, “Wait, Benny the Vampire Slayer? That crappy show that got cancelled after one season? Dude, he was a chick in your reality? That sounds frigging sweet.”

“Seven seasons and a comic book series,” Castiel says, “And a morally questionable relationship between Buffy and –”

“ – Benny the vampire slayer?” Dean asks, corners of his lips pulling upwards despite himself, “Benny,” He gets a blank look from the others, so he focuses in on Cas instead. “Come on, Cas, you gotta admit that’s a little funny,”

“I’m sure a great deal of our lives would be funny if they weren’t happening to us,”

“Aren’t you a ray of sunshine today,” Dean comments, which gets him a sharp look he definitely, definitely deserves. Damn, Dean is the worst and, yeah, this whole pretending last night never happened is definitely not going to work. At all. “Uh, anyway. Supply run.”

“I’ll come with you,” Cas says, standing up.

“Seems like a solo mission, buddy,” Dean says, barely forcing the words out of this throat, but he needs some time to think. He can’t do that with Cas in the same building. Not right now, anyway, when the guy’s like a magnet and Dean can’t quite decide whether he wants Cas to repel him or draw him closer.

“You don’t want me to come with you,”

“I need to think,” Dean says, which gets the other Cas and Sam raising their eyes to meet his, which is completely unwelcome. Dean shifts slightly on the balls of his feet and actually catches Cas’ eye, which he’s been avoiding doing since he walked out of Dea’s bedroom last night. It feels just as much like a head on collision as Dean thought it would.

“Think,” Cas repeats, sitting down again, “Fine.”

He wants to apologise, but it’s a little late for that and they’ve got an audience. Later, maybe.

“Let us know if you think of anything useful,” Dea says, offering a little wave, “Oh and can you pick me up some personal stuff?”

“Yeah, no way, sister,” Dean says, “You got any reasonable requests, Cas has my number.”

“Bet he does,”

“Okay, I’m out,” Dean says, grip tightening on Dea’s knife which he slipped back into his jeans yesterday. The mark might not be making him run hot, on edge and violent, but he’s still a hunter and he still aint going anywhere without some kind of ammo. He’s got no idea what big bad is lurking round the corner in this reality, because there has to be something. That’s kinda how this shit show works.

*

He feels a little better the second he hits the road. It’s a little dumb how much being behind the front wheel of his baby can make anything better (even though that classic magic cure didn’t work with the mark; with the mark it was hard to care about anything at all) and it’s crazy how much easier it is to think about his emotions when he’s in motion.

If things had been different, he still wouldn’t have been able to make it work with Lisa. He’d have gotten the itch to move on, to get in his car, to put her in his review mirror and turn up somewhere where no one knew who he was and where no one expected anything from him at all. Someplace where he’d just get to be the embodiment of all the assumptions strangers made about him, rather than himself. The only reason the desire to leave hadn’t snuck in during that year was because he was too damn depressed for it too.

With Cas, though, they might just have had a chance. Well, obviously they would have. He’s gotten to see that the past couple of days plenty. He’s seen the way they move round each other and it’s so fucking obvious that it works just fine, even if there’s some unresolved stuff there. They hunt together. They take dirty weekends together. They argue about dumb shit. They kiss and make up. They kiss in front of Sam who doesn’t seem to give two shits about it at all. He didn’t ask how they are in public, but Dean pretty much can’t imagine Dea compromising one inch. She’s so frigging comfortable with all of it.

She’s better than Dean, but he knew that the second he caught a glimpse of the two realities.

He’s leaving tomorrow.

He’s leaving tomorrow and he can’t have his last frigging conversation with Castiel – after everything they’ve been through – to be last night. Cas deserves better than that. He deserved better than Dean’s escapist, emotional-avoidance, complete lack of explanation. He didn’t even say anything. He just let Cas walk out like that’s what he wanted, which it wasn’t, not for a damn second, it’s just that Dean doesn’t get what he wants. That’s not how the world works. That’s not how it’s ever worked and those occasions where Dean has forced the world to give him wants, he’s’ screwed everything. Not that he regrets it. He doesn’t regret any of the times he dragged Sam back from death, but that’s a different ballgame.

It can’t end like that.

They’ve had a lot of supposed-endings and they’ve all been utter shit. They were unsatisfying and awful or downright painful. He’s had Cas letting go of his hand on the escape from purgatory, which hurt so fucking bad that Dean’s brain rewrote the whole thing so that it wasn’t Cas’ choice, because that was so, so much worse than Dean screwing up (and how could have Dean let things get so bad that Cas was ready to hang in the towel? And Cas told him and Dean didn’t even fucking doing anything to help? Cas wanted out and Dean didn’t do anything. He didn’t do anything.) He’s had Cas just disappear in the middle of the damn conversation. He’s clinked beers with him in a bar like Cas locking himself in heaven didn’t make Dean want to scream at him that it wasn’t worth it. They were all fucking terrible. Every damn time he damn nearly choked on his regret with every single thing he never said and then every time he carried on sitting on all of those things, because… because saying them would feel like pulling out his intestines with a pair of tweezers and Dean’s a coward.

That doesn’t mean he can leave things like they are. Unfinished.

And Cas knows. This thing between them has been poked at and Dean’s crappy version of denial wasn’t exactly convincing. He barely even tried. He caved in under the weight of six years of stuff they haven’t said and things they haven’t talked about and he doesn’t know how the hell he could brush over that now. Cas said he was in love with him. Cas actually said it, with words, yelled at him in Dea’s bedroom. He demanded to know why Dean was acting like he didn’t know or didn’t care or whatever else. Cas has gotta know that that’s just Dean’s bullshit. He’s gotta know that’s everything.

They can’t pretend it didn’t happen. Dean’s not even sure he wants to but, either way, it’s not possible. He can carve open his chest and explain every single reason why he can’t do it, but… he’s a little less convinced than he was when he started talking to Dea last night (because, yeah, Cas isn’t a closeted high schooler under a lot of pressure from his football team or an internally homophobic asshole in a bar; he’s Castiel) and he’s pretty sure that most of his reasons are just gonna piss Cas off. He’d deal with it. He wouldn’t push, but he wouldn’t understand, either, and Dean’s not sure he can deal with Castiel being left thinking that Dean didn’t think he was worth it. That’s how it would sound. It would sound like Dean added it all up and decided Cas mattered less than Dean’s decades old internal conflicts and that’s not right. That’s not really how he feels.

If this is the last time he’s going to see Castiel, he wants to be honest, for once in their goddamn lives.

He wants to try for some closure. He hasn’t got a clue what that would look like because he’s never let himself think about it before. He rejected that whole line of enquiry before he dwelled on it, because his knee jerk reaction for such a long ass time has been to repress. Well, he’s got an idea. It’s just the idea conjures up bone deep terror and makes him want to slam his foot down on the gas and drive to Canada.

In the end, he sits in the parking lot of the regular haunt for groceries for a good hour (it’s exactly the same as his reality), staring at the sarcastic text from Sam about how she double checked and they do have onions that was sent ten minutes after he set off, and wondering whether sending an apology text to Cas is too cowardly. He types out three botched attempts before throwing the damn thing in the back of the car and heading into the store to buy extra beer, because Dean’s been burning through it pretty quickly.

He can’t face driving home slowly, but he does drive fast in the wrong direction for a long time before turning back to the bunker.

*

“Take Cas’ continental as far as town,” Dea says, when Dean slinks into the war room, after eating one of Dea’s warmed up burgers alone and pealing the label of three separate beer bottles. He hasn’t even fucking seen Cas, let alone tried for closure, but apparently his wallowing was obvious enough that Dea knows where his head’s at. “It’ll buy you time. If you bring shit down on us for whatever you steal next, I’ll hunt you down myself. There’s cash in my duffle. Take whatever food you need. Leave a note like we haven’t discussed this. Clear?”

“Crystal,” Dean comments, “Where’s Cas?”

“My room,” Dea says, not looking at him, gaze still fixed on the book she’s reading (it’s ostentatiously mark related, which means she’s been doing research, which means perhaps she’s not as gung-how about this Dean leaving as she previously made out to be). “You gonna tell him?”

“No,” Dean says, “He’ll try and stop me,”

“Yeah,” Dea agrees, “You’re a fucking asshole, you know that?”

“Preaching to the choir, buddy,” Dean says, shrugging his shoulders “Was nice meeting you, lady.”

“Really?”

“Not really,” Dean says, gut aching a little, “Sometimes you can do without the reality check.”

“Yeah,” Dea grunts, “Damn fucking right. You buy more beer?”

“Yeah,”

“Find the onions okay?”

“Hilarious,” Dean comments, hovering in the doorway, “Will you, uh, make sure he goes back?”

“I’ll try,” Dea says, meeting his gaze, “Reckon it’ll tank, but I’ll try.”

“Thanks. See you on the other side,”

“Man I hope not,” Dea says, “And keep out of the way of Fate, buddy.”

“Copy that,” Dean says, lifting a hand in a half wave before regretting it and heading for the exit. Dea resolutely stays staring at her book but Dean would bet his life she aint reading a damn thing, she’s just pissed and trying to act like she doesn’t care.

It’s strikes him that both Castiel’s are probably going to work out that Dea was involved and that she’s probably going to be in the doghouse for it. She didn't have to be involved. Dean shouldn't have dragged her into it.

Meanwhile, Dean’s got eight hours left before he disappears into the wind to fit in closure for the most complicated relationship of Dean's life.

*

Dean locks the door of Dea’s bedroom door behind him, which makes enough noise that Castiel looks up at him with a steely frown. There’s not a whole lot of warmth there, but then again Dean did make out with him then thoroughly stonewall him and act like it didn’t happen all day. He doesn’t exactly get the moral high ground, here.

Cas was evidentially flicking through the copy of slaughter house five Dean found at the bottom of one of Dea's drawers (before the tampons freaked him out beyond his curiosity about his female-self) when Dean walked in. He glances back at it and fixes it with a confused stare, like it's written in a language he doesn't understand, even though Cas understands every single damn one.

"Reading is a very different experience to knowing the story,"

Dean's suddenly really fucking angry at Metatron for that stunt, because it's not fair that Cas knows what happens in Star Wars without ever actually watching it. It's bullshit that all of those opportunities have been taking away from him by a jumped up angel obsessed with genre messing with his head. It's a violation that Cas doesn't get to work out how stories work on his own. It's also completely off piece. He had a plan and Cas has already run him off the track with one damn sentence, because Castiel has resolutely and absolutely been Not Part Of the Plan and absolutely never conforms to any of the boxes in Dean’s head. He’s spent years messing up Dean’s internal filing system, so it’s not surprising he’s messing up operation: closure without knowing down a god damn thing about it.

Then again, Dean did lock the door. He’s not exactly being subtle.

“Did you want something, Dean?” Cas asks, eyes rising to meet his again.

"Yeah," Dean says. Cas' eyes flicker to the locked door, then he puts the book down on Dea's bedside table. He's sat on her bed with his shoes kicked off, toes exposed. These days he wears the bits of humanity he picked up like a medal. It’s oddly unsettling. Dean’s spent such a long time convincing himself that Cas is an untouchable, foreign beast that having Cas making himself comfortable on Dea’s bed makes him… well, it makes him want. It makes him want bad, he just never let himself admit it in those terms.

“Okay,” Cas says, intonation flat. His gaze is unyielding and absolutely unapologetic. Dean almost wishes it was a little softer right this second, but not really, because then it would be a little less Cas. Dean's throat is dry. He didn't see it happening like this. He figured there'd be a bit more spontaneity about it. He figured it would just happen. He didn't count on it being awkward.

"Screw it," Dean mutters, then he makes the four steps to Cas' side of the bed and kisses him, which means it's been Dean's fault both times. Cas surges forward to meet him, though, then he pulls Dean in, back, by his shirt, till Dean's a helluva lot more on Dea's bed than he intended to be. And, okay, it might strictly be Dean’s fault, but Cas is definitely in charge of Dean’s mental ruin.

He always figured it would happen in a rush, like a damn bursting open. That if it happened, they'd be scrabbling at each other's skin, hard kisses, heat, passion, need. It's not like that. It's like they're still balancing on a knife edge. Cas knocks him totally off course by pulling back just to look at him, blue gaze flicks to Dean's mouth, then he kisses Dean's bottom lip like they're not both choking on the tension. Dean's brain dead. He can't remember how this shit works even though he’s spent the whole day scrubbing together a game plan.

Cas reaches forward to touch his face. Dean's just fucking staring at him whilst Cas brushes a thumb over the shell of Dean's ear, like that's the main destination. Cas kisses him again, slow and purposeful, like he's memorising it, and there's no reason in hell why that should make his adrenaline spike so hard, but he can't breathe past his fight or flight instinct, which is telling him to run even though that's the last damn thing he wants to do. This is what he wants. He's wanted this for years. He's wanted it for so damn long and he didn't think his fucked up brain was gonna make it this goddamn terrifying.

Cas' hands continues across Dean's jaw, then his thumb finds the pulse point on his neck. He frowns in slow motion.

"You're ... freaking out," Cas says, the phrase clearly in quotation marks. He is. He's fully freaking out, but Cas wasn't supposed to notice.

Their noses are almost touching.

Dean makes a vague noise of frustration at the back of his throat then kisses again, hard, in an effort to pull things back to Winchester Speed. Cas has a magical ability to draw things out, though, and they're back to Cas staring at him looking awed less than a minute later, which gives Dean’s thoughts the chance to tie themselves up in knots and continue freaking the fuck out.

"I want to relish you," Cas says, deep and close enough that Dean can feel the air shift around them.

"Uh," Dean says, whatever word he had are lodged somewhere behind his windpipe because, fuck, fuck.

"If you're... amenable,"

"Yeah," Dean says.

"But you're… anxious," Cas says, drawing back and squinting at him, which is only going to make things worse, and Dean can’t handle that right now.

"I'm having brain lag," Dean blurts.

“Brain lag,”

“Hey that could be a real thing,” Dean says, “This is... this is a big mental shift, okay?” Cas frowns. “Damnit,” Dean says, “I'm in. Just…”

Dean kisses him again at the designated Castiel pace, slow, because Cas wants to frigging relish him. The part of his head that wants to rush through this because it's fucking terrifying doesn't get the final word just because it's been running the show for a decades. It's funny, because Dean believed his opting out mantra, and he didn't for one second thing that when it came down to it all those layers of bullshit might have been absorbed by his head, till he's a little paralysed and wordless and a goddamn mess. He actually can't and every time Cas kisses him like it means everything, it teases a little of that out his chest.

Cas pulls him into another kiss, ungainly enough that they both tip sideways, which draws out a laugh. This is almost sex, which isn't scary. Dean knows how this works (a hell of a lot more than Cas does, anyway) and, yeah, it's Cas' rough jawline under his lips, and it's Cas' fingertips against the nape of his neck, holding him close, but that's good. Better. The best. This is a good thing that Dean’s allowed, if only for closure purposes. He can have this. It’s okay for him to want it. It’s okay.

“Dean,” Cas mutters into Dean’s skin, and that’s more than okay, it’s pretty fucking awesome, actually. Cas uses his name a lot. All the time. This time it’s even lower than normal, but it’s still as demanding as ever and it’s hot. Dean’s head-s getting into gear, now (because this is good and okay and allowed), even if is heart rate isn’t slowing down to match.

Running his lips over Cas’ neck is an awesome idea, because Cas gets wide eyed and pushy, and then Dean’s pinned flat on Deanna’s bed with a hundred and seventy pounds of angel holding him there. And, holy hell, this is happening.

It's not something he's ever told someone, but he kind of likes not being in control when it comes to sex. He never really dissected it, but Cas, a little rumpled and most definitely in charge - as illogical as that might be, given relevant experience - is definitely a massive turn on.

Dean reaches forward to unknot Cas' tie, deliberately taking his time about it, because apparently that's the name of this game and, actually, that's probably better. If Dean had bulldozed in and done this full speed ahead, he wouldn't have the time to process on the go. He'd feel a lot less like he was walking a tight rope, but the afterwards would have been much worse. It’s probably still gonna hit him hard, but still. This is a huge deal. This is closure. They might as well draw it out.

Then he remembers he’s leaving first thing tomorrow, because he’s tainted and broken and destructive and that Cas loves him too much to let him stay here, which means this is all they get. Just this. Just tonight, right here, and that pretty much drives the rest of his freak out straight out of his head.

*

When he walked into April's apartment and saw Cas half shirtless and tied up, for a split second he was frozen in how human Castiel was. It wasn't just the exposed skin and the vulnerability, but Dean could tell. Humanity had softened his edges. He looked older. He looked tired. He looked like he might just understand that feeling of waking up in the middle of the damn night and being sad for no reason. It hit him again when Dean asked him to leave the bunker, but it hasn't cut through him quite so poignantly for a while. Probably a mixture of the mark and Cas getting his grace back. He's been distracted. Cas had his mojo.

It hits him again now.

Cas doesn't give a damn about nudity, clearly, if the way he's stretched out on top of Dean's covers is anything to go by. He also doesn't give a damn about his gaze boring into Dean's flesh, like he should equally have no problem with nudity.

“Eyes off the goods, Cas,”

“Why?” Cas asks and, fuck, his voice right now. It sounds like he's woken up the morning after smoking forty cigarettes and it rumbles through him and it's fucking A.

"You had your hands all over them two minutes ago."

"Exactly," Cas says, then twist round to kiss him again. Dean's got crap bouncing round his head again now his upstairs brain is back in control and Cas leaning forward to kiss him again helps a lot, actually, even if it's wracking up the levels of guilt he's feeling. Fuck. Fuck this. “Dean,”

“Yeah,” Dean mutters, curling a hand round his jaw to pull him in close, “Hey.”

“Your pulse has slowed,”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “That happens, Cas,”

“Oh,”

“We probably should’ve done that years ago,” Dean says. He's aiming for jovial but his pretty sure he missed, given Cas' expression.

“You wanted me to seal up heaven,” Cas says, voice the gravelliest it’s ever been and a helluva lot more serious than Dean wanted it to be. He should have seen it coming. Cas is like that.

Dean drops his hand from Cas’ jaw.

“I didn’t,”

“ET goes home,”

“Cas,” Dean exhales, “Saying that killed me,”

“Then why say it?” Cas asks, voice forcefully steady, but way too full of emotion for Dean’s comfort. “Why say it, Dean?”

“What the fuck else could I say, Cas?” Dean asks, massaging his temple, “You had a chance to fix heaven and you wanted to take it. You asked me to help you.”

“You expect me to stay when you need me, Dean, but you don’t ask.”

“Cas,”

“For years, Dean –”

“ – you’re not a fucking princess, Cas, you didn’t have to wait around for me to ask. You could have stayed because you wanted to. You could have stayed ‘cause you wanted to be around, not piss off every chance you got.”

“You prayed for me when you needed me,”

“Like you dropped in every other day for a catch up,” Dean says, “First chance you got, you ditched me. You were just gone, Cas. We stopped the frigging apocalypse and you just left,”

“Heaven –“

“ – right,” Dean interrupts, “Heaven was having another pissing fest. I get it. It’s just, you’ve been using the same excuse for five frigging years.”

“Why are my priorities never important?”

“That’s not the problem,”

“For years your problems have taken precedent in my life,”

“I’m not gonna apologise for calling for help when the world’s about to blow.”

“I’m talking about Sam,”

“Cas, what the hell has Sam gotta do with any of this crap?”

“You expect me to know I’m important to you whilst consistently undervaluing me,” Cas says, voice level, but packed full of a whole lot of stuff that Dean doesn’t want to touch. It doesn’t look like he’s going to get a choice about it, though. “You call for my assistance as a last resort. You don’t ask about heaven or the angels, but would rather let that be my problem. You undermine me. You don’t trust me, but you expect me to inherently adhere to your wishes,”

“I told you you’re family,”

“Then act like it,” Cas says, eyes narrowed, “I don’t understand why this is a problem for you. I won’t pretend I do, because clearly I’m unqualified, but you can’t retain emotional distance for self-preservation and expect me to know how you feel,”

“Cas,” Dean says, “I’ve spent five goddamn years simultaneously dreading and looking for a reason to call for your help, okay? I’ve told you I’d die for you tomorrow –”

“ – you’re always irresponsibly quick to lay down your life for anyone,” Cas says, mouth an unhappy slant, “I’m trying to explain.”

“I know I screwed up,” Dean says, “Damnit, Cas, I’m still screwing up. I’m ruining everything right this second, but we didn’t have any time. We didn’t have the fucking luxury of working this stuff out. Apparently we could’ve started working it out in purgatory if I wasn’t so frigging repressed, but… Cas, you gotta understand, this terrifies me. Only damn thing that scares me more than this is losing you. Know that doesn’t make any sense. I aint expecting you to understand and, yeah, I should’ve… should’ve spent less time trying to censor myself and more time actually talking to you, but it’s… I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but this isn’t all my fault.”

“I’m aware,”

“You broke my brother’s head, Cas. You lied to me. You lied to me and you broke Sam and then you made yourself crazy to fix it again. Do you know how that felt? Do you know how it felt to feel like I was the reason you did that? Then I finally got you back and you tried to get yourself killed. The only damn thing I wanted to do in that place was save you. You didn’t tell me. You let me think we were making it out together instead of telling me how you felt. Wasn’t exactly getting the warm fuzzy vibes from you, either.”

“You’re still angry,”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Cas, you hurt Sam as a strategy to get me off your case. Damnit, I know… it was complicated, but I can’t tell you how bad that hurt. I don’t have a whole lot of people. I have Sam and I have you.”

“Dean,”

“But, for the record, I wanted you to stay the whole time. Even when… Cas, believe me, there is no one else I would forgive for that. And then there’s you.”

“I betrayed heaven for you,”

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, “Four times, by my count.”

“I can’t undo –“

“ – that’s not what I’m asking for,” Dean interjects, closing his eyes, “I don’t want some bullshit apology. It’s done. Feeling our feelings aint gonna change the fact that it sucked. You're angry at me too, Cas. And, yeah, I’ve run over the scenario six hundred times till I know exactly how it’s my fault and how much my crap affects you, but it didn’t help.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Make like our female doppelgangers and try work out how to make peace with it,” Dean says, “That’s all we get.”

“Dean,” Cas says, voice rough, “When Metatron told me you were…”

“I wasn’t,” Dean mutters, “Yeah, I came back a little American psycho, but I’m still swinging,”

“Yes,” Cas concedes. They’ve been facing each other, butt naked but not touching, for most of the conversation, but now Cas reaches out to press one hand against Dean’s abs and the other over the shoulder he used to drag him out of hell. It’s such a Castiel move because it’s so inhuman and a little strange, but it’s sincere and real enough that Dean’s breath catches on the way out of his lungs. Nothing’s even nearly resolved, but it’s the first time they’ve named any of the ways they’ve hurt each other, and he feels a little better. It feels good to have said it out loud. “You’re here,”

“Yeah,” Dean says, leaning forward to kiss his bottom lip, “You too.”

Dean’s pretty sure closure is supposed to feel a little more finished and a little less like a beginning, but it’s not like he has a choice right now.

Chapter Text

“You're leaving,” Castiel says, voice flat and coming out of frigging nowhere as Dean's rummaging through the Ms Winchesters food cupboard for some road trip snacks. Dean has a minor heart attack just like he always does when Cas seemingly appears out of thin air, then resolutely doesn't turn around. He can't.

It was always a shit plan, but he was definitely intending to be gone by the time Cas stirred. It figures that it’s a little harder to ditch out on an angel who doesn’t even need to sleep than it is a human one night stand. It’s a mark of how hard the reality swapping must have hit him that he actually slept for the second night in a row, anyway, which means Dean should probably be honest with himself. He didn’t spend a day driving around thinking to work out how to get them both some closure, he did it to find some justification for one of the shittiest and most selfish thing he’s ever done, and he’s done a lot. Nothing is made better by the fact that Dean quit fighting how drawn they are to each other. It just makes Dean weaker.

“Yeah.”

“Me too,”

“No,” Dean grunts, “You're going back and looking out for Sam,”

“I'm really not,”

“Sam – ”

“- will be irritated at you, no doubt, for being the reason for both of our absences.”

“Cas you're not... you're not coming.”

“I assumed you wouldn't allow that, but you can't stop me from hunting you down.”

“You won't,”

“Dean, longing in my direction counts as prayer.”

“Huh?” Dean asks, finally turning around, which is a huge mistake because Cas is wearing his frigging shirt and it's... Goddamnit, not what he needs right now. It’s so domestic and it makes him ache in his gut. It makes him want to drag Cas back upstairs just to fucking cuddle. It is not helpful. Of all the ways Dean’s felt shitty, this is up there. It’s a little like there’s a puncture in his stomach and all these goddamn feelings are leaking out. “You're wearing my shirt.”

