A Change of Constellation: Chapter One
Chapter One
Dean has a love-hate relationship with mornings during a hunt. On one hand, he hates getting too little sleep and waking up sore. The beds are never right, and everything always smells old and used.
On the other hand, it reminds him of growing up, like sharing Lucky Charms with Sam on Saturday mornings. And honestly, there's nothing like the days-long adrenaline high of the hunt, or the feel of the Impala as they break the speed limit across state lines. With things quiet in the past year, he's missed that.
So when the sun hits him in the face and he catches that first scent of musty cheap hotel, he smiles as he stretches. His whole body feels about two sizes two small; every muscle tight and aching. He considers risking a bath in the questionable hotel tub when he stretches his arms above his head and opens his eyes.
"The fuck!"
Sam is a credit to his years on the job; he's upright with his knife in hand before he's actually awake. When it becomes apparent that they're alone in the room, he drops the knife on the pillow and rubs his eyes. "What?"
"I thought we were over this stupid prank war shit -- how did you -- " Dean clears his throat, his voice too high and husky. He sits up, and his whole chest bounces with him. There isn't close to enough air in the world to fill his lungs as he inhales and exhales at roughly the speed of sound. He shoves his hands under his shirt to remove the offending fake breasts -- "Oh my god." He leaps out of bed and yanks his shirt off as he stands in front of the mirror.
"Um, Dean? What?" Sam clearly has nerves of steel, which Dean admires right now because what the fuck? "Are you -- " Sam looks to the bed, then back to where Dean stands topless in front of the mirror. "What?"
Dean runs his hands down over a chest that's significantly more voluptuous than it was last night, before yanking his hands away and shaking them as though he can somehow will them away by sheer force. He squints his eyes shut -- please be a dream please be a dream this cannot be happening -- but when he looks in the mirror, they're still there.
Boobs.
Hesitating, moving like he's about to reach his hand into a lion's mouth, he checks down the front of his pants. He gags. "I'm going to be sick." He rushes to the bathroom while Sam stares and rubs the sleep crud out of his eyes.
While Dean pukes everything he's ever eaten, Sam makes his way about the room. Dean hears the hotel coffee maker gurgling between retches. When Sam reaches the doorway, he leans against the jamb and finally asks, "Do you have tits, Dean?"
"My dick is gone!" Dean gags again, but there's nothing left to lose -- he's officially empty. He's still waiting to wake up. Is he being punished? Is someone fucking with him? He is going to -- "Sam! Someone stole my dick!"
Sam huffs like he might laugh, but has the decency to look queasy. He brings Dean a glass of water. "Can you, um -- " He clears his throat and looks at the ceiling. "Boobs, Dean. The boobs are weirding me out."
"They're weirding me out!" But Dean finds his t-shirt on the floor and tugs it on. He's quickly moving from horrified to utterly numb, and he checks again. Everything is firmly attached and someone stole his dick.
Sam sits across from him, their knees nearly touching. It's quiet for a while, and Dean forces himself to breath slowly. He isn't going to do any good by panicking.
"So," Sam says after a beat. "Any clue why you're, um. A woman?"
Dean groans and drops his face into his hands. The coffee maker stutters to a stop; the coffee smells weak but Dean doesn't even care. He needs something to ground him, something normal. Coffee in the morning is normal.
He crosses the room to pour some into the foam cups provided by the hotel. "No clue. Sam, what -- " No, that's enough of that. That's panicking. His stomach churns, but he forces himself to drink the coffee. One task at a time.
"Looks, it's obviously... Hm. Not the trickster." Sam reaches into the duffel and pulls out their dad's battered journal. It's been years since they'd needed to consult it seriously, but Sam looks pretty serious now that he's woken up. "Someone is fucking with us. No big deal. We'll make some calls. Garth probably knows someone -- "
"Don't you dare!" The idea of anyone knowing that he's suddenly got girl parts makes him want to crawl into a hole and die, least of all Garth -- who would probably be infuriatingly cool with it.
"Well, I don't think Dad dedicated a chapter to 'dude looks like a lady'." Sam has another snorting fit that sounds like he's trying not to laugh, and Dean hates him so much. If Sam woke up like this, he wouldn't... Okay, he would. He totally would. "What do you want to do?"
Dean scowls and his lips feel all wrong. His whole body feels totally wrong, and it gives him the creeps. "We'll call Cas, and he can help us find out what's going on here."
Sam raises an eyebrow. "Cas?"
"Yeah! Sure, Cas can find anyone."
"Except, you know, we haven't seen him since that whole... thing."
As though thing adequately describes the way they parted ways, Castiel beaten and weak but eager to return to Heaven to survey the damage. He didn't look Dean in the eye; he just mumbled through his plans and left.
