bodies of the righteous

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/55706119.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Categories: Gen, M/M
Fandom: Supernatural (TV 2005)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Bobby
Singer & Dean Winchester
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, John Winchester, Bobby Singer
(Supernatural), Castiel (Supernatural), Jack Kline
Additional Tags: Hurt Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester Whump, Dean Winchester-
centric, Abortion, Miscarriage, Blood and Gore, Blood, Bad Parent John
Winchester, Trans Dean Winchester, FTM Dean Winchester, Good
Sibling Sam Winchester, Body Image, Intimacy, Non-Sexual Intimacy,
Bisexual Dean Winchester, Underage Prostitution, Prostitution, Graphic
Description, Good Parent Bobby Singer (Supernatural), Hurt/Comfort,
Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Pain, pro-choice, Don't Like Don't
Read, Misgendering, Roe v. Wade, Rape/Non-con Elements, Underage
Rape/Non-con, Morning Sickness, Menstruation, complicated feelings,
Negative self-image, Healing, Politics, Acceptance, Self-Acceptance,
Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2024-05-05 Words: 4,843 Chapters: 1/1
 bodies of the righteous
by LilyElk13

Summary

The truth of the matter is this: Dean’s body has never, not ever, been his own.

His arms have never been anything other than a cradle for Sam as a baby, his body a trigger-
pulling mechanism, a plane for the Mark of Cain and Castiel’s handprint scar. Dean was
Michael’s vessel from before Dean was even the beginning of an idea. His body is nothing
but something for other people to paw at, grope, kiss.

Dean’s body has been a bargaining chip, a product, a perk.

OR

A study on trans!Dean's relationship with his body.

***TRIGGER WARNING***

This work contains an abortion and very graphic depictions of a miscarriage. Please read at
your own risk and make sure to keep yourselves safe!

Notes

***TRIGGER WARNING***

This work contains very graphic depictions of a miscarriage. Please read at your own risk and
make sure to keep yourselves safe!

This work also contains an abortion given to a 16-year-old. If this makes you uncomfortable
or you are not pro-choice, then this work is not for you.

---

I also must disclaim that I am a cis person, so my description of the trans experience is not
going to be wholly accurate! I do not pretend to know how it feels to be trans, however, I am
someone who can get pregnant, so I have a sense of and feelings about that.

See the end of the work for more notes

The truth of the matter is this: Dean’s body has never, not ever, been his own.

His arms have never been anything other than a cradle for Sam as a baby, his body a trigger-
pulling mechanism, a plane for the Mark of Cain and Castiel’s handprint scar. Dean was
Michael’s vessel from before Dean was even the beginning of an idea. His body is nothing
but something for other people to paw at, grope, kiss.

Dean’s body has been a bargaining chip, a product, a perk.

He wasn’t even born in a body that fit who he was. It wasn’t until Cas pulled him out of hell
and rebuilt him thread by thread, sinew by sinew, that he was at least shaped like a man, like
the man he always was on the inside. So yeah.

Dean’s body has never been his own.

1995

Dean gets an abortion when he’s sixteen years old.

Dean’s been lucky that he’s been pretty androgynous as he’s grown up. He’s lanky, tall,
skinny, with narrow hips and breasts small enough that he can bind them down and look
basically flat-chested. Dad doesn’t seem to give a fuck, Dean looks too much like Mary for
Dad to be upset that Dean’s trying to look more like a man than a woman. Most of the time
Dad’s either away on a hunt or too drunk to really pay attention to what Dean’s wearing,
anyway.

So Dean layers flannels and baggy jeans and thick canvas jackets over his frame. He keeps
his hair cropped to his head. He started calling himself “he” and “Dean” and “Sam’s brother”
before he even hit puberty. Sam had just shrugged and followed Dean’s lead. Dad still calls
him Deanna. Still calls him a girl.

Water off a duck’s back, Dean tells himself.

