Chapter Text
This was fucking weird.
Dean knew wasn’t exactly worth saying—it might be the most obvious statement in history—but this was so fucking weird. Weird in a way that made his brain feel a little fuzzy, that made his skin itch because there was no way this was real.
But there was certainly a way this was real.
And it wasn’t Dean’s skin that was itchy.
She had nice skin. It was soft and comfortable to be inside of, the callouses on Her hands felt better placed than the ones on Dean’s, and there were scars that he’d sometimes touch on accident that felt more like art than stains. Her hair felt right whenever he’d brush his fingers through it. Her waist was perfect to hold whenever he’d brace his hands on his hips. And when Dean would reach up to rub his jaw, he’d be slammed with another reminder that this wasn’t his jaw. It was too smooth, at a different angle, and far too good.
This was the jaw he’d dreamt of holding and angling back. Of kissing a soft line across, sucking a small, dark mark on, or nipping at until everyone could see that Dean had been here. That his hand had wrapped around Her neck because she trusted him there, and he’d been holding Her chin up so She could look him in the eyes as they grinned at each other.
She had the prettiest smile. Her lips would curve up at the perfect angle, her eyes would shine like small stars, and every little line on Her face would serve as evidence that She was happy.
Dean hadn’t seen Her smile in a while. Not at him. Not like She used to.
And he certainly wouldn’t see it now. He couldn’t.
All he could see was himself, across the room, rolling on the balls of his feet and sucking on his teeth as he thought.
As She thought.
This was so weird.
“I don’t like this.” She muttered, and Dean frowned. His voice sounded rougher, deeper, and heavier from outside. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it, or how to interpret the small shivers up his spine and over his skin.
“C’mon,” Dean said Her name, in her sweet and musical voice, and he liked how it sounded. He’d always loved how She said her own name, like it was an answer to something or the only lesson Dean would ever need to learn. “Is it really that bad to be stuck in my body-“
“Yes.” She snapped, raising Her chin and glaring down at him, and now his heart was beating faster. “This feels weird, and I don’t like seeing you be me. You’re doing it wrong.”
Dean frowned, and Her hair fell over his eyes. “How the hell am I doing it-“
“You’re sitting wrong. Your legs are too wide, I don’t lean like that, and when I frown it’d not supposed to look like I’m trying to murder someone.”
Dean disagreed with that last one. Shit, for months the only expression he’d gotten from Her was a frown that told him She wanted him dead.
He didn’t blame Her. He wasn’t all too happy with himself either, but it had been the only option. She wanted him. She said She wanted him, and she hadn’t been lying, and that had been the worst thing in the world.
If She hadn’t really wanted him, Dean could’ve offered himself in all his broken, foul glory and She would’ve walked away all by herself. Dean never would’ve needed to worry about losing Her, because he wouldn’t have had Her to begin with. But She’d said Dean Winchester, I want you, and he’d fucking believed Her. He never believed people when they said that.
And him believing Her meant Dean could lose Her. Could truly let Her down and get her hurt.
So he’d said no. He’d lied with practiced ease—through his teeth and with a flat expression—and told Her he didn’t see her like that. That She was his best friend, and he’d just never felt that for Her.
She nodded, and backed off. Smiling less and frowning more and still joking with him but never bumping their feet together under a table or leaning Her head on his shoulder.
It was what he’d wanted. She was safer, and still within Dean’s reach to just see Her, to know she was okay. But he’d never expected to touch Her again. He’d made his peace with the fact that She’d always be just a stretch away, but never his to hold.
And now he could only hold Her. Only rub Her thighs when he was thinking, only touch her face when he tried to brush Her hair away, only feel Her everywhere, every second, until he drove himself mad.
He didn’t know if he wanted to thank the witch that had done this, or kill them again.
Right now he was leaning towards the later, if only because he really didn’t like seeing Her in his body. It wasn’t just weird. It was wrong.
“You’re not exactly acting like me either, sweetheart.” Dean raised his brows, and watched his own face drop into a further glower. “You’re standing too much like a girl.”
She scoffed. “What the fuck does that even mean-“
“You’re too relaxed-“
“Relaxed?”
