A temporary witch's curse has the Winchester brothers swapping bodies. It sucks, but they're handling it. As long as they keep their hands to themselves and Dean quit eyeing the damn scissors with that evil gleam in his eye...
Unfortunately for Sam, he discovers something about Dean and Cas. | 13.7K words | Last chapter is really NSFW and is rated RED |


2. Chapter 1


Chapter 1


Sam closes the motel room door, not even bothering to wait for Dean. He's pretty sure his brother needs a moment alone anyway, and he's happy to let him take his time getting their bags from the trunk. He looks around, mouth pulled down slightly at the corners as he looks around the room. It's pretty much like any other crappy motel room they've ever been in, but this one's mauve and taupe color scheme kinda sets it apart from most.

He eyes the carpet; at least it was clean enough, he didn't think he'd have to worry about boiling his feet if he kicks off his shoes.

Well, Dean's shoes.


He pauses in front of the gaudy mirror, ignoring the plastic flamingos dancing around the frame and stares at his reflection. He pokes at his face; it's weird to see Dean's face from this perspective. He turns his head a little to the left, then right, eyes roaming the familiar-yet-not face. He sighs, shoulders slumping. He'd told Dean not to threaten that freakin' witch. (He's lost track of how many times he's told Dean that, actually.) They should just gank and go.

But no - Dean had to taunt her. Add in his cheesy one-liners interspersed with put-downs and verbal pokes. Dean did eventually go in for the kill, apparently growing bored of the game when the witch just glared, looking bored and unimpressed, and finally got on with it. But there was a long enough hesitation which led to powder being thrown in their faces, followed by quickly chanted Latin and then a freakin' Wicked Witch of the West-worthy cackle.

By the time the powder cleared enough they could see, the witch was no where in sight.

And then he'd been looking at himself. Talk about a mind-fuck. And kinda awkward, in all honesty. He'd had to look up at 'himself' - just a little, but enough to completely throw him and make him want to panic and hit something (something Dean-shaped as usual, but that would be him this time so he'd refrained). From the new perspective he realized he'd misbuttoned his flannel that day and his fly was down. He was too freaked out to think how surreal it was about the sort of weird shit a brain focuses on when on the verge of panic...

Dean had taken the revelation with his usual Winchester stoicism; he'd screamed like a little girl and took off in a sprint, waving his gun and yelling for that Elphaba-wanna-be bitch to get her green ass out there and change them back.

Of course, nothing of the sort happened and here they were. Wearing each other like some cheesy movie.

Or maybe a horror movie. The jury is still out on that...

He stares at his brother's face wearing his scowl of annoyance. He shifts awkwardly, reminded that Dean wore completely different underwear than he did. How did his brother put up with the constricting feeling? (There's a tiny, fucked-up part of his brain that's relieved it's not freakin' lacy panties or something.) He doesn't adjust himself, though, because they made a promise to the other to keep their hands to themselves unless absolutely necessary (because - weird). He then promised that he'd leave Dean's ever-so-manly nails manicure free (how did he not notice his brother's habit of biting them?) if Dean quit eyeing the damn scissors (or anything sharp) with that evil gleam in his eye.

And not to tell anyone what happened.

It was temporary and neither of them saw a reason to freak anyone else out with the weirdness. He'd almost called Bobby, but Dean, the colossal jerk, had freaked out and slapped his cell phone out of his hand before he could even dial. After he scowled and retrieved his phone from the floor of the backseat, he'd calmed down and managed to find a book in the Impala's trunk that helped (not-so-subtly gloating and enjoying rubbing Dean's face in the fact that keeping books, as well as weapons, in the trunk was a good idea.)

It worked out for the best anyway since he had no idea how he'd phrase the questions they had that wouldn't let Bobby know what was going on. Or ask awkward questions in return. Bobby ain't an idiot and he knows the older man would've been asking lots of things before he could think of a good lie. And he hates lying to Bobby, so not calling was just for the best over-all.

Sam looks around the room again, sighing softly as he flops into the rickety chair by the scarred wooden table in the 'eat in' kitchenette. He runs a hand through his hair, dropping his hand with an irritated huff when his fingers only encounter Dean's short hair instead of running his fingers through his beloved long, silky strands. He hasn't realized how much the habit soothes him when his knees start to bounce with agitation.

He stops the movement with a hand on his knee, tucks his hands in his arm pits so he won't play with his cuticles and forces himself to focus on anything but the oddity that is being in his brother's body. He can't, of course, and in seconds he's wiggling his knees and gnawing on the side of his thumb.

Near as they could figure, the hex is temporary and would be over by the new moon. They'd compared notes on the powder (both gagging when they found out what was in it) and the words chanted and found the answers easily enough. Dean was reading over his shoulder and they'd both exhaled with a loud "thank god" as they found the important part: they only had to endure being in the other's skin for a little over 36 hours.

True, they'd had to suffer through worse things, but this... This is a new level of fucked-up-ness - even for them.

Sam's fingers tap on his knees as he thinks. He gets up, needing to move, and looks out the window. He twitches the flimsy curtain aside, spying Dean leaning against the driver's door of the Impala, arms crossed and shoulders tucked in. It's weird to see Dean's pensive expression on his face. And even weirder to see Dean thinking so damn hard... He's tempted to go out there, see if Dean wants to talk. Or go get a beer. Or do something besides pace around the too-pink motel room and watch his brother brood.