The day Dean knows it happened was when Dad had been gone for almost six weeks and
there was officially no money left for food. Dean tried calling him over and over again, but it
just went to voicemail. Dad texted him occasionally, nothing more than the letter X to tell
Dean he was still alive. That was it, though.

Sam had wanted to sleep over at his friend’s house that night, because they stayed in that
little town in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere long enough to actually make friends. Dean,
of course, had said yes immediately because it meant that Sam would get two full meals,
dinner and breakfast the next morning, and that Sam would be out of the house, so Dean
could go search for money elsewhere.

Dean had ended up, like he does so many nights, pressed flat to a motel mattress that smelled
like cigarettes and sweat, the big, crusty hand of whatever john he picked up gripping the
back of his neck hard enough to hurt.

$25 for a hand job, $50 for a blow job. That was the extent of Dean’s services. But that didn’t
matter, because who cares what Dean wants? Who cares when Dean’s not stronger than a
grown man just yet? Who cares?

The guy didn’t wrap it before he forcibly tapped it, is the point, nor did he even ask.

Dean lays there long after the john finishes, throws a couple of bills next to Dean’s face, and
slams the door on his way out like the iron bars of a cell. Dean thinks, absurdly, of his mother
saying that angels were watching over him. Where are they now? Dean’s brain supplies
bitterly as a tear slides down his cheek and onto the ugly motel duvet cover.

The guy left him a hundred bucks. It sits like an anvil in Dean’s pocket. It’s fine.
At least Dean knows exactly how much he’s worth now.

Another month or two later, Dad’s still fucking gone, and Dean officially misses his period.
He’s been able to get an after-school gig working the reception at the local mechanic’s office,
which combined with his other…supplementary income lets him and Sam eat most nights.
Dean has found another way to pay for the motel room that doesn’t involve cash.

But Dean was hopeful that his period would come eventually. It’s never been exactly regular,
so there was some hope, right? Then Sam catches him puking a few times, and there are only
so many excuses Dean can come up with. Both for Sam and himself.

Bad period cramps. Stomach bug. Drank too much last night, sorry.

Sam is twelve now, which means he’s both incredibly observant of everything and
completely oblivious to everything at the same time. He just shrugs and gets Dean a cup of
water from the tap.

Dad comes home.

“We’re leaving,” he says. Not snaps, just says, like he’s too tired to say anything more. “Get
your shit together and meet me in the car.”

“Dad,” Dean says. He’s shaky and pale and there’s a film of sweat across his forehead that he
wipes away before Dad can see. “Could we, like, stay here a few more days? I’m not feeling
good.” He needs to get a pregnancy test. Set up an appointment if he can find one. Too many
things to do.

“No, Deanna, I’ve already got another case. You’re both going to Bobby’s for a little bit.
C’mon, let’s go.”

Dean gets his stuff and gets in the car.

They stop at a fast food joint for breakfast an hour into the drive and an hour and a half into
the drive Dad has to pull over for Dean to puke his guts up onto the side of the highway.

“Jesus Christ,” Dad says when Dean tells him it’s the smell of the eggs in Sam’s breakfast
burrito that’s getting to him. “What is this, morning sickness? You better not be fucking
pregnant, Deanna, I swear to God.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. How stupid do you think I am?” Dean snaps, wiping his wrist across his
mouth again.

Dad doesn’t answer. Perhaps Dean should be grateful for that.

Shame burns at his cheeks, and he turns towards the window so Dad can’t see.

Bobby’s house is just like Dean remembered it, all clutter and old books and dark wood and
Bobby, who still smells like the cedar cologne he wears and old whiskey. Bobby, who wraps
Dean in a tight hug that nearly makes Dean burst into tears. Bobby, who takes them both
inside with gentle hands on their backs as John peals out of the salvage yard’s lot.

“Dean’s sick,” Sam announces as soon as they’re inside.

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean growls. But really, why do they call it morning sickness when it’s
actually all-day sickness? Dean’s miserable.

Bobby doesn’t pry, just sends them upstairs and says they have free reign until dinnertime.