“Prayers don't have to be formal. If you're feeling intense longing for my presence, I hear that too.”

“You didn't think to tell me I've been projecting when I miss you for six years?”

“I liked it,”

“You... Damnit, Cas,” Dean mutters, “Why are you wearing my shirt?”

“Popular culture has lead me to believe it's customary,”

“Cas,”

“I assumed you'd have left before you saw it, so it wouldn't bother you. But you're... dawdling,” Cas says, mouth a hard line, and it’s enough to make Dean feel sick immediately. Fuck. How the hell did he ever think this was a good idea?

“Wait, you knew I'd leave?”

“You're predictable,” Cas says, sitting down, expression hard. “And wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“This isn't what's best.”

“When d'you work that out?”

“Last night,”

“And you...uh. still. Cas,”

Cas eyes narrow slightly.

“I wasn't trying to make you stay through sex,”

“Good,” Dean says, voice dry, because what kind of asshole is he?

“That wouldn't work,”

“Shouldn't be so convinced,” Dean says, eyes drawn to that stupid mouth. “You were... uh, good job, I mean.”

“Thank you,” Cas says, eyes still hard.

“I don't have a choice, Cas,”

“You're making it right now, Dean.”

“I don't want to go,”

“No one else wants you to go, either,” Cas says, which isn’t true. Dea wants him to go, but Dean’s not dragging her into any more of his messes. They’ve already wasted three days trying to work out how to save his ass, even though he’s nothing to them and even though it’s not worth it. Dean’s human right now and it’s fucking awful, mark or not.

“I'm trying to do the right thing,”

“We always are, Dean,” Cas says, “And we're always wrong.”

“I'm sorry, Cas, I am. But I gotta –”

“Fine,” Cas says, “I'm still going to follow you. I'll be upstairs if you decide you're going to say goodbye rather than sneaking out.”

“Cas,” Dean exhales, “Last night,”

“Clearly, irrelevant,”

“Bullshit,” Dean says, dropping the duffle with the food onto the counter. Cas might be right about the dawdling, but then Cas said he was leaving and he’s right the other side of the kitchen. He’s just stood there wearing Dean’s shirt. “You know I... uh, Castiel.”

“I'm right here, Dean. Please stop broadcasting.”

Dean frowns at him before he catches up. “Right, the longing thing.”

“It woke me up,”

“Kinds sounds like the set up to a bad porno,” Dean says, then cracking a smile that spills across his whole face despite everything, because Castiel. “Can't believe your wearing my frigging shirt.”

“Do you like it?”

“Hell yeah,” Dean says, then Cas pushes off from the kitchen counter and crosses the room to kiss him.

He's not sure he can give this up. He’s not sure he can have it either. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s supposed to feel about any of this, but he knows that, this morning as least, it’s so damn easy to bunch his fists up the material of Cas’ shirt (Dean’s, actually) and drag him in closer. He knows he wants to close his eyes and live in the sensation of Cas’ thumb tracing over his cheek. It’s not even about Cas kissing him, it’s being allowed to be this close. It’s about feeling whole.

“Maybe…”

“I have my limits,” Cas says, meeting his gaze, “Think carefully about what you’re about to suggest.”

Dean swallows.

“Okay,”

“If you’re leaving, you should go,” Cas says, still close.

Dean kisses him again, deep and slow and deliberate, and it’s honestly supposed to be a goodbye. It’s better than the last. It’s better than his scribbled note. It’s better, it just makes it a hell of a lot harder, and he knows he needs to say something too. He needs to say I’m in love with you or something less likely to haunt them both for the rest of their lives.

Then Karen bursts into the kitchen yelling something about a security issue before she stops short.

Dean lets go of Cas.

“I thought the whole point of this alternate reality thing was that you guys weren’t together and Fate’s some kind of chick flick fan,” Karen says and it’s definitely an accusation. She is pissed off and probably rightly so. Also, Dean feels like he might be having a fucking heart attack, even though it’s just Karen who cares way more about how Dean killed her than about his frigging sexual preferences.

“Fate is absolutely unconcerned with romantic entanglements,”

Dean clears his throat and puts a little space between him and Cas.

“The big scary security issue?” Dean asks, raising an eyebrow. It’s significantly before six in the morning. Karen is brandishing an ipad and is wearing pyjamas that are on the side of geeky Dean doesn’t understand and, yeah, it’s still strange that Kevin is Karen here.

“There’s a really tall guy with a long hair and a ginger woman standing outside our front door,”

“Goddamnit Sam,” Dean hisses.

“Who -?”

“Witch on steroids,” Dean says. Cas frowns. “You said it, Cas.”

“That’s Sam?”

“He wearing plaid?”

Karen nods.

Dean rolls his eyes and snatches the ipad out of her hands, which apparently Karen has hooked up to a security system that she’s monitoring even though it’s like 5Am. So Karen is equally as screwed up and paranoid by this prophet lark as Kevin, apparently, except she’s still alive to talk about it. It is a step up, but it’s probably not the step up Dean wanted for her.

“Yeah, that’s Sam. That stubborn headed-”

“And the woman?”

“Crowley’s mother,” Dean says, zooming in, “Sam’s got her in handcuffs, because that always ends well.”

“Should we…let them in?”

“No, Karen, we should let them rot outside. For fu… leave this to me,” Dean says, then his stomach plummets when he sees Cas, because… yeah, they need to talk before he lets his brother and his demon frenemy’s frigging Mom walk into girl world. “Scratch that, leave this to us. Go back to bed, Advanced Placement, we got this.”

“Can you two get over it? This drama? You two… you’re still here. Your world I’m a ghost.”

“I’m hearing you, Karen, okay? We’re working on it.”

She gets herself a coffee before she heads back upstairs. Dean is stock still for the entire time she’s messing about with mugs and hot water, steadfastly refusing to look at Castiel.

Sam is outside. Sam is outside the bunker right now and Dean hasn’t dealt with even an ounce of his shit. His head is a mess. He’s such a selfish piece of crap that he was never intending on staying and working this out. He was supposed to be half way to fucking Canada before he had to face up to the fact that, for the first time since he was in his frigging early twenties, he slept with a dude. With his best friend. His head was a little screwed at the time, let alone in the cold light of morning, where Cas is wearing his fucking shirt and Sam is right outside.

“Cas,” Dean says, voice coming out a little strangled, “I swear to you, I won’t… I won’t ask for bullcrap like this from you again, but… I need you to go and put on your trench coat and come back down here like…”

“Like nothing happened,”

“Yeah,” Dean says, except he sounds hollow. “I gotta speak to Sam, before…”

“Before you run away,” Castiel suggests, snatching up Dean’s leaving note before he storms out the room. He’s so fucking dramatic, but this time Dean’s pretty sure it’s deserved. Dean feels like he just swallowed bleach, or that maybe he frigging deserves to, but he can’t let Sam wander into his crisis. He needs a game plan. He needs to work out what the hell is going to happen.

Dean’s stupid fucking note is screwed up in Cas’ fist. It has scrawled instructions about where Dean was going to dump female-Cas’ car and the rest is directed all at Cas. There’s the pretty standard plea that Cas goes back to look after Sam and doesn’t follow him, but he laboriously wrote out me too at the bottom of the note. He traced out he words with the pen three times before he forced himself to stop overthinking it, even though it wasn’t nearly the three words he meant to write down. He figured Cas would work it out. He figured it would mean the same thing, but… but, damnit, all his done is prove his inability to follow through on his damn feelings. He can’t even acknowledge them in a goodbye note.

Sam’s outside. He’s jumped frigging realities with a juiced up witch with an attitude problem and the last time Sam saw Dean, he was at the beginning of a murderous rampage which killed a lot of people whilst Sam tried to save him. Dean’s so mad at him for his latest string of bad decisions, but he’s so fucking happy that he gets to see him. This whole thing has been a car crash from start to finish, and there gonna have to talk about all of it. Sam will be relentless. He probably only jumped realities because he wants to quiz Dean on how he feels about all of this crap and Dean can’t handle it.

As often the case with his snot-nosed little brother, Sam hasn’t left him the choice.

“I’ve found a cure for the Mark,” Sam says, the second Dean opens the front door of the bunker. Dean blinks at him.

“We found a cure,” Rowena corrects.

“And a way to jumpstart the cross reality teleportation device,” Dean says, stepping back to let his brother in, fixing him with his best you’re-supposed-to-be-the-smart-one-stare. “Awesome.”

“Dean,” Sam says, blinking at him, all earnest and well meaning, “We can fix it,”

“But?”

“We need to do it here,” Sam says, “And we need Cas’ lock and key theory to be solid.”

And, okay, maybe Dean was about to skip out on the love of his fucking life this morning in order to both protect the world from his addiction to murder and to avoid having to have a frigging conversation about his feelings, but Dean’s pretty sure that this a really terrible idea.

Chapter Text

Dean is rash, irritating and so goddamn loud, particularly in the morning when Dea just wants some coffee and some peace and quiet. He’s also still in the bunker, despite the fact that his cue to leave was a few hours previously, and despite the fact that Dea went out on a limb to help the guy pull a disappearing act, even though she knows it’s going to kill Castiel and Sam. She understood why, though. It feels a little obvious to say she’d have done the same thing, but even now she’d do it; if she thought it was the only way to protect them, she'd have done it. Sometimes, what you feel about a shitty decision doesn’t matter. Sometimes your feelings don’t count.

But he’s still here and having a loud conversation in the kitchen, which means something has changed. And the closer Dea gets to the kitchen, the more she begins to suspect exactly what redefined the game, because it’s sure as hell not Cas that the other guy’s berating.

“So, your grand plan is to use Crowley’s Mom and the frigging book off the damned to strip this thing off my arm, opening some door that lets out who-knows-what and who cares, really, in this reality, before jumping ship,” Dean is saying, fists clenched, glaring at a cup of coffee he hasn’t touched, “So we can drop back into our reality and leave these guys to deal with the aftermath,”

Male Sam and male Dean fit surprisingly well next to each other. They don’t quite look like brothers (Dea and Sam don't look much alike either) but they carry the same hunter-style and hold their shoulders the same. It's strange. “Dean,” Sam says, “Cas reckons the Mark is a key - ”

“ - yeah, I get it, it’s a key, but I’m pretty sure that it said the Mark was both lock and key,”

“The Mark isn’t working here!”

“That doesn’t mean anything, Sam,” Dean snaps, “That just means the Mark aint working here. It doesn’t mean it’s a good idea to start taking risks with someone else’s world,”

“Why are you so determined not to let us help you?”

“Look, you can’t screw around with this crap just ‘cause -”

“- Dean, we can cure you.”

“I’m good,”

“You’re good,”

“Right here, in this kitchen, I don’t need curing,” Dean bites back, jaw set. Dea’s been involved in enough of these arguments to know that there’s no way this isn’t going to turn ugly and, frankly, Dea’s heard enough. She doesn’t need to have her insecurities and issues played out in another round of self-sacrificial bullshit, especially when Dea knows full well who’s side is on.

“Morning, Sammy,” Dea says, stepping into the kitchen, “See you hitched a ride over to crazy town.”

“Dea, hey,” Sam says, swallowing. Yeah, Dea agreed to spend three days waiting for the Sam-and-Cas-diagnostic team to come up with something to help Dean, but that doesn’t exactly mean they’re on the same side. She cares about fake Cas and fake Sam and fake Dean, but not enough to gamble with her own life.

“Who’s making coffee?” Dea asks. Dean jerks a thumb in Sam’s direction, which gets one of the usual bitchfaces. He does get up and heads for the pot, though. “So, update me. Who’s the ginger.”

“Rowena,”

“Charmed,” Rowena says, “These handcuffs…”

“No,” Dean says, “Can we gag her?”

“That’s no way to talk to a lady,” Rowena says. For some reason, someone fixed her a drink too. Probably Sam, or Charlie. Stress making cups of tea for the bad guys sounds exactly the kind of thing Charlie would pull.

“You’re no lady. You’re barely human.”

“You say that likes it’s an insult. Humans, they’re pathetic.”

“Dungeon?” Dea suggests, catching Dean’s eye and raising an eyebrow.

“Now we’re talking,”

“Rowena is helping us,”

“How?”

“By opening a hell gate in the middle of your kitchen,” Dean snaps, “How’s your coffee, Dea?”

“It’s very unlikely that removing the remark would open a hell gate,” Cas - male Cas - says, appearing behind her looking more concentrated thunder and rage than normal.

“Knowing our luck it’d be probably be worse than a frigging hell gate,” Dean says, “Cas, coffee,” Dean says, nudging the cup and nodding at the seat next to him.

“I don’t want coffee,”

As far as Dea can see, there’s no reason why Dean would know that Cas was about to head into the kitchen. So there’s no reason he’d have poured him a coffee. There’s definitely no reason why Dean should care about the stoic rejection of coffee, either, but a flicker of hurt, then regret, then self-loathing flits across Dean’s features before it goes out like a light. And then Dea just knows.

Fucking bastard.

“I don’t believe they’ll be any serious negative consequences that outweigh the benefits if we do this,”

“So you’re in on this plan,” Dean says, narrowing his eyes in Cas’ direction.

“I haven’t been hiding the fact that I intend to save you,” Castiel says. His shoulders are squared and he’s avoiding Dean’s gaze, which is the biggest tell of all fucking time. Sam’s probably (hopefully, for everyone's sanity) passing it off as residual awkwardness from the fact that Dean tried to kill the guy, but it’s written all over their goddamn faces. “And I will make no apologies for that fact. Hello Sam. Hello Rowena,”

“Ah, someone’s remembered their manners,”

“Remind me why we’re not gagging the witch?” Dean demands, taking a tighter hold of his coffee, “Cas, you gotta see my side, here - ”

“I am not obliged to see things your way, Dean,”

“There’s no risk if I stay here,” Dean says, “There won’t be any negative consequences, forget about serious ones,”

“Except jeopardizing the fabric of reality by continuing to exist alongside another version of yourself,” Castiel says, voice raising in volume and thunder, till he seems to take up the entirety of the space in the kitchen. Dea wouldn’t be surprised if his wings started to flicker, because Castiel is falling into full-angel-mood. She’s forgotten how electrifying angel Castiel could be. The change in the atmosphere. All that power resonating right through to her bone marrow. It's way too goddamn hot for Dea to be facing it from her not girlfriend this early in the morning.

“You didn’t say that could cause problems,”

“You didn’t ask,” Castiel, “Because you don’t think,”

“What’ll happen?”

“I don’t know, Dean, it’s unprecedented to skip between realities, because no one has been pig-headed enough to attempt it. Of course, the Winchesters - ”

“ - you did it,”

“Temporarily,” Castiel growls, “And we broke it,”

“So a couple of actors got jumped. Big deal.”

“People died. We bought the supernatural into contact with a world that had never seen it. You have no idea of the consequences,”

“Neither do you,” Dean snaps, “You’re spit balling. You’re just guessing.”

“And you’re trying to run away, regardless of what happens,”

“We don’t even know why fate jumped us!”

“Because you were about to do something moronic and rash,” Castiel all but yells back, and there’s humanity creeping in too, which makes every single word resonate so much more. “Rash enough for Fate to consider dropping a nuclear reactor in another reality a preferable option.”

“You drop me back in boy-world, Fate can just wife swap me back,”

“Then we fix the mark, go home, and you do not tempt Fate by circumventing whatever irresponsible thing you were about to do.”

“I need to talk to Cas,” Dean says, nearly throwing his chair back in an effort to get to the door.

“What?” Dea snaps, following at his heel, because there is no goddamn way she’s letting a pissed of Dean Winchester anyway near her girlfriend.

“Dean,” Sam says standing up to following him.

“Dean,” Cas half growls, voice steeped in irritation.

It doesn’t make a difference. Dean still spills out into the bunker corridor than storms down the corridor, the three of them following close behind him. He throws the door open without so much as knocking, because he’s entitled, rash and every other word Castiel has thrown at him.

Her girlfriend is reading in bed. Dea had more or less nudged her into it, because she was expecting Dean to have left in the dead of night. She’s good at lying and good at lying to the people she loves after years of practicing over crappy decisions, but she’d prefer to have ‘found’ Dean’s note without company.

Dea said she was going to bring her coffee in bed, which lines the back of her throat with the foul taste of guilt. They should be better than this by now, but Castiel would never have understood her position. She wouldn’t have got it. They don’t need more things to fight about.

“What happens when people reality swap?” Dean demands, “What’s the fallout?”

“Dean,” Male Cas says.

“You, shut up,” Dean says, holding up a hand to silence him, “Straight answer.”

Female Cas stares at the four of them.

“It’s unprecedented territory,” Castiel says, “Even amongst angels, cross-dimension travel is very rare,”

“Okay,” Dean says, “But if you were gonna predict consequences,”

“I hadn’t considered it. But given the nature of reality, I’d imagine consequences would be severe. Realities, dimensions, are designed in specific ways. The reason there was a portal from Purgatory was because the fundamental essence of Purgatory was rejecting your presence,”

“But that was a good thing,”

“For us, yes,” Castiel says, “But it was a hole being ripped through a dimension, that you happened to be able to jump through.”

“So me just staying here,” Dean says, “That would come back to bite us,”

“Probably,”

“Goddamnit,” Dean mutters, running a hand over his face, “Damnit,”

“You don’t trust me,” Castiel, male Castiel, accuses, voice hot with anger. “You think I would lie to manipulate you -”

“ - I don’t trust your judgement when it comes to me,” Dean corrects, “Different fucking issues. And given you didn’t mention this before and probably just thought of it, I’m gonna go ahead and say that was an okay call.”

“I told you I was never intending to let you leave,”

“Look,” Sam says, glancing between them looking nervous, “I get it, Dean. I get you’re worried about consequences, so I think… we all need to sit down and talk about this. Then we can make a decision together.”

*

Male Sam seems more weirded out by female-Cas than the female version of himself, but Dea’s Sam looks plenty freaked out about the whole thing. Dea would like to make a couple more sarcastic comments about it, because she definitely did not get enough credit for handling this kind of crazy, but the whole thing is too fucking weird for her to come up with anything smart. It feels a little bit like they’re having a goddamn committee meeting, except half the committee are gender mirrors of each other. There’s Charlie and Karen too - by Dean’s request, actually, which Dea would feel vaguely impressed about if it wasn’t a hundred percent guilt and having killed them both - but most of the table is made up of their male doppelgangers. And Rowena.

“So it’s a choice between some unknown darkness and some unknown fabric-of-the-universe-destruction,” Charlie says, “Yikes,”

“The Mark is lock and key to the darkness,” Dean’s Castiel says, “It’s the darkness associated with the Mark that has the effect. Here, the Mark is just a mark. It’s not a key or a lock.”

“And what happens when you reality jump me back to the boyzone and this… darkness works out we’ve jimmied the lock,” Dean says, “You can’t hotwire a dark mark, Cas, that’s not how it works.”

“We don’t know how it works,” Dean’s Sam says, turning his puppy dog eyes in Dean’s direction.

“Who says this darkness cares what reality the lock is from anyway? That’s a pretty big assumption from where I’m standing,” Dean says, “Yeah, okay, the mark isn't in the driver’s seat… but we go do something drastic like magic tattoo removal, the universe might wake up. Cas already said this could cause some universe wide shockwaves.”

“So you’re suggesting we minimise the consequences for our universe,” Dea’s Cas says, blue eyes sharp, “And leave another world to burn,”

“Hey, I didn’t light the fire,” Dea says.

“You’re not sending me back till we got a damn solution,” Dean snaps.

“You’re not staying here,” Dea retorts, “This is my world, macho man, and you’ve already outstayed your welcome.”

“Then you better come up with a solution, Sweetheart,”

“Fuck you pretty boy,” Dea mutters, “You think your patronising routine is cute, but you’re just -”

“It’s been like this for days,” Female Sam says, apparently sharing a long suffering look with male Sam.

“Shut up, Sam,” They both say, which is irritating enough that Dea has to stand up to start pacing.

“Cas, you think your theory’s solid? Both of you.”

“Yes,” Male Cas says, emphatically. Female Cas eyes her counterpart for a few long seconds before nodding her assent and, hell, Dea trusts her. Yeah, she has a bad record for the big picture stuff, but… Cas wouldn’t lie to her about this. Not now. Not about this.

“Sam?” Dea asks.

“I…. I don’t know,” Sam says, after a few moments of glancing between all of them, “It seems logical,”

“But?”

“Risky,” Sam says, “If we could know what they meant by darkness,”

“Or by disintegrating the fabric of the universe,” Karen adds in, “I vote darkness,”

“Me too,” Charlie says, “Something about ripping a hole in reality sounds a little less… fixable. Plus, I had a goth phase.”

“Since when were we a frigging democracy?” Dean asks, balling his fists, “I propose a third option. We all pop back right now and then Rowena kills me,”

“That’s got my vote,” Rowena says.

“You don’t get a vote,” Dean snaps.

“You should take your allies where you can,” Rowena says, in her oddly melodic voice, which is one of the most irritating noises Dea’s ever heard.

“My vote is with Cas,” Dea says, sitting back down, “Whatever way she votes,”

“We cure the mark,” Male Castiel says, “It’s the only option that makes sense,”

“I agree,”

“So, I’m voting darkness,” Dea shrugs, “Awesome. Sams?”

“We save Dean,” Male Sam says.

“Yeah,” Female Sam nods, “We save Dean, then everyone goes home,”

“So it’s decided,” Dea says, slapping her hands on her thighs and standing up, “We use the book of the damned to cure the mark and we hope to hell that nothing too nasty gets loose. Capisce?”

“No,” Dean says, “I don’t capisce. You don’t get to make this decision for me,”

“It’s not all about you, Dean,”

“It’s exactly about me. My life, my death,”

“No,” Sam - male Sam - says, shaking his head, “Unless you’ve got some valid reason, except some self sacrificing crap, then we are saving you, Dean.”

“Fine,” Dean snaps, jaw clenching.

“Dean,” Cas says, voice dropping low and the kind of intimate that makes Dea uncomfortable and she gets to be on the receiving end of it dozens of time before. A different timber of the same voice, but still the same.

“I need a time out,” Dean says, then he stands up and walks out.

“Meeting’s over, folks,” Dea declares, “Cas, my Cas, can we talk?”

*

“I don’t understand you,”

“Me?”

“Dean,” Cas clarifies, settling close in Dea’s space, “His emotions are…”

“They slept together last night,” Dea says, hands balled into fists, “Because he’s a fucking idiot,”

“You wanted them to get together,”

“He was gonna take off, Cas,” Dea says, “He was gonna take off and I was gonna let him, help him, because he was gonna hurt you. The other you. And I… I know how that would feel. I know why he’s freaking, I just… I was gonna lie to you but I… that dumb, closeted bastard,” Dean snaps.

“Deanna,” Cas says, voice velvet rich and deep, stepping a little more into her space, “I appreciate your support,”

“Huh?”

“Your vote,” Cas says, reaching forward to cup Dea’s face, bringing their gaze to a level. “You trust me.” Cas says it with reverence, the way she used to speak about God, and it makes Dea feel like she’s been sunburnt all over. Too hot, almost itch, like her skin doesn’t quite fit. It makes her want to break her gaze and move away, because it’s so goddamn incredible that Cas can look her at like that. At Dea.

“Obviously,”

It’s supposed to be casual and flippant, but Cas see’s right through her as per, and pulls her into a barely-there kiss. The simple kind that makes her want to cook everyone in the bunker breakfast and spend the whole morning bringing Cas cups of coffee in bed. Dea drags her in closer by her shirt and crowds her against the wall of the doorway she decided to have this dumb fucking conversation in, because obviously she trusts Castiel. She does. After everything, she trusts her.

The male version of Sam accidentally walks in on them making out and seems to find it more surprising than Dean did. He stutters, flails for words for a few seconds, then just leaves. It doesn't make Dea feel any more optimistic about any of it.

Chapter Text

Dean’s spent an embarrassing amount of time hiding in the female version of his self’s bedroom over the past week he’s spent in girl world, but he’s had enough crap to think about thrown at him that he reckons he might just be entitled. He’s not really sure he’s had enough time to process the fact that him not hooking with Cas has actually fucking killed people, let alone the fact that he’s been outvoted seven to one to some jumped up-half assed plan that Dean’s sure is going to screw up this whole world. It’s not just that, although he’s been suffocating enough guilt without having to deal with dropping the ball in a whole other universe… it’s just the fact that there’s no guarantee that this is going to work.

It seems a little too much to hope for that fate interfering in his bullshit decisions might actually work in their favour. Fate has always been working against them. Every single time. Every damn time fate has fucked them and Dean has a little difficulty trusting those odds.