Sam claps his hands together, bringing Dean back into the here and now. "You sure you want to call now, just to ask for help?"
Except it's not like it's the first time Dean has called (and been ignored), but Sam doesn't know and doesn't need to know. "Look, it's not best case scenario, but I trust him -- at least he doesn't really get the whole junk thing, right?" Dean bows his head and blows the slightly-too-long hair up from his eyes. For good measure, he presses his hands together in pantomime of prayer. "Castiel, consider this one most urgent prayer from your favorite Dean Winchester."
Nothing.
Dean shifts in place and tries again. "Seriously. This is, like, life-changing, life-or-death sort of shit." Because Dean will kill himself if he can't get this figured out. No way he's going to go through the rest of his life as a woman.
No combination of pleading or swearing gets them an answer, and after the fifth attempt Dean throws his arms up in disgust. "Fuck it. I'm taking a shower -- you come up with a better plan." He storms into the bathroom and slams the door.
With a sigh, Dean tries to get a good look at himself in the cloudy bathroom mirror. He's not even necessarily a hot chick, not really; if he saw himself in a bar he would file himself away as "Plan B." He looks -- well, he looks more like a chick built using a dude's features. His hair is longer, but too short for his taste. He's not the sort of hourglass figure he usually admires. Instead, he's more solidly built, muscled like a chick who professionally kicks ass for a living.
Which, hey, it looks like he is a chick who kicks ass for a living.
Then again, he's got a rack and an ass that would turn heads.
And suddenly, it seems kind of wrong to look at himself and use words like "rack" and "ass." Shuddering, he turns away from the mirror and jumps into the shower.
⊱⊰
After the world's most awkward shower, it can no longer be avoided -- Dean has to leave the hotel room as a woman. For one, there's nothing eat and he is starving. He feels like he's run a marathon. How much energy does metamorphosis take?
"I hate this," he grumbles as he tries to fit into his own clothes. The button-downs won't close over his brand new tits right, and even his t-shirts seem designed to scream, look at my boobs! His jeans are too loose in the waist and too tight in the thighs; there's nothing to do but cinch his belt and grit his teeth as he leaves the room.
To his surprise, the world doesn't explode. It's the same world it always was, and it looks exactly the same. The only thing different is him.
Sam sits beside him in the Impala and doesn't make a single comment while Dean changes the driver's seat and starts the car.
No one in the diner says anything. Apparently no one in the world can tell how wrong this is. When the waitress comes to their table, she smiles brightly at them. "Morning, darlings, what can I get you?"
Dean's stomach grumbles and his appetite gets the better of his discomfort. "Bacon and eggs. Side of sausage. Hash browns. Two sides of toast. And a cup of coffee."
The waitress laughs and pats Dean on the shoulder. "Good for you -- my daughter is always going on and on about how she can't eat as much as she wants in front of her boyfriend."
Dean's going kill their waitress with a butter knife.
Sam finally laughs. He breaks down into great big peals of laughter that he's clearly been holding in all morning, and the waitress fixes him with a glare that could take the paint off a house.
"It's not you," Sam wheezes. "He -- she's my..." He struggles to compose himself, but it's clear that it's going to be a tough morning. "Sister. Definitely not my girlfriend." After clearing his throat, he skims the menu. "Veggie omelet, please, and a glass of water."
The waitress brightens right back up. "Oh, I'm so sorry, kids. Got it, veggie omelet. I'll have that coffee right out." She heads off to the kitchen, and Dean thumps his forehead against the table while Sam, still snickering, pulls out his laptop.
"Can you stop finding this so funny?" Dean snaps, sitting up once the waitress brings out the coffee and Sam's water. He sips his coffee black while Sam takes deep breaths to calm his chuckles. "Alright, that's enough. What's the plan?"
"Well, the hunt must go on," Sam finally says. "Looks like you were right about Elma Mooney. New in town, murders started right after she moved -- starting with her next door neighbor. Definitely looking to be our ghoul."
"Good, great, let's kill the bitch and get the fuck out of Virginia Beach." Dean didn't mean to be so cavalier about the whole thing. It's just that he has a special place in his heart for killing ghouls after how they put Adam right on angel radar; not to mention that the longer she lived, the more innocent people their new ghoul could kill. "I'm ready to go home and never leave the basement."
Sam gives him a curious look, before clearing his throat and nodding. "Right. Head shot. Should be a piece of cake."
Once they've finished eating and paid their check, Dean gets their gear in order. They ought not to load the shotguns in the diner parking lot, but Dean wants to get this over with quickly.
