Big Bang Fic: Immigrant Song (Episode 6x04)

[trinityofone]

Sam had apparently started something, because the next town they stopped at, Castiel got his own room.

“It’s beginning to feel...claustrophobic,” was all Castiel said. The second he was gone, Sam turned and gave his brother a look.

“What?”

“Is something going on with you two?”

Dean snorted. “What could possibly be going on between us? With us.”

Sam stared at his brother, who was ignoring this verbal slip, digging around in his duffle for a clean shirt. “I mean are you having a fight,” Sam said.

“No,” Dean said, then almost immediately, “Yes! He gets on my nerves, all right? Doesn’t he get on your nerves?”

“Not really,” Sam said. “I like Cas.” It no longer even surprised him how true this statement was: he did like Cas. He was glad Cas was hunting with them. So far it seemed to him that three was not, in fact, a crowd: that it was much more comfortable, much less needy and codependent and tense, than two had proven to be.

So of course the other two were going to develop their own weird tense thing and screw it up. Sam wondered if this was how Dean had felt, when Sam and Dad had started fighting and never been able to stop.

Just the thought of “liking” Cas was apparently enough to make Dean scowl. “Well, whatever. If he needs more space to himself, that’s fine by me.”

“O-kay,” Sam said. Forget it, he’d deal with this in the morning.

When he woke up, Dean was still snoring like a freight train, face down into the pillow, under the covers for once. Sam decided not to wake him. He took a nice, long, hot shower, then tapped on the connecting door. Castiel opened it, a book dangling from his free hand. His eyes went immediately to the occupied bed. “He’s still asleep?”

“I thought I’d let him rest.” Sam shrugged.

“By all means, indulge him,” Castiel said, his sarcasm like one of those knives that could cut through a candle and still leave it standing. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

O-kay, Sam thought again, stepping away from the door. He was going to have to make them...hug it out or something. He didn’t even know.

“Dean,” he said, deciding to deal with the easiest, most obvious problem. He gave his brother’s leg a smack. “Time to get up.”

The snoring cut off with a snort. A second later, the top of Dean’s head retreated the rest of the way under the covers and Sam could see the outline of his limbs spread out in a stretch.

A second after that, the blankets flew up and hit Sam in the face, and a blonde woman was standing in the middle of the room screaming.

“Ahhh, what the fuck!”

The woman was clutching her breasts through her too-large t-shirt. Her chest heaved as she worked her way through a panic. Then she looked up, her eyes green and horrified. “Sammy,” she said, “what the hell?”

“Dean?”

“Fuck,” Dean-with-boobs said, clutching at the place his cock seemingly wasn’t. “Fuck fuck fuck!”

“Um...” said Sam, trying very, very hard not to stare, and feeling very, very thankful that he’d somehow dodged the bullet this time. “I’ll get Cas.”

“No!” Dean snapped. “Don’t get Cas! We can solve this on our own! We can figure this out right now! It’s, uh, obviously—”

“Cas!” Sam yelled, and pounded his fist on the connecting wall.

Castiel opened the door looking cross. “I said let me know, not the whole—” He stopped. He looked at Dean. Really looked at Dean, in a way Sam had not let himself. Some incredibly deeply buried part of Sam wanted smack Castiel on the arm and say, Hey! Stop ogling my sister!

If Dean ever found out that he had thought that, Dean would kill him.

After a moment, Castiel pulled himself together. “Hello, Dean,” he said, drawing his shoulders straight. “You look different.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” Dean said. He attempted to cross his arms over his chest, encountered his breasts, gave up, and rested them defiantly on his hips. This made him look remarkably like Mary Martin playing Peter Pan. (Sam was never going to tell Dean he’d thought this, either.)

“What kind of ideas?” Castiel asked.

“Ideas,” said Dean, significantly.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Guys.” Sam coughed. “Do we maybe want to—”

“It was Gabriel,” Dean said.

“How do you—”

“I just do. It has his stink all over it. Let’s summon the bastard, all right?”

“No need, I’m already here.” He was perched on the TV cabinet, gnawing on a Toblerone and grinning at them. He laid a hand flat on his chest. “I’m honored that you’d recognize my work’s distinctive touch.”

“You mean its stupidity and tastelessness? Yeah we recognize it, all right.” Dean’s fists were clenched, his jaw set. Even with softer features, the effect of the expression hadn’t changed much. “You change me back, you son of a bitch.”

“Me-ow!” Gabriel laughed when Dean hurled himself at him, only to come up against some kind of magical forcefield.

“Gabriel. Enough,” Castiel said. “This is not amusing.”

“Oh, it looks pretty damn funny to me, bro,” Gabriel said. “Relax, though. I’ll change you back,” he told Dean. “I just need a little favor, first.”

“Fuck. You.”

“Happily, but that’s not the favor I need.” He jumped off the cabinet and slunk over to the table. In doing so, his eyes fell on Sam, who’d been discreetly attempting to free a vial of holy oil from his duffle.