Cas knocks on the door a few hours after Dean’s isolated himself. He knows it’s gonna be Cas by the exact wrap of knuckles on the wood, but he’s pretty sure Sam wouldn’t try and speak to him yet anyway. Sam’s no doubt still trying to wrap his head around what the hell is happening, because he’s kept mostly out of the crazy up until now. He had Dea as a houseguest, sure, but that’s a little different to the seeing-double, meeting-yourself crap. Guy deserves a couple of hours to get his head straight before he calls Dean out on his self-indulgent bullshit.

“Hey,”

“Hello Dean,” Castiel says, pausing in the doorway. They’ve done this way too many damn times in the past couple of days, but here they are; Dean staring at the wall, sat on Dea’s bed, fists clenched, Cas trying to work his way into Dean’s mental space and Dean being so damn close to letting him in, but still not sure what that can even look like. His head’s too broken to know how that could even work. He can’t comprehend it. He's pretty sure he's acknowledged he wants to.

“Lock the door,” Dean says, setting down his jack and grimacing at his hands. He hopes to hell that’s enough to convey that he wants to talk, even though he really doesn’t. They need to. He knows that. It’s just there’s so much crap he’s been sat on he’s got no idea what’s going to word-vomit out of his mouth.

“You were expecting to be gone and not have to deal with this,” Cas says, before his hand’s even off the lock.

“Yeah,” Dean exhales, even though he hates himself for it, but it’s absolutely true. He thought he’d be in the wind before he had to deal with the aftermath. He figured he could give in, just once, and not have to face up to what that meant. He didn’t know he’d be looking Cas straight in the face, in the cold light of day, in the room that they messed around in less than twenty four hours ago. That wasn’t supposed to be part of the plan.

“You never intended to follow through,”

“Cas,” Dean exhales, “I get that you’re mad at me, okay. I just – ”

“ – I’m more irritated about myself,” Castiel says, “You told me you couldn’t –”

“ – I’m a fucking idiot, okay?” Dean interjects, running a hand over his face and not looking at him. He can’t. He’s been trying to avoid looking at him all goddamn day (and trying not to think about how dead inside he felt when Cas rejected his offer of coffee, like he hasn’t heard the guy bitch about how it tastes like molecules a hundred times over; but Cas usually takes what Dean offers him, anyway, and treasure it like it's precious), but his fucking crisis got surpassed by a much bigger problem. Dean’s thumb finds the mark. He digs his nail into the skin. He wants it to hurt, but his nails aren’t sharp enough.

“You're not ready,” Cas says and Dean glances up. It’s a mistake. It’s a massive fucking mistake. Castiel’s eyes are brimming over with emotion and so, so blue and it feels a little like an angel blade to the gut.

“Cas I'm... this past forty eight hours taught me anything, it's that I'm never gonna be ready,” Dean says, looking down his hands. His internal organs feel heavy. He’s paralysed by how goddamn heavy his heart is, but he has no idea where they can go from here. They can’t go backwards. He’s not sure if he’s capable of going forwards, but they sure as hell can’t spend the rest of their lives in limbo, either. “I put up this wall cause... don't even think I meant to, but it sucked, Cas. All of it added up to this shitty pile of just... shame and I… didn't have single good thing to temper it against, so my whole frigging everything set up this defence mechanism so damn effective it became unconscious… so I just shut it all down before it even came up on my radar and it... it really worked, Cas, but I thought it was a choice; that I wanted it like that… but I don’t anymore. But you're... fuck, Cas, let alone a good thing you're the best goddamn thing and you'd. .. already gotten past so many of my walls, wouldn’t have seen it coming ‘cept it was so fucking obvious, but you... my core is telling me to redirect and disarm, but it's you, and I want you so damn bad. I just haven't let myself do that since I was a fucking kid and now I don't... Cas, I don't know how. I swear to you, Cas, I'm... I'm not trying to fuck this up, I'm so tied up in all this crap I can't even acknowledge what I fucking want. Don't... it's like my head doesn't know the right words, and you just jarand I can't fucking function. I just can't.”

“Dean,” Cas growls out, somehow closer. Dean’s not looking at him. He can’t. He’s got so many damn feeling rising up in his gut and he just… it’s too much, all at once, and there’s all these fucking words falling out of his mouth and it’s -

“And it’s cost so goddamn much. My own dumb head and I gotta go back and… Charlie, Cas. Kevin. Charlie and that’s on me. It’s on me, because I was supposed to set off this chain reaction. Here, I can just… it feels far away,” Dean says, then suddenly there’s hot, bitter tears gathering in his eyes. It comes with shame. He doesn’t get to cry over losing Charlie and Kevin when he played such a key part in their demise. It’s his fault. It’s on him. It’s Dean’s stupid issues and Cas' dumb, dumb resolve to wait for a fucking cue, and it's lead to this. To Kevin. To Charlie. To some poor kid Dean doesn't even know. “Charlie said we were gonna get her killed and we… I, damnit."

"You can't protect everyone,"

"Don't sell me that line," Dean says, fists clenching, "I've been telling myself that for years and it aint true. I've saved Sam over and over against shittier odds. In this life, we make choices. You care about someone enough, you find a way, even if it means decoding some unholy book behind the person we're trying to save's back,"

"Dean,"

"Why the hell am I more important than Charlie?" Dean demands, eyes shining, "We've got to this point, Cas, where we decide. We decide when a monster isn't a monster, when it suits us,"

"You're talking about yourself,"

"Yeah, damn right I'm talking about myself," Dean says, "I butchered those guys after Claire,"

"They were going to hurt her,"

"Not saying they were good people, Cas, but they were still people. They were still people, and I just... I enjoyed it. I relished it. If anyone else did that and, I mean, anyone, we'd have hunted them down and put a bullet in their brain. And I just... Cas, I'm so damn tired of this. I'm so damn tired of these circles. Of justifying every crappy decision we make because we're blinded by how much we need each other."

"You'd do the same,"

"Yeah," Dean exhales, head in his hands, head pounding, eyes raw, "In a second, and that's the problem. That's the whole damn problem."

"Dean,"

"What if it doesn’t work? What if we get back and I still… I’m so fucking scared of going back there. Of losing myself. Again.”

“We won’t let that happen,”

“Cas, you can’t stop this,” Dean croaks out, “You’ve tried. You’ve tried and I... I killed that kid. I nearly… what if I kill you. After…everything. I can’t risk that,”

“You won’t,” Castiel says, and he’s sat on the edge of the bed now, way too close. Dean’s too fucking awful for Cas to be listening to this self-indulgent, crappy list of reasons why Dean doesn’t deserve one second of Cas’ time. He came in here to chew Dean out for being the kind of asshole that sleeps with his friend and plans to leave the next morning, not to sit with him whilst he bleeds emotions all over the place.

“You don’t…Cain told me how it would go down. He said I’d… he said I’d kill you. Crowley first. And then… you and Sam and I… I can’t let that happen, Cas, I can’t do it. I can’t just…”

“Cain has no psychic abilities and no foresight into the future,” Castiel says, voice steady, “He was messing with your head, Dean. There’s no reason to think there is any element of truth in that prediction. I know you, Dean, and I know what you’re capable of,”

“The mark…”

“We will take care of the mark,” Cas says, then there’s a hand cradling his elbow, Castiel’s thumb resting on his marked skin.

“Even without the mark," Dean begins, dredging up the words from somewhere deep in his gut, "Still pretty much a monster," Dean says, more a dry sob, then suddenly he’s got Castiel’s arms wrapped his arms around him pulling him into a hug, holding him inhumanly tightly. It’s bruising and too much and, suddenly, he doesn’t feel like he’s falling apart anymore. Dean feels solid. Broken, but solid, and loved. Despite everything, every crap, bullshit move and the hundreds of shitty consequences that they trace right back to Dean Winchester, Castiel loves him, and maybe Dean can have that. Maybe he can have that.

*

Everything is foggy and comfortable when he wakes up. He’s groggy. He’s still got Cas’ arms wrapped tight around him, face buried in Cas’ chest and he has no idea how it happened. He knows he was spurting emotions everywhere, head all of the place, and that Cas was holding him, but he’s got no frigging idea how he wound up asleep. He’s not hating it though. Cas is close and warm, Dean’s fists trapped between them, and he’s just beginning to realise how exhausted he’s been for fucking years, of all of it.

Sam is hammering on the door of his bedroom and he is not fucking around.

“Dean, open your door.”

“Cas,” Dean mutters, keeping his eyes shut. The loop of Cas' hold loosened at some point, probably a little after Dean fell asleep or a little after they became horizontal, but it's still tight enough that if Cas were human he'd be deeply uncomfortable. Dean feels well rested enough that he must have been out for a couple of hours and unwittingly relaxed enough to stay there for a few more. Damn.

“Sam is knocking on your door.”

“Yeah I got that.”

“I suspect he thinks you might have taken off, or be about to,"

“Yeah,” Dean says. He can't even blame him. It sounds a lot like something Dean would do. He might have tried it if he wasn't so overwhelmed by guilt and fear and all the rest of the crappy baggage he's been lugging around in different forms since he hit double figures.

“Dean, I swear, I will break your door down if you don’t –”

“Can you, uh, - “

“-go?” Cas prompts, mouth a set frown, drawing away. It make Dean ache down to his bone and he suddenly feels a hell of a lot less solid than he did a few seconds ago. It also makes him feel profoundly shitty, because of course that's what Cas would except him to ask. Even Cas doesn't have faith that he can do this and Cas is... was always supposed to believe in him. He was always supposed to have faith.

“No, just, make him go away,” Dean says, watching him stand up, move around Dea's bed like he knows the way around it. Cas has been in Dea's bedroom a hell of a lot more than he's ever been in Dean's bedroom. “I can’t deal with Sam right now,”

“How?”

“Pretend I'm asleep,” Dean says, “I just…” Dean stops as Cas makes a fuss out of straightening his frigging tie, like that damn thing is ever anything but wonky, “You don’t have to… that,” Dean says, gesturing at him.

“You should take off your boots,”

“What?”

“If you were asleep –”

“ – I was sleeping just fine,” Dean says, but Cas is pausing near his feet anyway. Hovering there, presence solid. It's been a long time since Cas has hung around in his presence for anything. Dean gets that the guy's been avoiding him to have his midlife crisis with Claire and then because he was lying through his teeth to him about the damn book of the damned, except he doesn't get that at all. Not when it's so fucking incredible to have him lingering like Dean isn't a total asshole and like he actually wants to stay.

No, because Dean knows he wants so. It's like he thinks he actually could stay. Like staying is the most important thing he could do. It's a moot point because none of them have a choice right now, but it sure as hell feels like a shift.

"Take off your boots, Dean,"

"You bossing me around now, tough guy?" Dean asks. It's supposed to be incendiary and maybe a little like their version of flirting (not that Dean's convinced that isn't the same thing), but his voice is raw from sleep and the total breakdown he had right before he fell asleep with Cas holding him, for fuck's sake, so it doesn't land that way.

"I've been ordering you around since we met," Cas says and then, goddamnit, he's unlacing Dean's boots. He's fixing them with the same kind of careful, awed attention as he puts to healing, and it's... "I'm accustomed to being ignored at this point,"

"Dean, if you're in there, I swear -"

"What should I tell Sam?" Cas says, gentle hand pulling off his left boot. Dean has a lot of crappy, confusing emotions sticking in the back of his throat, because this should not be a big deal, but it's Cas. It's Cas and it's domestic and just... so almost normal, that Dean can hardly swallow. "Dean?"

"Uh, anything," Dean says, "That you were getting your rocks off watching me sleep like the old days. That you were checking up on me. The truth. I'll... uh, I'm gonna talk to him. Tomorrow, maybe. Before we reality swap."

"I won't let you lose yourself, Dean," Cas says, before he heads to the door to stop Sam from knocking down parts of the frigging bunker, because Dean's pretty sure Dea wouldn't like that. They wind up having an awful, muted conversation that Dean can hear everything fucking word of. He get's Sam's not-quite-surprise at getting Cas opening the door, his brother's infuriating questions about his mental state, Cas' half none answers that probably tell Sam exactly everything he needs to know. In the end, Cas manages to steer the conversation away from his doorway with all the subtly of a ten tonne truck, but it at least gives Dean time to run his hands over his face and work out what the hell he does now.

The platonic thing with Cas has been killed off pretty thoroughly and Dean's pretty sure it's beyond the reach of resurrection, now. It's a little astonishing because... all they've done is kiss on a couple of occasions and fooled around, once, in a parallel frigging universe (and if any place doesn't really count, it should definitely be a parallel fucking universe), but now they can't spend five minutes alone in a room together without feeling their goddamn feelings and holding each other. Castiel is in love with him and almost definitely, probably, knows that Dean is in love with him too, he just also knows that Dean's got a stockpile of issues with a side order of issues and that he doesn't know what the hell he's doing.

He gets that this shouldn't be this complicated. It shouldn't be making his lungs seize up in panic every time he thinks too hard. He gets that this is, really, a good thing. It's just his whole frigging being is having a physical reaction like should run, deflect, hide and never look the guy in the face again.

He should probably have kissed the guy before he sent him to play decoy with Sam.

*

Castiel shows up again when Dean's given up on sleeping any more and is just marinating in his bone-deep exhaustion, instead. He switched the light off and shrugged off a couple of his outer layers before that point, but he couldn't get nearly as comfortable as he'd been as when he'd been half vertical, awkwardly positioned and being held far too tightly by an angel who'd definitely never fucking cuddled before.

"Was beginning to think you weren't coming back,"

"You're aware you didn't actually ask me to come back," Castiel says, shutting the door behind him.

"Getting deja vu here," Dean says, "Pretty sure we already had this conversation."

"And yet,"

"Didn't want you to leave in the first place,"

"Expressing that desire might - "

" - Cas will you, uh, get back over here," Dean interrupts, Castiel actually obliges. He locks the door, first, which makes Dean feel a painful mixture of guilt and relief, but then he sits down on what's become his side of the bed. "How's Sam?"

"Playing poker with Charlie and Karen,"

"Drowning in guilt, then," Dean says, his own flaring up, "I should've..."

"At points it looked like he was enjoying himself and then..."

"Are you okay?" Dean asks, turning to look at him.

"I barely knew Charlie, but she was important to you. Kevin was a very good prophet and a better person. If I hadn't trusted Metatron -"

" - and if I hadn't given you hell for being fucking brainwashed, if I'd told you to screw shutting the gates of heaven, if I'd pulled the moves on you in Purgatory... Cas, this has been a whole shitty exercise in regret and bad decisions. Don't pin this on you. We all contributed."

"I am the least changed. I bare a lot of responsibility in this."

"Dea's got bigger balls than me," Dean says, then frowns at Cas' almost-smile, "You know what I mean."

"The situation was different,"

"Not that different," Dean says, "You gotta know that, right? That it wasn't that different."

"I won't pretend to understand your conception of sexuality,"

"Do we gotta have this conversation?"

"But I'm beginning to understand that this is... a very big deal to you," Castiel says, "I find it convoluted and bizarre, but your experiences and the world's attitudes have affected you. You developed a coping mechanism that makes sense. It's reasonable that - "

"But you're bigger than that," Dean says, chest constricting, "Who the hell cares about some dumb stuff that happened when I was a teenager. I...Cas, I'm... you know how I feel about you. You gotta know. Just my messed up head throwing up these none existent problems when I ... yeas, Cas, for years I have..."

"How are we going to proceed?"

"Proceed," Dean repeats, just because of course Cas would pick a word like proceed, and because of course Cas would cut right to the salient point and ask him. It's clear what Cas wants. His cards are all out on the table. Dean's pretty sure it's damn clear what he wants, too, it's just whether he has the guts to reach out and grab it. "It's late, Cas, we should sleep."

"We,"

"Yeah," Dean says, assessing him, looking him up and down like his attire hasn't been pretty much constant for the past few years. "Lose the trench coat and the tie. Maybe your shirt. For... uh, totally innocent comfort reasons."

"I don't find my clothing uncomfortable,"

"Ain't cosying up to someone in a damn coat," Dean says, leaning forward to loosen Cas' tie, before pulling it off. Cas' eyes are tracking his progress. "Awesome," Dean says, as Cas pushes his shirt off his shoulders then just stares at him.

"What is this?"

"This is a formal invitation for you to watch me sleep," Dean says, stretching out, and pulling the sheets out from under Cas to pull them over the both of them, "From close quarters," Dean continues, moulding Cas into a sleeping position like he's not an unmovable, celestial force of nature, before curling his arms around him. It's good. It's way too goddamn good. "Just stay out of my dreams, Mr Inception."

"I can't watch you sleep from this position,"

"You wanna be the big spoon, Cas, you could've just said,"

"I don't want to be any kind of cutlery," Cas says, deep and warm and gorgeous and, fuck, Dean is screwed. He was already screwed, but he's sixteen more kinds of screwed now. Cas twists so they're facing each other which is better, actually, because it means Dean can lean forwards and kiss him in the dark of his (almost his) bedroom.

"We'll talk tomorrow," Dean mutters into the space between them, "but I want... want this."

"Goodnight, Dean," Cas returns and Dean's not all that sure that he's rebuilt any of Cas' faith in them or Cas is any less convinced that Dean's not ready, but he can work on it. And if he's really not ready, he's gotta get there, fast. Preferably before the committee of hunters and friends that he apparently answers to drops him back into boy-world and he potentially loses his mind and goes full American psycho again.

Chapter Text

In his head, he’s formulated the question ‘where are you going?’ but it mostly comes out a sleep-drunk grunt. Castiel seems to get it, anyway, because he pauses like he’s just been caught out for solid second. Then Cas just frowns at him through the gloom. Dean’s cold. He’d been warm and comfortable and down right content and then it had been cold and he’s pretty certain Cas making an attempt to houdini out of bed is the cause. Even in his hazy state he’s worked out that Cas is the one doing a runner this time.

“To save you,” Cas says, his own voice low, rough, the best damn thing Dean’s ever heard in the few seconds after waking up. It’s also Cas all over. No one but a frigging angel of the Lord would be so damn righteous right when Dean's barely conscious and only Cas would get that uppity about saving him in the middle of the damn night.

"Huh?"

"I need to speak to Rowena."

Goddamnit.

"The mark can wait till morning, Cas," Dean mutters, stretching his left arm and trying to burry himself into the mattress. Cas’ eyes track the movement a little too closely. Memorising it. It’s awesome and wonderful and makes Dean feel like he might just be able to walk into a bar with Cas and not freak out about what everyone’s gonna think because moments like this have gotta be worth it.

"I have no requirement of sleep."

"I know,"Dean mutters, reaching forward to bring their foreheads together and to half smile at him. It’s dark and soft and kind of brilliant. He wants it so goddamn badly. "Stay,"

Cas looks conflicted for moment before he delivers his reply, with absolute conviction.

“No.”

“You don't want to?" Dean asks, shifting onto his side to look at him better. They're not tangled together anymore. Cas has separated them out. Untangled them. A little of his contented sleepiness slips away because this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. Yeah, it’s gotta be pretty boring to watch Dean sleep but Cas has done it before and he didn’t find it boring then. There's a reason he's pulling a Dean, here.

“This isn’t real.”

“Feels pretty real, Cas.”

“It might be real in an alternative reality with your door locked, but it is not real,” Cas says and, crap, he’s getting out of bed now. His shirt and tie and trench coat are on in an instant, which means Cas aint even hovering around long enough to do things the human way, which he’s been doing more and more often.

“Cas,” Dean says, wakefulness hitting him like a freight train, because shit. He's screwed up already. He’s fucked up already and he’s been awake for two frigging minutes. Dean sits up, scrambles for the light, "That's not..."

"Sleep," Cas says, reaching towards his forehead. And Dean's gonna bust him for it later, because that's a totally not cool use of grace in the middle of a damn discussion (not that Dean really gets to win on frigging etiquette with this thing so far), but the second Cas' fingers touch his forehead he knows he's lost this battle.

He wakes up alone.

*

“The apple?” Dea is asking when Dean makes it down to the kitchen after half an hour of trying to deal with the screwed up content of his own head. Cas’ sleep-whammied him pretty hard but he doesn’t feel exactly rested. His mind is still clogged up. “The apple. Adam and Eve, beginning of everything bad in the world, apple,”

“Why do these things still surprise you?” Female-Castiel says, tilting an affectionate smile that seems a lot softer than male-Cas has ever worn. It’s probably because they haven’t worked through their fifteen shades of bullcrap yet. Dean kind of hopes one day they’ll get there. “Yeah, beats me,” Dea says, rolling her eyes and then leaning a little closer.

“So, you’re turning to health foods,” Dean says by way of announcing his presence, raising his eyebrows. “The apple.”

“Something made by God, but forbidden to man.”

“Well that clears that up.”

“First part of the spell to remove the mark,” Male Sam puts in, “Hey, Dean,”

“Awesome. That shouldn’t be difficult to locate,” Dean says, “Let’s just head down to wallmart,”

“Have some coffee,” Castiel says, narrowing his eyes in her direction. “You need some,”

“Gee, thanks Cas,”

“You two are hilarious, you know that?” Dea asks.

“Okay, Chuckles, let’s move this along. So we need the frigging forbidden fruit from the garden of frigging Eden. What else?”

“That’s pretty much where the conversation was going before you barged in,”

“Something made by man but forbidden by God,” Male Castiel says.

“And this is all Rowena gave us? Some cryptic crap,”

“Most ancient spells are cryptic,”

“Where is she anyway?”

“The dungeon,”

“Cas, you’re awesome,” Dean beams at him. Castiel actually meets his eye for a split second and almost smiles back, before he’s back to laying out his spell related crap on the kitchen table like they’ve got a hope in hell of getting together all the stuff to put in the damn bowl.

“And you’re okay with this?” Sam asks, “This whole… removing the mark, teleporting home plan.”

“No,” Dean says, “I am the exact opposite of okay with this, Sam, but I got outvoted and there’s not a lot else I can do, here.”

“The life of the thing the spell’s caster loves most,” Castiel finishes, glancing between them both. It’s probably for the best that they keep this conversation steamrolling forward because he and Sam need to talk about sixteen different things and they probably need to do it alone. This conversation has enough content without packing in the rest of their crap.

“We gotta reality jump Crowley too?”

“I have the blood we need,” Castiel says, looking up at Dea.

“How?”

“I sourced it.”

“Huh,” Dean says, “Guess you can get a lot of crap done if you don’t sleep. Okay, retrieval plan for the other two items. Cas, we gonna be able to help you?”

“Unlikely,”

“We had a thought about that,” Dea says, glancing at her Cas. She’s looking for confirmation and her Cas nods, just a fraction, before her frown tilts upwards a little. Dea stands up and heads for the coffee pot. “If shit’s about to rain down on us, would be good to have all weapons fully loaded before we invited the party in. You know where Metatron stashed my Cas’ go-go juice?”

“I can take you there,”

“You sure about this?” Dean asks.

“Okay, yeah, it’s not as cutsie as the character building road trip we had planned, but sometimes you just gotta chuck out the romanticism and think about practicalities.”

“Cas?”

“It doesn’t have to be permanent,”

“You would fall by choice?” Castiel asks, fixing his counterpart with a serious stare. Cas is staring right back and there’s way too much electricity in the room with both of them digging into each other’s heads. Dean is pretty interested by that question, too, but he thinks he’s more interested by Cas’ question and what that implies. That the original Cas wouldn’t. That’s there’s nothing he can conceive of that he’d give his grace up for.

Dean needs a hell of a lot more than coffee to deal with this morning.

“The plan,” Sam - male Sam - says, as everyone’s eyes dart back to him, “Cas, you take, uh, the other Cas and Dea to Cas’ grace. Then you split and take an ingredient each.”

“And we sit here with our thumbs up our asses?”

“Hey, what you like to do in your spare time’s your business, Dean,” Dea throws out. It shouldn’t wind him up as much as he does, but he’s got the memory of falling asleep in the warmth of Cas’ body head, of how un-sexual it was, how fucking perfect it was, rushing round his head. He flushes and then instantly hates himself for it. Sam is right fucking there.

He’s gonna screw the whole thing to hell if he can’t sort his head out.

“Dea,” Cas - female Cas, says, narrowing her eyes.

“Okay, okay,” Dea says, “I’ll suit up. You coming?”

“Sam,” Cas says, “Could you research the forbidden fruit? I believe it to be in the middle east.”

“Sure,” Sam says, “Dean, are you -”

“Cas, can we talk?” Dean interjects, before Sam can corner him into having a conversation about frigging anything. He needs to shake off the crappiness of the later part of this morning before he launches into the talk with Sam and he’s got no idea how the hell they can have a conversation and ignore it. Sam’s been stood in a room with the version of themselves where he and Cas are together. There’s not a whole lot of salvaging that can be done on that. It’s out. He’s out. He just… doesn’t want to talk about it when Cas is mad and disillusioned and avoiding his eyes.