Every movement is less efficient. He's got a whole life of useless muscle memory, and that just makes him want to shoot something more. He tosses the guns in the back seat and climbs in the Impala. Mooney's house is out in a subdivision, but the drive isn't far. "You think she's still got the missing woman alive?"
Sam shudders and rubs his forearms as though absently remembering what it was like to bleed out. "If she's in the mood to play with her food, maybe -- but I wouldn't count on it."
"Fair enough."
They park two houses down and scout the area before determining that the coast is clear. Broad daylight is stupid; some bored housewife is bound to look out her window and notice two guys (a guy and a chick, shit) skirting around the back of Mooney's McMansion with sawed off shotguns.
They crouch by the back door. "I'll go in first," Sam says. "We'll head downstairs, see if she might be stashing anyone in the basement."
"No can do; big brother goes first." Dean shoulders past him to the front door. He starts to protest, and Dean snaps, "I've got this."
The back door opens easily, the house eerily quiet. The first two doors they try are a closet and a pantry respectively. The third leads down a set of stairs, into a dark basement. There's no noise, no sign of life, and Dean recognizes the vague scent of decay as it wafts up the stairs. He takes the stairs quickly, quietly, but he damn near stumbles over his feet on the way down.
"Well," Sam says behind him, sounding vaguely sick as he surveys the body count on the concrete floor. "I think we've got our ghoul." They do a cursory check, but there's clearly no survivors.
They're halfway up the stairs when they hear the front door open and shut. Someone whistles loudly and off-key, and Dean readies his shotgun. When Mooney turns the corner, just as she sees them standing there, he pulls the trigger.
Except his height is wrong and his aim is off -- what should have hit her right in the face instead rips through her shoulder. She staggers for just a second before rushing down the stairs, horribly fast. Dean throws himself at her before she can knock both him and Sam down the stairs. Sam flattens himself against the rail as Dean and Mooney go down in a tangle of limbs. "Sam!"
"I can't get the shot!"
Mooney, or the ghoul wearing an impressive Elma Mooney costume, gets the better of Dean, her arm wrapped tight around his neck and wrenching him in front of her as a human shield. She ducks her face into the crook of his neck, behind the protection of his head.
Sam made his way up higher on the stairs; his gun is clearly pointed at them, but Dean can't see Sam's face against the light behind him.
Dean struggles, but his body isn't cooperating like usual. Isn't not a strength thing, but a size thing; his arms and legs are just a little off, and his whole balance is fucked up. Not to mention that the ghoul has a grip like a fucking vice.
"You," Mooney hisses against his skin, "are just my type." She whips her head up unnaturally fast and shouts at Sam, "Back out slowly and I'll only kill the one!"
"Oh, the fuck you will." Dean manages to lever his feet against a step and launches them back into the wall. Mooney hits the stone and her grip loosens, just a second, just enough. Dean ducks out of her arms. "Now!"
The shotgun blasts, and Dean's ears ring. He warm blood splatters on the back of his neck, and he glances over his shoulder to see Mooney fall dead. He sighs in relief and takes the stairs up two at a time. They've got maybe five minutes before the cops arrive -- gunshots don't go over well in these nice neighborhoods, especially two of them.
They're in the car and on their way back to the hotel room when Sam finally speaks. "You said you wanted to go home."
Dean scratches the back of his neck; his fingers come back sticky and red, and he wipes them on his jeans. "Yeah, I want to get somewhere familiar."
"You've never called it home."
"Oh for the love of -- is this really the right time for this?" Dean shakes his head and drives resolutely at the speed limit.
Sam snorts, but doesn't press the issue further.
⊱⊰
The house is Sioux Falls is too quiet without Bobby around; every time they walk in, Dean feels like an intruder. It was just -- it was too sudden. He had a good death, a Hunter's death, but the ache still hits Dean like they lost their dad a second time. Sam's progress with organizing the books in Bobby's office still feels wrong; as usual, he heads right for the books.
He drops their bags in the hallway and tries another silent prayer to Castiel. Please don't ignore me this time. I really need a hand here, and there's no one else in the world I trust.
Continued radio silence. Dean tries not to let his disappoint show.
"You think Bobby's going to have something there on this?" Dean asks.
"If anyone did, it's Bobby. Where to start...?"
Dean leaves him to it while he heads upstairs to his room. It might be weeks before another hunt, unless they count the mad dash to find Dean's penis as a hunt. Which he does. Possibly the most important hunt he’s ever undertaken.
He's is in the middle of contemplating his dirty laundry pile when he hears a familiar noise on the edge of his hearing, a rustle that makes his whole body go rigid with mixed apprehension and hope. He stands perfectly still, and then he hears Sam shout, "Cas!"