Dean asks to take one of the old cars out. Bobby just tosses him the keys.
So Dean drives directly to the Gas ‘n’ Sip outside of town and buys the dreaded pregnancy
test. The girl at the counter is short and stocky, with a kind, lopsided smile and choppy bangs
that hang over her eyes. She rings Dean up as he fidgets in front of her, hands playing with
the rings on his fingers.

She pops her gum. “I hope you get the result you’re wanting,” she says, and Dean winces.
She hands him the test and a bar of chocolate that Dean certainly didn’t pay for.

“Bathrooms are down that aisle to the left,” she supplies, then goes back to her magazine.

Dean whispers his thanks.

Dean already knew what the result was going to be. Doesn’t make it any less devastating
when those two lines pop up. He chucks the test in the trash.

Dean buys a map from the cashier, finds the nearest Planned Parenthood, and drives directly
there.

It’ll be expensive. More expensive than Dean can afford right now, but he can make the
money. He can do it. He schedules an appointment with the nurse at the front desk and heads
back to Bobby’s.

“What did you get up to this afternoon?” Bobby asks when Dean walks in. Dean holds up the
chocolate bar.

“Just drove around. Got some candy. Just needed some alone time.”

Bobby nods and goes back to his book.

“Bobby?” Dean asks, and then immediately slams his mouth shut.
“Hmm?” Bobby flips a page.

“Where’s Sam?’

“Upstairs napping, I think. Or reading.”

Dean presses a hand to his lower stomach. He’s not showing yet, he wouldn’t for a long while
if he was actually going to go through with the pregnancy. But Dean’s still nauseous, his
boobs are way bigger than they usually are, swollen and tender under the bandages he uses
for binding, and he feels like he’s about to lose his fucking mind.

Dean doesn’t want to tell Bobby. He doesn’t want to tell anyone, actually. But he… he needs
help. Bobby can help. Bobby will help, Dean knows that much. Bobby, who blushed when he
told Dean that he had bought pads and tampons and they were in the upstairs linen cabinet if
Dean ever needed them. Bobby, who still had done that for Dean even if he was
uncomfortable with it.

Dad had tossed a twenty at a thirteen-year-old Dean who was bleeding for the first time and
told him to “deal with that shit yourself”.

Yeah, Bobby will help.

“Bobby?” Dean asks again. This time, Bobby actually does look up from his book.

“What’s goin’ on, boy?”

Dean swallows hard. Tears prick into his eyes, and Dean mutters, “ Shit ,” hurrying to cover
his face with his hands.
Suddenly, Bobby is right in front of him, his hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“Hey, what’s goin’ on with you?” Bobby asks again.

Dean sucks in a sharp breath.

“I… I need help,” he admits. “I’m in trouble, and I don’t know what to do, and I need your
help.”

He’s practically begging at this point, but he refuses to care.

“Okay,” Bobby’s saying. “Okay, you know you can tell me anything, kid.”

“Sam can never know. My dad can’t either, I’m fucking serious,” he insists.

“Okay,” Bobby placates again. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.”

Dean’s breath shudders on the way out. He feels raw, like his skin has been turned inside out.

“I’m… I’m pregnant,” he whispers, clenching his jaw and refusing to make eye contact.

Bobby’s eyes widen.

“Jesus, Dean.” He takes off his baseball cap and runs a hand over his head. “Jesus.”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut.

“What were you thinking, boy?” Bobby sinks down onto the couch, tapping his cap on his
thigh absently.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Dean snarls. “I didn’t fucking ask for it,” he seethes.

He meant that he didn’t ask to get knocked up, but Dean realizes his mistake and the way that
sentence could also be taken the second he sees Bobby freeze. He didn’t mean it that way, but
it also isn’t untrue.

“Dean-”

“ Don’t. It’s fine. I’m fine. It doesn’t matter.”

“Obviously it matters!”

“Stop!” Dean snaps, forcing his voice to stay low so Sam doesn’t hear.

Bobby stays silent.

Dean flops down next to him on the couch.