“Can it wait?” Cas asks, not looking up from his map, or his stupid goddamn spell. He’s running a finger down the spine of the damn book of the damned like he can actually read the damn thing, when it took Rowena and a dead Charlie for them to decipher a single word.

“Uh, nope,” Dean says, then glances at Sam. “Alone.” Dean adds, nodding towards the door. Cas levels a glare at him.

“You're not going to talk me out this,”

“That's not the deal here. You're all gung ho about saving my ass, I get it.”

Cas sets down the bowl and follows him into the bunker corridor, down to one of the indented doorways that lead to nothing-room that never gets used. Empty storage, Dean’s pretty sure.

For a second every dumb thing Dean wanted to say has fallen out of his head. He winds up just looking at the guy with his chest tightening and too many fucking feelings. In the end, he reaches out for him. Cas is utterly unmovable, so Dean closes the distance instead and kisses him like that was the point of this. He gets nothing back and Dean’s about to retreat and regroup and probably do something stupid, then suddenly Cas is all in, like he's the one thinking there's a time limit for all of this.

Or maybe cause there in the middle of the damn corridor where anyone could walk past, and that's a smudge more real than behind a locked door. Dean doesn’t know, but he know’s that there’s a desperate edge to the way that Cas is kissing him that he doesn’t like. Given Cas drew their first-last-night out, it’s just…. It’s just they really, really need to talk about this. If they keep bulldozing forward they’re gonna ruin all of it.

“I'm gonna talk to Sam,” Dean blurts out, pulling back, holding tight onto Cas' trench coat. “I'll talk to him when you're gone. Today.”

“Okay,” Cas says, drawing Dean back in. Dean takes a step back and puts himself out of reach again.

“And... and if this doesn't work. The mark. If we get back and I'm still hulking out then, uh, I'm gonna try. It was pretty unrecoverable but I've had a time out and there's...there's you, but, if it doesn't work... give the first blade to Rowena and get her to take me out.”

Cas stills and frowns.

“The first blade is very powerful. Combined with the book of the damned -”

“- you're frigging very powerful. Enough to take her out. Enough to take me out, you just can't. You never could 'cause you're in love with me and I'm... yeah. I couldn't either. Never. The fact that I nearly -”

“Dean,” Cas says, still all close and serious, “Thank you.”

“Don't do that. If I wasn't such a -”

Cas kisses him again, hot and insistent.

“- And I fucking swear, Cas, you pull the two finger sleeping pill shit on me again I’m gonna -”

Cas cuts him off, again, and it’s not like Dean has a leg to stand on really, so he lets Cas drag him in.

It’s female Sam that interrupts them necking with a shit-eating grin that Dean’s been seeing his whole frigging life. She doesn't even say anything. Dean flips her off before heading to the shower in the best mood he’s been in for years.

Chapter Text

“You got your angel blade, gun, holy water?” Dea asks, eyeing Cas up and down. Getting Cas hunt-ready is both a helluva lot more attractive than it should be (Cas has always been badass but seeing her with a freaking gun stashed in her jeans does things to her) and fucking terrifying. The fact that Cas could be taken down by a stray bullet or a vampire or even a big guy with a good right hook regularly keeps Dea up all night because, damnit, she has enough nightmares about Sam without Cas being breakable too. Maybe there’s an upside to Cas gracing up again, even if she's pretty caught up on all the downs.

“I’m sure you could stash another knife in my underwear if you’re truly determined,”

“Funny, Cas,” Dea says, narrowing her eyes, “I could take you up on that, you know. Serve you right for sassing me,”

“That would be more convincing if you didn’t find it so attractive,” Cas says, pocketing another round of bullets, “But if it helps you to maintain that it’s irritating I will refrain from commenting.”

“Damnit,” Dea says, “You’re cute,”

“I’m very fierce and intimidating.”

“Knock knock,”

“We’re not screwing, Sam,” Dea calls to the doorway, “Come right in,”

“Nice digs, Cas,” Sam - their Sam - says, glancing around the spare room that they’ve been crashing in the past couple of days. The space is a lot more Cas centric than Dea’s room’s ever been. Cas was always kind of an add on there just because of the way things panned out; they got back from that shitty drive, Cas newly human and hungry, and she'd reached forward and stepped into Dea's orbit for a goddamn hug and Dea didn't let go. They talked and Cas just stuck there, slowly collecting articles of Dea's clothing and crap Sam picked up whenever she did a supply run. There are a lot of things about Cas' transition they could have done better.

Maybe Dean taking over her room for a bit wasn’t so bad. Maybe it’s kind of good that Cas gets her very own space, for the first time, that Dea's crashed into instead.

“Thank you, Sam,” Cas says.

“So I just walked in on Dean and Cas making out,”

“Your species seems to do that a lot,”

“You mean I’m doomed to walk in on you guys in all realities?” Sam bitchfaces, “You don’t seem surprised.”

“And you were?”

“He was pretty adamant about being straight.” Sam says, picking up the gun on Dea’s bed and starting to load it with salt rounds. “Two days ago.”

“The whole Cas Dean thing started, like, two days ago,” Dea says, “Right after the onion run,”

“The onion run,” Sam repeats, exchanging a look with Cas.

“You’re both very confusing,” Cas says, reaching for her trench coat, “Is it time to go?”

“Cas has just gonna flap us over to the right location,” Dea says, “We can go whenever,”

“You sure about this Cas?” Sam asks, eyes narrowing, “I mean… this is a big deal.”

“I’m sure, Sam,” Cas says, sending her one of those particular Sam-smiles that make Dea stupidly happy because there’s not many people in the world that get along with her sister as well Cas does. The fact that they’re actually friends in their own right is pretty awesome.

“We can manage without your grace,” Dea says, side glancing at her, “We’ll just hide another gun in your bra and we’re all set,”

“Hilarious.Truthfully, I’m looking forward to it,”

“Really?” Dea asks, clicking the gun back onto safety.

“Dea,”

“No, no, this is all good,” Dea says, swallowing back that part of her that’s rejecting this whole thing as a horrible, crappy idea that’s going to pull their whole relationship apart. She can just about comprehend that human Castiel is in love with her and wants all of this, but she’s not sure she’s worked out how a frigging celestial being is supposed to like Dea bringing her coffee in bed and looking after her and having long non-hunt mornings in bed. It doesn't fit.“In fact, this is my favourite part of this whole suicidally stupid plan to break the fabric of reality.”

“Dea, you gave this your vote,”

“Yeah, well, doesn’t mean I think any of this is a good idea,” Dea says, “Just means I wanted to get laid,”

“Dea,”

“Okay,” Dea says, “That’s not true. It got my vote because it’s the plan that gets my memory foam mattress back as quickly as possible. You interrupted them? That means we’re probably good to go. You got your gun, Cas?”

“Yes, Deanna, I have a gun. I have three guns and I am exceedingly looking forward for you ceasing to treat me like a baby in a trench coat,”

“Call ‘em as I see, baby,” Dea winks, just for the pouty frown it wins her.

“Shut up,” Cas says, narrowing her eyes at her and thrusting the fourth gun at Dea’s chest before walking out the bedroom door.

“And you’re good with this?” Sam asks.

“Why wouldn’t I be, Sam?”

“Dea,”

“So, the single functional relationship in my life just got cross-species, my girlfriend might never sleep again, never eatagain, never have caffeine withdrawal and, oh yeah, she’s never going to age, cause that’s worked so well for all the creatures other halves we’ve hunted in the past. And on top of that I can’t even freak out about any of that because that would make me a raging dickbag because all of those things have always been true about Cas, they were just… temporarily not true and now they’re true again and Cas is really psyched and I really really want to be okay with this.”

“Have you talked about this?"

“Some of it,”

“Which bits?” Sam asks, then treats her to a flat stare, “I’m serious, Dea, which bits of that list have you talked about,”

“None of the above,” Dea says, “Ish.”

“So you haven’t talked about it,”

“We talked about our sex life. You wanna talk about that, Sammy? We talked about spooning. The eating stuff is just… whatever. Cas wants to age. She mentioned that. Seems like a pretty crappy thing to want but we didn’t… this was supposed to be a discussion for later, but it’s practical now, so.”

“So?”

“So once again our lives are more complicated than I want them to be. Big surprise. It’s cool, Sam. I’ll deal. We’ll deal. We’re communicating, we’re invested, we’re all in.”

“You sure?”

“Man, what difference does it make whether I’m sure? It’s happening. Good talk, Sam,” Dea says, clapping her on the shoulder before heading to the exits. “We should do this again sometime. Get a copy of Cosmo, put on the notebook - ”

“ - Nice, Dea.” Sam says with an eyeroll.

*

Apparently, Cas has had enough time to bond with Castiel in the period of time Dea spent ambushed talking about her feelings with Sam, because when she finds them both in the war room they’re talking about Dea like that’s fucking normal.

“We are going to discuss it further,” Dea's Cas, with her plaid shirt on under her trenchcoat, says.

“And you foresee this being an issue for her,”

“It will be...an adjustment,” Her Cas says, “For both of us,”

“Your relationship started after you fell,” Male Cas says. It's not exactly a question. It's more squinty statements of fact and it shouldn't be cute and, even if it is, Dea shouldn't be thinking about it.

“Our relationship as it stands started after our fell,” Cas says, narrowing her eyes slightly, “We have been involved for a significant length of time, I’m sure you understand.”

“No,” The other Cas says, “Of all the things I have learnt from humanity and my time on earth, comprehending Dean is not one of them.”

“Well, this is fun,” Dea says, “Sorry to interrupt, folks. Where are we headed?”

“A library,”

“Metatron hid my grace in a library,” Female Cas squints back.

“It’s warded. I can take us close.”

“You’re in love with Dean,” Female Cas says, forehead crinkling, “What’s there to understand?”

“Okay,” Dea says, “This is a whole frigging vat of worms that I don’t think we should open till we’re out of here. Capise?”

“I capise,” They both say and, okay, Dea has not dealt with the double-Cas thing a whole lot in this messy saga. Mostly, the friction has been between her and Dean which has pretty much taken up a lot of the Castiel’s attention. Now they’re frigging bonding. Now they're talking about Dean and her and it's... it's a fucking lot to get her head round.

“Cas, you good to - ” Dea begins, then stops when male Cas’ hand lands on her shoulder and suddenly they’re outside a dumpster in the middle of somewhere. Also, she has not missed angel travel, even a bit, as convenient as it may be. She like to know that she’s gonna wind up in some crappy, run down middle of nowhere to check out a library before they get there. “Thanks. Nice spot. After this, Cas, we should get dinner,”

“Which of us do you mean?”

“Uh, the one I’m dating,” Dea says, “Also, joking. Just to clarify. He couldn’t have picked somewhere a little… nicer? What happened to grace is pure creation stuff. Nothing like a nice garden.”

“We need to see whether the library is open,” Cas (male) says.

“Being human has not impacted my ability to comprehend my relationship with Dea,” Female Cas says, brow still furrowed, “You’re in love with him,”

“Yes,” Cas agrees, “I’m just unclear on what that means.”

“Hold up,” Dea says, “We’re discussing what love means now? Awesome.”

“We should head to the library,” Male as says, setting off into a walk, female Cas exactly in sync. Dea winds up following a pace behind wondering how the hell they ended up at this, because this is not what she figured they’d get when she woke up this morning. “I am aware of what that means for you I don’t know what that means for us. Dean is… different.”

“Yeah, you said.” Dea says and, okay, the library is pretty nice from the front. “You’re the one who kicked this all into action, right?”

“Yes,”

“So you’re kinda taking the lead on this, huh.”

“I am completely unqualified and I have no idea what I’m doing,” Male Cas says, that rough growl edging into his voice, “I have no comprehension of relationships other than popular culture that has been downloaded into my thoughts, which has lead me to believe that there is a subtle and unfathomable difference between being romantically loving someone and being in love with someone that makes no sense. There is an apparent way and speed and chronology and logic of things that I am entirely ignorant of and -”

“ - Cas, freaking out is normal,” Dea interrupts, “Really, really normal. In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s what Dean’s doing.”

She's giving Castiel relationship advice. She's giving Castiel relationship advice. The male version of her girlfriend.

“I am not freaking out. Dean is freaking out. The library is open for another hour.”

“Okay,” Dea says, “Then let’s get some coffee, wait for the nerdy civilians to clear out. Talk about something light, like world poverty or conflict in the middle east.”

“I would like coffee,” Cas - her Cas - says, that frigging adorable expression of her face that means Dea just has to lean forward and press a kiss behind the hollow of Cas’ ear. Cas sways in and rests a hand on Dea’s lower back for a moment. Dea exhales and draws her in closer and feels maybe just a little smug that she can do that without her stomach clenching these days .

“There’s coffee in this direction,” Male Cas says, jerking a thumb to the left and then just beginning to walk.

“Hey, Cas,” Dea says, leaning closer, “When you get your grace back can you do the coffee sensing trick?”

“Yes,” She says, grabbing Dea’s hand to get her to pause, then dragging her in for a kiss.

“Okay, let’s get you caffeinated,” Dea says, squeezing her hand for a moment. She drops it before they start to walk but they stay close.

Male Castiel sits down heavily at a spare table the second they get to the coffee shop, looking grave and serious, and female Cas follows suit.

“Okay, I guess I’ll get the coffee,” Dea says, rolling her eyes, “Cas, you want coffee?”

“Yes,”

“No, other Cas, I know you want coffee.”

“Coffee would be fine,”

“Awesome,” Dea says, then heads up to the counter, because God forbid Cas ever actually uses the fake cards and the money Dea set her up with, when Dea can just go ahead and cover them both.

She’s not even surprised that when she gets back with three coffees that they’re back to having serious, intense conversations about this whole, messy situation.

“I don't feel qualified to report on the apparent intricate differences between loving someone and being in love with someone, but I've known my feelings fit the criteria for the minute I really comprehended feelings. I do know that saying you love someone is a large admission even if it's obvious and one that Dea struggles with. I believe it's due to vulnerability.” Female Cas says, glancing up to acknowledge Dea's presence with a blinkless stare.

“I guess,” Dea says, sitting down and sliding the coffees across the table, “But it's not... you don't know, first time, what the person’s gonna do. It aint something you can put back in a box. It's big. It changes everything. Admit it, Cas, it was a turning point.”

“Yes,” Female Cas says, “But largely because you, in particular, find it difficult to articulate your feelings. I don't see why it should be such a big deal in general.”

“It's frigging terrifying, Cas. Knowing a person has that much power of how you're feeling and what you wanna do and where you wanna be? Then telling that person that. Letting them know that you don't give a shit if they don't actually like pie or they've been pretending to like star wars - ”

“- I don't dislike star wars -”

“- that it doesn't really matter what the hell they do, cause you're done. If it wasn't a big deal then why didn't you say it first, Cas? Girl Cas.”

“I didn't believe you wanted me to be in love you,”

“You're kinda proving my point, here.”

“What would it have achieved? If you wished to continue as we were and had no extra regard for me it would make things... uncomfortable. You might have avoided me more persistently and that…”

“Would have been very painful,” Male Cas puts in, “I told him first. Although that implies a reciprocation in declaration,”

“And did it scare you shitless?”

“I was relatively angry,” Cas says, cocking his head slightly, “And I had a degree of proof that my statement wouldn’t be unwelcome but, yes.”

“See,” Dea says, “It’s frigging difficult, Cas,”

“Why is it difficult now?”

“Do you mind?” Male Cas cuts in to female Cas, like that might not be a sensitive topic. Then again, Castiel’s never exactly mastered the art of subtlety.

“No,” She answers, “Largely it's obvious. You don't care whether I like pie, after all.”

“Hilarious,” Dea says, taking a sip of her coffee and rolling her eyes.They’ve talked about this before. Cas knows exactly how she feels. Apparently, it’s obvious, which is kind of terrifying but mostly okay. Dea’s pretty sure she can turn it off in front of other people, anyway, because only about fifty percent of the crap they’ve hunted lately have made pointed lesbian comments. It's up on normal but still could be worse.

“You are confident in the reciprocation of your feelings and yet you struggle to discuss them in those terms. Why?” Male Cas asks. That's loaded. There's a lot resting on that.

“It's not like I don't. I've said it.”

“Four times,” Female Cas says, eyes narrowed at Cas, “If you're waiting for verbal confirmation, you might be disappointed. Dea initially told me she loved me in the crypt when I nearly killed her.”

“And don't that sum up a bucket of crap about our lives,”

“The second time was when she found me after I became human whilst I was blaming myself from the fall. The third was after the single worst relationship argument we've ever had. The last was this week and guilt induced after she conspired with Dean to help her escape,”

“You helped,” Cas says, fixing his glare at Dea, which she is trying really, really hard not to find intimidating because she is not in the habit of being intimidated by dudes. Especially angel dudes.

“Without my knowledge,”

“Look, the guy's in love with you. He just is. He's in love with you and he really wants you to fuck him than hang around so he can cook you breakfast in the morning. We are of simple tastes,” Dea declares, tightening her grip on her cup, “I'm spitballing about him wanting you to fuck him. That's probably something you two should work out between yourselves. Unless you went full steam ahead on onion night.” Castiel doesn’t even react. Male Cas, anyway. Dea’s Cas is looking vaguely unimpressed and knows exactly what she’s doing. “Which is fine. Better if you changed the sheets,” Dea continues, proding for some kind of reaction. Nothing. He hasn’t even picked up his frigging coffee. He’s got that angel stoic thing that Dea’s just gonna have to get used to again. “Just let me know if I need to buy more lube.”

“Castiel,” Cas says, “Did you have penetrative sex?”

“I don't know why this is relevant.”

“It isn't,” Cas agrees, “Dea is overly invested.”

“No,”

“But you, you know. Fooled around. Got off.”

“Why are you interested?”

“Because you're us, except half backwards. Sure we're generally in the better position here but... Cas told me about Claire. How in the other side she's safe and got a chance to reconcile with her mom. It's not like there's a good world and a bad world here. We all screwed up. If I can learn more about us from getting up close and personal with you two, then maybe I wanna do that. That and Charlie doesn't believe me and I told him it happened that night. We also had a bet but I’m guessing we won’t get intel on that one.”

“Yes, we fooled around,”

“What’s the deal then?”

“There is no deal.”

“But you're... you know, involved now.”

“I've been involved for five years,” Cas says, inclining his head towards Castiel.

“You haven't talked about it.” Female Castiel says, draining the rest of her coffee. She drinks the crap like water. Dea probably shouldn’t have gotten her a large.

“Dean isn't ready.” Cas says, voice stiff.

“I don't understand.”

“He and Dea are not the same.”

“He means he's closeted,” Dea supplies, “Whatever. He’ll get over it. Just, all due respect, Cas, but I don't buy that being the hold up.”

“What?”

“Sure, he's closeted but... we talked. He knows. He's gotta know Sam knows. Given everything it's safe to say you know. Everyone else in your world is dead so there's no one else to know. He as good as admitted it all to me and I know me. Reckon that's a smokescreen for the fact that he tried to kill you less than two weeks ago. The fact that you've been plotting behind his back. The fact that he doesn't even believe this spell is going to work.”

“We discussed those things.”

“That doesn't mean they're done, Cas. It just means you discussed them,”

“Is that why you were going to help him run away?”

“No, Cas,” Dea says, “I was going to help him run because at that point you had no plan but to jump him back to the right world and let the murder spree rebegin. Now we have a plan. It’s a bad plan, but it’s something to swing at.”

“It was the morning after,”

“So he’s a total jackass,” Dea says, “That’s not my fault.”

“You assisted -” Male Cas says, slamming a hand down on the table.

“ - and you’re too damn blind sighted by this whole thing to realise that he’s being kind of reasonable, given the circumstances. Not the morning after thing, maybe, but not comitting... You don’t know this is gonna work, Cas. He is terrified that he’s going to kill you. You blame the guy for not spouting his feelings? Give him a break.”

“Give Dean a break?”

“Come on, didn’t you kiss and make up this morning anyway?” Dea asks, “You don’t want my opinion, you don’t ask for it.”

“The library’s closed,” Female Cas says, “We should go,”

“Should get you some specs, Cas, do you up as a sexy librarian.”

“You’re an imbecile,” Cas says and then Dea gets fixed with dual unimpressed Castiel glares. They’re both pissed at her. She’s successfully managed to screw this whole thing up by defending Dean like she actually thinks Dean is being reasonable here. She hates the guy. She’s almost entirely sure he hates the guy.

“Man, this is totally sexually confusing,” Dea says, crushing her coffee cup, “Whole new meaning to double date." She get's no sign of amusement from either of them which is a shame, because it was hilarious and she definitely can't win against both of them. "Okay then, Cas, Cas, let’s get this done.”

Chapter Text

Sam is wearing a t-shirt the female-Sam picked up at goodwill, eating some green crap with a book of ancient law propped open in front of him. He’s years passed the need for a haircut and he’s clearly half asleep and he has never looked so intimidating in Dean’s life.

They need to have this conversation.

Dean’s been doing a good job at avoiding him over the past few days, but now they’re near enough alone in the bunker (there’s male Charlie and Karen but Dean’s pretty sure they’re hanging out together in some corner of the bunker that’s never been used in Dean’s reality; they probably picked up on the needing-space hints). They’re going to have to deal with this. Dean is going to have to deal with this and he’s going to have to deal with it now to stop screwing Cas around. They've screwed each other around more than enough for a lifetime. He cannot let Sam be the reason this tanks, either, for any of their sake's. He doesn't know how they'd move forward from that.

“Hey, Sam,” Dean says, kicking back a chair and sitting opposite. “You good?”

“Dean,” Sam says, looking up from his book, “Hey. Yeah. I’m… good.”

“Good,” Dean says, “That’s good.”

“Dean,”

“This sucks,” Dean says, “This whole world sucks,”

“You mean because it doesn’t,” Sam says, “Charlie, Kevin, the mark…”

“Yeah,”

“Dean, we’re going to fix the mark. We’re going to fix this,”

“I dunno, Sam, I’m pretty sure it can’t be this easy,” Dean says, shifting in his seat. He kind of wishes Cas was in the building. He just… he thinks he’d feel a little bit less on edge if he knew Cas was somewhere near by. At least he’d know that after he’s done this whole, crappy conversation thing he could go hide in Dea’s room and have Cas find him and smile at him or kiss him or something dumb and sentimental that he might not even get, because Dean’s been doing a pretty spectacular job of fucking this all up. Goddamnit.

“It’s a good plan, Dean, Cas thinks -”

“ - Yeah, I know what Cas thinks,”

“I just don’t get why you’re mad at him for this. He’s trying to help you. We’re trying to help you.”

“And damn the consequences, right?” Dean snaps, even though this is the last frigging thing he wanted to talk about right now. That’s not the point of Dean sitting here and having this conversation. He’s mad at Sam. He’s always mad at Sam for something, unless it’s eclipsed by guilt because Sam’s mad at him for something. The whole routine is dumb. It goes round and round and, if being reality-jumped has done him any favours at all, it’s at least that it gives him an outside perspective for all their bullshit. “Forget about who gets hurt. Forget about what it costs, cause if you’re trying to help -”

“ - Dean, I shouldn't have gone behind your back,”

“No, you shouldn't, but that's not what I really want to talk about right now. It's done. You'd do it again.” Dean says, uncurling his hands out of fists. He needs to refocus, regroup, work out a damn strategy to point them to one of the other elephants in the room.

“The mark -” Sam begins.

“Things were getting a little hairy back there,”

“The book had the answer,” Sam implores, eyes wide, an edge of desperation to the way he’s talking about this. He’s gotta be blaming himself for Charlie. Dean hasn’t really worked out whether or not he’s blaming Sam for Charlie yet, cause he hasn’t really had a chance to feel it out. It’s so fresh. He hasn’t exactly processed. He was so goddamn angry, but that was the mark, and then he was here and he couldn’t even think about Charlie without his head splitting open and -

“Yeah, guess it did,” Dean sighs, running a hand over his face. He can't do this. Even if he had Sam pushing at it instead of avoiding it completely, he'd still be stuck.

“If I - ”

“Damnit, Sammy, that’s not what I wanna talk about. Will you listen to my bit so I can get this done and pretend none of this ever fucking happened?”

Sam's eyes widen slightly.

“Go ahead, Dean, talk,” Sam says, after a few seconds of silence that feel like they’re trying to suffocate him. He’s an asshole. He should’ve let Sam talk about Charlie. That’s bigger than this. More important. This is nothing compared to Charlie. It's irrelevant, it's just -

If he doesn’t do this whilst he’s riding the high of realising that he and Cas might just get to be something, he’s not gonna do it at all, and there’s no way this is gonna stay under wraps. He knows Dea knows about it. He knows she’s not gonna let him screw this sidewise, for Cas’ sake, so he’s gotta talk to Sam. He’s gotta do it.

