"Now You're a Man", Supernatural, PG, gen.
Title: Now You're a Man
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG for language.
Length: About 5300 words.
Characters/Pairings: Dean, Sam, Bobby, John, season four characters.
Spoilers: Major spoilers for 4x01.
Summary: Dean completed a journey in the body he was born with, but just because he's started a new journey doesn't mean he's likely to forget the last one.
Notes: This is my 2009 entry for lgbtfest (link post here). The prompt: Dean's been on T off and on since he was fifteen, found a doctor willing to do top surgery for him a few years back, and by the time the events of the show begin, is pretty comfortable in his body, even if it's not perfect. Then Castiel raises him from the dead, complete with the body he always felt he was supposed to have.
Thanks to rahnekat1 for her help, and such_heights for her encouragement. Special thanks to transgender for their amazing resource page, and to everyone who wrote the amazing gender identity stories in lgbtfest 2008 that inspired me to reach out of my writing comfort zone.
Now You're a Man
September 2008
“Help--”
Dean's throat convulsed, and his cry cut off. He did his best to wet some saliva in his mouth, then swallowed. It hurt more than his attempt at yelling, if that was possible. “Help!”
His lighter was in his pocket, and he flipped it open, rolling the ignition as hard as he could. A flame appeared, and he could see, but the air seemed to shrink as it heated. It probably didn't help that he was taking shallow breaths and eating up the little air he did have, but he hardly noticed.
No, his focus was on the box he was trapped in. He beat at the wooden walls around him with his free hand, clawed at the ceiling.
Although he knew that he'd been...he'd been down there for far too long, every thought that ran through his head had something to do with someone finding him. Someone had to know that he was alive.
They had to.
Dean's fingers found a hold in a plank of wood, and he pulled. Just as he felt the wood give, dirt fell into his eyes and mouth. His pulse thundered in his ears, but he kicked a bigger hole into the coffin, clenched his teeth together, and did his best to ignore the layers of dirt that were starting to crush him.
February 2001
The world goes a brilliant white, then darkens again.
Dean wiggles his jaw around, then brings his hand up to his nose. He touches liquid and smells metal, but instead of looking at it, he just smears it off his face.
Sam pushes up beside him, but Dean raises his arm. He doesn't have the strength to hold his brother in place, and the act of holding his arm up tugs at his stitches. But Sam gets the idea and doesn't try to move around him.
Dean opens his mouth. He wants to say something so badly that he starts to shake a little, but nothing comes to mind.
“Congratulations,” his dad says. “Now you're a man.”
September 2008
Dean walked down an empty road. He didn't know where he was, but it was someplace hot, and his black t-shirt wasn't doing a very good job at keeping him cool.
Through the waves of heat coming off the asphalt, a building came into view. Dean wiped sweat off his forehead, hitched his jeans -- they were kind of baggy, for some reason -- and moved forward.
November 1987
Mrs. Anderson points the new girl toward the back of the class to an empty desk behind Mark Walters and in front of Cassandra Zallio. As she makes her way down the aisle, she sees name tags on every desk in curly handwriting. She scowls at the name on the tag at the empty desk, but she slides into the chair anyway.
Across the aisle, a blond girl in a ponytail leans forward to whisper in the ear of the girl in front of her. They both giggle.
The teacher shoots them a death glare. “Angela, Jenny. No talking.”
They sit back in their seats. The blond - Angela, her tag says - turns her smile to the new girl as Mrs. Anderson looks back at the board.
“Why do you dress like that?” Angela asks in a whisper, eyes wide.
Dean looks down. She's wearing an oversized plaid shirt that used to belong to Dad and a pair of jeans with holes in the knees. It's the same thing she wears every day.
“Like what?”
“Like...” Angela looks at Mrs. Anderson, who's writing on the board in the same curly handwriting that's seen on the tags, then back at Deanna. “Like a boy.”
Dean looks at Angela, who's wearing a pink blouse and a jean skirt, and tries to imagine wearing something like that. The image is silly enough that she smiles, too.
“Angela, I said no talking,” the teacher says without looking over her shoulder. “You can meet Deanna at recess.”
Angela snickers, then turns to the front. Dean reaches into the desk and pulls out a pencil, then scribbles out the last letters on the tag until it says her name.
September 2008
Dean knocked on the window. “Hello?”
His throat still burned, and his voice was hoarse, like he had been screaming too much. He didn't feel like waiting to make sure there was no one around, so he broke a hole in the window and let himself in.
Before he knew it, he was at the fridge in the back guzzling water. Some dribbled out of his mouth and down his chin, but he didn't care. He didn't even care that drinking hurt about as much as talking, since he needed the water so bad.
It took him a moment to figure what to do after he'd polished off a bottle. He didn't even see the store the first time his eyes roamed the place. When he looked again, he didn't know where to start: money, food, the can. His eyes fell on a stack of newspapers, and without deciding to, he walked over and picked up an issue.
“September,” he whispered, looking out the window. It fit. It wasn't May outside, that was certain.
Dean caught sight of his hands. They were caked with dirt, which wasn't unusual, but he could tell by the way his skin moved that he was covered all over. His knuckles were torn and bruised, and blood lined under his fingernails. He touched the nails on his left hands and winced. Had to be splinters.
He put down the newspaper and went over to a sink and mirror on the other end of the store. He turned on the faucet and scrubbed his hands, then cupped water in his palms and splashed it on his face. Using his overshirt to wipe off his face, he ran his hand over his face, then stopped.
The reflection in the mirror...it wasn't familiar. Not entirely.
His jaw was square and covered with stubble. He moved his hand over his face again, feeling the short hairs against the skin of his palm, and watched his reflection do the same. Even his eye level seemed different, like he was taller. Maybe a half foot taller.
“Holy...”
Dean trailed off and looked at his throat. An Adam's apple. He swallowed and watched it bob.
After that, he scrambled to lift up his shirt, and his jaw dropped. Abs, unscarred and sculpted. Pecs, unscarred. It wasn't too different than his torso had been at the beginning of the year - his shoulders were broader, and there were less curves, but the tattoo was still there - but even if his stomach wasn't in shreds or covered in healed tears, his old scars should have been there. And they weren't.
Dropping the shirt, he looked down at the bulge in his jeans. The jeans had seemed baggy a few minutes ago, so he undid his belt, unzipped, and lowered the pants a little. He was going to have to get new ones; his hips used to be wider, even when he was on T, and he'd had to buy his jeans a size bigger to fit them.