“Oh, very subtle,” Gabriel said. Sam glared at him, frustrated. Gabriel simply waved a hand. “Well, go ahead—continue if you want. I’ve been curious to see if it’ll still tickle.”

“You...” Sam started.

“There are no more angels on earth,” Gabriel said. “For real, this time.” For a moment his expression was almost serious. Then a grin cracked through. “But that’s not what I came here to talk about.” He plopped down in one of the chairs. “What do you think, boys and girl? You up for a heist?”

“A heist,” Dean said dully.

“Yeah, a heist. I need you guys to steal something for me. Doesn’t that sound fun?”

Something that was half smile, half scream spread across Dean’s face. “Kicking your ass sounds fun. Having a penis sounds fun. Playing Gabriel’s Eleven, you little turd, does not sound fun!”

Gabriel looked at him. “I don’t know,” he said after a moment. “I think it’s going to be pretty fun.”

Dean started to throw himself forward again, but Castiel grabbed him by the arm. Dean whipped around, his rage redirected. He jerked his arm out of Castiel’s grasp. It was weird, Sam thought, to see Dean look up to yell in Castiel’s face. “Don’t you fucking touch me.”

Castiel backed off, his eyes hooded and dark.

This was way too much shit to pack into one tiny motel room. One thing at a time, Sam thought. “So you want us to steal something?” he asked. “And then you’ll change him back?”

“You got it.”

“So the sex change is leverage for you? You couldn’t just ask?”

“Well, I could,” Gabriel admitted. “You guys do owe me big time. But no: Dean’s fabulous new look has a higher purpose. Other than, I mean, just being really, really funny.”

“I’m a girl and I bet I’m still taller than you,” Dean said.

“Oh, a hit! A palpable hit!” Gabriel said, miming hurt. “No, but seriously. You’re just too precious for words. Pretty as a man and a lovely lady to boot. All I had to do was give a certain chromosome a little flick—didn’t have to do a bit of redesign. Although...” His fingers snapped, loud and sharp, and suddenly Dean’s hair was falling in soft blond waves to just above his shoulders. He looked really, disturbingly like Mom.

“There, much better,” Gabriel said. “The other way you looked a bit too much like Mary Martin.”

Great. And now Sam had to hate himself for having shared this thought.

Dean flicked the hair out of the way in impatient disgust. “Great, you want to do my nails, too? Give me a makeover? Don’t even pretend that you’re doing this for any reason except to indulge your sick fantasies.”

“Oh, but I am,” Gabriel said. “And it’s just the kind of reason you righteous fellows like. A very bad bad man has got his hands on a very powerful artifact. And you,” he spun a finger toward Dean, “are going to get it back.”

“Me,” Dean said.

“You bet, sport! I’m even going to make it easy for you. Look,” he gestured again, somewhat lewdly, fingers drawing in the air a caricature of Dean’s new shape. “I’ve already given you the ideal in.”

They stared at him, uncomprehending. “Our bad boy has a weakness for hookers,” Gabriel revealed with a grin. “I figured Deano would relate.”

“You have got to be kidding me!” Dean bellowed.

Castiel stepped forward. “You’re a poor liar, Gabriel. If you so desperately needed a woman, you could just as easily become one yourself.”

“That’s true,” Gabriel said. “Would that make you feel better, Dean? If I joined you?” A click resounded in Sam’s ear and he found himself sitting next to a short, curvaceous woman with some of the largest breasts he'd ever seen. “We can be sisters!” she squealed, stepping toward Dean with her arms held out.

Dean punched her in the face.

Gabriel(le) sat back down in his/her chair with a thump. “Great,” she/he said. “Now I’m going to have to tell everyone I ran into a doorknob.”

“I still don’t understand why you need our help to steal something,” Castiel said, unamused.

The air shimmered and Gabriel was a man—or at least man-shaped—again. “Because our guy isn’t stupid, and the artifact is heavily-warded. Trickster or angel, I could never get within a hundred yards of that place. But if Deanna here poses as a lady of negotiable affections...”

“That’s seriously the best plan you could come up with?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know, it’s certainly the most fun.”

“But why Dean?”

Gabriel turned to him, and before Sam could shy away, he found himself chucked lightly under the chin. “Aww, Sammy. You jealous?”

“Jealous?”

“Don’t worry, I brought plenty of fun treats for you, too.” A duffle appeared. “You and Cas and going to play handlers to Dean’s little Sydney Bristow. Sam, am I right to think that you’d be best left in charge of these toys?”

Sam looked in the bag. He wanted to play with the toys.

But still: he wasn’t going to sell Dean out for some cool hardware. “I still don’t see why we should help you.”

“Uh, because it’s the right thing to do? Because I asked so very nicely? Because if you don’t, Dean’s going to have to start shopping for tampons?”

“Sure, I’ll buy tampons. I’ll buy tampons and shove them so far up your—”

“Dean.”

Dean stopped and turned to Castiel, turned slowly like he was dreading what he might see. “What?”