“You're not an idiot. Doesn't take a genius to play spot the difference. Most of them are me. Look, Sam, this... It's not news to me and it's not a big deal. Just made my life a hell of a lot easier not to engage.”

“To engage,” Sam repeats.

“Don't make me spell it out, Sam,”

“I'm not Dean, I swear, I just want to make sure we're on the same page here.”

It shouldn't be this difficult to just fucking say. It shouldn't be so damn hard.

“This ain't new. All this loony tunes trip has done is shown me their might be a flip side. Something about it that hasn't been totally crap. I knew.”

“Dean. What are you saying?”

“That the reason I hated Truman high was because this dickbag jock I was messing around with threatened you if I told anyone. He threatened you. Look it's... bad example, bad whatever. You know what I'm saying. Sometimes I'm into dudes, except I don't normally go there, cause it's complicated and inconvenient and it doesn't work out well for me, so I never mentioned it, but I knew. And me telling you ain't a big deal,”

Sam reacts pretty much as Dean always figured he would. The only facial expression is an upscale of the classic puppy-eyes and that’s fractional. He’s not surprised, or disgusted, or confused or whatever the hell other shitty thing he could be, he’s just… Sam.

“Normally,” Sam repeats and, oh yeah, that’s Sam digging. He knows. Not that that’s surprising, given all present evidence, but it’s still… it’s hurting his damn head that Sam can be the one to bring Cas into this conversation.

“Right,”

“Cas?”

This really, really, shouldn’t be so difficult to talk about.

“Yeah,” Dean exhales, after a few moments of the word sticking in the back of his throat. “Cas. You know I …”

“Yeah, I do,” Sam says and, fucking finally, Sam is doing some of the work of this conversation.

“Guess I'm kind of obvious,”

“Honestly, you're both obvious,” Sam says, with an almost smile. That’s not surprising, either. He’s had comments from every single damn side about Cas being his boyfriend, or in love with him, and that’s without the full shit show of Dean not dealing with his crap when it came to Castiel. Sam has seen him forgive Cas for everything. He’s seen him hallucinating the guy (and then not so much, as it turns out) after purgatory. Seen Dean trying to pretend like he didn’t give a damn every time he took off. Of course they’re fucking obvious to Sam.

“Awesome,” Dean says, but it sounds a lot more bitter than it’s supposed to. “And before Cas?”

“I hadn't really thought about it before Cas, but when I look back…” He doesn't know if that's a good thing, or if it just is. Dean swallows and stares at the table. “So, you and Cas, huh?”

“And you’re cool with that? If he, uh, hangs around a little more. If we don’t break the world and whatever,”

“I think it’s great,” Sam says, with an actual smile this time, “And, Dean, I know you said this… you actually, voluntarily talking about this isn’t a big deal... but I kind of think it is. In a good way.”

“Good talk, Sam,” Dean says, narrowing his eyes and slapping his hands on the table to push himself up. “Excuse me whilst I go and blow my brains out,”

“Hey Dean,” Sam adds, “Let me know when you’ve had enough time that I can mock you about this. I have a lot of material stocked up. At least sixteen different jokes about that time you told Cas to get out of your ass -”

“Sam,”

“I mean, years, I have been biting my tongue on this -”

“Really, really not there yet, Sam.”

“Let me know,”

“Oh yeah, I’ll keep you posted,” Dean mutters, “I’m gonna go shoot something. Let me know when they get back.”

“Sure,”

“And quit sounding so damn smug about it, Sam,” Dean says, before walking out and leaving Sam with his crappy health drink and his crappy book.

*

The driving range didn’t quite cut it for his borderline manic need to do something active. He’s itching to pick up a hunt. He’d really, really love to punch someone or something in the face. Run from something. Just, be active, productive, in motion. Get to kill some motherfucker. It’s screwed up, but this is probably the longest period he hasn’t iced something that goes bump in the night for years and it’s fucking with his rhythm. Sure, it’s the kind of coping mechanism that any therapist would try and section him for, but hunting helps and he needs all the help he can get right now. It's not all the mark, as much as he'd love to believe that.

He winds up in their crappy gym (if the Men of Letters hadn’t been so up themselves and bookish, there might be some decent gym equipment) throwing punches at a decades old bag that smells kind of musty. It helps channel a fraction of some of his feelings into something that isn’t imploding, though, which is good. Not totally losing his fucking mind is good. A big improvement to how he thought he would be.

It went well with Sam. The best it could’ve, really, so why Dean is freaking out about this, he’s got no goddamn idea. He just knows that he’s probably gonna camp out here beating up a punching bag till he’s too exhausted to think anymore, which will be a blessed relief.

Cas finds him anyway.

“Hello Dean,”

“Hey,” Dean says and throws another punch. Dean’s pretty sure it’s going to be better if he doesn’t look the guy in the face but that’s probably impractical. “The other you all graced up?”

“Yes,” Cas says, “And we bought back the demon tablet,”

“No disturbance?”

“None,” Cas confirms, as Dean throws another punch. “We waited till close and then broke in. Metatron stored it exactly as in our world. It was remarkably undramatic.”

“Good,” Dean says, “We could use a dose of undramatic right about now,”

“Your brother was acting very strange,”

“He try to talk to you?”

“Hug me,”

“Right,” Dean says, still not looking at him, “Told you I was gonna talk to him,”

“Are you upset?”

“No,”

“Dean,”

“I’m just a little agitated,” Dean says, finally dropping his fists and turning around.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No,” Dean grunts, grabbing the layers he stripped off when he started to get hot, before slumping down onto the archaic bench left in here by the old guys. It creaks beneath his weight.

“You spoke to Sam,” Cas says, sitting on the wood next to him, gaze fixed straight ahead.

“I said I was gonna,”

“You told him we were... together,”

“Didn’t use those words,” Dean says, “Given I’m not all that sure that’s what we are doing. We haven’t exactly talked about it. Labelled it. But, yeah, we talked. He’s got the memo. He’s fine, obviously. Smug and happy,”

“Hence the hug,”

“Yep.”

“Dean,” Cas says, voice gravel and power and so freaking Cas, “I didn’t intend to push you into having a conversation you weren’t ready for,”

“That’s dumb,” Dean says, “Didn’t like the look of how things were gonna be if I didn’t talk to him. You didn’t either,”

“I don’t remember expressing an opinion,”

“The other you,” Dean says, “Femstiel. I just… I assumed the whole thing was on the down low at first. She was pretty horrified. That’s what a goddamn mess I am. I guessed they were shaking up in two minutes flat and just… figured it had to be some big secret. Had to be corrected. What kind of person does that make me?”

“You’re berating yourself for something you assumed rather than the path you chose. That’s very illogical.”

“Welcome to humanity, Sweetheart,” Dean mutters, “It’s not just the conversation. This whole situation sucks. Dunno if we’re gonna break this universe. Our universe. If I’m gonna be me when we touch down on planet boy again. If all of this is just… we deserve a little more time.”

“I am confident we’re going to have it,” Cas says, then he’s got Cas holding onto his damn wrist, thumb drawing circles over his wrist bone. It’s impossibly intimate for something so… small. Something that should be so irrelevant.

“Charlie would’ve wanted to see this,” Dean says, “She got pretty close to calling me out on it a few times, I think. Called you dreamy.”

“Dreamy,”

“You are kinda dreamy,” Dean shrugs, “But this was before she met you. She called you dreamy based on me describing you, which is… well.”

“I wondered why she was so excited to meet me,”

“Oh yeah,” Dean says, turning his hand over so he can wrap his fingers around Cas’ wrist, too, “That was my dazzling character references. You should take it as a compliment,”

“You think I’m dreamy,”

“Cas,” Dean exhales, “I know this hasn’t exactly gotten to the best start. Haven’t even been nice to you, really, cause I’ve been so caught up in my crap, but you gotta know I think you’re attractive. And not just cause of your… vessel, I guess, even if it’s all yours now. I met Jimmy and he was kinda… unremarkable. I mean you’re you and I… damnit, I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I don’t… I don’t want this against my will. I haven’t been ignoring it because I don’t want to feel like this. You’ve been there for me, Cas, and I think you’re awesome. Single angel in heaven to live up to the good PR, only bad ass and incredible and my best friend and I’m… Cas, I’m really glad this, whatever the hell this is, is happening. And yeah I think you’re fucking dreamy.” Dean says, letting go of Cas’ wrists so he can reach over to rest it on the guy’s hip, coaxing him into turning in Dean’s direction.

He’s close. Close enough that their noses touch, nudge, till Dean corrects their angle and kisses him. Cas slots a hand round his face and holds him steady. They haven’t done this like this before. It’s different. It’s easy. Dean’s so content, in a mellow kind of way, that he can’t even remember why he should be freaking out.

“Dean,” Cas says, “I haven’t been good to you either. I want you to know that this makes me very happy. You make me very happy,” Cas kisses him again and it’s a little like all the nervous agitation stored up in his shoulders leaks away instantaneously.

“Ain’t that something,”

“You have always been remarkable,”

“Cas,” Dean says, voice breaking, “I’m not,”

“You don’t get to dictate what I think,” Cas says, drawing back a little, deliberately arranging his hands inoffensively away from Dean.

“You gotta go find some apple, right?”

“Cas is locating the apple. I’m intending to find a segment of the golden calf mentioned in Exodus. I was just… checking in because your brother hugged me.”

“Good luck with that, Cas,” Dean says, standing up and pulling on one of shirts. He needs to shower but now he’s cold in their creepy ass basement gym, so he can wait. “Come back in one piece, okay?”

“I will endeavour to,” Cas says, standing up to kiss him again.

Dean’s pretty sure he can get used to this new rhythm.

*

“Where’s Cas?” Sam asks when Dean wonders into the kitchen right about the time he’s started to get hungry. Apparently Sam’s been hanging out with Sam, probably sharing douchey health food tips and talking about how obvious Dean/Dea’s been for years, whilst Dea’s stress cooking in the kitchen. It hurts his head a bit. At least this whole whackadoodle experiment into gender studies is gonna be over soon.

“Reenacting Exodus,” Dean says, swiping a beer, “Somewhere,”

“He say when he’d be back?” Female Sam asks.

“Yeah right,” Dea says from the stove, “Good one, Sam,”

Dean exchanges a look with both Sam’s in turn before sitting down.

“So, I was thinking,” Dean says, “We’ve still got no idea what Fate was trying to stop.”

“What you were about to do,”

“Yeah, maybe,” Dean says, “But, okay, don’t take this the wrong way, Sam, but you were about to bust open the book of the damned with Rowena, right? What if that’s what she was trying to stop,”

“Then why would she reality jump you?”

“Maybe she can’t get to the bunker,”

“Why -”

“ - The Men of Letters got a helluva lot of mojo protecting this place,”

“Cas gets in fine,”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “But he’s an angel. Pretty sure everyone who believed angels were walking and talking also figure they were the good guys. Lot of hunter hideouts keep out Greek Gods but not angels. I’m just spitballing here. Just seems like… if I were talking crap about universally significant stuff, seems like us getting reaped is pretty… small time. Fate never stopped us getting ganked before,”

“He’s got a point,” Dea comments, iron tight grip on her own beer, “Fate tried to ice us,”

“Right,” Dean says, “So why she’s doing us a favour now? I don’t get it. I don’t buy that she jumped us to stop me summoning death and that just happened to be helpful with the Mark. It don’t add up,”

“What if she was trying to help us?” Sam asks, “No, listen, what if she knew about Cas’ theory -”

“ - I swear, if someone starts talking about frigging locks and keys again I’m gonna -”

“Why would Fate try and help with Cas’ theory? Fate hates us,” Dea says, “Pretty sure Fate’s personally screwed me more than my damn girlfriend.”

“What if she was just getting you out the way?” Female Sam says, “And the rest is just us finding a solution where we’re at,”

“If it is the solution,” Dean says, “Rather than the problem in the first place. Sam wasn’t supposed to follow. Cas wasn’t supposed to switch us back. It’s all… I’m uneasy.”

“No one’s saying this is ideal,” Male Sam says, puppy eyes directed at Dean, “But it’s going to work, Dean,”

“We’ll see,” Dean comments.

“And if it don’t, we’ve got a fully powered up team ready to fight your battles for you,” Dea says.

“You seem on edge,” Dean comments, turning his gaze towards her. She’s cooking something that smells pretty amazing, actually, and dicing onions like she’s imagining they’re vampires, or some other big bad. Seems like she’s pretty agitated to. Figures that needing to do something with that is a trait they share. He’s definitely stress-chopped onions before.

“Hey, fuck you,” Dea says, before pulling her headphones out of her pocket and shoving them in her ears.

“What’s with that?” Dean asks, eyes narrowed at her tense posture and concealed grimace that Dean can see straight through. “This all about Cas’ grace?”

“Uh, yeah, mostly,” Female Sam says, “And Cas and Cas ganging up on her about you, I think. Little hazy on the details. Oh, and she thinks this whole thing is a crappy idea,”

“It is a crappy idea,” Dean agrees, picking at the label on his beer bottle and trying to remind himself that he’s not uncomfortable. He’s pretty sure they were all talking about him before he walked in, but that doesn’t matter. Shouldn’t matter. It’s fine. This is a good thing that’s happened in his life. It’s good.

“Hello,” Female Cas says, by way of announcing her presence in the kitchen doorway, “I have the forbidden fruit,”

“The apple?”

“Quince,” Female Cas corrects, holding it up for them to see. It’s startling ordinary, if misshapen.

“You get it from the long life section? It’s looking pretty good for a million year old pie ingredient,”

“Actually, the time frame is more likely - “

“- Spare us the history lesson,” Dean interjects, “The earth is old. You’re old. We get it,”

“You’re back,” Dea says, removing her headphone and frowning in their direction.

“And she’s got the forbidden quince,” Dean supplies.

“You get it from the long life section?” Dea asks, “It’s looking pretty good for -”

“Okay, too weird,” Dean interrupts, “Officially no repeats, thank you.”

“What are you cooking?” Cas asks, setting the fruit down on the table and edging a little closer to Dea. Dea does a valiant effort of pretending not to be aware of where Cas is in the room (even though Dean knows full well that they've got a hyper-sensitive Cas sensor), staying deliberately still at the stove, stirring with way more concentration than the sauce needs. Her jaw is clenched. It’s interesting to watch, even if it's a little too revealing about his own personal demons too.

“Does it matter? You’re not gonna eat it, anyway,”

“I might,” Cas says, “It smells… good,”

“Good,” Dea repeats, “It smells good,”

Dean raises an eyebrow at Sam, who’s lips quirk upwards as if they’re not actually making fun of Dean here because it essentially amounts to the same thing. He’s entirely sure he’d get freaked out enough if he was in Dea’s shoes to project this into cooking pasta. It’s still different seeing from the outside, though, and it’s nice to share that affectionate amusement with Sam. They’re okay. Everything's going to be okay.

“I enjoy your cooking,” Castiel says, leaning on the counter and watching Dea move around the kitchen. She says it’s serious and emphatically enough that Cas might as well be declaring that she’s in love with her. It’s just… obvious and it’s just Dea freaking out and Cas trying to push her way into that space. It’s pretty damn familiar. “Dea,”

“That’s because my spag bol is awesome,” Dea says, shoulders relaxing a little, “So that thing is the reason I get cramps and bleed once a month? Talk about an overreaction,”

“You suppressed your menstruation cycle,” Cas declares which is way, way too much information for Dean to have.

“Because it was pain in my ass,” Dea says, “If the big guy ever shows up to the party, that’s the first thing I’m complaining about.”

“That’s the first thing you’d say?” Female Sam asks, smirking at his and male Sam’s dual expressions of discomfort.

“Okay, fine,” Dea says, “Thanks for hypothetically maybe resurrecting my girlfriend, what the hell is with periods and, oh yeah, fuck you for the apocalypse.” Dea says, turning the pasta down to simmer then bringing her beer to the table. “If I eat that, reckon I’d go straight to hell, do not collection two hundred dollars, do not pass go?”

“I think you’d be exceedingly ill,” Castiel says, corners of her lips tilting upwards, “It is hundreds of thousands of years old, although that should be the only effect. It was a symbol rather than the actual fruit.”

“I dare you,” Dea grins, with the barest flash of teeth, “Invincible girl,”

“I don’t want to put myself off your ‘spag bol’ with any residual hell fruit aftertaste,”

“Suck up,” Dea says, “I’m fine, Cas, quit it. Dean’s got an interesting fate theory.”

“It ain't a theory,” Dean says, “More pointing out that we don’t got a theory.”

“Should I round up the others for food?” Female says, standing up.

“Thanks Sammy,” Dea says, with a genuine smile, “Five on the food.”

“Copy that,” Sam says, standing up,“Oh, hey Cas,”

“I have the golden cow,” Male Cas declares, all serious and deep, then he’s walked into the room and placed a rusty piece of junk next to the ancient quince. Dean’s gonna take Cas’ word for it that’s there’s gold underneath all that muck. “Well, a segment of the golden cow,”

“Really? That’s…”

“Dude, put your geek boner away,” Dean tells Sam, “And that splinter of golden cow is gonna work?”

“Yes,” Cas says, “We have everything we need. We should set up the spell,”

“Hang fire, Cas,” Dean says, “Dea’s made spag bol and we’ve got some million year old hell quince for dessert.”

“Actually, the time frame is more likely -”

“Snap,” Dean says, “We got it, Cas.”

“We should do this now,”

“If we accidentally let loose something dark and universe altering, I’d really rather do it after I’ve eaten. And slept. There’s no time limit on this. Let’s be smart. Pull up a chair, Cas, let’s eat.”

“I don’t require sustenance,” Castiel says, sitting down stiffly and inhaling, “And it smells like molecules.”

Dea drops her beer and swears.

“I’ll round everyone up,” Female Sam says, glancing between them all in quick succession before making a quick exit. Wise move too, looks like, because now Dea’s reaching for a kitchen towel and female Cas is offering up her grace and it’s all a bit of a clusterfuck.

“Well aint you a ray of sunshine today,” Dean comments,

“I am not any kind of light beam,” Cas says, staring at Dea and Cas’ domestic with evident confusion, which figures given he missed the stress-cooking and the rest of it. “Dean…”

“Just, goddamnit,” Dean mutters, standing up because now the pan is boiling over and Dea’s busying having a crisis over the beer on the floor, “Stay out of it,”

“Dea is overly sensitive about the fact I no longer have to eat,” Female Cas declares, which is the exact opposite of helpful, even if male Cas looks a little less bewildered.

“Don’t call me sensitive, jackass,” Dea says, slamming the empty beer bottle back on the table and standing up.

“I see,” Male Cas says, “What…?” He begins, then cuts himself off. “Is there garlic bread?”

“Yes,” Dea says through gritted teeth, budging Dean out the way to turn the pan down. Dean holds his hands in the air in mock surrender and gets a flat glare for his efforts. He gets Dea a fresh beer and pops it open, instead, setting it down at her seat at the table.

“I enjoy garlic bread,”

“Doesn’t tasted like molecules, huh?” Sam asks.

“Enjoyable molecules,”

“There we go,” Dean says, “Everyone’s a winner,”

“We should go after dinner,” Male Cas says, accepting the beer that Dean passes to him without comment.

“Nope,” Dean says, “After dinner, we should hang out and watch a damn movie. We can invite the universe to screw us all tomorrow morning, after breakfast and coffee,”

“Movie night?” Charlie asks, arriving in the kitchen doorway with an extra chair from the war room, “Awesome. Budge.”

Dean stands up to shift their chairs over. It’s a tight fit with all of them but it’s a hell of a lot nicer than eating in the war room. He winds up thigh to thigh with Cas, which is awesome and allowed and okay and good.

Karen arrives with female-Sam and they both manage to fit in, too, till it’s all eight of them squashed round the table. Dea dishes out the food, Charlie hands out the beers, both Sam’s have entirely too little cheese on their food (frigging health nuts) and both Castiel’s eat. Dean spends a quarter of the meal with a hand on Cas’ knee under the table, a quarter with a hand resting on the back of his chair and the rest of it actually fucking eating and it doesn’t freak him out nearly as much as he thinks it probably should.

No one comments. Both gendered versions of his brother keeps sending him soft looks that Dean pretends don’t exist and Dea keeps assessing him like she’s making sure he ain’t about to bolt, but no one comments.

Cas’ hard, tense edges drop away as it goes on, too, till he accepts a fourth and fifth beer and laughs at Charlie’s jokes.

By the time they get to the film - in the war room, because they don’t have any other room big enough for the eight of them - he’s brave enough to drag two chairs next to each other near their old timey projector so Cas can mutter his commentary to him throughout the whole frigging film, close enough that Dean can’t concentrate on what the hell's actually happening. It’s so damn good that Dean almost doesn’t care if they ruin everything tomorrow. Even if they kick start the apocalypse, or their universes start bleeding into each other, he’s pretty damn glad that they got this evening.

Chapter Text

Dean had a vague hope that Dea might be stress cooking pancakes by the time he made it to the kitchen for breakfast, but it’s just Castiel sat at the table staring at his hands, so it looks a lot like that’s all been squared away and resolved; at least enough for them both to still be tucked up in their temporary room. Good for them, bad for Dean.

It’s early, but not early enough that Dean deserves to be the first person awake and as a result take on the responsibility of breakfast. He didn’t count on being left alone with Cas, either, when he spent half the damn night wondering whether he was going to come to bed.

“Morning Sunshine,” Dean mutters, only partially through gritted teeth, as he starts a pot of coffee. “Sleep well?”

“I don’t require sleep,” Castiel says without looking up.

“Yeah, it’s way too early for this,” Dean says, stomach turning over.

“You’re irritated,”

“Cas, can we not right now?”

“I’ll finish the coffee,”

“Awesome,” Dean exhales, sitting down. “Thanks.”

Of course, instead of just making the damn coffee, Cas stares at him for long enough for Cas to put together why Dean’s acting like a goddamn teenager.

“Dean, I didn’t - “

“ - nope,” Dean cuts across. He’s spent enough time in the past six hours wondering why Castiel elected to do whatever the hell he was doing wherever the hell he was all night without having a conversation about it now. He doesn’t need it on the day they’re about to do something phenomenally stupid, the morning after he spilled his soul to Sam. He doesn’t need it. He needs coffee.

Cas doesn’t push him any further.

In the end, he’s too keyed up to make a real breakfast. They’re having toast and anyone who wants to whine about it can make something else themselves.

Sam - male Sam - is the next one down. He grabs the first round a toast from Dean’s plate because he’s an annoying dick and starts eating, loudly.

“Really, Sam?”

“What?” Sam asks. Dean tops up his coffee and glares at it whilst Sam carries on eating.”What crawled up your - ?”

“ - nope,” Dean says, standing up to put another round of toast in, “No way.”

“Dean,” Cas says and Dean can feel the hand Cas is considering resting on the small of his back, or his shoulder, or his arm, hovering in the space behind him before he aborts the motion and gives up.

Karen is next down for breakfast, then female Sam, and by the time everyone’s exchanged niceties their little domestic gets swallowed up in the chaos that is a gender swap breakfast.

Watching everyone interact gives him some perspective, though, and it’s enough to shift his bad mood a little.

*

“The hell we’re doing this in my kitchen,” Dea declares, the second male Cas so much as looks at the damn forbidden quince. “Witchcraft is icky. Aint having it where we eat. Relocate, people.”

“Dea -”

“You’re not gonna win this one,” Dean advises, as female-Sam grabs the ancient bit of dirt/golden cow and heads for the war room.

“I’ll get Rowena from the Dungeon,” Male Sam says.

“Wait,” Dean says, his brain sticking slightly. And he would have thought of it before if he hadn’t been so damn distracted by coming out and the rest of the bullcrap that’s been going on for the past few days. Handcuffs or not, Rowena wouldn’t have agreed to this - to help them - without there being something deeper going on. She’s Crowley’s frigging mother, after all. “What’s the deal? What’s the leverage that got Rowena to a-okay magic tattoo removal?” Dean asks, stopping short in the doorway, turning to look at him. “What’s the flipside?”

“Dean,”

“Just tell me,”

“Crowley,” Cas says, his voice even and deep. “Unless something changed whilst I was here,”

“Her son Crowley?” Dea asks, “I don’t get it.”

“She wants him taken out,” Sam says, not looking away from Dean. “Dean, you know -”

“ - yeah, I know,” Dean says, Cain’s words ringing in his ears, loudly. First… first, you’d kill Crowley. There’d be some strange, mixed feelings on that one, but you’d have your reason . His heart rate picks up slightly. “That’s what she wants. That’s it. She wouldn’t… negotiate.”