Dean pulled the elastic on his boxer-briefs forward and saw that his stuffer was gone. The reason he had a bulge was the same reason most guys had a bulge. He had a dick.
He put his pants back into place and buckled his belt with shaking hands. It took some work - he nearly dropped the whole thing a couple of times - but he managed it without too much trouble. And once he did, he stepped back and took in as much of his reflection as possible.
As far as he could tell, Dean Winchester was now one-hundred percent biologically male.
March 1994
Sam shrugs off his coat as Dean steps out of the bathroom. “Where'd you go?”
“The library,” Sam says, his voice a little too sweet.
“Uh-huh.”
“No, really.”
The last bit sounds a little more sincere, but Dean frowns. “Look, if Dad knew that--”
“I really went to the library, Dean!”
“Fine,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “Whatever.”
He walks back into the bathroom and takes off his shirt. He only has a sports bra on, but he picked up the Ace bandage he left by the sink and starts rolling it around the bra.
“You know, there are other guys like you?”
Dean grimaces. “I'm one of a kind, Sammy.”
“Sure. But I mean...there are guys out there like you. That weren't born looking like guys.”
A sharp pain stabs in Dean's gut. He clips the bandage into place quickly and steps out in the bedroom again.
“We don't talk about this,” Dean says in an undertone.
“It's not going to go away just because you won't talk it.”
“You...you know why we don't talk about it.”
Sam nods, and Dean bites his lip. He thinks about the time he asked Sam to call him “he” and “him”, back when he was seven or eight and Sam barely able to talk, and the time Dad first heard Sam do it around him. He remembers all of the times that people asked Dad about his oldest son, or looked funny when Dad introduced Dean by his birth name.
“I know,” Sam says. “But I hear...I hear you most nights, and Dad doesn't.”
Dean does his best to keep his expression blank. “You hear me do what?”
“It doesn't matter,” Sam says quickly. “But I know you're feeling sad.”
“Sure you do.”
“Dean...”
He walks back into the bathroom and starts grabbing at the bandage again. It slipped during the conversation with Sam, and he can't get it to stay, no matter how it's pinned. He rips it off and throws it in the corner, and when he looks back in the mirror, he sees Sam reflected in it.
“There's nothing I can do,” Dean says, leaning on the sink.
“But you can. There's ways--”
“You read about that at the library?”
The way Sam's face slackens tells Dean all he needs to know, but he answers anyway. “Yeah, I did.”
“Damn it,” Dean says, but he feels something flutter in his stomach, and he knows he's going to listen.
September 2008
By the time that Dean finally makes it to Bobby's, he feels like all kinds of crap. He has a strong feeling that he hasn't gotten all of the glass shards out of his hair from whatever blew out the windows at the gas station, and the hand-shaped welt on his shoulder ached every time he moved his left arm. It's a drop in the ocean compared with what he had just gone through in the past few months, but it doesn't mean that he can run himself ragged.
Taking a fist to the face doesn't help matters.
He put a chair between him and Bobby and tried to recover. “You became a hunter after your wife got possessed, and you're about the closest thing I have to a father. I know I don't look...like I used to, but it's me.”
Bobby stepped forward and pushed the chair aside. He looked just as shocked as Dean did when he figure things out at the station, and Dean supposed he couldn't blame Bobby. It was hard enough for Dean to believe all of it, and he had lived it.
He let Bobby reach out a hand to touch him. But after a moment, Bobby slashes the knife through the air. Dean takes a step back without thinking, then grabs Bobby's arm and pins it against his back.
“I'm not a shapeshifter!” Dean cried.
“Then you're a revenant!”
He pushed Bobby away from him and held out the knife. He cringed, but said, “If I was either, would I do this? With a silver knife?”
Without hesitation, he rolled up his sleeve and ran the blade across his arm. Luckily, it was sharp enough that it didn't really hurt, but his blood dripped onto the floor anyway.
Bobby only paused a second more before rushing forward and trapping Dean in a big hug. Dean squeezed his eyes shut and hugged back with the arm he didn't cut. After a minute, Bobby stepped back and looked Dean up and down.
“But...how'd you bust out? How are you...whole?”
Dean felt tears sting his eyes. Leave it to Bobby to say it right.
“I wish I knew.”
July 1994
“Do you have ID, Mr...Stanley?”
Dean gives the widest smile possible and hands over the driver's license that matched the insurance card. He'd gone to a lot of trouble to get a fake ID without his dad's knowledge, but if he can pull this off, it would be worth it.
The pharmacist looks at the picture on the card and back at Dean's face. This is the test. He isn't eighteen, and he looks younger than most guys do at fifteen, since he's shorter and has a rounder face. But Sam had said that he probably wouldn't have any problems; they know why he's there, after all, and probably would get why he didn't look older. And most kids use fake IDs to buy booze, not hormones.
With a nod, the woman takes some notes off both the insurance card and the license. Dean looks at the ID fondly while he waits. Dean Stanley, it reads, DOB: 1/24/1976, Sex: M. Sometimes, it pays to be on the outside of the law. It'd be a bitch having to change his name and legal gender.
The woman hands the cards back. “Do you have any more questions?”
Dean shakes his head. “Nope.”
“Great. If you do, the number's on the bag, or you can call your doctor.” She pushes the bag in question across the counter, and Dean takes it.
“Thanks,” he says, then turns and walks out the door.
Sam's sitting on the curb, but when Dean comes out of the pharmacy, he scrambles to his feet. “You got it?”
Dean holds up the bag. “Nah, I decided to go for some heroin instead.”
Sam rolls his eyes, but he grins. “They don't sell heroin at a pharmacy.”
“Shows what you know.”
Sam laughs, and Dean ruffles his hair.
September 2008
“This is it?” Dean asked.
Bobby turned off the ignition. “Pontiac Hotel. Neon sign's right there.”
“Right.” He looked at Bobby as he opened his door. “You coming?”
Bobby raised an eyebrow, then grabbed the handle on his door. “Yeah, I'm coming.”
Dean took another swig from his bottle of water, then followed Bobby into the hotel.
207 was at the end of the hall. As they walked up to the door, Dean noticed that the number had a red heart behind it. Cute.
He knocked, and a brunette opened the door. A brunette in her underwear.
“So where is it?” she asked.
Dean looked at Bobby, then back at the girl. “Where's what?”
“The pizza that takes two guys to deliver.”