“Yeah.” He tried to raise his chin, but Her hair fell in his face again. He didn’t know how the hell he was suppose to do anything when he had to keep it out of his face. “And you gotta walk slower. We’re not in a rush-“
“I’m in a rush! I told you, Dean, I don’t like this-“
“I’m not a big fan either!” He snapped. “But what the hell are we suppose to do about it? Every time we’ve tried to tell Sammy he hasn’t heard us-“
She rolled Her eyes. And they were Dean’s eyes, but that was Her eye roll. “That’s the curse, dumbass. We have to break it-“
“I got that, sweetheart, but I’m not seeing how you plan to do that without help-“
“I have you, Dean.” Her voice—his voice—was louder. Firmer. Commanding. It made his gut warm, and his body—Her body—sit a little taller of his own accord. “You’re on research duty, buddy. Let’s go.”
Dean scowled. He hated it when She called him buddy. He wasn’t Her buddy, he was supposed to be Her-
Nothing. Dean was Her nothing, because he’d been so very careful to make and keep it that way.
And that knowledge never stopped him from wanting Her. Wanting Her so bad that, when he’d glance down at her hands, now in his control, he couldn’t stop wondering if he’d ever get to feel them like this again. Rubbing against skin and tracing over the curve of his lips and trailing nails on his legs.
It didn’t really count. That wasn’t Dean’s body that he was feeling. But the touch felt real, and he didn’t really want to let it go yet, not if this was the closest to holding Her he’d ever get. Just a small, torturous reparation for his sacrifice of never really having her, where he got to memorize Her body and keep it in his head forever.
“C’mon,” Dean said Her name, because he wanted a little more time. A longer chance to exist in this purgatory, because he’d never get the chance to fully enter heaven. “You don’t need my help-“
“Yes, I do.” She snapped, grabbing Her jacket from the bed and marching to the door. “Get up. We’re going.”
Dean didn’t want to get up, but Her body didn’t seem to agree with him. He pushed off the bed and gained an unsteady balance, because Her knees were oddly weak. She wasn’t weak—She hunted like an animal and had used this very body to knock Dean flat on his ass—but something was making him lightheaded and dizzy.
He was probably just hungry. They hadn’t eaten since the curse hit.
“If we’re doing this,” he grumbled, shuffling to put on Her shoes. “We’re doing it with food.”
“Deal.” She tried to shrug on Her jacket, froze when it didn’t fit around Dean’s body, and chucked it right at his face. “Wear that. I don’t want you getting me a cold.”
Dean rolled his eyes, but put on the jacket. She was already pissed, and this wasn’t worth fighting about.
“This is so weird,” She mumbled, shaking Dean’s head. “C’mon, Winchester, we’re fixing this-“
“Wait,” Dean frowned, patting his pockets—Her pockets—and scanning around the motel room. “Where are my keys-“
“You mean these keys?”
He turned to see Her holding up the Impala’s keys, a shit-eating grin on Her face.
Dean narrowed his eyes, holding out his hand. “Gimme my keys.”
“No.” She shrugged, Her grin growing. “I think I’m good.”
“I’m not asking, sweetheart-“
“Okay. You take them, they’re yours.”
She walked out of the motel room, and Dean’s eyes widened. There was no fucking way She was driving his car.
“They are mine!” He shouted, sprinting after Her. “Just cause you’re in my damn body-“
Her body was faster than Dean was used to. He almost slammed right into Her back—His back—and an undignified sound left his when Her arms wrapped around his waist, catching him from a fall and holding him right to Her chest.
He’d never realized he was that broad. Or that strong. She was holding Dean like he was paper, and looking at him with shining eyes—he could see the real Her almost glowing in his body—and grinning with Her whole face. Dean’s whole face, with crinkles near his eyes he hadn’t known he had, and stubble on his jaw he’d meant to shave today.
Her hands were rubbing his waist. It was the small, careful circles he always dreamt of leaving on Her hips and arms.
He wasn’t sure She knew she was doing it.
“Uh,” Dean cleared his throat, because She needed to let go now. Her touch was burning on his body, and they hadn’t really touched since the curse hit, so maybe they weren’t allowed to. “Keys.”
She shook Her head. “This is my one chance to drive, Dean-“
“It’s my freakin’ car-“
“And I’m you.” She raised Her brows, still holding him, and the fiery feeling got worse. “I’m driving.”
He should’ve fought more. But Her hand squeezed him lightly, and his whole body grew molten.
She needed to let go of him now.
He tried to grunt Her name, but it just came out breathy and soft. “You crash it-“
“I pay for the repairs.”
Dean scowled, but gave in. Right now She was stronger and taller than he was, and Dean didn’t really want to lose any dignity trying to physically take the keys.