“Sounds like a good deal to me,” Female Sam interjects, “Win win.”

“Sam,” Dean says, “You’re sure there’s no other way.”

“Dean, I know you had that -”

“I’m not talking about our thing,” Dean says, voice picking up heat, “Not like that,” He adds, quickly, because he can see the look on Dea’s face and he does not need her to give Sam ideas, now that he knows. “I was a demon. I don’t even trust the guy, Sam, I’m just…”

“You do,” Sam interjects, “Trust Crowley,”

“This is a conversation for another time. Let’s reschedule for never. Sam, I’m not saying I want the guy to live, I’m saying -”

“Cain told him he’d kill Crowley,” Dea says, cutting into the conversation, “In that big prize fight, Cain said he’d kill Crowley.”

“Dean, we’ve been putting off dealing with Crowley for -”

“And then he’d kill Cas,” Dea says, “Then Sam.”

He’s aware that Dea is actually articulating what he’s trying not to say in a way that’s a hell of a lot more constructive than him avoiding the issue. He’s aware that it’s a natural point in the conversation for most of the attention of the room to focus on him. He’s aware that he’d look at him, too. That doesn’t make anything about this situation feel any better, though.

“That’s not going to happen,” Female Cas says, like it’s that fucking simple, “I’ll get Rowena.”

“Dean, is this… is this what’s been bothering you?” Male Sam asks.

“No, Sam,” Dean snaps, “What bothers me is that Charlie is dead and I shot a kid in the face.”

“I told you Cain was merely trying to knock you off course,” Castiel says, brow furrowed.

“Doesn’t change the fact that I nearly beat you to death,” Dean throws back, “I lost this fight. We’re doing this. I get that. I just -”

“ - rest assured, Dean, if we are unsuccessful in removing the Mark today, I will remove Crowley from the equation myself. You will not need to have anything to do with it.”

“Okay then,” Dean exhales, “Fine. Let’s do this.”

*

He gets his moment a few minutes later.

“Cas,” Dean says, hand on his arm in one of the corridors of the bunker. Sam gave him a conspiratorial nod as they were heading out the kitchen, which means that they’re guaranteed a little time whilst everything’s been set up (and, hey, maybe having Sam onside with this isn’t a bad thing). They never have enough time to have these conversations before crap goes down, which is half the damn reason their problems never get resolved. Now, though, they’re choosing their moment.

“Ain't exactly a secret that I don't wanna go back. Part of its cause I think we're gonna screw this world or our world or both in the process, but a lot of it is cause I don't wanna face it. Even if we get the Mark off my arm... There's consequences, Cas, I've done a lot of bad things. I hurt a lot of people. When we get back, I gotta find a way of filing all that in my head without it breaking me. I don't wanna do it. I get why we have to but…” Dean closes his eyes for a moment, takes a breath. “I just wanna say, I get why you're in a rush to get this done. I get that it's hard for you to be with me here when I might try and kill you tomorrow. I get that... That you need to know I'm in this when we're back on home soil for it count. I know, Cas, and a lot of you needing that comes from my stupid frigging mistakes. I shouldn’t’ve tried to bail on you after the other night. I should've talked to Sam first. But that's ... I just wanna say, before anything else happens, that I forgive you for going behind my back about the Mark and every damn thing you've tried to do to stop it. I get it. I know why and… and whatever happens with this, I forgive you. Know you ain't been waiting around for it, but... There you go. Here's a blank cheque for forgiveness.”

Cas is close and serious and frowning at him.

“Dea says that one of the terrifying things about love is knowing that it doesn’t matter what the other person does because ‘you’re done’, even it transpires that they do not like pie,”

“Well, uh,” Dean says, “She’s pretty wise. Attractive. Adorable.”

He can read that as a push. Cas wants actual acknowledgement. He wants Dean to strip himself bare and actually say it, but he can’t. It might not work. He might be hopped up on Mark-juice tomorrow. He might not be in control, tomorrow, and he can’t… he can’t do that to Cas.

“Dean,”

“Why didn’t you come to bed last night, Cas?”

“I had too much to think about to be still,” Cas says, “I am sorry it bothered you.”

“It’s cool. I just… I want us to be as good as we can be before we kick the hornet’s nest. It… it is gonna be different when we’re on the other side, one way or another, but…”

“Yes,”

“I need you, Cas,” Dean says and hates himself for it, just a little. They’re so goddamn close but they never have a big enough window to do any of the crappy emotional work and it’s never the right time for them to dig into their issues and lay them bare. Right now, this is all he can give. It’s already a push. A couple of his internal gear are already shrieking in protest at this but they.... He just needs to know he’s not going to hurt him again. Then,, maybe.

Cas seems to read something of the desperation in his voice. He looks through him, into his soul, and draws back with an almost-smile.

“Thank you for your forgiveness,” Cas says, then leans forward to kiss him.

*

The setup isn’t complicated and, as is usually the case, finding the right place to stand feels a little anti-climatic after a few days of build up. Rowena’s in the middle, largely so they can all keep their eyes on her after the fact. There’s an altar, the forbidden quince, the ancient dirt and the damned Book of the Damned. He hates witchcraft without Rowena being involved and her own slice of drama, with the screaming and the arm gestures he’s sure can’t be magically relevant.

The second Rowena finishes yelling things happen very quickly.

There’s a split second silence whilst the spell settles, then a freaking bolt of lightning hits him in the arm. He hits the floor before he’s realised he’s falling and it’s so damn bright. It bruises his retina enough that he can’t look at it, but he can’t look away either, till he’s got a tight grip on his arm as the mark recedes into his skin. It’s agony, burning, pain crawling into his skin; he can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t register what else is going on in the room. Then it’s gone. Done. The light sparks back upwards whilst he’s staring at his arm, the grip he has on his own wrist now deathly-tight.

“Dean,”

“It’s gone,” Dean says, voice rough at the back of this throat. There’s too much emotion that he doesn’t have the luxury of dealing with right now, but his voice is still raw with it.“It’s done,” Cas - his Cas - closes the space between them to take hold of his arm and inspect his skin like he doesn’t quite believe it worked. Dean’s not sure how the hell it did, either, but it’s gone It’s gone. It’s done. They did it. They saved him and -

“Congratulations, boys,” Rowena says, then, “Vincula Dissolvat,”

Her handcuffs break open and drop to the floor.

“Rowena,” Male Sam says, wary, “We had a deal,”

“I can handle this,” Female Cas says, rushing towards her.

“Impetus Bestiarum,”

There’s another flash of light, Rowena pointing, female Castiel slumping over. A yell of ‘Cas’. She staggers up, blood leaking from her eyes.

They’ve seen that before.

His Cas has a firm grip on his arm, but the other Cas is upright again, bleeding, gaze tinged red. No, no, no.

“No,” Dean says, “Cas -”

“ -Dean,” Male Sam says, darting for him, “Dean,”

“Dele feminia hoc,” Rowena orders.

Castiel snarls. Her angel blade appearing in her hands. Advancing. Advancing on Dea.

“Deanna,” Male Cas yells, all whilst gripping hold of Dean’s arm, fingers closing over where the Mark used to be.

Female Sam empties her gun in the room. Rowena snatches the bullets out of the air before they can touch her, turning around to smile at them both.

“Impetus -”

“Cas,” Dean says, dragging him to the ground to avoid the third flash of light.

“Cas,” Dea says, backing away, “Cas, listen to me. You can fight this. You can fight this -”

Female Sam is making a dash for the book.

“Impetus -”

Dean’s fumbled for his gun and shot another round of bullets before he can think, just to distract her. Just to do something, because this whole thing went south, fast.

Female Cas lunges but Dea manages to trip her up, flipping them over, pinning her to the ground. She’s bleeding. Dean’s got no idea when that happened, but there’s blood all over her jacket, then she’s…

That’s an angel banishing sigil.

“Sammy, can we handle Rowena?” Dea yells, shaking.

“Got it, Dea,” Sam calls back, flicking through the book.

“Sam, Dean, Cas, go,” Dea says, “Before I -”

“Dean,” Cas says, hand closing over male Sam’s wrist.

He just sees Dea slamming her hand onto the sigil in the moment before the whole world inverts.

*

They slam down on a road that's definitely not outside the bunker but looks familiar enough to be just outside of Lebanon, Kansas. He’d estimate they’re a few miles short of home which, considering, could be a hell of a lot worse.

Cas’ knees give in the second they hit land, but Dean’s expecting it. He’s grabbed him before he buckles, taking his weight before he realises he’s not exactly steady, either.

“Your compass is a little wonky, Cas,”

"I transported you across a dimension," Cas mutters back, as Dean works the hand he has gripping his bicep under his armpit to haul him upright. He’s not quite a deadweight, but it’s a close thing. His nose is bleeding again. His voice is faint. The goddamn idiot definitely doesn’t have the power to be jumping two of them across realities.

“Couple of miles off, I think,” Sam says, “Do you think the others -?”

“I think we’re not gonna know either way,” Dean interrupts, swallowing. Sam, Cas, Dea. They’re not going to know. They’ll just have to hope that they found a way too… to do something. Fix Cas. Take down Rowena. Something.

“Yeah,” Sam says, “I know the way to the bunker.”

“Awesome,” Dean says, “You go on ahead and circle back round to pick us up, cause I don’t think Angel Cakes here is gonna make a couple of miles."

“Something doesn't feel right,” Cas says, eyes narrowing, trying to straighten up. “Dean, how are you feeling?”

“Fine, Cas, the question is how are you feeling - ”

And then the ground begins to shake.

“Dean,” Sam says, glancing up towards the sky, voice edged with panic.

“Yeah.” Dean says, tightening his grip on Cas. Then the sky explodes with black.

“DEAN!” Sam yells, out of sight, somewhere. Somewhere.

“Sam,” Dean calls back and he's somewhere through the fog, but Dean can't make him out, and he sounds a hell of a lot more distant than he'd been a few minutes ago. The blackness is coming for him like freight train.

“Get out of here, Sam!” Dean yells. There's another shock wave that trips them both up, Dean taking the weight of the fall, pulling Cas ontop of him. “Sammy, get out. Get somewhere. Back to the bunker just -”

“- Dean,” Sam calls, but it’s distant. Small.

“Dean you should run,” Cas says, his voice gaining strength.

“Shut up, Cas,” Dean mutters. The silence is deafening, now. The fog is solid. Cas is clinging on to his shoulder. He bit his lip in the fall and it's bleeding and there’s just them in the whole world. Everything else is blackness and nothingness. “The hell I'm leaving you with whatever the fuck this is - “

“- this is my fault,”

“-bullshit.”

“You said - “

“I was guessing. Who the hell knew what was gonna happen -?”

“Dean, you should -”

“- no. Screw whatever self sacrificial bullcrap you're trying to spew at me because I'm... because I fucking love you, Cas, you sanctimonious dickbag. That real enough for you yet?”

Castiel kisses him into the dirt.

*

“Really?” Sam all but yells, “Really? Now? Now is the time you decide to do this?”

Dean pushes Cas off him with a hand to the shoulder and sits up. The darkness is gone. The oppressive, consuming nothingness is gone, too, and Sam stole a car, apparently. He probably should have noticed both of those things before this moment, but he was too busy frigging necking.

“Thought we weren’t hot wiring this close to home,” Dean says. His mouth tastes like blood and dirt from the fall. And Cas.

“I figured the massive mysterious black cloud counted as an emergency,” Sam says, as Dean wipes blood away from his bleeding lip. Sam makes a face.

“I fell,” Dean snaps, standing up and dragging Cas up too.

“Is this going to be my life from now on?” Sam asks, still self-righteous and prissy.

“Let’s just get to the bunker,” Dean says. Cas is still weak enough to need help staying upright, which isn’t ideal for Dean’s current headspace. He bundles him into the backseat before slamming into shotgun, anyway, and tries not to regret abandoning him back there. He just doesn’t know how to do this with Sam.

“What do we think that was?” Sam asks, quiet, when he’s hit the gas and is driving much faster than he usually would towards the Bunker.

“I think we know what that was,” Dean says, “Darkness,”

“Did you see anything?”

“No,” Deans grunts. “It was just… dark. Silent. Empty. There was nothing, Sam. How did it…?”

“Same,” Sam says, “And then it just… blew over.”

“Great,” Dean says, “So we have no idea,”

“Maybe that’s -”

“- Don’t even suggest that that was it,” Dean shoots back, “At least we know the others are darkness free.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, shifting his grip on the steering wheel.

“Dude, was there nothing better than this chick-car to steal, because this is -?”

“ - shut up, Dean,” Sam butts in, but there’s an edge of relief in his voice as he says it.

Dean’s free. There’s no itch under his skin egging him towards grabbing his gun. There’s no unexplainable, bottomless longing for the first blade. He doesn’t need to kill. The anger has gone. His blood isn’t simmering in his veins. He’s okay. He can breathe without wanting to rip, hurt, kill.

He’s free and he has Cas. And now they have the Darkness.

It’s not much of a victory, but it’s a victory nonetheless.

*

“I have a theory,” Cas says, two hours into marathon research stint into anything the darkness could possible mean, or do, or be, other than the dark mystery cloud crap they’ve got so far. Sam’s busy trying to tap into all the local news (which they’ve never bothered with, really, but given everything started so close to home it seemed logical) whilst Dean’s hitting the books. Cas has mostly sat under a damn blanket sipping coffee, the colour slowly reappearing on his cheeks, because the double-transportation crap nearly floored him.

“Great,” Dean says, slamming his book shut, “I’m all ears,”

“The Darkness,”

“The Darkness?” Sam asks, glancing up at him.

“There was a myth, amongst angels,” Castiel says, staring at a point on the wall, “About The Darkness. A being that existed before creation. Before us.”

“And you didn’t think of this before?” Dean demands, “When we were debating unknown consequences?”

“It is a myth,”

“So are werewolves, Cas! It’s never a myth. It’s never a myth, except Bigfoot. How could you not - ?”

“Tell us about the myth,” Sam interrupts.

“If our Father was pure Creation, The Darkness was pure destruction. Before the world, they existed together in harmony. And then The Darkness grew jealous of the world and vowed destruction on all our Father had made. With the help of the archangels, he locked away The Darkness.”

“And the Mark was the key,” Sam says, “Which was entrusted to Lucifer,”

“Which corrupted him,” Cas says, grave.

“But what is The frigging Darkness, Cas?”

“I need to speak to my brothers and sisters,”

“Cas, if you leave right now, I swear I - ” Dean begins, but it’s too late. He’s already gone. He’s already left like he has sixteen thousand times before which means the fact that they’re… that they’re something now hasn’t changed a goddamn thing about their reality.

“Dean,”

“Sam, please, whatever you’re going to say, don’t.”

“No,” Sam says, “Dean, the security tapes of the gas station. I hacked in. Look.”

On screen, a girl no older than nine hauls a gas canister over her head and slams it at her mother’s turned back. Sam zooms into her face and his pauses.

“Well that’s new,” Dean says, focusing in the black veins twisting up her neck.

Five minutes later, they’re speeding towards the centre of town in the Impala with an arsenal in the trunk.

Chapter Text

It’s all going fine - as fine as anything’s been since they walked into this gender swap bullshit - then Castiel eye’s are bleeding, tinged red, advancing on her. Rowena’s spitting Latin in her peripheries, but all she can see is Cas. Her eyes are bleeding and there’s nothing but hate in that blue, blue gaze; that’s not Cas. Not her Cas. Cas couldn’t look at her like that. No, no, no.

“Cas,” Dea says, backing away, “Cas, listen to me. You can fight this. You can fight this -”

Nothing. Not even a hesitation. Not a flicker of recognition. Sam is making a dash for the book, which means -

She doesn’t have a choice. Ruby’s knife is stowed in her sleeve and she doesn’t have a choice. Cas - the other Cas, male Cas, catches her eye and nods. He’s already got hold of Dean, so she just needs to -

“Impetus -”

There’s a round of bullets ripping through the air and Cas lunges at her, ungainly, without her usual elegance. She’s still just about Castiel and Dea knows her well enough to side step and throw her off balance. She’s gotten used to her being without her grace, though, and now she’s an unmovable force. A brick wall that she has to throw her whole weight at in order to flip her over. She knocks the blade clean out of her hands, slamming them both to the floor with enough force to jar her shoulders, knees screaming in protest.

Her bloody palm has smeared all over Cas’ borrowed hoodie and her hands are shaking as she fumbles with the symbol. Castiel is snarling beneath her, wild, feral, not Cas, not her Cas, pinned to the floor by her knees and her free hand pressing Cas’ shoulders to the floor.

Her eyes are bleeding and she’s looking at her like she has no idea who she is and Dea does not have a choice.

“Sammy, can we handle Rowena?”

“Got it, Dea,”

“Sam, Dean, Cas, go,” Dea says, “Before I -”

Castiel, the other Castiel, has closed his hand over their male doppelganger’s wrists. She waits for the blink after they’ve disappeared in a flap of wings before she slams her hand on the sigil, and then she slumps forward into nothing.

“That’s not playing fair,” Rowena says, “Dull. Impetus Besti-”

“Et abierunt,” Sam bellows into the room, her fingers gripped tight around the damn book of the damned and the fucking codex.

Rowena starts to snarl, but then there’s she’s vanished in an actual goddamn puff of smoke.

And then there’s silence.

*

“Dea,” Sam says, voice edging on desperation, approaching her.

“I didn’t have a choice,” Dea says. There’s a hollowness threatening to envelope her. A creeping sense of horror as the realisation of what she just did begins to slide home. Cas. She… she did that. She banished her. She did this.

“Dea,”

“Get Rowena back,” Dea says, wiping the blood from her hands on her jeans and standing up. Her knees hurt like hell, but that’s - “Get her back so she can fix it.”

“We don’t,” Sam begins, “Dea, we can’t control her,”

“Put her in a trap, put a gun to her goddamn head and tell her to fix my girlfriend,” Dea says. Her cell phone’s already in her hands, finding ‘Cas’ and hitting dial even though it’s fucking pointless because Cas, she’s… she’s not -

She doesn’t pick up.

Dea’s left the room and is headed for her car keys before Sam can say another fucking word. Listen to me, you feathered dick. Answer your phone. Answer your goddamn phone.

“Dea,”

“GPS,” Dea says, heart hammering, “She’s three hours away. Summon her goddamn male counterpart if you have to, damnit, just… fix it Sam, or so help me -.”

“Okay,” Sam says and, fuck, her little sister is the best for not trying to throw logic at her right now. She knows that trying to talk her out of this isn’t going to work, because Cas is -

She’s not herself right now. She’s bleeding from the eyes and hulking out. Cas could have killed her, right then, and Dea… Dea banished her to the middle of fucking nowhere and she is never, ever going to forgive herself for banishing Cas out of the bunker.

Cas, if you’ve got your ears on, I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t have a fucking choice. I need you you winged self sacrificing douchebag. Three hours. Three hours.

She speeds the whole way. Leaves three more voicemails. Screams prayers in the confines of her head, up until the point she pulls up at the side of the road and finds Cas’ phone in a patch of grass on the side of the road.

Goddamnit Cas

There’s blood, Dea tries not to think about how that’s Cas’ blood, smudged onto the tarmac a few paces up the road. Dea slams back into baby, crawling up the road this time, hands shaking at the wheel as she forces herself not to think.

She hits town fifteen minutes later. She drives past the first body less than a minute after that and she just knows. She’s pulled over and fallen out the car to check the poor bastard’s pulse before she’s had a chance to think it through, but she’s seen enough goddamn bodies to know there’s too much blood.

This is on Dea. She drew the sigil. It was Dea’s blood that threw Cas here when she didn’t have enough control to fight that goddamn spell. The same blood that’s now dried on the palm of her hands, that she smeared over the steering wheel for the first half hour of the drive.

Two more bodies, then she hears someone screaming and breaks into a run.

Castiel has a teenage girl by the throat in a Seven Eleven. As Dea breaks through the door, the cashier pulls out a gun and fires it at the ceiling, shaking, and way too fucking nervy to be responsible for a weapon than can kill people.

Her reservations be damned, Dea is so fucking glad that Castiel has her grace back. “Put the weapon down, jackass,” Dea says, pulling out her own gun and waving in the fucking kid’s direction, side stepping round the magazine to get a better read on Castiel.

She’s still totally out of it. Snarling, wild, the kind of fucking psycho that makes her heart stop.

The kid behind the counter is staring at her like she’s totally lost it. Dea doesn’t have the goddamn time to baby some jumped up kid through what the hell is happening and it’s way easier to knock the gun out of his hands and knock him out with her elbow.

“Cas,” Dea yells, which gets nothing.

Throwing a pack of gum is more successful. She releases the teenage girl, anyway (who’s tripping over her feet in her rush to get the hell out of dodge), and turns round to face her with a predatory growl.

Facing down her not-girlfriend the second time is worse.

“Cas, come on. Snap out of it. It’s just a some hogwarts bullcrap,”

Castiel slams a fist into her face hard enough to knock her into the shelves behind them and it’s fucking bullshit that this isn't the first time she's had the one she's in love with laying into her, trapped somewhere inside her head, while Dea screams at her to see her. What kind of fucked up lives do they have, when she’s barely surprised when Cas is advancing on her again; gait unsteady, some stranger’s blood splattered all over her trench coat.

“it's me, it's me, Cas. Please.”

She hesitates for just long enough for Dea throw a punch hard enough to take a human’s teeth out. In Cas, it just knocks her sideways, but that gives Dea enough time to grab Cas’s wrists and force them into the angel handcuffs, before slamming her face first into the shop floor.

She's still.

Dea spits blood onto the floor and tells herself that she didn't have a choice.

“W...what?” The kid - the cashier - asks, coming to just as Dea’s dragging her unconscious girlfriend to her feet.

“You call the cops any time in the next thirty minutes, I’ll come back for you,” Dea spits out, hauling Cas weight onto her shoulders.

Cas has stirred by the time Dea’ cuffed her to the front seat of the impala with her hands behind her back. Her eyes are blue again. They swim for a minute before focusing in on her.

“Dea,” she says, hoarse, eyes reaching out for her even when Dea’s tying her goddamn feet together, just in case.

“Hey,” Dea says, word coming out thick in the back of her throat, “You with me?”

“No,” Cas says, “I - that girl. Her parents.”

Dea’s stomach drops.

“Not your fault,” Dea says, kissing her even though it’s the worst fucking moment, quickly, just long enough to taste her own blood in Cas’ lips.

*

Sam calls her an hour into the return journey.

“I’ve got her,” Dea says, in lieu of hello.

“Dea, you need to get here quicker,” Sam says, her voice on edge, “I'm with Rowan now and he says the spell should, uh, she should be dead but now. Her grace is probably....”

“Got it,”’ Dea says, hanging up and flooring the accelerator.

“What's happening?” Cas asks, voice weak. She’s shaking in the passenger seat and if pulling over for long enough to wrap her jacket over Cas’ shoulders might not be the delay that could kill her, she’d have done it already.

“Nothing,” Dea says, her spare hand dropping to rest on Cas’ knee, more for her own benefit. She’s there, she’s solid, she’s alive. They can work with the rest. “How are you feeling?”

“Like tomato salsa in a blender on ‘puree’,” Cas croaks out, her voice rough, “Me being the tomato.”

“Sam’s gonna fix it,” Dea says, tightening her grip on both the steering wheel and Cas’ knee, stomach turning over, heart pounding. Her adrenaline’s spiked the second Castiel ran at that crazy-freaking witch, like the idiotic self sacrificial asshole she is, and hasn’t let up since. “We’re getting you home, then you’ll be fine.”

“Those people,” Cas says, “Dea,”

“Give me two hours, Cas,” Dea says, and she feels sick, but she didn’t have a choice. The next time she catches Cas’ eye, she’s bleeding from the nose again, as another wave of the spell hits. Ten minutes later she loses consciousness.

Dea grits her teeth and resolutely does not move her hand form Cas’ knee.

*

Crowley’s Dad lifts the spell with a lazy “desiste, adievo onus tuum,” in a scottish lilt, with absolutely zero fucks given to the fact that Dea’s been suspended in a living nightmare for the past six hours of her life.

Dea catches Castiel the second before she falls to the ground, shaking, finally able to fucking breathe again the second that she opens her eyes and says “hello, Dea,” in that broken rasp. She’d stooped to catch her and the relief has her knees finally feeling the full force of the hit they took hours ago, and giving out from under of her. They both end up as a mess of limbs on the floor, but it’s difficult to care this exact second.

She’s okay. They’re okay. Sam’s okay. Everyone is okay.

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” Dea hisses.

“Okay,” Cas agrees, gaze unsteady as she grips hold of Dea’s forearm like it’s her life support machine.

“Fascinating,” Rowen says, watching them with vague interest, “Now, my side of the deal.”