“I think we got the wrong room,” Dean said with a little laugh.
A tall man stepped out of the bathroom. “Hey--”
Dean felt a catch in his throat as the man looked at him. As Sam looked at him. There was no confusion in Sam's face, no searching to recognize the body that Dean had somehow managed to get.
Sam looked at Bobby with raised eyebrows, as if asking for confirmation, then looked back at Dean.
“Heya, Sammy,” Dean said, blinking hard.
He took about three steps into the room, and Sam pulled out a knife and shoved him against the wall. The girl screamed. Dean pushed Sam's arm up into the air, and Bobby yanked Sam back.
“Who are you?” Sam shouted.
Dean felt his blood pumping, and he frowned. “Like you didn't do this?”
“Do what?”
“It's him!” Bobby shouted back. “It's him, Sam! I've been through this already, it's really him.”
Dean's face fell. He couldn't help it. But Sam relaxed, and Dean moved away from the wall.
“I know. I look fantastic, huh?” Understatement of the year.
Sam stepped forward and wrapped him in a bear hug. Dean squeezed him back tight, tighter than he'd hugged Bobby, and fought tears. For that moment, it didn't matter what Sam did or didn't do; it didn't matter how Dean came back, or how he'd changed. He was with Sam again.
They pulled apart, and the girl said, “So, are you two, like, together?”
“What?” Sam asked. “No. No, he's my brother.”
“I need to talk to you,” Dean said. “Alone.”
The girl pointed to the door. “I should probably go.”
Sam nodded, but Dean grabbed his arm. “Now.”
“Okay,” Sam said, sounding dubious. “We'll be right back, I guess.”
He grabbed a key card off the nightstand and left Bobby with the girl, who was already starting to grab her jeans when they closed the door of the room behind them.
“What did you do?” Dean said under his breath as they walked down the hall.
Sam blinked. “Do?”
“For me? Did you sell your soul, or was it--”
“Hey!” Sam cried. “I didn't do anything. I wish I had!”
Dean shook his head and stopped by the door to the stairs. “But you had to. No one else would bring me back like this.”
“Like...?”
“Don't lie to me, Sam!”
Sam scowled. “I tried everything, all right? I tried to make a deal, I tried the Devil's Gate...you were rotting in Hell, and I couldn't get you out. So I'm sorry.”
Dean's eyes widened. Sam was looking through the little window into the stairwell and sniffling through his nose.
He didn't do it.
“Whoa,” Dean whispered.
Sam looked back at him. “Are you okay?”
“I'm...better than okay.” He couldn't wrap his head around it, but he believed Sam completely. “I'm a man.”
“Of course you are.”
“No, Sam. I'm a man. All over.”
Sam's eyes snapped back on him. “What?”
“Something brought me back and...made me whole,” Dean said, remembering Bobby's words. “I was so sure it was you. You were the only one who knew...knew how much I...”
His breath was crushed out of him, and it took Dean a minute to realize that Sam was hugging him again. This time, Dean really did start to cry, although he did his best to keep it quiet. Judging by the sniffling noises in Dean's ear, he wasn't the only one.
February 2001
Sam unlocks and opens the door to the motel room, then goes to the passenger's side of the Impala and stands in front of Dean. “Can you grab my hands, Dean?”
Dean pries his eyes open and fumbles for Sam's left arm. Sam reaches around and braces Dean's lower back carefully with his right, then helps him to a standing position. The world swims around Dean, but he looks at the ground, and it evens out after a moment.
“One step at a time,” Sam says. “Go slow.”
Dean does as Sam asks. It feels like it's taking forever, but Sam stays with him, taking his weight if he sways too far in one direction. It couldn't have been more than five feet from the car to the room, but it feels like miles at the pace they have to go.
They finally make it into the room, and Sam eases Dean onto the bed. Dean grimaces; even painkillers couldn't totally numb the pain in his chest.
“Can you sit up for a while?” Sam asks.
“Yeah,” Dean says, his throat raspy from the breathing tube.
He braces himself on the mattress with his hands and lets Sam take off his shoes. As soon as he's done, Sam lowers Dean onto his back. Again, he feels his stitches tug gently, but he closes his eyes, and soon enough, he's lying on the bed.
Sam speaks quietly. “You going to be okay for a while? I need to fill your prescription.”
“Uh-huh,” Dean says.
“Don't get out of bed while I'm gone.”
“Even if I have to piss?”
“The nurse said you shouldn't have to for a while.”
“Fine.”
“Just sleep the rest of it off,” Sam says. “I'll be back before you wake up.”
Dean probably said something after that - hell, Sam could have given a huge speech, for all he knows - but he passes out and knows nothing for hours.
When consciousness is back, Dean's eyes flutter open, and he sees Sam on the sofa bed out of the corner of his vision. This is probably the only time they'll get a room with a king and a sleeper and not have to fight over it.
“How long has it been?”
The clicking of keys stops. Of course Sam's doing homework. “Six hours.”
“Great.” Dean sighs. “I'm going to go to the bathroom.”
The springs in the sofa bed creak as Sam gets to his feet, but Dean waves a hand. “I can drive when I'm worse than this.”
“But I'm usually hurt, too,” Sam says.
Dean ignores him and sits up. He doesn't do it as fast as normal because he's not going to let macho bravado make him completely stupid, but it's still faster than he probably should. His entire torso screams with pain, but he only grunts.
“Fine. Do it yourself.”
“I will,” Dean says, then gets to his feet. His balance isn't bad, considering. “You heard from Dad?”
“No. But he probably won't be back for a week, at least.”
Dean starts to shuffle toward the bathroom. He's moving faster than he did earlier, but it hurts more, and his voice is a little tight as a result. “That's what he said.”
“Are you sure--”
“Yes. Call Dad again.”
He makes it to the bathroom as Sam starts dialing on his phone; Dean can't see him doing it, but he recognizes the sounds of it. He closes the door, and he can hear that Sam's talking as he lowers himself onto the toilet, even if he can't make out what exactly.
Dean's washing his hands when he hears the main door to the room slam open and his dad's voice echo.
“Where's your sister?”
Sam's voice is quiet and fast, but it doesn't take long before boots stomp and the bathroom door rattles.
“Deanna Mary Winchester, get out here right now.”
Dean bites the inside of his cheek and takes a breath before answering. “Coming, Dad.”
He opens the door and eases his way out, managing something close to his normal walk even though he's in more pain with every step he takes.