“Let’s just do what he says.”

“Why?”

“Some people,” Castiel said, “there’s just no point in arguing with.”

Dean looked away.

“They’re set in their ways. There’s no use trying to change them. It’s better to just...go along.”

“Aww, touching speech, bro.” Gabriel laid a hand over his heart. “Though I’d have focused more on the part where I’m awesome.” He leapt to his feet. “All right then. Let’s blow this shithole and relocate to my stylish home base.”

Snap.

When Sam opened his eyes again, he was standing in the world’s douchiest bachelor pad, Dean was still a girl, and Castiel was bent over at the waist. “Did you like that?” Gabriel asked, bending over next to him. “I added it just for you. That’s what angel transport feels like to humans the first few times.”

Castiel forced himself up. “You’re a dick,” he said.

Gabriel patted him on the back. “Takes one to know one, brother.”

He took a step back and surveyed the three of them and the room like he was a ringmaster at the circus. “Now,” he said, “I'm going to let Sam get started figuring out all that fancy equipment. But first,” he cocked his finger at Dean, “we need to get you into something a little more comfortable.”

“Absolutely not,” Dean said before Gabriel could click thumb against forefinger. “I'll buy my own clothes. You can play Fashion Plates with somebody else.” He thrust his hand out. “Gimme some money.”

“Oh, you’re in the spirit already! I’ll just leave it on the nightstand, shall I?”

Dean was shaking with rage. It was the sort of display of anger that, on any other woman, Sam knew his brother would call “cute,” but he doubted Dean was finding anything adorable about it now. “You wanna finance this little heist? Then hand over the money, Danny.”

Gabriel chucked a credit card at him. Dean’s reflexes were as good as ever: he caught it, spun it around. “‘Peter Coyote'? Hilarious.” He started for the door.

“Keep it classy, now!” Gabriel called after him. “We’re thinking Julia Roberts after the Rodeo Drive makeover, mmkay?”

“You wouldn’t know classy if it threw a glass of champagne in your face,” Sam muttered.

Gabriel glanced over his shoulder. “That’s true,” he admitted.

Sam looked over the equipment while they waited for Dean to return. Castiel mostly stuck to the corners of the room, inspecting Gabriel’s possessions with his eyes, his hands clasped behind his back. Sam kept trying to shoot him significant looks, get him to come over so they could exchange a few words without their host overhearing. But Castiel refused to cooperate.

Sam had expected Dean to come back with one crumpled plastic bag containing ten dollars worth of hookerwear from Goodwill. Instead he’d apparently bought out the local Nordstrom. Gabriel clapped his hands. “Well, it looks like you enjoyed that. I bet I’m secretly doing you a favor, Dean, letting you explore your feminine side...”

“Shut up,” said Dean, storming past him to the bathroom.

“Feel free to take a bubble bath while you’re in there!” Gabriel called.

“Whatever you’re trying to prove, it isn’t helping,” Castiel said, looking and speaking up for the first time in a while.

The look Gabriel cast his way was wide-eyed and innocent. “Do you need help with something, baby brother? Just say the word.”

The door slammed back against the wall as Dean emerged from the bathroom, looking...much better supported. Dean caught Sam’s gaze before he could look away. “They were hurting, all right?” He was wearing clothes that fit now, too, jeans and a plain, but clearly woman’s-sized, tee. Sam bet he’d had fun driving up Gabriel’s credit card bill—although sadly, he had to know there was no chance in hell that the Trickster actually paid it.

“All right, so what’s the plan?” Dean was business-like, determined, his voice a husky alto. “We’re moving tonight, right? Tell me the plan is to move tonight.”

“I dunno, we might want to scout out the joint a bit more, take our time with surveillance. Wouldn’t want all those snazzy outfits you bought to go to waste.”

Dean just stared at him.

Gabriel waved a hand and sighed. “Yes, all right, we’ll go tonight. I’ve already worked it out so that when our pal Mr. Sturluson needs to de-stress and calls his favorite escort agency this evening, he’ll connect to the new receptionist right here.” These last two words were said in a purring, feminine voice that frankly gave Sam the wiggins.

“I still don’t get why between the four of us, we can’t just bust in, beat the shit out of this guy, and steal whatever it is you want.” Dean looked like he would really, really relish the opportunity to beat the shit out of someone.

“Because, sunshine, he’s more paranoid than Richard Nixon after a particularly strong toke, and he hauls four bodyguards around with him everywhere—guys that make Sammy here look dainty. His little love nest is the only place they let him be. Not to mention the fact that, as I mentioned, the whole place is warded up the ying-yang. I’m certainly not getting anywhere near it, and I’m not even sure Cas, as diminished as he is, would be able to get through.”

“So because you’re a supernatural chickenshit, you’re sending me in alone. Nice.”

“Yeah, wait,” Sam said. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this. This guy’s going to be...expecting stuff from Dean, and we’re just going to be leaving her alone with him?”