“Deal?” Dea asks, throwing a glare at her little sister.

“Well, dear, nothing comes for free,” Rowen says, “But no need to worry your wee cotton socks; the deal is the same, I’ve just updated the delivery details.”

“Crowley,” Dea says, struggling to her feet, knees throbbing.

“My daughter; dead. The permanent kind.”

“You ever think you’re at risk of feeling sorry for Crowley?” Dea asks, turning to raise an eye in Sam’s direction.

“We’re going to need time,” Sam says.

“Three days,” Rowen declares, then sits down at their goddamn table and stretches out his legs. “Dea,” Sam says, beckoning her over with a nod of the head. “I’ll deal with this. You should…”

Sam’s gaze travels back to Cas, whose upright - barely - and very pale.

“Gotcha,” Dea says, then raises an eyebrow in Cas’ direction. That’s enough, these days, for Cas to understand her and wordlessly head towards the door.

She’s weak enough that she doesn’t even protest the point that she doesn’t need to be horizontal in a bed, stat, grace be damned. It’s fucked that Dea was mourning getting to sleep next to Cas less than twelve hours ago, when right now she’d rip out her own gut if it meant that Cas wasn’t unsteadily heading down the bunker corridors, shaking slightly.

Cas shuffles over to the bed in her room - they're not using Dea’s until she's changed the sheets and double checked there's no remnants of their male selves there. She hesitates for a moment before collapsing onto it with her shoes still on.

“Dirty hypocrite,” Dea says, taking a step forward to pull Cas’ shoes and socks off her feet and lay them next to the bed. “Coat off too, tough guy”.

“I'm not a guy,” Cas says, sitting up to pull her arms out of her coat.

“Yep, I get it, you're a genderless wave of stardust and moonbeams,” Dea says, taking the trench coat and folding it on the desk, because that trench coat is precious, before shimmying her own jeans off her hips. If Cas is getting back in bed, then she sure as hell is too: it's fucking terrifying how shaken she feels right now, and the only thing she wants to do is soak in Cas’ presence until she stops seeing Cas trying to gank some innocent kid when she closes her eyes. She needs to just be in Castiel’s presence for a while.

“Given recent encounters,” Cas says, “I think I'm quite certain I am female.”

“Huh,” Dea says, sitting down heavily next to Castiel to inspect her knees. She's pretty damn sure they're swollen and they’ve blossomed into some serious bruises, but she's had worse. She’s had a helluva lot worse.

“I can fix that,”

“How about you save your healing hands till you can take off your own shoes, Sweetheart.”

“Okay,” Cas agrees, then, “I did that to you.”

“We’re not playing that game,” Dea says, sharp, “We’re skipping the blame portion of this shit storm, because you know damn well that Queen Ginger bitch and the Mr Winchesters are the only ones to blame for today. Conversation over.”

Cas looks her like she knows full well that Dea’s taking a hardline because Dea’s busy blaming herself, for all of it, for putting Cas in the position where she could hurt people in the first place, but doesn’t comment. She closes her eyes instead.

“Rest with me,” Cas says, in her velvet rich voice, with all that gravitas that's pulled Dea along in its wake for years and years.

And it would be so easy to push it out of her head, strip off a couple of blood encrusted layers of clothes, lie down. Rest with Cas right there.

She was a hundred percent intending to stay, but then every bullshit thing that happened today, and every bullshit reason why their relationship is a terrible idea comes crashing over her head. She’s already outed them to Rowen, like they needed any other big bads to have more material against them. She got people killed because of her crap decision to banish her goddamn girlfriend, when if she’d just held out for a few minute Sam might’ve -- might’ve gotten under control.

If Cas had done what Dea wanted, rather than going after her grace, she’d be dead. Her brain would be tomato ketchup. They wouldn’t have been able to save her and that… there’s a lot of things that Dea’s never going to be able to forgive herself for, but that’s as unfathomable as losing Sam.

She can’t do it. She can’t. Not after everything she’s lost. There’d be nothing left, and that’s the thought she’s been pushing down under her mantra of - had no choice, had no choice, had no choice - but it’s resurfacing now, ugly and undeniable. Dea’s the kind of in-love-with-Castiel that means she can’t entertain the prospect of not walking into hell to drag her out; can’t really say she’d ever give up; can’t say that she wouldn’t sacrifice the whole fucking world, or whoever, to keep her safe and whole. Love has always been the thing that damn them in the end.

“I gotta help Sam,” Dea says, through the lump in the back of her throat. Cas opens her eyes to send her a piercing look that screams she can see right through her, but Dea just grabs herself some goddamn jeans (Cas’, that used to be hers before Cas stole them) and walks out of the room.

*

Sam doesn’t comment for all of five minutes when Dea walks into the kitchen and pours herself a whiskey. She waits her out until she’s drank half of it, which takes too little time considering how good she’s been at not pickling her liver lately, then she fixes her with the eyes.

“Just cause we’re in girl world, don’t mean I’m gonna talk to you about my goddamn feelings,” Dea says, voice hot.

“Okay,” Sam says, shrugging her shoulders like she doesn’t give a damn, then looking at her laptop. Dea knows her well enough to know that she’s not researching, or watching porn, or whatever the hell Sam does on her laptop all hours of the day, she’s just sat there waiting for Dea to talk.

Damnit.

“Just,” Dea says, chest tight, internal organs twisted up. All of it, in turmoil. “I can't lose her, Sammy. I can't do it.”

“You didn't,” Sam says, “Dea, our whole lives we've seen people torn up trying to keep people safe. You can't live like that. We don't live safe lives - ”

“She could stop running at fucking witches, for a start.”

“She learnt that from you.”

“I know,” Dea says, rubbing her hands over her face, “You think that doesn't make it worse?”

“Everyone feels like this,”

“I know,” she snaps, “I know, I just. I really fucking love her, and it scares the crap out of me.”

“I know,” Sam says, clapping her on the shoulder and getting herself a beer.

Dea clears her throat.

“You have a plan about Crowley?”

“Uh, yeah. Steal your phone and text her a picture of the demon tablet; tell her to show up if she wants to stop us curings any more demons. Karen's taking off for a few days while we deal - didn't want her in the same four walls.”

“Right,” Dea says, “Why my phone?”

“She likes you better,” Sam shrugs.

“We got a way to kill the bitch?”

“We ever try sticking an angel blade through her gut?”

“Feel like we've spent surprisingly little time trying to off Crowley,” Dea says, “Dunno; angel blade feels too easy. What's that Charlie always says? The really evil ones need a special sword.”

Sam rolls her eyes and types ‘killing really strong demons’ into google, like that’s helped ever a damn thing.

*

Cas wonders into the room where they’re debating tactics forty minutes or so later, walking straight into Dea’s personal space and pressing the palm of her hand on her chest. Dea get’s that familiar sensation of grace seeping through her, hot and somehow pure, then the touch is gone along with the throbbing in her knees and the ache in her left shoulder she’d forgotten wasn’t a permanent feature.

“I can take off my own shoes now,” Cas says, his deadpan icy.

“We’re working out a way to delivery Crowley to Rowen,” Sam says, glancing between the two of them. “Pull up a seat.”

“I’m uninterested in this plan,” Cas says, then walks straight back out.

Dea squares her jaw and pours herself another whiskey.

Sam bitch faces silently into her research.

“What?” Dea snaps.

“You know every time you fight, I'm the one who has to deal with you both.”

“That’s it,” Dea says, “I’m done. M’going to bed. Fuck this.”

“Really,” Sam says, raising an eyebrow, “you're not … going after her. You’re gonna relegate Cas to the sofa because you can’t deal with your feelings.”

“She doesn’t sleep anyway,” Dea snaps, getting herself a couple of beers on the way out.

She locks her bedroom door after she all but slams it shut, glaring at the wall through her first and second beers before she caves. She sells herself the line that it’s safer not to lock the bedroom door, that’s it's nothing to do with Cas, and it’s sure as shit not her backing down from their inane fight (if that's what they're doing now: sometimes it's hard to tell) about fuck all, but she doesn’t manage to convince herself.

Castiel doesn’t come to bed anyway.

*

“You’re being juvenile,” Cas declares, walking into Dea’s bedroom at the ass crack of dawn, trench coat on, blue gaze manic. Dea doesn’t know why she wasn’t expecting it, but she wasn’t. She was asleep. A crappy, fitful kind of sleep, but she had been asleep, right until Cas threw open her bedroom door to yell her.

Dea sits bolt upright, fumbling for the knife from under her pillow.

“It’s absurd for you to punish me because you’re upset. It's absurd because we have been through this time and time again, but apparently I'm eternally doomed to waiting for you to extract your head from your ass.”

“You done?” Dea asks, dropping the knife and running a hand over her face to run away the lingering threads of sleepiness. Her voice is flat. Expressionless.

“No,” Cas snaps, “I'm extracting my grace and storing it here. Today.”

“No you ain't”, Dea counters, standing up to furiously grab her dead man robe and pull it on.

“What?” Cas asks, “I'm not ignorant to your feelings. You prefer me human.”

“Ain't nothing to do with my goddamn preferences,” Dea bites out, even though it pains her to think of Cas thinking there's a version of Castiel she wouldn't like; like the reason she’s acting like a bitch has anything to do with that. “We're trying to off the king of hell today and we've got a freaking witch downstairs. You think now's a good time to power down?”

“You want me to be useful.”

“It's be a fucking improvement on you avoiding helping all together,” Dea says, storming to the shower like Cas is the one she's actually mad at in the first place.

*

“Don't be pissed,” Charlie says, cornering her over breakfast when her hair's still wet and she's cramming the doughnuts Sam brought them into her mouth.

“What?” Dea asks, through her food.

“I'm trying to translate the book of the damned.”

Dea takes a moment to swallow.

“The damned book of the damned?!”

“Other me did the codex, but I didn't know what it meant, so I figured I'd… try and research my research,” Charlie says, shrugging.

“Even though that book killed you?”

“The bunker’s safe,” Charlie says, getting himself a coffee before heading back to his room.

*

The trapping Crowley plan works just fine (without input from her fucking girlfriend, who’s decided that helping Charlie with the fucking book of the damned is a better use of her time than existing anyway near Dea, which isn’t surprising. Cas goes from avoiding their arguments by pissing off to forcing Dea to talk about them when she’s not in the mood on the regular, and after this morning it’s a dead cert that they’re in the middle of an argument).

The issue comes when Crowley declares that if they don’t kill her and or hand her over to her homicidal father, she’ll tell them where Karen’s Dad’s been keep prisoner for the last x number of years.

Dea slams her mouth shut and turns to face Sam with a grimace.

“Hold that thought,” Sam says, slamming the door of the dungeon shut on Crowley’s smug face (half to keep her out of sight of Rowen) so they can argue about the whole freaking thing for the next twenty minutes.

“Damnit, Sam, we can't hand Crowley over to some fucking witch if she can tell us where Karen's dad is.”

“She's bluffing,” Sam says, “Dea, the chances of Mr Tran being alive is -”

“ - You think you can look Karen in the face and tell her we picked settling some bullshit debt over her family?”

“Dea, we can't make an enemy because you feel guilty about getting Karen killed in a different reality.”

“He's a witch, Sam! He's already a freaking enemy.”

“Uh, guys,” Charlie says, knocking on the open door of the basement to get their attention, “Minor problem.”

“Awesome,” Dea scoffs, “What, Charlie?”

“Rowen has… disappeared. And, um, so has the book of the damned.”

Sam’s the one who swears into the silence while Dea resists the very, very powerful desire to punch the wall into submission until their life isn’t one great big carousel of evil bullshit taking it turns to screw them. Charlie’s delivering a top speed explanation about how Rowen sleep-whammied him and broke into his bedroom, witch proofing be damned, as if he thinks they’re blaming him for any of this utter shit.

At least it makes the decision about taking Crowley’s deal six times easier.

*

Despite maintaining disinterest in the whole thing up till now, Cas does angel-teleport them to the coordinates Crowley gave them (with a snide ‘always happy to be of use’ sent in Sam’s direction). To pretty much everyone’s surprise, the password Crowley gave them didn’t totally fuck them and did actually lead to a them rescuing a pissed Mr Tran (Dea’s not in the habit of being intimidated by men but shit, Mr Tran’s brand of father-love is freaking terrifying). The subsequent phone call to Karen to get her back to the bunker, pronto, is the kind of the win they never ever get.

It knocks something of the hardness out of her chest and she almost forgets she’s avoiding making eye contact with her girlfriend until Sam clears her throat and snaps Dea out of it.

*

Crowley is not exactly pleased she gave up her trump card for fuck all, but she’s considerably less pleased that his father and the genderbend version of his mother is on the loose.

“I thought you were supposed to be competent!” Crowley bellows, “You mean to say you let two bloody witches who want to kill me get the jump on you.”

“Might have slipped your mind, asshole, that protecting your ass ain't our primary occupation.”

“And what is that occupation, pray, other than hunting things that go bump in the night.”

“We can take on a couple of witches,”

“Says someone who’s never had Sunday Dinner with my father,” Crowley snaps, “Take this piece of wisdom for free: daddy dearest is not a team player, which is a great blessing given the number of powerful spells that require multiple participants, and he’s even more self obsessed with himself than you Winchesters. Do not let them meet.”

“You got a way to turn the magic off, I’ll summon him here and shoot him in the head right now,” Dea says, shoulders bunched.

“Oh, but I could squirrel,” Crowley says, expression twisting, “Now, excuse me while I check neither of them have invaded hell in my absence.”

“Next time, we’re ganking her ass,” Dea says, pacing the hall, “What do we know about this damned book of the damned?”

“Nooot a bedtime story,” Charlie says, “Super dark content. There’s your pretty standard living-forever, anti-aging stuff, but it’s gnarly.”

“Witches,” Dean says, gesturing an unspoken duh.

“Think Frankenstein,”

“Well that ain’t new,”

“No,” Charlie says, “Like, actual Frankenstein. Figured I’d get my geek on and do some research before I got stuck into the codex, turns out the books been with the ‘Stein’ family for uh, just about forever. Turns out Marcus Shelly wrote non-fiction. Anyway. They cut people up and take their limbs to stay kicking, but that’s, you know, chapter one. There’s, uh, speeding up the demonising process,”

“What?”

“Insta-demon,” Charlie says, doing jazz hands, “Without the decades brewing in hell, thing.”

“Great,” Dea says, swallowing.

“We’ve got, uh, removing souls from Heaven. Resurrections, a really gross one where you can turn someone inside out, a spell that makes someone kill everyone they’ve ever loved. I dunno whether the translation was a little wonky, but there was this one for making your hair shiny where you had to cut the heart out of your father.”

“That would make for a really crap shampoo commercial,” Dea says, “Okay. Let’s kill the bitch.”

As always with their crappy lives, that’s easier said than done.

Chapter Text

They don’t hear anything from them for another week and a half, the later of which Cas spends ‘scoping out the problem’ which, as far as Dea’s concerned is code for ignoring Dea as thoroughly as possible (not that she doesn’t actually deserve it, but Cas has always been good at giving her more than she deserves). She shows up in the kitchen one morning with a grim expression and Dea tries to pretend like she’s not really fucking pleased to see her and it feels a little bit like they’re back to three years ago, which is not what she wanted to happen with this whole thing.

“They’re together,” Cas says, without any freaking foreplay. No ‘hello’ or acknowledgement that she’s been gone. Nothing. She doesn't even look in Dea’s direction.

“Knowing our luck, we figured.” Sam says, glancing at Dea, but opting not to comment.

“No,” Cas says, “They are together.”

“You mean, like, biblically?” Dea asks, eyebrows raised.

“Yes.”

“Huh,” Dea says.

“That’s…” Sam begins, frowning.

“Awesome?” Dea suggests.

“I was going to say weird." Sam says.

“You’re saying you wouldn’t?”

“It’s a blatant disregard for the fabric of reality and the natural order of things,” Cas says, voice heated. “It’s fundamentally abominable for realities to be disrespected like that.”

“Pretty sure our whole damn relationship is an abomination if we follow your rules.” Dea says, and it was supposed to be a light comment, but it lands heavily.

“What part of the past six years has led you to believe I follow Heaven’s rules?” Cas asks, turning to face her with the kind of blue, blue gaze that catches alight before it reaches Dea’s cheek and, yeah, Dea has definitely pushed her too far. This whole thing went too far, because there's no good reason why Dea needing five minutes to process her feelings should have exploded into a full blown argument. “What part of offering to relinquish my grace to ease your insecurities has led to you assuming that I have any loyalty to my family left? I have given everything for you.”

“Yeah,” Dea says, voice heated and, goddamnit, why doesn’t she just shut up, “Been in heaven in the past couple of days any chance?”

“I am not welcome in heaven,” Cas says, which means yes, but also means that Cas has lost her whole fucking family because of Dea, which doesn’t make the bitter lining of her gut change any. “I have spoken to Joshua. He thinks an interaction of this kind could cause the fabric of the universe to rip apart.”

“Great,” Sam says, shutting her book shut with a grimace, “Thanks for letting us know, Cas.”

“My pleasure,” Cas says, icy.

“Stay for dinner,” Sam says, because her little sister is pretty awesome, actually, and is happy to voice what Dea really wants even if she’s emotionally conflicted about it at the moment.

Cas agrees without looking Dea in the eye.

*

Dea hasn’t been sleeping well since this whole fucking argument started, because she keeps flicking from knowing she’s been a goddamn bitch and that she is being juvenile and dumb and that it costs way too damn much to carry on like this, to thinking back to Cas running at the witch and how Dea could have gotten her killed. How selfish and shitty Dea is for wanting her human and vulnerable, just so she gets the dumb stuff like having Cas eat her food - and actually enjoy it - and waking up together. Stuff like Cas getting tired. Cas riding shotgun in the impala rather than popping in and out of existence. Cas understanding a little more of the bullshit human condition every goddamn day. Cas living in the bunker and growing old with them and getting addicted to caffeine and getting keyed up after three beers, as if Cas hasn't always been this holy, celestial powerhouse who's way too fucking wonderful to waste her time with mud monkeys. Dea has cost Castiel way too fucking much, already, and Dea is so fucking selfish.

Castiel pushes open the door of Dea’s bedroom a few hours after Dea gave up on the whole goddamn day despite all of that. The bed dips as Cas sits down and Dea’s chest aches as she hears Cas strip off her trench coat and swing her legs up next to Dea's.

“Longing in my direction counts as prayer,” Cas says, voice low and quiet.

Dea’s a fucking coward, so she pretends she’s asleep. She fake-sleep turns in Cas’ direction though, because she has been longing. She’s been longing for fucking years; the deep rooted, longing she's never quite managed to quench. God-fucking-damnit.

“Dea,” Cas says, voice exasperated as she curls around her, palm of her hand resting on her hip. “I refuse to regret trying to protect you, regardless of the consequences.”

“You think that’s okay?” Dea asks, into the dark, even though she didn’t mean to acknowledge the fact that she's conscious. “The decisions we make, Cas, they’re not okay.”

“What do you want me to say?” Cas asks, voice rough.

“Goddamn, Cas, I got no clue,” Dea says, chest aching, her whole freaking soul aching.

Cas exhales and holds her closer.

She still wakes up alone, so they’re probably still fighting even though Dea has no goddamn clue why anymore.

*

“Got anything?” Dea asks, walking into the war room to find Sam mid-research and Castiel still actually there. That causes a swooping sensation in her stomach that she’d spent way too many years repressing and wrestling into submission and the fact that Cas is still here is enough for her to decide that she’s done with this whole fucking dispute. Cas being here is a miracle. Cas slipping into her room in the middle of the night because Dea missed her is freaking everything. She can’t reason herself into a place where this whole thing isn’t going to t-total them one day, but they’re screwed either way. They’ve gone too far into it. It’s too late to start trying to save them both; they’re doomed and that’s all they get and most of the time she doesn't even regret it.

“Werewolf pack in Lubbering, Missouri, looks like,” Sam says, “Four corpses dropped, all without hearts.”

“Sounds like our kind of thing,” Dea acknowledges, “Any word on Rowen and Rowena?”

“Uh, no,” Sam says, “Unusual amount of cattle desecration in Wyoming, which could be witchy, but… other than that.”

“What’s a ‘usual level’ of cattle desecration?” Dea asks, sitting down and resolutely not catching Cas’ eye, “Any sudden holes in the universe, resurrections, large numbers of people with dead fathers and really shiny hair?”

“There’s a student in Idaho claiming he, uh, ‘died for forty minutes before his girlfriend resurrected him with the power of her mind’.”

“Okaaaay,”

“That story is highly improbable,” Cas puts in, which stirs up some of the guilt she’s been choking on for the past week and a jolt of affection. Cas is just… Cas. She’s awesome and literal and ballsy and she is still here.

“Me and Cas’ll take the werewolves,” Dea says, without looking either of them in the eye.

“I could use a hunt,” Sam counters.

“Who's gonna watch out for Wyoming’s cow population then? Come on, Sam, couple of werewolves. We’ll be done in a few hours. Too many cooks.”

Sam rolls her eyes, hard, but doesn’t argue the point.

*

“It’s not a choice,” Sam says, while Dea’s packing her duffle bag of crap for the road, “Between me and Cas.” Dea stills and decides the best thing she can do in this scenario is pretend none of it is fucking happening, because everything about that smacks of a conversation she doesn't want to have ever. “You didn’t choose between me and Cas, with the sigil. You were just protecting the person, people, who were in the most danger in the moment. That’s what we always do.”

“Really?” Dea asks, throwing a spare pair of jeans for Cas in the bag on habit, then feeling too goddamn shitty about it to take it out. “Last I checked, I’d never blasted you across the state when you were a few seconds from killing someone.”

“You wouldn’t have let me kill you,”

“Wouldn’t I?” Dea asks, throat tight.

“No, Dea,” Sam says, resolute, “You’d know I couldn’t live with it. You wouldn’t let that happen, same as how you didn’t let Cas hurt you.”

“She killed three people,” Dea snaps, “I could’ve taken a couple of hits. I could’ve… there were other options, Sam. I didn’t take them. I put her life, and a bunch of civilians lives, on the line. That’s not going away.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Sam says, “We make calls all the time, Dea. Sometimes they have consequences… we don’t even know if it was a bad call. Look at boy world. You asking Cas to stay saved heaven from falling apart. No one would have known that.”

“Pretty sure Metadouche had an inkling,”

“Dea,” Sam says, voice firm, “You can’t crucify yourself with guilt and you definitely can’t deal with that grief by pushing Cas away from you like an emotionally stunted teenager.”

“We’re going hunting, bitch,” Dea counters, “I’m sorting it the hell out, okay? So butt out.”

“Fine,” Sam says, passing her her phone charger.

“And, uh,” Dea says, insides compressing, twisting, “What if,” She takes a breath, screws up a pair of socks in the palm of her hand, “What if there was a choice?” Dea asks, turning to face her little sister now, eyes raw for no goddamn reason. “You can’t promise me that’s not gonna happen. We make choices all the time. Male-me chose saving you over Karen. Male you chose saving me over Charlie. We… we do it all the time, Sammy, and one day you’re both gonna have a knife to your throat and I…. I can’t. I just… I can’t do it. I…”

“You’d think of a way round it,” Sam says, voice soft, “We always do.”

“Yeah,” Dea scoffs, “And look where the hell that got us: with two freaking witches screwing their alternate-reality counterparts and maybe ripping a hole in the universe with their weird, cross-dimension duo masturbation. We’re regular heroes.”

Sam snorts and shakes her head when Dea glares at her.

“What?” Sam asks, “Our lives are weird, man.”

She is not wrong.

*

The reminder that Dea’s male counterpart is so fucking repressed that he can’t handle looking Cas in the eye while even thinking about his feelings spurs her on a little as she packs up the impala and Cas slides into the passenger seat. It looked like Dean had gotten his shit together towards the end there and, as far as Dea’s concerned, anything some man can do she can do better.

*

They don’t talk for the first three hours of the journey and it’s suffocatingly awkward, but Dea’s just glad that Cas took the goddamn long route rather than popping up after Dea already got there and checked into the motel. She’s lucky Cas went along with it rather than throwing her under the bus, because it’s not like Dea actually asked. Cas is mad at her. She wouldn't have skipped out in the middle of the night if she wasn't mad, even if Dea’s not entirely sure which of the crappy life choices she's made is the precise one to piss Cas off.

“What do you call an evil cow desecrator from hell?” Dea asks, after she can’t stand the goddamn silence anymore. She’s been trying to work out how to break it since they hit the highway, but other than saying sorry I’m an emotionally constipated bitch who’s punishing you for the fact that I really fucking care, just like you said, she’s come up with nothing.

“I don’t know,” Cas deadpans, staring out the window.

“Moocifer.”