Dad's face is flushed, and his brow is furrowed. “What did you do?”
“Do?”
“The hospital called to confirm my insurance. I told you not to go on a hunt right now!”
Dean glares at Sam, who is standing between the bed and the couch and looking at the floor. Sam promised Dean before they went in that the number with the insurance was for Sam's cell and not their dad's, but apparently he screwed up somewhere.
“There was--” Dean starts to say, but Sam says, “We didn't go on a hunt” at the same time.
Dad looks at Sam. “You didn't?”
“No,” Dean says, biting his lip. “I just...had some surgery.”
“What surgery?”
Dean doesn't want to answer. His dad is pissed, and he's never been the most understanding of guys even when he's not pissed, which isn't often. And Sam's usually the one to piss Dad off, and Dean's the one who diffuses. He doesn't know how to deal with it the other way around.
But his dad steps forward and looks down at Dean. “What surgery?”
“It's called top surgery,” Dean says. “I should be healed up in a month.”
“Top surgery?” His dad looks puzzled. “Is this something to do with your--”
Dean can't hear what his dad's going to call it. He just can't. He's put up with it for years, and he can't do it anymore.
“I got rid of my breasts!” Dean shouts. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”
Dad clenches his jaw. “I don't know what's wrong with you, but--”
“Nothing is wrong with me!”
“You had surgery to get rid of...and you're saying nothing's wrong, Deanna?”
Dean shakes his head. “My name is Dean.”
“That's your nickname,” Dad hisses. “You're a woman, for God's sake!”
“No, I'm not!”
Sam steps forward. “He was born in a girl's body, but--”
“You stay out of this,” Dad yells, pointing at him. “This is between me and your sister.”
Dean shakes his head and sways. Sam steps behind him and braces him, but Dean closes his eyes and says, “Damn it, Sam, I'm fine.”
He feels Sam step away, and Dean opens his eyes. “I've had this surgery, and I've been passing for years. It's done.”
Dad's quiet for a moment, then he says in his quiet and dangerous voice, “So you want to be a man?”
“I am a man.” It's true. Dad could think whatever he wanted; Dean knows who he is.
The world goes a brilliant white, then darkens again.
Dean wiggles his jaw around, then brings his hand up to his nose. He touches liquid and smells metal, but instead of looking at it, he just smears it off his face.
Sam pushes up beside him, and not to make sure Dean is okay. Dean knows without looking that Sam would fight Dad; he just needed an excuse, and Dean wouldn't disagree that there were worse reasons for it. But instead of letting him pass by, Dean raises his arm. He doesn't have the strength to hold his brother in place, and the act of holding his arm up tugs at his stitches. But Sam gets the idea and doesn't try to move around him.
Dean opens his mouth. He wants to say something so badly that he starts to shake a little, but nothing comes to mind. He's said everything he can say.
“Congratulations,” his dad says, holding up his hands. “Now you're a man.”
With that, he stalks out of the room and slams the door behind him.
September 2008
It's only when Dean rubs at his eyes that the tin roofing of the barn started to rattle, then bang against the wooden beams overhead. Dean grabbed his shotgun, and both he and Bobby got to their feet, looking above.
“Wishful thinking,” Dean said, “but maybe it's just the wind.”
The lightbulbs over their heads exploded, and Dean jumped as sparks rained down. The barn doors opened, and he looked over just in time to see a man in a suit and trenchcoat walk in. The guy had a fifty-yard stare, and not even the sparks stopped him from looking around him or from walking forward.
Dean raised his shotgun, and Bobby stepped beside him and did the same. They both fired, and Dean could tell they hit by the way the coat moved, but the man didn't blink or stop.
After taking in Bobby's puzzled expression, Dean backed against the table he'd been sitting on as the man closed in and picked up Ruby's old knife, concealing it behind his back.
“Who are you?” Dean asked.
The man stopped in front of him. “I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.”
“Yeah. Thanks for that.”
The man nodded once.
Dean flew forward, swinging the knife up and slamming it into the man's chest. Nothing happened. They both looked at the hilt sticking out, and then, with a calm expression on his face, the man pulled it out and let it drop on the ground.
Bobby and Dean exchanged a quick look, and Bobby rushed forward with a crowbar, which the man caught easily in his hand. He put a hand up to Bobby's eyes, which rolled up in his head, and Bobby fell without a word.
“We need to talk, Dean,” the man said. “Alone.”
Dean looked at Bobby, then back at the man. Without moving his gaze away, Dean slid to Bobby's side and knelt down. Bobby was breathing.
“Who are you?”
“Castiel.”
“I figured that much,” Dean said. The image of Pamela's eyes burning out of her head wasn't one he'd soon forget. “I mean, what are you?”
“I'm an angel of the Lord.”
Dean got to his feet. “There's no such thing.”
“This is your problem, Dean,” Castiel said. “You have no faith.”
Lightning flashed, and Dean blinked as shadows of feathery wings appeared on the wall behind Castiel.
Wings. Angel wings.
Dean shook his head. “Look, pal. I'm not buying what you're selling, so who are you, really?”
For the first time, emotion appears on Castiel's face. His brow furrows slightly. “I told you,” he said, his voice slightly disbelieving.
“Right,” Dean said. “And why would an angel rescue me from Hell? And bring me back like this?”
“Good things do happen, Dean.”
“Not in my experience.”
“What's the matter? You don't think you deserve to be saved?”
“Not like this,” Dean said, his voice choked. “Why...why would you...I wasn't born like this.”
“No,” Castiel agreed. “You were born in a female body. You had a journey to make in it, and you completed it. Now you have a journey in this one.”
“I don't know what that means.”
Castiel gave a little smile. “And you don't have to. Not to do the work we need.”
Dean's stomach sank. He guessed that this change was going to come with a price, but knowing it for sure...
And yet. There were a million things that he could now take for granted, like everybody else. He wouldn't have to inject himself with hormones if he wanted to look close to how he felt. He wouldn't have to bleed every month if he couldn't get testosterone, and he wouldn't have to have more surgery to have sex the way he wanted to. And there was more he probably wasn't even thinking of. Things that he had endured every day because he had to.
Things like Dad.
He looked Castiel in the eye and scowled. He wasn't grateful. How could he be grateful to something that he didn't know had existed? Something that had been willing to watch as he suffered years of looks and whispers and physical pain? Something that had fulfilled his greatest wish too late, and only when it was useful for them?