Dean rushes downstairs, determined to remain composed, when Castiel replies, "I came as soon as I could. Is everything okay? I'm under the impression -- "
"Cas, what took you so long?" Dean snaps, even though he meant to say something like, Thank you, I had no idea what we'd do if you didn't come.
Castiel turns and stumbles back as though Dean took a swing at him, his face contorted in clear shock and horror.
Shaking his head, he takes a step closer and stares like he's looking right under Dean's skin. Then again, he might be. He moves in too close, like the old days, but it's... off. Some things are the same: the messy hair, the strange-and-comforting smell of ozone, and even the rumbled overcoat. But under it he's wearing regular street clothes, and there's dark circles under his eyes. He looks almost sickly.
"Oh," he finally says. He's gained control over his expression again, but he stands further away than usual. "Someone has twisted your form. This is most troubling."
"No shit." Dean slumps down on the couch. "Can you fix it?"
Castiel looks from Sam to Dean. "No. I don't -- I can't. I'm sorry."
"Hey, it's fine," Sam says; he pats Castiel's shoulder, and Dean wants to smack his hand away. It's not the first time that impulse has hit, and he ignores it like he usually does. With that whole raised-you-from-perdition rerun, Dean has no claim on Castiel that Sam doesn't share. (He refuses to admit what a bitter pill that is to swallow sometimes, discovering his best friend likes them both equally.) "I don't suppose you can point us in the right direction, at least. We don't even know how it happened."
"Of course." Castiel stands at the edge of the room like he's unsure whether he's going to run away or join them as Sam heads back to the books. "There's rage in the magic," he adds.
Dean tilts his head; his hair falls in his eyes again, and he shoves it back too hard; it pulls at his scalp. "Rage?"
Castiel crosses his arms over his chest and nods. "A jilted witch, I think."
They all share a moment of awed silence for a moment, before Sam sighs and drops his head, his hand flat on the cover of the book he was about to open.
Dean jumps to his feet and starts pacing. "Fuckin' witches, man!"
Sam doesn't even look up. "That would seem to be the problem, yes."
"Damn it, Sam, you know what I mean!" Dean gets in Castiel's space, and is glad that he hasn't been made shorter as well. "You're positive? It's definitely a -- I mean, I would have known if I banged a witch, right?"
Castiel's eyebrows twitch just so. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his overcoat; the motion makes him seem hunched. "Apparently not."
"Okay, look, this can happen -- it's not like you're the first person in the world a witch has..." Sam snorts and puts a hand over his mouth. He takes a deep breath before he says it: "Genderbent. It's fixable." He smiles at Castiel like they're both in on some hilarious joke, and Dean wants to punch them both in their stupid fucking faces. "We find the witch and get her to reverse it, right?"
Castiel nods, his expression something between serious and utterly lost. "That seems right."
"Great! Dean, who did you sleep with in Virginia Beach?"
"No one! I mean, don't get me wrong, but it's been a bit dry here, if you know what I mean."
Castiel's expression is the very definition of I don't know what you mean.
Sam, however, clearly does. "Well, which towns did you jilt women in?"
Dean counts on his fingers, and runs out of fingers sooner than he'd like. "We had the werewolves in Tacoma last month," he mumbles, "and I just sort of started the tour there."
"Seriously Dean? You can't -- no, never mind."
Sulking again, Dean heads to the couch and settles back into self-pity mode. A witch. How could he have not noticed a witch? He hates witches! Every time he's near one his creep radar goes off, and typically it doesn't end in a boner. Marcy, maybe? She had been into some weird stuff, or maybe the one whose name started with a K or a C --
"I can devise a... radar of sorts," Castiel says. He looks around the room before taking a red piece of twine from where it marked the place in a book on a nearby end table. He kneels in front of Dean and wraps the cord three times around Dean's wrist before tying it. He mumbles something, and it briefly flashes hot against Dean's skin. "There. It will react to your witch's magic when you're near -- the closer you get, the hotter it will become. It should help."
Dean's heart beats too fast, and he can't look away. Castiel stares up at him curiously, still holding Dean's wrist between his forefinger and thumb. Don't do anything stupid, Dean.
When Dean clears his throat, Castiel stands as if commanded. "That easy, huh?" Dean's voice is too low. He swallows the nervousness bubbling up in his chest, and turns his focus to the twine on his wrist.
"It's powered by the magic that holds your form in place," Castiel says. He doesn't sound so steady himself, and he still looks uncomfortable. "I have to go. If I come to know anything, I'll let you know." Before Dean can protest, Castiel is gone. He stares at the twine on his wrist, then looks up at Sam.
"I was just ready to stay settled for a while, too," Sam says. "At least we're still packed."
⊰ Masterpost | Chapter Two ⊱