“I made an appointment to get rid of it,” he murmurs. “I just need someone to drive me home
after.”

Bobby sighs. He puts his arm around Dean’s shoulders and drags him to his side. Dean goes
willingly, pressing his nose into Bobby’s chest.
“I’ll take care of it, boy. I’ll pay for it, getcha driven there and back. Don'tchu worry about it,
okay?”

“Thank you,” Dean sighs.

Bobby rubs up and down his arm. “Bet you’ve been feelin’ pretty crummy, now, huh?”

Dean nods into Bobby’s flannel. “I can’t even see eggs without yakking.”

Bobby’s chest stutters with a little laugh. He squeezes Dean lightly.

Dean furiously scrubs at the tears making their way down his face. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s all those hormones, I bet. Don’t worry, I won’t tell Sam you’re actin’ like
a sissy.”

Dean punches Bobby’s chest weakly.

So Bobby takes Dean to his appointment on a Tuesday afternoon when Sam is in school and
waits in the lobby.

Dean lets himself cry through the entire procedure. Even though he’s sedated somewhat, it’s
scary and really fucking uncomfortable. The kind nurse with frizzy grey hair holds his hand
through the whole thing, her other hand carding through his hair gently.

She makes him talk about school and his hobbies and you have a little brother? What’s he
like, sweetie?
When it’s over, they give him some industrial-strength Tylenol for the cramps and industrial-
sized maxi pads for the bleeding and send Bobby in to collect him.

Bobby rubs his hand over Dean’s forehead soothingly.

“Hey, boy. Ready to get outta here?”

Dean nods miserably.

“He did fantastic,” the kind nurse says as she gets Dean positioned to get out of bed. Dean’s
embarrassed that he can’t remember her name. “He was a real trooper.”

She squeezes Dean’s shoulder one last time as she helps him sit up.

Dean sits in the passenger seat of Bobby’s car with his head leaning up against the sun-
warmed window.

They never talk about it again.

2006

Dean didn’t even know that he was pregnant again until he was sitting in the bathtub bleeding
so heavily that he had half a mind to get Sam to take him to the hospital.

He knows what this is. The cramps, the bleeding, the compulsive need to bear down like he
would imagine being in labor is like. His back aches and aches and aches. Dean strips out of
his blood-soaked shirt (because somehow blood got all over his shirt, there’s blood fucking
everywhere ), wriggles his way out of his binder, and gingerly rolls over to his hands and
knees. He leaves his boxers on, even though they’re fucking drenched, because for some
reason it’s too vulnerable, too real, if he does this naked. He rocks backward and forward on
his knees, his head hanging towards his chest.

It shouldn’t even be possible since Dean’s been on testosterone for a while. But here he is.

God, he’s tired. And a little dizzy from the blood loss. Of course, there was no way that he
could have ever had a baby at this point in his life. There’s too much crazy shit happening
and there’s not really an end in sight. Dean also would make a shitty dad and he doesn’t even
know if he even wants kids someday. Still, there’s something about this happening to him and
not being something that he chose to make happen that leaves a heavy stain of sadness over
him. Again, it’s not like he wouldn’t have ended the pregnancy if he had known about it. But
still. Dean is… kind of sad.

A particularly sharp cramp rolls down his back and around to his abs and uterine muscles,
and Dean can’t force back the groan that tears out of his chest. He spreads his knees a little
bit and rocks side to side, feeling more slick blood slide out of him. It’s so fucking gross, but
Dean can’t really do anything about it at this point.

There’s a soft knock on the motel bathroom door, and Dean freezes.

“Dean? Y’alright in there? You’ve been in there for, like, an hour now. You okay?”

“M’fine, Sam,” Dean calls out, biting his lip so hard that he knows it’ll bruise.

“Are you sick?”

“No! No, I’m fine. Don’t come in,” Dean practically pleads. He suddenly feels the need to
cover his chest, even though Sam’s not even in the bathroom yet and also Sam wouldn’t even
care. They see each other shirtless all the time, that’s part of practically living in each other’s
back pockets 24/7.
Anyways, Sam’s got enough to deal with right now. He’s still quiet, so quiet, after the whole
Madison incident a few weeks ago. Dean can’t bother him with this. He can’t.