Dean braced himself for what was to come. All he could do was hope that it wasn't too much.
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG for language.
Length: About 5300 words.
Characters/Pairings: Dean, Sam, Bobby, John, season four characters.
Spoilers: Major spoilers for 4x01.
Summary: Dean completed a journey in the body he was born with, but just because he's started a new journey doesn't mean he's likely to forget the last one.
Notes: This is my 2009 entry for lgbtfest (link post here). The prompt: Dean's been on T off and on since he was fifteen, found a doctor willing to do top surgery for him a few years back, and by the time the events of the show begin, is pretty comfortable in his body, even if it's not perfect. Then Castiel raises him from the dead, complete with the body he always felt he was supposed to have.
Thanks to rahnekat1 for her help, and such_heights for her encouragement. Special thanks to transgender for their amazing resource page, and to everyone who wrote the amazing gender identity stories in lgbtfest 2008 that inspired me to reach out of my writing comfort zone.
Now You're a Man
September 2008
“Help--”
Dean's throat convulsed, and his cry cut off. He did his best to wet some saliva in his mouth, then swallowed. It hurt more than his attempt at yelling, if that was possible. “Help!”
His lighter was in his pocket, and he flipped it open, rolling the ignition as hard as he could. A flame appeared, and he could see, but the air seemed to shrink as it heated. It probably didn't help that he was taking shallow breaths and eating up the little air he did have, but he hardly noticed.
No, his focus was on the box he was trapped in. He beat at the wooden walls around him with his free hand, clawed at the ceiling.
Although he knew that he'd been...he'd been down there for far too long, every thought that ran through his head had something to do with someone finding him. Someone had to know that he was alive.
They had to.
Dean's fingers found a hold in a plank of wood, and he pulled. Just as he felt the wood give, dirt fell into his eyes and mouth. His pulse thundered in his ears, but he kicked a bigger hole into the coffin, clenched his teeth together, and did his best to ignore the layers of dirt that were starting to crush him.
February 2001
The world goes a brilliant white, then darkens again.
Dean wiggles his jaw around, then brings his hand up to his nose. He touches liquid and smells metal, but instead of looking at it, he just smears it off his face.
Sam pushes up beside him, but Dean raises his arm. He doesn't have the strength to hold his brother in place, and the act of holding his arm up tugs at his stitches. But Sam gets the idea and doesn't try to move around him.
Dean opens his mouth. He wants to say something so badly that he starts to shake a little, but nothing comes to mind.
“Congratulations,” his dad says. “Now you're a man.”
September 2008
Dean walked down an empty road. He didn't know where he was, but it was someplace hot, and his black t-shirt wasn't doing a very good job at keeping him cool.
Through the waves of heat coming off the asphalt, a building came into view. Dean wiped sweat off his forehead, hitched his jeans -- they were kind of baggy, for some reason -- and moved forward.
November 1987
Mrs. Anderson points the new girl toward the back of the class to an empty desk behind Mark Walters and in front of Cassandra Zallio. As she makes her way down the aisle, she sees name tags on every desk in curly handwriting. She scowls at the name on the tag at the empty desk, but she slides into the chair anyway.
Across the aisle, a blond girl in a ponytail leans forward to whisper in the ear of the girl in front of her. They both giggle.
The teacher shoots them a death glare. “Angela, Jenny. No talking.”
They sit back in their seats. The blond - Angela, her tag says - turns her smile to the new girl as Mrs. Anderson looks back at the board.
“Why do you dress like that?” Angela asks in a whisper, eyes wide.
Dean looks down. She's wearing an oversized plaid shirt that used to belong to Dad and a pair of jeans with holes in the knees. It's the same thing she wears every day.
“Like what?”
“Like...” Angela looks at Mrs. Anderson, who's writing on the board in the same curly handwriting that's seen on the tags, then back at Deanna. “Like a boy.”
Dean looks at Angela, who's wearing a pink blouse and a jean skirt, and tries to imagine wearing something like that. The image is silly enough that she smiles, too.
“Angela, I said no talking,” the teacher says without looking over her shoulder. “You can meet Deanna at recess.”
Angela snickers, then turns to the front. Dean reaches into the desk and pulls out a pencil, then scribbles out the last letters on the tag until it says her name.
September 2008
Dean knocked on the window. “Hello?”
His throat still burned, and his voice was hoarse, like he had been screaming too much. He didn't feel like waiting to make sure there was no one around, so he broke a hole in the window and let himself in.
Before he knew it, he was at the fridge in the back guzzling water. Some dribbled out of his mouth and down his chin, but he didn't care. He didn't even care that drinking hurt about as much as talking, since he needed the water so bad.
It took him a moment to figure what to do after he'd polished off a bottle. He didn't even see the store the first time his eyes roamed the place. When he looked again, he didn't know where to start: money, food, the can. His eyes fell on a stack of newspapers, and without deciding to, he walked over and picked up an issue.
“September,” he whispered, looking out the window. It fit. It wasn't May outside, that was certain.
Dean caught sight of his hands. They were caked with dirt, which wasn't unusual, but he could tell by the way his skin moved that he was covered all over. His knuckles were torn and bruised, and blood lined under his fingernails. He touched the nails on his left hands and winced. Had to be splinters.
He put down the newspaper and went over to a sink and mirror on the other end of the store. He turned on the faucet and scrubbed his hands, then cupped water in his palms and splashed it on his face. Using his overshirt to wipe off his face, he ran his hand over his face, then stopped.
The reflection in the mirror...it wasn't familiar. Not entirely.
His jaw was square and covered with stubble. He moved his hand over his face again, feeling the short hairs against the skin of his palm, and watched his reflection do the same. Even his eye level seemed different, like he was taller. Maybe a half foot taller.
“Holy...”
Dean trailed off and looked at his throat. An Adam's apple. He swallowed and watched it bob.
After that, he scrambled to lift up his shirt, and his jaw dropped. Abs, unscarred and sculpted. Pecs, unscarred. It wasn't too different than his torso had been at the beginning of the year - his shoulders were broader, and there were less curves, but the tattoo was still there - but even if his stomach wasn't in shreds or covered in healed tears, his old scars should have been there. And they weren't.
Dropping the shirt, he looked down at the bulge in his jeans. The jeans had seemed baggy a few minutes ago, so he undid his belt, unzipped, and lowered the pants a little. He was going to have to get new ones; his hips used to be wider, even when he was on T, and he'd had to buy his jeans a size bigger to fit them.