Sam clamped down on his tongue a second after the words were out, but they didn’t stop Dean from shooting him a look of betrayal the likes of which Sam hadn’t seen since Ruby, and which he never wanted to see again. “Are you saying you don’t think I can handle myself? Against some ridiculous Lex Luthor-style chump?” He pushed away from the table, flicking a hand unconsciously through his hair. “Never mind. I love this plan. Let’s fucking do it.”

“Don’t worry, Sammy,” Gabriel said, ignoring Dean’s outburst. “We’ll be monitoring Big Sis’ progress on your cool new spy cam. And in case Deanna can’t subdue mean old Sturluson on her own, I got a needle of knockout juice that we can slip into your stylish little hooker purse.”

He produced an incredibly tacky red patent leather number.

“No, thanks,” Dean said with a sneer. “Doesn’t match my outfit.”

“And what am I to do?” Castiel asked. Sam was trying to ignore the nervous little looks he kept shooting at Dean.

“Oh, you?” Gabriel gave his temple an exaggerated scratch. “I guess I forgot all about you. What are you good for lately, I can’t quite remember.”

“Hey,” Dean said sharply, with a vehemence that seemed to surprise even him.

“I guess we can fit you with a radio and you can keep watch from the street. Run in and save our little damsel if things get too hairy. If the wards don’t fry you, that is.”

“Whatever good will you’ve stored up with us, I just hope you know it’s officially gone,” Sam told Gabriel.

He shrugged. “And what’s good will worth, really? Last I checked it got me killed.” He gave Sam a swift, condescending pat on the back. “Play with your toys, kid.”

---

The one good thing to come out of this, Sam supposed, was the knowledge that he’d definitely had the wrong career aspirations when he’d been at Stanford. Forget becoming a lawyer: he should have been working toward becoming a hacker/spy. He was so going to try to steal all this stuff from Gabriel when they were done.

They weren’t done yet, though. Far from it. Around ten o’clock, as promised, Mr. Sturluson called requesting some “company.” Gabriel, doing his creepy sex kitten purr, had regretfully informed Sturluson that his favorite girl was unfortunately unavailable, but that they had a brand new young lady he might like to try. “Very new,” Gabriel tittered. “One might say pristine.” Mr. Sturluson was happy to be persuaded of the advantages of this alternate arrangement.

“That’s your cue, sweetcheeks,” Gabriel told Dean as soon as he hung up. Dean scowled, leaning slouchily in the white lacy dress he’d picked out. Somehow the look worked perfectly with Gabriel’s story, but to Sam it made Dean look far too much like a sacrificial lamb.

“Dean,” Sam said, getting up from behind the computer. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, she does,” Gabriel sing-songed.

“It’s fine, Sam. I can handle some mook.” He straightened, grabbed Gabriel’s little purse of the table and thrust it toward him. “Make this look less ridiculous, will you?”

When Gabriel handed it back, it had a pale blue flowered pattern. “You can tell him you crocheted it yourself!”

Sam approached tentatively. “Dean, let me just check your mic and camera.” Gabriel had fitted them with tiniest radios Sam had ever seen, and a contact lens camera that under other circumstances would have made Sam piss himself in glee.

Now, however, Dean took a step back when he tried to approach. “Go check your computer screen,” Dean said. Reluctantly, Sam retreated back to the table. A black and white close-up of Dean’s middle finger greeted him. Sam glanced up again: Dean was holding his hand in front of his face. “There, can you see that? Then I think it’s working.”

He turned and headed for the door and almost smacked straight into Cas. On the screen, Sam got a unique view of Castiel’s bobbing Adam’s apple. “What are you doing?” Dean snapped.

“I’m supposed to come with you.”

“Yeah, well, stay back,” Sam could see Dean’s gaze slide away, “you’ll blow the whole thing.”

It was weird essentially watching through Dean’s eyes as he walked down the street to Sturluson’s condo, a little hesitant but surprisingly graceful in his high heels. Gabriel had apparently chosen their home base not just for its degenerate luxury but for its proximity to Sturluson’s home; Dean didn’t have to go very far. Through his brother’s eyes, Sam took in the building: it was a modern structure of glass and concrete and steel, almost fortress-like, with windows only toward the top. It was surrounded by a thick green hedge and an imposing metal gate. Sam saw Dean pause, then stride determinedly toward the entrance. Then, weirder still, a feminine hand that, in spite of the past day, Sam could not connect with his brother, reached out and firmly pressed the doorbell.

It didn’t make a noise, but less than a minute later, a huge man in a dark suit appeared at the gate. Gabriel was right about one thing: even for a bodyguard, this guy was mammoth, easily three times Dean’s current size. “Yes?” he said, in a voice deep enough to make both Dean and Castiel, at their most male and fully powered, jealous.

“Miss Edda sent me,” Dean said, as Gabriel had instructed. He sounded a little nervous, but just like the white dress, Sam supposed that worked for the story Gabriel and Dean (inadvertently) had constructed.