“Dean,” Sam murmurs again, clearly a little exasperated. The doorknob turns.

“Please don’t,” Dean whimpers, gritting his teeth against another contraction.

Sam opens the door, just like Dean knows he was going to. Dean squeezes his eyes shut so he
doesn’t have to see Sam’s expression at the horror show Dean’s putting on right now.

“Oh my God . Oh my God, Dean, oh my- okay, Jesus, okay,” Sam’s babbling, crashing to his
knees next to the tub. “What happened? Where are you hurt?”

“It’s fucking fine Sam, it’s just a bad period.”

“Wh- Dean this is not- you don’t even really get your period anymore, what the hell-”

Sam reaches out to touch Dean’s heaving back, but Dean shies away. He fucking slips in the
blood, though, and slumps down hard onto his hip with his back resting against the far wall
of the tub.

“Oh my God,” Sam says again. “Oh my God. We need to go to a hospital.”

“No! No, Sam, please,” Dean begs, levering himself up slightly and screwing up his face in
response to the pain that the shift causes. “It’ll be fine, I just have to wait it out.”

Sam splutters, his hazel eyes huge and bright with fear, but also with slowly dawning
realization. “Dean… Dean, are y- are you…having a miscarriage right now? Is that what’s
happening?”
Dean covers his face with his bloody hands and sobs.

“Oh my God,” Sam says again. Seems to be his catchphrase for the night.

And then Sam’s stripping off the hoodie he went to bed in, revealing his tattered old sleep
shirt, and then he’s fucking climbing into the tub with Dean.

“No, the blood…,” Dean tries to protest as Sam gets all of his ridiculous limbs in order
without banging something on the faucet and settles down next to Dean. The tub is nowhere
near big enough for two grown men, much less two men of their stature, but Sam folds
himself up and sits right down in the puddle of gore, wrapping his arm around Dean’s back
and pulling him in.

“The blood,” Dean protests again, weakly, face smooshed into Sam’s chest. When did Sam
get this big and solid, anyway?

“Dean, I don’t give a fuck about that right now. I give a fuck about you. ”

Dean blinks at Sam’s language. He doesn’t have the potty mouth that Dean does, so when he
curses, he means it.

Sam rubs Dean’s back as Dean lets his head hang between his knees, hunching over in pain.
He can tell the blood is slowing down a little bit, though. But Dean just hurts and hurts and
hurts, in every sense of the word.

He can tell Sam wants to ask why didn’t Dean come get him, but Sam holds his tongue. For
this, Dean is grateful. So Dean just leans against his little brother’s chest and tries to breathe.

Sam holds him all through the night.

They never talk about it again.

—

2022

Sam is pacing the length of the bunker’s kitchen, back and forth, back and forth. Dean’s
sitting at the table, hunched over a cup of coffee and for once, listening pretty intently to
Sam.

“I mean, it’s just ridiculous!” Sam’s saying. “Fifty-some years and they just overturn it? It’s
bullshit! Do these men not have mothers? Sisters? Daughters? It’s bullshit.”

“I’m right there with you,” Dean responds. He can’t get pregnant anymore, doesn’t have the
parts thanks to Cas, but still. It’s terrifying what’s going on in America right now. Dean
remembers, starkly, the grip of the nurse that held his hand when he was sixteen. Remembers
Sam holding him while he bled all over the motel bathroom. If they criminalize abortion, and
they’re trying to, they’re also going to blame the people who miscarry and arrest them for
murder. Dean can’t imagine going through what he did at twenty-seven with the threat of
prison on top of everything else.

Cas comes into the kitchen then, Jack in tow.

“What are we discussing?” Cas asks, tilting his head to the side.

“Roe v. Wade got overturned,” Sam says.

Jack also tilts his head in a way that’s so incredibly Cas-like that Dean can’t help but smile.