Dean pulled the elastic on his boxer-briefs forward and saw that his stuffer was gone. The reason he had a bulge was the same reason most guys had a bulge. He had a dick.
He put his pants back into place and buckled his belt with shaking hands. It took some work - he nearly dropped the whole thing a couple of times - but he managed it without too much trouble. And once he did, he stepped back and took in as much of his reflection as possible.
As far as he could tell, Dean Winchester was now one-hundred percent biologically male.
March 1994
Sam shrugs off his coat as Dean steps out of the bathroom. “Where'd you go?”
“The library,” Sam says, his voice a little too sweet.
“Uh-huh.”
“No, really.”
The last bit sounds a little more sincere, but Dean frowns. “Look, if Dad knew that--”
“I really went to the library, Dean!”
“Fine,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “Whatever.”
He walks back into the bathroom and takes off his shirt. He only has a sports bra on, but he picked up the Ace bandage he left by the sink and starts rolling it around the bra.
“You know, there are other guys like you?”
Dean grimaces. “I'm one of a kind, Sammy.”
“Sure. But I mean...there are guys out there like you. That weren't born looking like guys.”
A sharp pain stabs in Dean's gut. He clips the bandage into place quickly and steps out in the bedroom again.
“We don't talk about this,” Dean says in an undertone.
“It's not going to go away just because you won't talk it.”
“You...you know why we don't talk about it.”
Sam nods, and Dean bites his lip. He thinks about the time he asked Sam to call him “he” and “him”, back when he was seven or eight and Sam barely able to talk, and the time Dad first heard Sam do it around him. He remembers all of the times that people asked Dad about his oldest son, or looked funny when Dad introduced Dean by his birth name.
“I know,” Sam says. “But I hear...I hear you most nights, and Dad doesn't.”
Dean does his best to keep his expression blank. “You hear me do what?”
“It doesn't matter,” Sam says quickly. “But I know you're feeling sad.”
“Sure you do.”
“Dean...”
He walks back into the bathroom and starts grabbing at the bandage again. It slipped during the conversation with Sam, and he can't get it to stay, no matter how it's pinned. He rips it off and throws it in the corner, and when he looks back in the mirror, he sees Sam reflected in it.
“There's nothing I can do,” Dean says, leaning on the sink.
“But you can. There's ways--”
“You read about that at the library?”
The way Sam's face slackens tells Dean all he needs to know, but he answers anyway. “Yeah, I did.”
“Damn it,” Dean says, but he feels something flutter in his stomach, and he knows he's going to listen.
September 2008
By the time that Dean finally makes it to Bobby's, he feels like all kinds of crap. He has a strong feeling that he hasn't gotten all of the glass shards out of his hair from whatever blew out the windows at the gas station, and the hand-shaped welt on his shoulder ached every time he moved his left arm. It's a drop in the ocean compared with what he had just gone through in the past few months, but it doesn't mean that he can run himself ragged.
Taking a fist to the face doesn't help matters.
He put a chair between him and Bobby and tried to recover. “You became a hunter after your wife got possessed, and you're about the closest thing I have to a father. I know I don't look...like I used to, but it's me.”
Bobby stepped forward and pushed the chair aside. He looked just as shocked as Dean did when he figure things out at the station, and Dean supposed he couldn't blame Bobby. It was hard enough for Dean to believe all of it, and he had lived it.
He let Bobby reach out a hand to touch him. But after a moment, Bobby slashes the knife through the air. Dean takes a step back without thinking, then grabs Bobby's arm and pins it against his back.
“I'm not a shapeshifter!” Dean cried.
“Then you're a revenant!”
He pushed Bobby away from him and held out the knife. He cringed, but said, “If I was either, would I do this? With a silver knife?”
Without hesitation, he rolled up his sleeve and ran the blade across his arm. Luckily, it was sharp enough that it didn't really hurt, but his blood dripped onto the floor anyway.
Bobby only paused a second more before rushing forward and trapping Dean in a big hug. Dean squeezed his eyes shut and hugged back with the arm he didn't cut. After a minute, Bobby stepped back and looked Dean up and down.
“But...how'd you bust out? How are you...whole?”
Dean felt tears sting his eyes. Leave it to Bobby to say it right.
“I wish I knew.”
July 1994
“Do you have ID, Mr...Stanley?”
Dean gives the widest smile possible and hands over the driver's license that matched the insurance card. He'd gone to a lot of trouble to get a fake ID without his dad's knowledge, but if he can pull this off, it would be worth it.
The pharmacist looks at the picture on the card and back at Dean's face. This is the test. He isn't eighteen, and he looks younger than most guys do at fifteen, since he's shorter and has a rounder face. But Sam had said that he probably wouldn't have any problems; they know why he's there, after all, and probably would get why he didn't look older. And most kids use fake IDs to buy booze, not hormones.
With a nod, the woman takes some notes off both the insurance card and the license. Dean looks at the ID fondly while he waits. Dean Stanley, it reads, DOB: 1/24/1976, Sex: M. Sometimes, it pays to be on the outside of the law. It'd be a bitch having to change his name and legal gender.
The woman hands the cards back. “Do you have any more questions?”
Dean shakes his head. “Nope.”
“Great. If you do, the number's on the bag, or you can call your doctor.” She pushes the bag in question across the counter, and Dean takes it.
“Thanks,” he says, then turns and walks out the door.
Sam's sitting on the curb, but when Dean comes out of the pharmacy, he scrambles to his feet. “You got it?”
Dean holds up the bag. “Nah, I decided to go for some heroin instead.”
Sam rolls his eyes, but he grins. “They don't sell heroin at a pharmacy.”
“Shows what you know.”
Sam laughs, and Dean ruffles his hair.
September 2008
“This is it?” Dean asked.
Bobby turned off the ignition. “Pontiac Hotel. Neon sign's right there.”
“Right.” He looked at Bobby as he opened his door. “You coming?”
Bobby raised an eyebrow, then grabbed the handle on his door. “Yeah, I'm coming.”
Dean took another swig from his bottle of water, then followed Bobby into the hotel.
207 was at the end of the hall. As they walked up to the door, Dean noticed that the number had a red heart behind it. Cute.
He knocked, and a brunette opened the door. A brunette in her underwear.
“So where is it?” she asked.
Dean looked at Bobby, then back at the girl. “Where's what?”
“The pizza that takes two guys to deliver.”
“I think we got the wrong room,” Dean said with a little laugh.