It takes a few long moments, but then Cas’ usual frown creases into a small smile that Dea’s going to count as a massive fucking win.

“You’re an imbecile,” Cas says, affection seeping into her voice.

“I,” Dea begins, rolling the words round her mouth, “I missed you.”

“I know,” Cas says, slumping against the window in a move that’s more human than any she’s made today.

“You said you weren’t gonna fucking disappear again.” Dea says, grip tightening on the steering wheel.

“You didn’t want to talk to me,” Cas counters, folding her arms in the front seat, “If dealing with me is such an inconvenience, then -”

“ - Cas, I’m the least convenient thing that’s ever happened to you. Don’t pull that card,” Dea says, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “You. You scared the holy crap outta me.”

“I hurt you,” Cas counters, “Why do you get the monopoly on emotional responses?”

It’s a good fucking question and not one that Dea has any kind of answer for, other than 'you’re an angel now' which is a load of crap. Teasing out years of miscommunication definitely proved that Castiel had plenty of freaking feelings long before she fell. “I’m upset with you.”

“I got that,” Dea says, “Never said I was a fucking relationship expert.”

“After seeing our male counterparts, I’d hoped you would stop running away from your feelings.”

“Hark who's freaking talking,” Dea snaps back, “First hint of trouble, you shut yourself down and piss off. You can say you did it for my benefit all you goddamn want, but I’ve lived this shitshow for six years now. I know when you’re avoiding me.”

“Fine,” Cas says, “I’ve been avoiding you, but you started it first.”

“Well,” Dea says, scrambling for words, “I stopped starting it first, so, there. I win.”

Cas settles into the seat with an eye roll and turns the radio on, which is fine, because at least they’ve started the conversation.

*

The motel room in Luebbering is on the crappy side of normal, right on the outside of town. After doing the whole drive with one gas-and-coffee break, Dea aches enough that she doesn’t give a damn about the scratchy, half stained sheets and the shitty food options. Human-Cas would have hated the whole thing, probably, and she still sends a few looks of distaste around the room before sitting down at the rickety table and counting out the silver bullets like Dea has been intending to do, but she’s less vocal about it. That could be the after effects of the argument, though, not humanity.

“Three rounds worth,” Cas says, loading Dea’s gun with a familiar frown.

“Awesome,” Dea mutters, “Guess we need to do some hustling soon. Do you wanna, uh... I need to eat.”

“You’re tired,” Cas says, glancing over her, her frown deepening. “What do you want to eat?”

“Carbs and meat, extra french fries,” Dea says, “But…”

She stops mid sentence, because Cas is suddenly gone, of fucking course, until she pops back into existence less than five minutes later with a bacon cheeseburger and fries.

“Neat trick,” Dea comments, mouth dry as she takes the brown paper bag and kicks her legs up onto the bed.

“I can be useful,” Cas says, dryly, “Do you have to eat that on our bed?”

“You’re the one clogging up the table,” Dea throws back, “And you’re not… I don’t care if you’re useful. Thought we nipped that whole fucking thing in the bud way back when.”

Cas’ lips thin as she counts out the bullets for a second time.

“I assumed that was before you remembered what an adept killing machine I was.”

“What?”

“My grace,” Cas says, not looking at her, “You think my grace precludes us from continuing our relationship as it was, but you’d rather I kept it. At least until we have dealt with Rowena and Rowen.”

Dea feels a little like she’s been slapped in the face.

Why is it so fucking difficult to do this properly? Why do they always get to this place where they’re hurting each other without them even goddamn knowing why? Why can’t they just… ? Fuck, why can’t they just have a nice, clean happy ending, for at least this area of their life.

It shouldn’t be this fucking hard.

Dea sets down her burger on the bedside table and takes the gun out of Cas’ hands, forcing Cas to turn and look her straight in the eye.

“This aint dependent on whether you’ve got grace, or just a regular soul. This aint dependent on how much you can help with whatever fucking bullshit we’ve got going on at any given time. How I, how I feel; that’s done. It’s not changing. Not if you’re powered up, or human, or if you grow freaking horns. It’s done, Cas. Please. You gotta get that in your head.”

“Then why?”

“Why what?” Dea asks, cupping Cas’ cheek, running a thumb over her skin, “Cas. Tell me what’s going on in your head.”

“Why are you suddenly against me giving up my grace? You,” Cas swallows, looks up at her, “You want me to keep it. You miss my humanity. You thought you might lose me, but now you would rather… rather I didn’t power down.”

Dea exhales.

“I get that that came out badly,” Dea says, “That’s on me. I fucked this up. This whole fight is on me, Cas. I was upset and when I’m hurt I act like a class A bitch and I... You nearly fucking died, Cas.”

“I was fine,”

“Castiel, damnit, if you hadn’t been graced up; you’d have been foaming at the mouth, brain dead, dead. Okay. I wanted you human - how fucking selfish, to just - to want you to be vulnerable. To rip you away from your freaking identity because of some fucked up insecurity about our relationship. Cas. I just want you to be safe. I need you safe, damnit, I just…”

“You do not get to make decisions for me.”

“Yeah,” Dea says, “Or you wouldn’t have ran head first at a fucking witch.”

“Don’t try my patience,” Cas says, voice hot, “You sold your soul to hell. You risk your life habitually. You have no consideration for my feelings when you bait vampires and make deals to damn yourself for whatever end.”

Dea can’t even argue with that. She can’t. It’s all true, she just doesn’t think much to being on the flipside.

She drops her hand from Cas’ cheek and retreats to their crappy motel bed, grabbing her cold burger feeling far too much grief for their dinner dates and ordering Cas new food for her to try. It’s fucked up considering how much she wants Cas wrapped up in her shield of grace, but she wants Cas human too. She wants. She just wants all the time.

“We got four bodies,” Dea says, shoulders tense again, “Any connection between the vics?”

*

For once, it’s a standard werewolf hunt. It takes them a day to hunt down the guy down thanks to their innate ability to fall into walking together well and decades of experience, but they have to hang around for another couple of days till there’s a half moon (they trace the sire back a generation away from the alpha dickbag, so at least they don’t have to wait out the whole damn moon cycle) to test out that theory because Dea aint willing to take a punt on a guy in his mid-twenties with a young kid and his wife’s life without firm proof. The fight at the end is bloody, with a half shifted werewolf trying to rip it’s teeth into Dea’s arm before Cas throws him away like a freaking scrap of paper, before smiting the crap out of him.

Dea’s crumpled and bleeding, just a bit, on the floor and gets a freaking spectacular view of Castiel’s wrath. Dea is so fucking in love with her, it’s ridiculous, and she’s so goddamn hot, that by the time Cas turns her still burning gaze on her she’s resolved the whole fucking argument in her head.

“You ran at the werewolf,” Cas practically growls, looming above her as Dea’s sat on the floor with a pool of werewolf blood slowly creeps towards her across the tiling. The last thing Cas said before this point was ‘shut your eyes’ in that electric, thunder voice that she has. “After this whole ridiculous fight, you ran at the werewolf with no weapon.”

Dea could’ve sworn she still had a silver knife, even if the bullets are long since gone, but… no, that’s halfway across the room from the first time the werewolf threw her at a wall.

“I,” Dea says, head a little woozy from where she fell, slamming her jaw shut, “Yeah,” Dean concedes, “I got nothing.”

Cas exhales, smitey, all righteous anger and power.

“You assbut,” Cas declares, and then she’s swept down to her level to kiss her with heat and irritation and the usual frustration. Dea grabs hold of the collar of Cas’ trench coat to ground herself, head swimming, until Cas retreats to cup a hand to her cheek and chase away the heddy pain with her grace.

“You had my back though,” Dea croaks out, “No harm, no foul.”

Cas drags her back in for another kiss and, oh yeah, she’s freaking furious. Dea clings on and meets her, passion for passion, because she ain’t exactly thrilled with Castiel either right now. She left. She refused to help. She disappeared with her fucking grace, with no goddamn word, like that isn’t something they talked about over and over.

Castiel pulls away to rest their foreheads together.

“Stop longing at me, Deanna,” Cas says, voice low, “I’m right here.”

Dea kisses her again until she can’t spout anymore crap about how Dea’s feeling.

*

The physical side of their relationship has never been a problem.

*

For however long they manage to keep swinging, Dea’s pretty sure she’s never gonna get used to having Cas close, with a cemented position in her life, with her feelings laid bare and the tips of her fingertips running over her shoulder blade. Once she was in, Castiel was all in, even if it wasn’t exactly easy. Still isn't. The last few weeks are pretty much the most they’ve ever spent this far apart and, fuck, does it make her realise how goddamn relieved she is that, these days, Cas stays around.

“I’m,” Dea begins, swallows, “Cas, I’m really fucking sorry about this whole thing.”

Cas sighs, her fingers stilling on Deas bare shoulder. They're both butt naked, on top of the covers, close.

“I know that,” Cas says, "And yet you would do it again. Your need to protect others and yourself from emotions is so inherent that I… I fear we're doomed to have this argument forever."

“Hey,” Dea says, mouth dry, “We've, we're making progress. Look at Dean.”

“True,”

“And Cas I, you, you nearly died on me,” Dea says, voice breathy, weaker than she'd like. “You nearly fucking died. You can't ask me not to- not to…”

“I killed people, Deana,”

And fuck, but she’s such a bitch. She’s got no comeback for that. She should’ve been there. She should have stowed her crap, like she used to. Sometimes it’s even more difficult now they’ve got this honesty shtick going on.

“Dea,” Cas says, frown deepening, “My grace.”

“New plan: I’m not involved with you or your grace. That decision aint in my remit.” Dea says, standing up and wandering around the room, picking round for her clothes, pulling them back on. She’s got three messages from Sam: one inquiring about the werewolf, one telling her she’s changing the locks to the bunker until they’ve dealt with their ‘inane bickering’ and the the third with a understated ‘cal me’ that Dea will get to, eventually. Right now dealing with this Cas situation is the priority, up until it gets too close to the bone and she needs to defer.

“No,” Cas says, forehead creasing, “I intend to stick around, Deanna, so your opinion on this matters.”

“Don’t Deanna me, Asstiel,” Dea shoots back, “This is too fucking big for you to be going off what I want.” Dea says, pulling her shirt on. “I can't… you gotta decide for yourself.”

“And you have too many feelings about it, regardless, for me to not to take those into account,” Cas returns, “You wanted me to be human until I was in danger, when you changed your mind.”

“That’s not,” Dea says, swallowing, “It’s just human instinct, Cas. If you could… if you keep me safe, then you’d do it. You’d do it. And the human stuff - our relationship, not, not just sex, I lump that in my head with you being human. We’ve never done this with you angeled up before, Cas. Our whole freaking thing was fucked up when you had your halo and I can’t… if you can freaking fly off, I’m expecting you to leave. Disappear. Get caught up in some fucking eternal cause and forget you even give a damn about this, because it’s a helluva lot easier.”

“Which is exactly what I did,”

“I pushed you,” Dea says, sitting back down on the edge of the bed and rubbing a hand over her face, “I like that picture you were painting, when we grew old together, but it’s… that’s a pipe dream. We’ll be going out in a blaze of glory, Cas, and for the long damndest time I figure it’d be me and Sam but… lately, I guess I just figured it would be the three of us.”

“I don’t want that,” Cas says, expression pained, “You deserve to have a chance to stop fighting.”

“Cas, buddy, I’ve been okay with that since I was a teenager.”

“I want you towant more.”

“ I dunno how to do that,” Dea says, shrugging helplessly, “I'm, m’giving you everything I've got, Cas. Know I'm messed up, but I -” Dea cuts off, throat closing up, tightening. Sharp.

“I am intimately aware of your insecurities, Dea, I know that -”

“- Cas,” Dea says, choking, bringing a hand up to her mouth to cough into it. It comes away bloody. “Cas,”

“I'm not trying to -”

Dea brings her hands up to her throat, because it's closing more, coughing up more blood. There's something in her throat. She can't breathe and -

“Cas,” Dea chokes out, she can't breathe, can’t speak, and... “I, witch,”

“Dea,” Cas says, now on her feet, eyes wild. “Dea, what -?”

“Bag,” Dea manages, falling to her knees, scrambling for some place it could have been hidden. She begins to say ‘witch’ again but then the thing in her throats shifts, she chokes, coughs, then chokes up a fucking knife. Then the blood comes bubbling up in her throat. “Find the" Dea begins, spitting blood, choking on it, “hex bag.”

Castiel says her name again, on her feet and ripping apart the hotel room, while Dea can feel another fucking knife in her windpipe and is trying to work out what the best thing she can do to slow down how quickly it’s going to kill her. She’s trying to force her body to relax, not swallow, not choke on the blood but its…

Goddamn, Cas, hurry. Hurry,

She’s knelt on the floor coughing up another knife when suddenly it stops. Her airway clears and then Cas is falling over herself to heal her bloodied throat.

“Call Sam,” Dea croaks, sat with her back against the shitty motel bed, trying to get enough oxygen into her lungs again.

Her sister answers on the second ring, just as Dea’s dragging herself to her feet and stuffing her belongings back in the duffle bag.

“Yes,” Sam says, “Dea too. Are you alright?”

Dea’s heart rate picks up and she gestures at Castiel to put it onto speaker.

“Yeah,” Sam say, “Charlie had it worse than me. Mr Tran found the hex bag in the bottom of a sock.”

“What’s the point of having a freaking bunker if people can still off you in it?” Dea asks,

“Rowen?”

“Maybe,” Sam says, “Look, it turns out the cattle desecration thing is a thing. Charlie’s been scoping out the witch forums and it’s uh, kind of a call to arms. He reckons they’ve circulated our pictures and told the whole witch community to ice us on sight. I think we’re going to get this a lot.”

“Awesome,” Dea says, jaw set, “So now we have a bunch of dumbass humans playing assassination squad?”

“We’re gonna head out to Wyoming,” Sam says, “You ready to clear out of there?”

“Yes,” Cas says, “There werewolf has been dealt with. We’ll meet you at the sight of the cow desecration.”

“Lay low,” Sam says, “Avoid anyone that looks kind of witchy,”

“That’s how I try to live my life, Samantha,” Dea says, “Watch out for Charlie, okay?”

“Rodger that,” Sam says.

They’re on the road ten minutes later.

*

The steering wheel is solid and reassuring under her white-knuckle grip for the first fifty miles of the journey. Castiel is silent and shaken, sitting a little closer to Dea than she had been on the way there, not a trace of humanity in her posture; she is all angel, tension ready to burst, and Dea really really wishes they'd had more time to sort their fucking argument out before the world screwed them again.

She's thinking about how Cas would react if she turned the radio on, or started a conversation, when her fingers come away wet from scratching the persistent itch just above her hair line. It had been annoying her in an absent minded sense, but then Dea draws her fingers away to find them bloodied, and the itch continues. Dea brings a hand back up to her head and a piece of her scalp falls into her hands.

She managed not to swerve off the road, thank fuck, but she pulls over with little enough hesitation that the guy behind hits his horn as he speeds past.

The itch is burning now, like she's got itching powder trapped under her skin, but a chunk of hair falls away, still attached to her flesh. It's frigging revolting and Dea’s seen a lot of gross shit in her time, but more worrying is the blood that's seeping from where her skin used to be and -

“What the -”,

“Dea,” Cas cries out, fumbling with her belt before frantically checking for the hex bag; glove box, scrambling under the seat.

Dea bursts into action herself, scrambling at the edge of the upholstery, falling out of the car to check under the hood. Cas is headed for the trunk, but hesitates at Dea’s mangled swearword.

There's five hex bags under the hood of her baby.

Cas is there settling alight to the first one before Dea can ever speak,as the largest chunk of Dea’s skin slides off her head. Cas is frantic, so it must be fucking bad, and her neck is warm the fresh blood. In the end, the itching doesn't stop until Cas lights up the penultimate bag, at which Dea slides down the front of the car onto the floor. There's way too much blood. She's holding what looks like a freaking wig in her hands, but that came from her head .

“Dea,” Cas hisses, crouching on the dirt to cup a hand to her cheek and flood her with grace.

Then there's warmth and pureness, then she blinks.

She's still holding half her hair in her hands and her hands are covered in blood, but other than how fucking grossed out she is, she feels okay.

“No,” Dea says, dropping the handful of her skin to stand to check the rest of her baby. There's blood on the seat again, but other than she's unharmed. “No,” Dea says, angry, “No freaking witch is messing with my car. No fucking way. No fucking way.”

“Dea,” Cas says.

“No!” Dea yells to the silent road.”The rules are simple, Cas! You don't mess with my sister, my girlfriend or my baby. You don't hex bag a girl’s car. What the hell. I fucking hate witches.I, goddamnit, Cas.”

“Are you okay?”

“No; I'm angry,” Dea says, heated, as Cas wipes the blood off her hands with one of the dirty shirts from the back, her touch firm and deliberate, “How the hell did one of Rowena’s minions even do that?” Dea asks, “They broke into my motel room and my goddamn car.”

“Yes,” Cas says, grimly, as she wipes the blood off the back of her neck, too, and places the bloodied shirt into the back of the car and extracts the final hex bag. She undoes the clasp to pick through the ingredients: herbs, a lock of hair and what looks to be a human tooth.

“Witches are freaking gross,” Dea declares, as Cas examines each of the items thoroughly.

Three minutes later, a burly bloke in a shitty car pulls over to ask if ‘you ladies need any help’. She'd left the impala hood popped up to comb through for any rogue hex bags that were better hidden - the hell is Dea nearly choking it four times in a goddam day - and she is not in the mood for any of this gender bullshit right now.

She yells a string of swear words at him colorful enough that he yells something about bitches before he speeds off.

She's been awake for sixteen hours. She's been nearly ripped apart by a frigging werewolf before two bitch witches tried to off her; Sam’s got a pissed off witch on her ass too and Charlie's driving across the country with half the codex for the damn book of the damned in her head.

“You drive,” Dea says, thrusting the keys into Cas’ hands before slamming herself into the bitch seat.

Today is not going well.

*

Castiel makes them pull over three hours into the drive so that Dea can spent time horizontal in an actual bed. Dea tries to make the argument that Cas can just sleep whammy her into unconscious for a few minutes before she realises that Cas isn't okay, which means Cas might also have a point. Dea’s usually better at picking up on that kind of stuff.

The guy on reception takes Cas’ request for a king room without even an eyebrow raise and Dea’s struck, quite suddenly, by how it must have been different for Dean. The guy doesn't even blink at two women sharing a motel room and Dea’s damned sure he hasn't jumped to lesbians. Being downgraded to fucking gal pals isn't exactly great, but it's a damn sight easier than having to put up with comments or staring or too long looks. Their sexuality being made invisible has a couple of advantages, even if she's found it pretty shitty as an all round thing.

She's exhausted enough to kick off her boots and face plant onto the bed. Cas is in her peripheries making attempts to witch proof the place, but the cold harsh reality of that is witches aren't exactly they're speciality. Most times you need magic to protect from magic, which means they woefully unprepared. The symbols and herbs and crap they do know about, they don't use all that often. They're going to need to hit the books.

Dea doesn't realise her eyes are shut until she can feel Cas’ brushing hair away from her face.

She peels her eyes open to look at her because it feels a helluva lot like they were half way through this talk when someone started trying to kill her.

“You okay?” Dea asks , as Cas’ hands settle in her hair.

“You nearly died today: twice.”

“We not counting the werewolf?” Dea asks, which doesn’t win the smile she was hoping for, “Cas,” She exhales, forcing her eyes open.

“This feels human,” Cas says, voice low, “The fear and the desire to shield you from any further harm. I thought… “

“It’s not human or angel,” Dea says, “It’s just being in love, man. That happens to all kinds. Look, I know where your head’s going, Castiel. You didn’t fail at being an angel and you didn’t fail at being a human. You’re not wrong. If you don’t feel like you fit - it’s the box that’s bullshit, not you.”

“Species isn’t a social construct,”

“Cas, sex wasn’t a social construct either at some point, it’s all the baggage we tagged on and called gender that’s the problem. You’re awesome. You’re awesome because you stuck up a middle finger to heaven but still care about every last one of your family and because you’ve been okay slumming it with us humans. You’re fucking amazing because you lost your grace trying to save the goddamn world and then learnt how to make coffee and about the profound irritation of having to pee and having periods. Wanting to give that bullshit up is okay, Cas, and not wanting to give up your ability to freaking time travel is cool too. I don’t… none of that stuff defines who you are. You’re you. You’re Cas. You’re the angel who dragged me from hell and called Lucifer an assbut and you’re the human who’s besties with Charlie and can’t function without coffee and you’re both of those things at exactly the same time. You’re the love of my life, wings or not, and you’re Sam’s friend and a fucking hero. You can be a human or an angel or whatever the hell you want, it doesn’t make a difference.”

“Thank you,”

“You said, before, that you were pretty sure you were a woman.”

“I had no concept of how the socialization involved in gender could have such profound effects on reality. My time on earth, at least, I have spent largely in a female vessel which has changed how people treat me.”

“Lot of that's bullcrap though, Cas,” Dea says, “It doesn't change who you are.”

“You see me as a woman,” Cas say, “Most of the time, you see me as a human woman.”

“Yeah,” Dea says, running a hand over her face, “I'm pretty simple minded though, Cas, that's just me not being able to fathom you has a six winged sky scraper with fifteen freaking faces; it's me simplifying you to something I can comprehend, because you're too huge and too powerful and too fucking special for me to get my head round. I don't , I don't wanna be the reason you change how you view your identity. And I'm cool knowing you're, you know, bigger than our petty human gender roles we get so bogged down in.”

“I intend to live my life as a human, regardless of whether I keep my grace,” Castiel says, “I want to do it properly.”

Dea rolls onto her side and tries not to be really fucking happy about that. Goddamn her freaking emotions wanting Cas here and vulnerable and on tap whenever she wants her and sometimes when she doesn’t.

“Above all,” Cas says, “It’s imperative that you do not die.”

Dea relates to that so fucking hard she doesn’t have the words to express it.

*

Dea’s feeling pretty fucking shitty about just about everything the other side of a full night’s sleep, up till the point that Cas shows up half a centimeter away from her face and starts dissecting her goddamn feelings.

“You’re upset you woke up alone,” Cas says, frowning at her.

“Upset’s a strong word,”

“You need to communicate your expectations: I'm not a mind reader,”

“Well,” Dea says, running her tongue over her lip, “You kind of are,”

Cas sends her a Sam style bitch face which jolts loose another burst of affection.

“Coffee and breakfast,” Cas says, pressing them into her hands, “And I think I've witch proofed your car.”

Dea grabs hold of Cas’ trench coat and pulls her into a kiss because, fucking hell, this is going to work. They can do this. They can do this if Castiel is an angel, or a human; a woman, a celestial being, a freaking man if it comes down to some ill-timed vessel swaps. They can do this because they’ve both committed enough to work through their goddamn issues. They can do this because even though she ignored her fucking girlfriend for two weeks after seriously letting her down, Cas loves her anyway. Cas has the patience to hear her out and the Dea-Winchester-nous to get that all of that stemmed from her issues of protection and duty and low self worth.

The motel guy sees them making out in the parking and doesn’t so much as as raise an eyebrow, so there’s the chance he wasn’t ignoring their sexuality; maybe he just doesn’t care enough about his job to give a shit.

*

Back on the highway, with the radio turned up and Cas sat in the passenger by her own choice, not because she’s got nowhere else to go, or because she can’t get there any other way, Dea feels a little like she could take on the whole freaking world of witchcraft in two minutes flat.

“Just so we’re clear,” Dea says, turning down the AC/DC because they’re less than fifty miles away from Sam, now, and she did promise her snot-nosed little sister that she wouldn’t turn back up until they’d stowed their crap. “We’re done with the argument.”

Cas’ lips twist up into a smile on the passenger seat.

“You did apologise,” Cas says, tilting her head slightly, “So…”

“And you… you get why I acted like a bitch,”

“That was never under question,” Cas says, eyes fixed on the side of her face, “I love you.”

“Good,” Dea says, throat tight. “And...your grace?”

“We’ll discuss it,” Cas says, “I want Sam’s opinion too.”

“Kay,” Dea says, smiling a little, “Discuss, when?”

“After the witch problem,”

“That could be a while, Cas,”

“There’s no rush to decide,” Cas says, shifting in her seat and then turning to look at her again, “What do you think is happening with our male counterparts?”

“I,” Dea begins, then cuts herself off, “I think we’re not gonna know, either way, and… frankly, I think we got enough crap to worry about in our own universe.”

Cas smiles at that. It’s one of her rare, eye-crinkling smiles that Dea’s only ever one from human-Castiel before, and it’s fucking amazing that she still gets those. Whatever happens, she’s pretty damn certain that they’re going to be just fine.