“One moment.” The guard touched his ear and mumbled something Sam couldn’t make out. Then he nodded and unlocked the gate. “You can go up,” he said.

Dean was escorted through a thick metal door to a shiny elevator. Sam could see his eyes flicking around, probably looking for traces of warding, but none were visible. The truly powerful stuff often wasn’t, unfortunately. The guard pushed a button, then stepped back, probably behind Dean. The elevator doors slid open, silently.

Dean started to step in, but something stopped him, held him back. Sam tensed. “I’m sorry,” the guard said, “you’ll have to leave that here.”

Dean looked down at the crocheted bag, which the guard had snagged by its strap, then back up at his face. “But it has things I need in it. Condoms,” he whispered.

The guard shook his head. “You’ll find everything you need upstairs.”

Dean surrendered the bag.

“I don’t like this,” Sam said, looking over his shoulder to search for Gabriel. “I don’t like this at all.”

Gabriel emerged from the kitchen, holding a large metal bowl and robustly chewing. “He’ll be fine, he was practically made for this.” He smirked and held out the bowl. “Kettle corn?”

Sam wanted to glare at him while plotting his death, but he needed to keep his eyes on the screen. He could see Dean look up as the elevator doors opened, and he watched as Dean carefully took note of the two massive guards standing to either side. There was a third waiting down the hall. Dean made the same decision Sam would have and started toward him. “I hope he remembers to smile,” Gabriel offered, unhelpfully.

The guard by the door gave Dean a once-over that Sam really didn’t like. Dean just stood there and apparently took it, waiting patiently when the guard finally turned away and knocked softly on the door. After a moment, it opened, revealing a tall blond man almost as big as his guards. “Welcome,” he said, like he was greeting a visiting diplomat. “Please come in.”

Sam wished he could see Dean’s face, wished he could ask him if he was okay. Instead he could only watch as Dean glanced back, at the door closing behind him.

The man had a pair of champagne flutes waiting; he passed one to Dean as soon as he was in the door. Don’t drink that, Sam thought, but he saw it rise to Dean’s lips anyway. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Mr. Sturluson was saying. “Won’t you tell me your name?”

“Oh, fuck,” Sam said aloud. Somehow, for some reason, they had failed to cover this. Sure, Dean made up names all the time, and Gabriel had been calling him Deanna all afternoon, but as the pause grew longer Sam cursed them all for idiots for not ironing out the little details in advance. Just say Deanna, Sam thought. Just say anything!

“My name’s...Chastity,” Dean said finally. He must have smiled, sold it with a look, because Sturluson laughed. Sam thought it was laying it on a little thick.

But, “Delightful,” Sturluson said. “And you can call me Mr. Sturluson.”

“Yeah, if I’m nasty,” Dean muttered.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing.” Dean took another gulp of the questionable champagne.

“Please get comfortable.” Sturluson gestured unsubtly toward the bed.

Dean walked over, his point of view dipping down as he sat. Sam watched him glance down at his own legs, then adjust them from his typical wide-kneed stance to a demure cross. It was weird seeing how smooth they were: Sam had missed whether Gabriel had magically depilated them or Dean had had to shave.

His skirt adjusted, Dean looked up again; Sam could tell that he was casing out the room. His gaze lingered on several heavy objects (the better to bash Sturluson’s head in) and on various paintings and tapestries, the wall behind one of which should contain the safe Gabriel had promised them would be there. Apparently he wasn’t subtle enough: “You don’t look very relaxed,” Sturluson said, appearing large and looming in Dean’s line of sight. “Perhaps you’d like a massage?”

It made Sam squirm, having to listen to his brother titter. “Isn’t that my job?”

Sturluson’s smile made Sam shiver. “Allow me.”

As much as Sam hated looking at Sturluson, it was worse when he moved behind Dean, when Sam could only see the tiny glimpses of his hands as they closed on Dean’s shoulders, far too close to Dean’s neck. Sam watched the wave of blonde hair that reminded him so much of his mother get pushed to the side. Then a prolonged moment of blankness: not just a blink, but Dean closing his eyes. “There,” he heard Sturluson say in the dark. “Isn’t that better? Don’t you feel more...relaxed?”

“Mmm,” Dean managed. His eyes were open again, wide and searching. Then suddenly the image jerked: had he jumped? A second later, Sam unfortunately got his answer: the image swooped down and took in the sight of Sturluson’s mammoth hand squeezing Dean’s right breast.

Beside Sam, Gabriel made a contemplative noise. Sam clenched his fists and seethed. “You are one sick fuck.”

On screen, Sam watched Dean’s view shift as he forcibly swiveled around. “I want a turn,” he purred, and it was worse than listening to Gabriel: Sam could only imagine the seductive look that went with the words. “You have...such big strong shoulders. They must hold a lot of tension...a man in your position...”

“See?” Gabriel said, tapping his nose. “Watching all that porn comes in handy.”