A tall man stepped out of the bathroom. “Hey--”
Dean felt a catch in his throat as the man looked at him. As Sam looked at him. There was no confusion in Sam's face, no searching to recognize the body that Dean had somehow managed to get.
Sam looked at Bobby with raised eyebrows, as if asking for confirmation, then looked back at Dean.
“Heya, Sammy,” Dean said, blinking hard.
He took about three steps into the room, and Sam pulled out a knife and shoved him against the wall. The girl screamed. Dean pushed Sam's arm up into the air, and Bobby yanked Sam back.
“Who are you?” Sam shouted.
Dean felt his blood pumping, and he frowned. “Like you didn't do this?”
“Do what?”
“It's him!” Bobby shouted back. “It's him, Sam! I've been through this already, it's really him.”
Dean's face fell. He couldn't help it. But Sam relaxed, and Dean moved away from the wall.
“I know. I look fantastic, huh?” Understatement of the year.
Sam stepped forward and wrapped him in a bear hug. Dean squeezed him back tight, tighter than he'd hugged Bobby, and fought tears. For that moment, it didn't matter what Sam did or didn't do; it didn't matter how Dean came back, or how he'd changed. He was with Sam again.
They pulled apart, and the girl said, “So, are you two, like, together?”
“What?” Sam asked. “No. No, he's my brother.”
“I need to talk to you,” Dean said. “Alone.”
The girl pointed to the door. “I should probably go.”
Sam nodded, but Dean grabbed his arm. “Now.”
“Okay,” Sam said, sounding dubious. “We'll be right back, I guess.”
He grabbed a key card off the nightstand and left Bobby with the girl, who was already starting to grab her jeans when they closed the door of the room behind them.
“What did you do?” Dean said under his breath as they walked down the hall.
Sam blinked. “Do?”
“For me? Did you sell your soul, or was it--”
“Hey!” Sam cried. “I didn't do anything. I wish I had!”
Dean shook his head and stopped by the door to the stairs. “But you had to. No one else would bring me back like this.”
“Like...?”
“Don't lie to me, Sam!”
Sam scowled. “I tried everything, all right? I tried to make a deal, I tried the Devil's Gate...you were rotting in Hell, and I couldn't get you out. So I'm sorry.”
Dean's eyes widened. Sam was looking through the little window into the stairwell and sniffling through his nose.
He didn't do it.
“Whoa,” Dean whispered.
Sam looked back at him. “Are you okay?”
“I'm...better than okay.” He couldn't wrap his head around it, but he believed Sam completely. “I'm a man.”
“Of course you are.”
“No, Sam. I'm a man. All over.”
Sam's eyes snapped back on him. “What?”
“Something brought me back and...made me whole,” Dean said, remembering Bobby's words. “I was so sure it was you. You were the only one who knew...knew how much I...”
His breath was crushed out of him, and it took Dean a minute to realize that Sam was hugging him again. This time, Dean really did start to cry, although he did his best to keep it quiet. Judging by the sniffling noises in Dean's ear, he wasn't the only one.
February 2001
Sam unlocks and opens the door to the motel room, then goes to the passenger's side of the Impala and stands in front of Dean. “Can you grab my hands, Dean?”
Dean pries his eyes open and fumbles for Sam's left arm. Sam reaches around and braces Dean's lower back carefully with his right, then helps him to a standing position. The world swims around Dean, but he looks at the ground, and it evens out after a moment.
“One step at a time,” Sam says. “Go slow.”
Dean does as Sam asks. It feels like it's taking forever, but Sam stays with him, taking his weight if he sways too far in one direction. It couldn't have been more than five feet from the car to the room, but it feels like miles at the pace they have to go.
They finally make it into the room, and Sam eases Dean onto the bed. Dean grimaces; even painkillers couldn't totally numb the pain in his chest.
“Can you sit up for a while?” Sam asks.
“Yeah,” Dean says, his throat raspy from the breathing tube.
He braces himself on the mattress with his hands and lets Sam take off his shoes. As soon as he's done, Sam lowers Dean onto his back. Again, he feels his stitches tug gently, but he closes his eyes, and soon enough, he's lying on the bed.
Sam speaks quietly. “You going to be okay for a while? I need to fill your prescription.”
“Uh-huh,” Dean says.
“Don't get out of bed while I'm gone.”
“Even if I have to piss?”
“The nurse said you shouldn't have to for a while.”
“Fine.”
“Just sleep the rest of it off,” Sam says. “I'll be back before you wake up.”
Dean probably said something after that - hell, Sam could have given a huge speech, for all he knows - but he passes out and knows nothing for hours.
When consciousness is back, Dean's eyes flutter open, and he sees Sam on the sofa bed out of the corner of his vision. This is probably the only time they'll get a room with a king and a sleeper and not have to fight over it.
“How long has it been?”
The clicking of keys stops. Of course Sam's doing homework. “Six hours.”
“Great.” Dean sighs. “I'm going to go to the bathroom.”
The springs in the sofa bed creak as Sam gets to his feet, but Dean waves a hand. “I can drive when I'm worse than this.”
“But I'm usually hurt, too,” Sam says.
Dean ignores him and sits up. He doesn't do it as fast as normal because he's not going to let macho bravado make him completely stupid, but it's still faster than he probably should. His entire torso screams with pain, but he only grunts.
“Fine. Do it yourself.”
“I will,” Dean says, then gets to his feet. His balance isn't bad, considering. “You heard from Dad?”
“No. But he probably won't be back for a week, at least.”
Dean starts to shuffle toward the bathroom. He's moving faster than he did earlier, but it hurts more, and his voice is a little tight as a result. “That's what he said.”
“Are you sure--”
“Yes. Call Dad again.”
He makes it to the bathroom as Sam starts dialing on his phone; Dean can't see him doing it, but he recognizes the sounds of it. He closes the door, and he can hear that Sam's talking as he lowers himself onto the toilet, even if he can't make out what exactly.
Dean's washing his hands when he hears the main door to the room slam open and his dad's voice echo.
“Where's your sister?”
Sam's voice is quiet and fast, but it doesn't take long before boots stomp and the bathroom door rattles.
“Deanna Mary Winchester, get out here right now.”
Dean bites the inside of his cheek and takes a breath before answering. “Coming, Dad.”
He opens the door and eases his way out, managing something close to his normal walk even though he's in more pain with every step he takes.
Dad's face is flushed, and his brow is furrowed. “What did you do?”