And She didn’t crash it. Dean watched Her drive with careful attention—grumbling about what She was doing wrong until She shot him the deadliest glare he’d ever seen—and She never even came close to crashing. Her hands were big and firm and broad on Baby’s wheel, and Her arms would flex when she shifted the wheel, and there was a set look of determination on Her face that made her jaw look shaper-
That was not Her jaw. That was his jaw. And his arms, and his hands, and he wasn’t sure why the hell his eyes had been wandering over himself like that. He didn’t know why the hell he could feel his heartbeat in his throat and stomach.
He wasn’t in full control. When they parked, his body didn’t want to move until She helped him out of his seat, and Dean didn’t miss the look of confusion on Her face, like she wasn’t entirely certain why She’d done that. It was the same expression she had when She guided him inside, or when She opened the door for him.
Those were things Dean always did for Her. He wasn’t used to a hand on his back, or how nice it felt there. Secure, like a tether that told him he’d be alright. He didn’t understand why his body leaned closer to Her’s as they walked, or why his stomach kept doing little flips when Her eyes would fall from scanning over the diner and land on his.
He felt so unbelievably safe and calm. Hell, he’d never felt like this. Like the sky could fall and it would be fine, because the body across from his in the booth would catch it.
This was a really weird curse.
“You’re going to take notes,” She said, pushing a stack of books across the table that She must have pulled out of her ass. “I’ll look for something online.”
Dean frowned, shaking his head. The fucking hair was in his face again. “Why do I have to do the notes-“
“Because I have better handwriting, and you have my hands.” She handed him a notebook and pencil, and their fingers brushed, sending small sparks of electricity through Dean’s blood. “Tell me if you find something.”
“Nah, sweetheart. I think I’ll have some pie and do the online research-”
Dean had started to push everything back across the table, but he froze at the glare on Her face. It was downright domineering, and did weird things to his brain. He felt fuzzy.
“You’re doing notes.” She grunted, and Dean definitely felt at least a little dizzy. “That’s it.”
His voice was high and almost bratty in his own ears. He didn’t like it. “But-“
“Don’t test me, Winchester. I swear to god I’ll eat a salad.” Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll take you for a run.”
Dean tensed. “You wouldn’t fuckin’ dare-“
“You wanna bet?”
She’d won the argument again. Those were the arguments Dean was supposed to win. He was supposed to be able to talk his way out of anything with Her. To smirk and wink and tease Her until she broke rank from Sam’s side, and Dean didn’t have to do the stupid parts of the cases anymore. He hadn’t taken notes in years. He hated taking notes, and he wanted to keep pushing until order was restored and She was doing the notes—she usually loved doing the notes—but Her body had other ideas.
His mouth couldn’t figure out how to open and snap at Her. His body was molded and frozen into the seat whenever She’d look at him, and something kept humming in his chest whenever She’d talk. He was taking notes because he couldn’t remember how not to—how to grab the laptop or point at Her with a stern finger—and Dean’s was writing fast and neat, and his hand wasn’t cramping.
His foot kept aching to inch forward and press on Her calf. His fingers kept wanting to reach out and trace Her jaw. Dean wanted to sit on Her lap—he could never say that one aloud—because his body seemed to think it would be comfortable.
This curse was insane. He didn’t need to try and act like Her anymore, because his body—Her body—still seemed to remember how She was supposed to move. He found his hands spinning the pen between Her fingers like he’d seen her do a million times. His legs were crossed on the booth instead of spread under the table. He ordered a burger, but he couldn’t eat it. It was too greasy and heavy, and he already felt a little sick from just one bite.
She’d ordered chicken nuggets, and put Her usual disgusting amount of ketchup on the plate, but barely touched them.
They smelled really good. Dean was starving, his mouth watering as he couldn’t stop staring at them—or Her, in his body, but he didn’t really want to dwell on that—and when She glanced up at him, Her eyes flicked to the burger in front of him.
They traded plates without a word. And Dean had never seen himself eat before, but he finally understood why Sam was always so annoyed with him. She inhaled that thing, chewing loudly and wiping Her mouth with the back of her hand, licking her fingers clean and making disgusting smacking sounds-
The sounds should’ve been disgusting. Instead they settled in Dean’s gut, lighting a small fire he didn’t know how to stop feeding. He couldn’t figure out how to not stare at Her, arms braced on the table and brow furrowed as she read something on the laptop screen.