Sam had to admit he was relieved when it was Dean kneeling behind Sturluson, staring down at his exposed neck. Those dainty hands Sam still couldn’t reconcile with his brother reached out and squeezed the thick meat of Sturluson’s shoulders. Sturluson let out a little grunt. “Oh, you like it rough, don’t you, big boy?” Dean said, which Sam thought was sort of breaking character, but whatever. He held his breath, knowing that any second now, Dean would take Sturluson out.

Only that wasn’t what happened. Dean moved in for the choke hold, just as Sam suspected, but Sturluson was fast, and strong. Stronger and bigger than Dean, so much bigger than Dean was right now, and before Sam could manage more than a gasp, the image in front of him had tilted, twisted, and Dean was staring up at the ceiling, Sturluson a huge dark shape above him. “You little bitch,” he heard the man hiss, and a horrible, soft sound that he realized was Dean gurgling as he slapped at the massive hand pinning his throat. “Who sent you?”

Sam was grabbing Gabriel by the collar as Dean gulped for air. “Do something! Fuck, do something!”

“Fuck you,” Dean ground out, and then his gaze snapped to the side, once, twice, before it abruptly went dark. Sam stared at the screen in horror: Sturluson must have slapped Dean so hard the contact flew out of his eye.

The audio was still live though. Sam could hear the continuing slaps, and the grunting. He wondered why the guards didn’t come running in, then realized with a sick sinking sensation that it was possible they were expecting sounds like this, that Sturluson really did like it rough. For his women.

He was already gathering up guns, weapons, anything he could lay his hands on. “Goddammit, Gabriel. I don’t care if those sigils roast you on the spot, you are coming with me and you’re going to—”

The male yell almost didn’t register as different at first: Dean was a man, Dean was in danger, so a man crying out in pain was in no way reassuring. But then Sam’s sluggish brain caught up, and what they were hearing took on a different tenor. Male grunts had suddenly never been so reassuring. Nor had a voice that, even distorted through this higher register, Sam could recognize as Dean’s saying, brokenly, “Cas?”

“I’m sorry I took so long,” Sam heard Cas say. For a second he could only sink back against the wall, only a lifetime of practice preventing him from sobbing in relief. “Oh, thank god.”

“Thank God’s absence, you mean,” Gabriel said. “I guess little Cas is fallen enough to make it through the wards without getting fried.”

Sam gave him a look that, had Sam still possessed the slightest trace of TK, would have made Gabriel’s head explode. “We’re still going to help them. I have no idea how Cas got in, but it may not be so easy to get out again.”

Dean obviously had a similar concern. He dismissed Cas' anxious, “Are you okay?”, with a rasped, “I'm fine. It's not like I've never got hit before.” He coughed again before demanding, “How’d you get in?”

“I came from above,” Castiel said. There was a thump: a body being kicked or rolled over.

To Sam’s surprise, he heard Dean emit something like a laugh. “Like an angel,” he said.

“Not really.” He heard something tear. “An angel would have been immolated by the wards. I simply took a page from your Sherlock Holmes and studied the structure until I observed a weakness. Namely, it is slightly too close to a neighboring building on the east side.”

It reassured Sam to hear Dean chuckle as he and Gabriel approached the condo. “You’re an action nerd. Well done.”

“I think this is the safe,” Castiel said a moment later. “Did they take your lock picks?”

“Yeah, but no worries. I just realized there’s an extra advantage to wearing a bra.”

“See, told you he was born for this,” Gabriel whispered.

Sam wouldn’t even look at him. “Shut the fuck up.”

Because they were talking, he almost missed Dean’s sudden stutter as he said, “Uh. Don’t look.”

The guard was still down by the front gate. Fuck. Sam looked around, tried to figure out what Cas had meant by the building on the east side. Then he spotted it: the condo to the left had a fire escape on its far end. From its roof, it might just barely be possible to make it to the roof of Sturluson’s garage. But wouldn’t there be motion detectors? Whatever, Sam had to try. Casting a glance back toward the gate, he crept forward.

“This is as far as I go,” Gabriel said from behind him.

Sam muttered, “Like I give a fuck.”

He was halfway up the fire escape when he heard Dean hiss, “I told you not to look!”

“I thought you needed help.”

“Well, I don’t. The wire’s stuck, that’s all.”

“You’re approaching it from a difficult angle. Perhaps if I...”

“If you touch me, Cas, I swear to god—”

Sam heard Cas sigh. “I have no designs on you in this body, Dean.”

The was a long moment of silence in which Sam feared that the mic had failed too. Then Dean growled, “You can take your designs to Project Runway, Cas. I don't want to hear about them.”

“I don't understand—”

“Well, read fewer books and watch more TV. It seems like it'd be your kind of show.”

“No,” Cas insisted. “I don't understand your reaction. Dean, I know you wanted—”

“I want you to be quiet and let me use my underwire the way Frederick of Hollywood intended!”