“Do?”
“The hospital called to confirm my insurance. I told you not to go on a hunt right now!”
Dean glares at Sam, who is standing between the bed and the couch and looking at the floor. Sam promised Dean before they went in that the number with the insurance was for Sam's cell and not their dad's, but apparently he screwed up somewhere.
“There was--” Dean starts to say, but Sam says, “We didn't go on a hunt” at the same time.
Dad looks at Sam. “You didn't?”
“No,” Dean says, biting his lip. “I just...had some surgery.”
“What surgery?”
Dean doesn't want to answer. His dad is pissed, and he's never been the most understanding of guys even when he's not pissed, which isn't often. And Sam's usually the one to piss Dad off, and Dean's the one who diffuses. He doesn't know how to deal with it the other way around.
But his dad steps forward and looks down at Dean. “What surgery?”
“It's called top surgery,” Dean says. “I should be healed up in a month.”
“Top surgery?” His dad looks puzzled. “Is this something to do with your--”
Dean can't hear what his dad's going to call it. He just can't. He's put up with it for years, and he can't do it anymore.
“I got rid of my breasts!” Dean shouts. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”
Dad clenches his jaw. “I don't know what's wrong with you, but--”
“Nothing is wrong with me!”
“You had surgery to get rid of...and you're saying nothing's wrong, Deanna?”
Dean shakes his head. “My name is Dean.”
“That's your nickname,” Dad hisses. “You're a woman, for God's sake!”
“No, I'm not!”
Sam steps forward. “He was born in a girl's body, but--”
“You stay out of this,” Dad yells, pointing at him. “This is between me and your sister.”
Dean shakes his head and sways. Sam steps behind him and braces him, but Dean closes his eyes and says, “Damn it, Sam, I'm fine.”
He feels Sam step away, and Dean opens his eyes. “I've had this surgery, and I've been passing for years. It's done.”
Dad's quiet for a moment, then he says in his quiet and dangerous voice, “So you want to be a man?”
“I am a man.” It's true. Dad could think whatever he wanted; Dean knows who he is.
The world goes a brilliant white, then darkens again.
Dean wiggles his jaw around, then brings his hand up to his nose. He touches liquid and smells metal, but instead of looking at it, he just smears it off his face.
Sam pushes up beside him, and not to make sure Dean is okay. Dean knows without looking that Sam would fight Dad; he just needed an excuse, and Dean wouldn't disagree that there were worse reasons for it. But instead of letting him pass by, Dean raises his arm. He doesn't have the strength to hold his brother in place, and the act of holding his arm up tugs at his stitches. But Sam gets the idea and doesn't try to move around him.
Dean opens his mouth. He wants to say something so badly that he starts to shake a little, but nothing comes to mind. He's said everything he can say.
“Congratulations,” his dad says, holding up his hands. “Now you're a man.”
With that, he stalks out of the room and slams the door behind him.
September 2008
It's only when Dean rubs at his eyes that the tin roofing of the barn started to rattle, then bang against the wooden beams overhead. Dean grabbed his shotgun, and both he and Bobby got to their feet, looking above.
“Wishful thinking,” Dean said, “but maybe it's just the wind.”
The lightbulbs over their heads exploded, and Dean jumped as sparks rained down. The barn doors opened, and he looked over just in time to see a man in a suit and trenchcoat walk in. The guy had a fifty-yard stare, and not even the sparks stopped him from looking around him or from walking forward.
Dean raised his shotgun, and Bobby stepped beside him and did the same. They both fired, and Dean could tell they hit by the way the coat moved, but the man didn't blink or stop.
After taking in Bobby's puzzled expression, Dean backed against the table he'd been sitting on as the man closed in and picked up Ruby's old knife, concealing it behind his back.
“Who are you?” Dean asked.
The man stopped in front of him. “I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.”
“Yeah. Thanks for that.”
The man nodded once.
Dean flew forward, swinging the knife up and slamming it into the man's chest. Nothing happened. They both looked at the hilt sticking out, and then, with a calm expression on his face, the man pulled it out and let it drop on the ground.
Bobby and Dean exchanged a quick look, and Bobby rushed forward with a crowbar, which the man caught easily in his hand. He put a hand up to Bobby's eyes, which rolled up in his head, and Bobby fell without a word.
“We need to talk, Dean,” the man said. “Alone.”
Dean looked at Bobby, then back at the man. Without moving his gaze away, Dean slid to Bobby's side and knelt down. Bobby was breathing.
“Who are you?”
“Castiel.”
“I figured that much,” Dean said. The image of Pamela's eyes burning out of her head wasn't one he'd soon forget. “I mean, what are you?”
“I'm an angel of the Lord.”
Dean got to his feet. “There's no such thing.”
“This is your problem, Dean,” Castiel said. “You have no faith.”
Lightning flashed, and Dean blinked as shadows of feathery wings appeared on the wall behind Castiel.
Wings. Angel wings.
Dean shook his head. “Look, pal. I'm not buying what you're selling, so who are you, really?”
For the first time, emotion appears on Castiel's face. His brow furrows slightly. “I told you,” he said, his voice slightly disbelieving.
“Right,” Dean said. “And why would an angel rescue me from Hell? And bring me back like this?”
“Good things do happen, Dean.”
“Not in my experience.”
“What's the matter? You don't think you deserve to be saved?”
“Not like this,” Dean said, his voice choked. “Why...why would you...I wasn't born like this.”
“No,” Castiel agreed. “You were born in a female body. You had a journey to make in it, and you completed it. Now you have a journey in this one.”
“I don't know what that means.”
Castiel gave a little smile. “And you don't have to. Not to do the work we need.”
Dean's stomach sank. He guessed that this change was going to come with a price, but knowing it for sure...
And yet. There were a million things that he could now take for granted, like everybody else. He wouldn't have to inject himself with hormones if he wanted to look close to how he felt. He wouldn't have to bleed every month if he couldn't get testosterone, and he wouldn't have to have more surgery to have sex the way he wanted to. And there was more he probably wasn't even thinking of. Things that he had endured every day because he had to.
Things like Dad.
He looked Castiel in the eye and scowled. He wasn't grateful. How could he be grateful to something that he didn't know had existed? Something that had been willing to watch as he suffered years of looks and whispers and physical pain? Something that had fulfilled his greatest wish too late, and only when it was useful for them?
Dean braced himself for what was to come. All he could do was hope that it wasn't too much.