“I admit that I’m not familiar with that term,” Cas says, sitting next to Dean at the table.
“What is it?”
“It was a court case in the 70s that made abortion legal under federal law, so all over the
country,” Dean explains, rubbing the handle of his coffee mug. They overturned it and now
it’s up to the states, and some of them are trying to ban and even criminalize it. Miscarriage
too.”

“What?” Cas gapes. “Miscarriage is not the fault of the pregnant person. They would have
people put in prison for that?”

Dean nods into his coffee mug, the muscle in his jaw twitching as he clenches it.

“What do those words mean?” Jack asks suddenly. “Abortion and miscarriage? I’ve never
heard them before.”

Everyone looks at Dean, who sighs and sets his mug down. “So just because I used to have
the lady parts, I gotta explain it, huh.”

Sam shrugs, sheepish.

“Well, Jack,” Dean starts, trying to gather his thoughts and explain as best as he can. “You
know how your mom was pregnant with you? You know how that works?”

Jack nods.

“So when someone is pregnant and they decide they’re not ready for a baby, or the baby isn’t
going to survive, really any reason, they can choose to end the pregnancy. That’s called an
abortion.”

“So they… doesn’t that mean they kill the baby?”

“No. No… I mean, some people try to argue that, but the baby can’t even survive outside of
the womb until after 20-some weeks into the pregnancy. Besides, most abortions are done
really early when the baby isn’t really anything more than a clump of cells.”

Jack nods again.

“And, um. A miscarriage is when you lose the baby early on in the pregnancy… and your
body basically flushes it out. It’s not anyone’s fault, sometimes it just happens. So it’s really
scary that the government is trying to put people in prison for having one.”

Dean swallows hard and refuses to make eye contact with Sam. Of all the things he could
certainly be put in prison for, there’s something so dehumanizing about having his
miscarriage on that list.

“It’s all about controlling women, really, since they’re the main group that gets pregnant,”
Sam takes over. “There’s a bunch of old white men in office that are making these decisions
without asking the people who can actually get pregnant. They want control over women’s
bodies. It’s all about power.”

“That’s stupid,” Jack announces.

Dean huffs a laugh. “I know, kiddo.”

Sam settles at the table with Jack. “I know it doesn’t really directly affect us, but it’s still
important to support the right to choose. Even though none of us can get pregnant or have
had an abortion,” he explains.

Dean chokes. “I, uh. I have.”

Sam stops. “What?”

“I have. Had an abortion, that is.”

Cas’s eyes bore into the side of Dean’s head.

“What?” Sam says again. “I mean, no judgment, but- but…”

“You were twelve,” Dean says, fiddling with his mug again. “Bobby and I hid it from you
really well. Never talked about it again, really.”

He refuses to meet the eyes of anyone at the table.

There’s silence for a long while.

“Well,” Sam says finally. “I’m glad you had Bobby. I’m glad you didn’t have to do it alone.”

“Yeah,” Dean huffs, looking down at his empty cup.

Cas hooks his finger in Dean’s belt loop, just saying, I’m here.

Dean is grateful.

That night, Dean sprawls out on his bed, his hand rubbing over his lower stomach absently.

Cas materializes next to the bed. Even though he rarely teleports anymore, he still has that
uncanny ability to sneak up on people. Dean’s used to it by now, even if it still makes him
jump a little bit.

“Hey, Cas.”
“Hello, Dean.”

Cas settles on the bed next to Dean’s hip and hooks his fingers in Dean’s belt loop again
where his shirt has ridden up.

“Does it bother you?” Dean asks. He lazily puts his hand on Cas’s knee.

“Does what bother me?”

“That I’ve had an abortion.”

“Why would that bother me?”

Dean shrugs, sliding his hand over Cas’s where it’s playing with the waistband of his jeans.
Cas starts tracing the stitching on Dean’s worn leather belt with those long artist’s fingers.

“Does it bother you ?” Cas questions.