Sam did not want to be hearing this. He seriously did not want to be hearing this, especially now. He wanted to scream at Dean 1) to shut the fuck up and get out of there, and 2) that he and Cas were still miked, christ.

Instead he had to make a death-defying leap from this high, sloping roof to that flat, low roof very far out and very far down from him. But if Cas had done it...

“You’re a hypocrite,” Sam heard Castiel say as he landed hard, knocking the wind out of his chest. “You told that girl that it didn’t matter who she loved.”

“Yeah, well maybe I just don’t love you,” Dean hissed. “Now shut up and let me do this before those guards break in and kill us.”

Cas' tone turned dull. “I took care of the guards.”

Wrong, Sam wanted to tell him. He certainly hadn’t taken care of the pair who were leveling guns on him right now. Sam attempted a shaky smile and teetered on the edge of the garage roof. “Er,” he said. “You know, it’s funny—I think I’m sort of lost?”

He saw their fingers tighten and threw himself flat. But the explosion of shots never came. Slowly, Sam peeled open his eyes and glanced down. Gabriel was standing in the middle of the lawn, beside a pair of befuddled looking chickens. “How—”

“Don’t thank me, thank Romeo upstairs. Before he raced off to rescue his Juliet, he was smart enough to kill some of the key wards. Guess the angel-vision’s still working after all.”

Sam’s brain had been forced to absorb too much bizarre information in too short a time. “You—” he started. “You turned them into chickens?”

Gabriel shrugged. “I had poultry on the mind. Don’t judge.”

Sam shook his head, rolled his eyes. Abandoning the notion of jumping up to the ledge Castiel had probably used, he made the awkward leap to the front lawn. He missed and hit the soft driveway gravel, skidding a little. He ignored Gabriel’s outstretched hand and straightened up. “Let’s just get this done,” he said, heading toward the open front door.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Gabriel called after him. “Either you want to kill me or you’re beginning to like me! That’s how it works!”

“No more talking,” Sam said, stabbing the elevator call button. “This is now officially a quiet-time heist.”

Dean and Castiel had unfortunately not gotten this memo. For a while, there had been nothing but their breathing and the quiet scratches of Dean’s homemade lock picks. Then there was a louder click and Dean said, “Ah!” and Cas said, “Wait.”

Sam heard Dean suck in a breath. “Cas, don’t,” he said, his tone suddenly soft. “I can’t—”

“No, no. I only meant, be careful. The inside of the safe is protected with additional wards.”

“Oh, right. Gotcha.” Sam squirmed in the elevator next to Gabriel throughout the course of this lengthy pause. “You can let go of my hand, then.”

“I have. You’re still—”

“Right. Whatever.”

Another pause. Then Castiel's voice—

“I can wait, you know. However long—”

“Yeah, well don't hold your breath.”

Gabriel chuckled as the elevator doors opened and they got out, stepping over the body of a guard lying slumped in the hall. “This is better than Dr. Sexy. I only wish I’d brought my kettle corn.”

“Quiet time,” Sam reminded him, inspecting the knife that protruded precisely from the guard’s jugular. Cas’ dart skills were clearly coming in handy.

The final guard, by Gabriel’s original count, lay in front of the door Sam remembered from the video feed. He had a gun in his hand and a bullet in his brain. “Now, see, if we’d just stuck to my original plan, none of these poor, innocent people would have had to die.”

“Your original plan almost ended with my brother getting strangled!”

Gabriel shrugged. “Just sayin’.”

“I thought I told you to stop saying anything,” Sam snapped. He jiggled the door handle.

“Crap,” he heard Dean say.

“No, Dean, it’s us!” Sam jiggled harder. Abruptly the pressure decreased and the door jerked open. Castiel stood in front of them, frowning, bleeding from a wound just below his temple.

“Cas—” Sam started.

“It’s just a graze,” Castiel said dully. He glanced past Sam to Gabriel. The look he gave him was simply murderous.

He stepped back and let Sam come into the room. Sam was braced for the worst, but he still almost choked when he saw his brother. The side of Dean’s face was already turning a mottled shade of green, bruises the shape of fingertips ringed his neck, dried blood caked his nostrils and his upper lips. “Dean,” Sam said, unable to keep the horror out of his voice.

Dean looked away. “I’m fine.”

Sam took a step closer and tried again. “Dean—”

“Do I look any worse than Jo did after that thing in Philly? It’s not any different, okay? Now come over here and help Cas work out how to break these wards. I wanna get out of here.”

Sam turned back to shoot Gabriel another look of hatred, and was surprised to see the faintest trace of surprise on his face. Gabriel came the rest of the way into the room, studying the body sprawled out on the floor. Sturluson had been shot in the shoulder and then bludgeoned repeatedly about the face. As Sam watched, Gabriel gave him an almost casual kick. When he looked up, his face was cheerfully blank again.

“Deanna, come ’ere. Lemme clean up that pretty face of yours.”

Dean fixed him with a look of pure contempt. “Don’t fucking bother.”