He had to excuse himself to go get more drinks.
“One beer.” He muttered, then immediately cringed. Beer sounded foul to his mouth. “Actually, make it a milkshake.”
“Hey, darlin’.”
Some poor chick at the bar war probably getting hit on. The lady behind the counter seemed motherly. She’d handle it if it got out of hand, and Dean had bigger problems to deal with anyway. Problems like how if he didn’t have a milkshake right now, he might actually die.
“What flavor, sweetheart?” The server asked, and Dean frowned. Being called sweetheart was weird.
He responded with Her usual order—hopefully that would satisfy his unwelcome craving—and someone off the side cleared the throat.
“You gonna answer me?”
A hand landed on Dean’s arm, and he flinched. It felt clammy and wrong on his body. Like a weight that settled into his bones and sent a creeping, itchy feeling over his skin.
He turned to see a fairly tall, well-built man grinning at him with an almost predatory smile. It made his body go rigid, almost shrinking in on itself.
“Are you, uh,” he frowned. “You talking to me?”
The man laughed. It was too loud, with not warmth, and echoed like a gunshot in his skull. “Course I am, sweetheart. I don’t see any other pretty girls ‘round.”
Oh.
Dean was the poor chick being hit on.
And he hated it. His body hated it. Not only was this man’s touch wrong, his voice was wrong. It slithered over Dean’s gut and chest, making everything in him recoiled and balk, because that was not how he was supposed to be called sweetheart.
“I, um,” he glanced back to the booth, frowning when he realized She was gone. “Listen, dude, I’m not-“
“Dude?” The man laughed. “We can do better than that, baby-“
Dean might have visibly recoiled. He hated baby, only one voice felt like it was supposed to call him baby, even if it never had-
He didn’t know what was happening, or why he was having such a visceral reaction to something that should’ve been passive and boring. Dean knew She got hit on all the time, because she was a fucking knockout, and his usual reaction to it was a possessive anger he had no right to feel. Not disgust, or a weird desire to retreat and hide-
“What’s going on?”
That was Dean’s own voice. And there was a large presence behind him that felt reliable. That his body wanted to lean back into.
When Dean turned, She was right there with narrowed eyes.
He didn’t love how he immediately felt better, and softer, and a little light-headed.
“Hey, man, you gotta wait your turn-“
“My turn?” She snorted. “Walk away from hi- her, buddy, or I’ll kick your ass. I can do that now.”
She puffed Her chest, and—as soon as his brain remembered how to not be static warmth—Dean would have to talk to Her about not abusing his body for unapproved bar fights.
The man scoffed. “Bro, there ain’t no way this is your girl-“
“She is.” Her voice was dry, her face flat. “In more ways than you can imagine. Go.”
Dean was starting to like this curse less. To start, he didn’t appreciate the speed at which the idea of Her being his girl had been dismissed. He also wasn’t a huge fan of how She’d called him his girl, and he’d liked it. She’d been talking about how Dean was in Her body, and she probably didn’t want a random creep trying to get in her pants.
Dean’s body—Her body—loved the sound of Her agreement in his voice. It made him feel tingly.
It didn’t help how She was touching him—holding his arms as She glared at the man over his head—and it kicked the feeling from a soft, warm hum to fireworks. Dean wanted Her hand to meld there and never let go. When the man walked away and She started talking, he never wanted Her to shut up.
“You-“ She swallowed, shaking Her head slightly. “Never mind. I found it.”
Dean blinked at Her. “It?”
“How to tell Sam.
“Oh.” He paused, mostly staring at her as the words sank in, and letting out a long breath of relief escape him when they did. “Awesome.”
She raised Her brows. “You’re pro switching back now?”
“I’ve always been pro switching back-“
“You said it wasn’t that urgent.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “I changed my mind, sweetheart. What’d you find.”
She gave him an odd look—Dean couldn’t tell if it was hurt, annoyance, or absolute indifference—but continued. “We have to work around the curse.”
“What the hell does-“
“We can’t tell Sam that I’m you and you’re me. Every time we have the call gets dropped, or something loud has drowned us out, Sam’s literally fucking hangs up-“
“I know,” Dean drawled Her name, giving Her a flat look. “I was there for all of that-“
“Shut up. My point is every time we’ve tried to explicitly tell him, he hasn’t heard us. So what if we just don’t?”