Dean shrugs again. “Dunno. It’s weird to think about. I don’t regret it. But it’s weird.”

Cas nods. They’re silent for a short while, just listening to each other breathe.

“Does it bother you that I rebuilt you in this way?” Cas murmurs.

“What, with a male body?"

“Mmhm.”

“No, Cas, no, it was a gift. Really. Thank you.”

Cas nods.

Dean rolls his head on the pillow away from Cas. “It’s been strange to see my body change,
though, you know? See it age. It’s not the body I thought I would get old with. I look at it
now and I know it’s mine, it’s me, but… I dunno, being able to get pregnant was always
something in the back of my mind, and now I don’t have to think about it. But I still think
about it.”

Cas lets go of Dean’s belt and spreads his hand flat over Dean’s belly, the tips of his fingers
tucked under the hem of Dean’s shirt. Dean’s breath hitches.

“You would have done a great job carrying a baby, should you have chosen that. You are a
great father to Jack as well, despite your initial issues with him.”

Dean smiles, lopsided.

“Thanks, buddy.”

Cas gives Dean one of his rare full smiles back, all gums and white teeth.

“For the record,” Cas starts. “I have also rejoiced in watching you age. And myself, now that
I allow my own body to do so.”

Dean scoffs. “You like watching me get squishy and wrinkly?”

“Very much so. I greatly enjoy watching you allow yourself a modicum of softness. It suits
you very well.” Cas smiles again, rubbing that very softness on Dean’s stomach where, years
ago, he used to have defined abs.

Dean looks away again in an effort to hide his blush.

“You deserve to be soft,” Cas continues. He bends over then, pressing his lips to the soft area
just under Dean’s belly button. Dean shudders, one hand going to Cas’s shoulder and the
other cupping the back of Cas’s head.

“You deserve to be comfortable in this body, even if it serves no purpose other than housing
your soul.” Another kiss.

How does Cas always know exactly what Dean is thinking? That Dean's body never belonged
to him, it was a bargaining chip, a product, a perk? A vessel for an archangel. A vessel to
grow a new human. Never just Dean’s. If he couldn't use it to get something, use it for
someone else's benefit, then what was the point of having it?

Now, Dean’s body is just that: Dean’s body. He can just exist in it.

Cas rests his cheek on Dean’s belly and looks up to make eye contact. Dean cards his fingers
through Cas’s dark, messy hair.

Dean smiles down at him.

Cas shimmies his way up Dean’s body to lay down next to him, pressing his lips to Dean’s
chest, his jaw where he’s also gotten a little softer over the years, his cheeks, his forehead.

“You spoil me,” Dean absolutely does not whine.

“I treat you how you deserve to be treated,” Cas insists, resting his forehead against Dean’s
temple and slipping his hand up Dean’s shirt again to rest hot and steady on Dean’s sternum.

Dean huffs, curling up against Cas’s body.

Tucked together like parentheses.

Dean’s learning how to let the overcompensating masculinity go, the inability to accept
affection, to be gentle, to be soft.

His body is his own, just like Cas’s is his own now. Dean figures that if anyone knows what
he’s feeling, it would be Cas, whose real body is nothing like the one Dean’s holding right
now. But he’s learned to be okay in it. They kind of went in opposite directions, Dean
supposes. Dean from a body that didn’t fit him into one that does, and Cas from a body that
fit him into one that doesn’t. Or, at least, it didn’t used to.

“Are you comfortable in this body?” Dean asks, rubbing the skin below Cas’s ear, green eyes
searching blue.

“I am now,” Cas responds after a quick pause. “It took me a while. But this is my body now,
just as yours is yours.”

Dean nods.

“I’m glad.”

“Me too,” Cas whispers.

They’re still learning to exist in their physical forms, a skill that, Dean thinks, one can never
actually accomplish.
That doesn’t matter, though, because Dean’s body is his own, and no one else’s.

No one else’s.
End Notes

FYI DON'T BIND WITH ACE BANDAGES LIKE DEAN DOES! It's not safe!

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