Together, Sam and Cas were able to figure out how to destroy the wards without dousing them all in all-consuming flames. Sam reached into the safe and pulled out a large leather bag. Whatever was in there was hard and irregularly shaped, though slightly rounded—

“I’ll take that,” Gabriel said, slipping in and snagging the bag from Sam, preternaturally fast.

“We don’t even get to find out what it is?”

“It’s a pair of mittens,” Gabriel said, grinning at them, winking at Cas. Sam knew it gave him way too much pleasure to watch their jaws collectively drop. “I like to keep my fingers toasty.”

Dean unfroze first. “You...” He took a deep breath, restrained himself. “Change me back,” he said in a low, deadly voice. “Change me back right now.”

Gabriel let out a long sigh. “Fine. If that’s what you really, truly want.”

Snap.

Sam blinked and Dean was Dean again, was his brother again. Well, so much as his brother would ever be caught dead in a white lacy dress and a pair of strappy heels.

Dean patted himself down in relief, though scowled at the garment. “You couldn’t have changed my fucking clothes?”

“I thought you didn’t want me playing Fashion Plates,” Gabriel said with an oh-so-innocent shrug. “Anyway, I wouldn’t worry, you still totally have the legs for that dress.” Another snap and he was gone.

“We are never talking about today again,” Dean said, turning and fixing them both with a serious business stare. “I mean it. Never fucking happened.”

Total denial was harder to achieve, however, when they realized Gabriel had stranded them in a strange town with just the clothes on their backs—a particularly unpleasant situation for Dean, who kept clomping around and adjusting himself indiscreetly. They tried to find their way back to Gabriel’s bachelor pad, but it had disappeared. Sam did his best not to laugh when Dean stomped his heeled foot. “Sonofa—”

Wordlessly, Castiel offered him his coat. “Yeah, thanks,” Dean spat. “That really hides the fact that I’m wearing a fucking skirt.”

“Sturluson had a big-ass garage,” Sam recalled—he and it had unfortunately become intimately acquainted. “We might as well jack his car.”

The car was a fucking Hummer. Not a commercial Hummer: a military Hummer. “Who the hell was this guy?” Sam asked, as Dean got down to the business of hot-wiring it. Sam tried to ignore the fact that he was flashing them a little. The image of his brother wearing pink satin panties was one he needed to flush immediately from his brain.

“An asshole,” Dean said. He jerked at a handful of wires.

It took him longer than usual to get the car up and running, but it was worth it once Dean finally dropped into the driver’s seat and revved her up. He let out a whoop as they rocketed out onto the street. Sam tisked. “You’re gonna break the Impala’s heart.”

“Don’t worry, my baby understands. I may stray, but I’ll always come back to her and she knows it.”

“That’s adorable.” They lurched around a corner and Sam gripped the seat. “You sure you should be driving in those heels?”

“I can drive in anything, bitch.”

They had to stop a few miles outside of town in order to figure out where the fuck they were. Sam volunteered Castiel to go into the gas station to get information and a map. Castiel seemed thrilled.

As soon as they were alone, Sam turned to Dean. His brother was leaning over him, fiddling with the glove compartment’s latch. “Dean,” Sam said.

“What? I want to see if there’s anything good in there.”

“No, Dean—”

Dean cut him off with a sharp look. “What part of ‘never happened’ did you not understand?”

Sam bit his lip, then let it go. “All of it?”

Dean huffed.

“We can’t just not talk about things, Dean! I mean, how many times have we ignored stuff only to have it come back and bite us in the ass? We need to be honest with each other, man. We need to be honest with ourselves.”

Dean opened his mouth, a clear protest ready on his lips. Then suddenly he went still, his eyes widening, his shoulders falling slowly slack. He reached up a hand and with a painful lethargy, plucked the mic out of his ear.

“You heard everything,” Dean said.

Then he said, “It’s not what you—”

“Dean.” Sam wanted to touch him, but he was afraid. Dean looked so gun-shy, sitting in the driver’s seat of a military-grade vehicle, wearing a bloody white dress. “It’s okay. It’s okay—”

“Shut up.” Sam could barely hear him. “What do you know? Just shut up.”

“You’re my brother, okay? And I love you no matter—”

“Oh for fuck sake!” The volume was back on, and then some. Dean was loud and in his face. “You think I give a shit about this touchy-feely crap? Don’t tell me what’s okay and what isn’t okay. I know, all right? I know.”

Sam wanted to scream. He wanted to shake Dean, wanted to curse out all his macho crap, their dad, every stupid hunter lounging at the bar in every stupid hick town they’d ever driven through. Instead he sucked in a breath, clenched his fist against his thigh.

“You’re wrong,” Sam said.

They didn’t say another word until Castiel came back with directions.

---

Episode 6x03 / Masterpost / Episode 6x05

Comments

[ceitie.livejournal.com]

This chapter keeps going back and forth between funny and hurty, and the end is just painful and harsh. Oh, Dean. Sam's a good brother, though.