He doesn't, though. He knows Dean well enough to know he needs some alone time to process. And adding alcohol into the equation seems like a really bad idea.

Sam is just about to flop back into his chair when something crashes into him, making him stumble. His arms pinwheel twice before they're pinned to his sides by a strong force. Panic and surprise flair through him in hot dizzying spikes. He considers calling out for Dean - the walls are flimsy; his brother should hear him from outside, right? - but any sound he might've made is cut off. Muffled and swallowed by... a mouth? His eyes open and it takes longer than he'd like to admit to realize he's looking at Castiel. Cas is close enough he could probably count every single one of his damn eyelashes.

He blinks a few times, brain coming back on-line to the realization that he's being freakin' kissed - passionately, hungrily, and with enough force to mash his lips against his teeth. His squeak of shock is muffled when he's manhandled and moved easily until his back is pressed against the nearest wall. He's not sure how long he's acquainted with a Castiel shaped octopus, but it's disconcerting. A sudden armful (and, ah jeez, mouthful) of horny angel isn't something he's ever encountered before.

The pressure on his upper arms lessens and moves down his arms and he realizes those are Cas' hands. Before he can make use of the freedom, the hands stop at his hips, squeezing and pulling a little so he's closer to Castiel's body. Really really close to Cas' body. The grip shifts so somehow Cas is able to squeeze at his hips and fondle his ass at the same time. He's manhandled some more, and - oh, god; he's pretty sure he's feeling something pressing against his hip... And a tongue pressing against his lips.

Sam's entire body goes stiff when there's a gravely-voice moan vibrating against his chest (and against his mouth, for fuck's sake) and manly hands are bad-touching him. Everywhere.

He's stunned. Shocked immobile. Even though he really probably shouldn't be. It's not like he hadn't ever seen the way Dean and Cas behaved around each other - pretty much from the get-go, but more so the past year or so. Cas' more frequent visits. The standing too close, Dean not even bothering to chastise the angel about personal boundaries. The uncomfortable-for-everyone-else staring (or blatant eye-fucking, more accurately) was just the tip of the "oh my god, my brother's screwing an angel" iceberg, apparently.

So yeah, he shouldn't be surprised to find out Cas ambushes Dean with groping and make-out sessions, but he honestly can say he never wanted to've found out this way.

It takes Castiel a few moments to register Dean's tense body and complete lack of participation. Very curious; he had thought Dean was over his self labeled 'big gay freak out' months ago. Their encounters recently held no hesitation and Dean's full enjoyment and participation. He eases away from the hunter, their lips making a pleasant wet sound as they separate.

He frowns slightly when Dean makes no glib comment about it. There's no warm smile (or even a pleased smirk.) The blush and averted eyes are also a little worrisome. He looks toward the door for only a moment, he's sure that Sam is outside and in no danger of catching them. He looks back at Dean, growing more confused the longer Dean avoids looking at him. When Dean raises a hand to wipe at slightly-plumper lips, removing saliva left there, instead of just licking as usual, he's concerned.


Sam looks at Castiel's concerned expression, lost for words and panicking on the inside like a whore in church. He and Dean had promised not to tell anyone about the Freaky Friday thing, but he's damn sure Dean hadn't considered this - Castiel; his angelic lover poppin' by for some afternoon delight - when he'd brought it up, the big fuckin' jerk.

And that leaves Sam in a hell of a pickle. Break his promise to Dean and spill everything to the now squinting angel. Or go along with this and hope he doesn't fuck things up between Dean and Castiel. He so doesn't want to touch Cas anymore than he has. He's not exactly opposed to some man-on-man action or anything but this is Cas, Dean's angel and therefore a total no-no zone. Dean got pissy with him when he borrowed his mouthwash or gun oil, for fuck's sake...

He idly wonders if guys can use the headache excuse to get out of sex. He'd probably be the first, ever, to attempt it.

Sam groans softly, wanting to cover his face with his hands and just... scream or cry or something. Oh god. He's so totally gonna ream Dean (ugh, ew) for not telling him about the whole 'secretly screwing Cas' thing. He probably still would've been taken by surprise, but at least he'd have a little forewarning. He's irritated enough about the whole mess that he doesn't immediately notice Castiel is gently cupping his (uh, Dean's) face in his hands, thumbs gently stroking his borrowed, freckled cheeks as two blue eyes try to laser into his brain.

He's too shocked to react, keeping himself stiff and not at all tempted to relax into the touch. He's almost too distracted, wondering how the hell Dean stands being looked at like that all the time, to think the gentle caress is weird; totally in-congruent to what he thinks he knows about Dean. And Cas. Especially Dean and Cas, together together. Not that he's imagined it, but he totally didn't think they'd be all mushy and shit like this.

He knows he's freaking Cas out but he has no clue what to do next - what to even freakin' say. He glances at Cas through his lashes, mouth pulling down in a slight frown and his brows furrowing as he thinks. Castiel's hands tighten against his cheeks before they drop from his face and the angel takes two steps back. Sam nearly falls forward with the sudden movement, surprised to realize he'd been practically held up by the angel.

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