Dean frowned at Her. “Your solution is to just freakin’… give up? Like we’re a kiddie soccer team that lost one to many matches, and we’re gonna quit and cry about it?”
“No, Dean. My goal is to not say it, but let Sam figure it out himself.”
“How-“
“Think of something only you and Sam know about. Something you’d never disclose to anyone else.” A wide, broad grin was stretching over Her face. Dean’s face.
He couldn’t keep living like this.
“We’ve got a few of those kinds of secrets, but I’m not-“
“You don’t have to tell me. You have to tell Sam, in my voice. Just like I’m going to say one of our secrets in your voice.”
It was a smart plan, and it would probably work. Sam knew She and Dean were being so annoying and weird about each other, so they wouldn’t be spilling deep, dark secrets anytime soon. Sam would hear them, and he was smart, so he’d figure them out.
But Dean was mostly stuck on the last part of that sentence.
“You and Sammy have secrets?”
She rolled Her eyes. “We’re friends. Of course we have secrets.”
“About what?”
“It’s not a secret if I tell you.”
She crossed Her arms—Dean’s arms—and he wanted them to wrap around him and keep him warm and safe, maybe choke him a little or carry him around everywhere like he was the only thing She was meant to hold-
Jesus.
“Whatever.” Dean muttered. He needed to get away from Her now. “I’m going to the bathroom.”
She frowned. “Can you hold it?”
“Yeah, but why the hell would I-“
“I don’t want you peeing in my body.”
Dean snorted. “Are you freakin’ serious-“
“Yes! You’ll have to wipe-“
“I know how to wipe, sweetheart. And you’re gonna need to take me to piss eventually-“
Dean could swear She blushed. He blushed. Goddamnit.
“I’d hold it.” She snapped, standing a little taller. “You can go back at the motel, where I can go with you.”
“Why would you need to go with me-“
“I don’t want you touching me there, Dean!” Her voice was a low, hushed shout. “It’s- You don’t get to- I’d need to wipe, and make sure you didn’t look!”
“It’s just a pussy,” he said Her name slowly, and She looked like she was going to kill him.
His horrible body—Her body—wanted to either give in or push harder, until She snapped him in half.
It seemed to like the idea of Her giving him anything at all.
Dean could work with that.
“Dean, I’m fucking serious-“
“So am I! It’s just a body, ” He sneered, and really wished She was taller. It was hard to be firm and authoritative when She was bigger.
When this was over, he’d probably respect Her a little more. She shouted and him and Sammy all the time without ever flinching.
“Look, I get that this is weird as hell, but it’s nothing I haven’t seen before-”
“You haven’t seen it before. It’s my vagina, Dean, and you don’t get to see it now. Hold your piss.”
Suddenly, it clicked. She cared that Dean would be touching Her. If it was Sam, She wouldn’t give a shit.
But Dean had lost the right to touch Her there when he’d decided he could never hold Her.
It had felt like a good idea at the time. Past Dean had understood that She deserved better, and She shouldn’t have to live Her whole life with a target on Her back. Past Dean had known that She’d find better, and he’d be forgotten in a few years, and it was better for his to have another good thing slip through his fingers rather than hold it and break it. Past Dean just wanted Her to be happy and safe, and She’d never be both as long as She was attached to him.
Past Dean had been an idiot. That son of a bitch hadn’t needed to pee this bad, and he hadn’t spent months with Her just in reach.
Dean opened his mouth to say something—not an apology, because he’d make that choice in every life to keep Her safe—but before he could, She was moving. Grabbing the hook of Dean’s arm and pulling him out of the diner.
“That’s my body, Dean.” She snapped. “You’re peeing at the motel.”
Dean grumbled an agreement, and didn’t fight all that hard. He had bigger worries. She was pulling him through the parking lot, and he was letting Her. Shit, he was trying to jog a little to keep up with Her, maybe fall into her side. Just fall into Her. She opened the Impala door and he scowled, but let Her help him inside. Her hand touched his lower back again, and it set off fireworks around his ribs and through his intestines.
He felt weirdly warm and gooey, his skin was tingling again, and when he shifted slightly in his seat he could feet something wet between his legs-
Son of a bitch.
She’d been manhandling him, and he was turned on by it. Her body was turned on by it. She wanted to Dean to jump in his own body and climb it like a tree, and Jesus, that ache between his legs was unbearable, and he wanted his own cock inside off him-
They needed to fix this right fucking now.