CHAPTER 1
--- A short sequel to Ordinary ---
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Wife!Reader
Rating: Mature
Word count: 7.5 k
Summary: A small blood spell was supposed to be harmless. By morning, you’re in Dean’s body, Dean is in yours, and the two of you are stuck navigating a magical disaster that is absurd, inconvenient, and way too personal.
MASTERLIST
Tags: body swap, blood magic, Plus-Size reader, Smut, Sex, POV Dean Winchester, POV alternating, POV second person, married!Dean, No use of y/n
A/N: Alright, here we go. I decided to make this a multi-chapter story after all. Not a long one, though. Four or five chapters at most. I just had too many ideas in my head to keep it to a one-shot.
Also, I finished this during a pretty exhausting work week, so be gentle with me.
And as always, I’d really love to hear what you think if you feel like sharing. Writing it is fun, but posting it here and knowing other people are enjoying it too makes it even better.
The hunt had been a success. The runes you’d talked the guys into tattooing had done exactly what they were supposed to do. The ghost had tried to jump Dean, hit the protection on him, and got thrown right off. Unfortunately, it decided to let the frustration out on you instead.
You were setting plates and napkins out on the library table when your side reminded you, once again, that getting thrown into a wall was not, in fact, something you could just walk off.
It hurt like hell. A deep, ugly ache all along your ribs and hip, flaring every time you reached too far or twisted the wrong way.
You ignored it.
Because the last thing you wanted right now was your husband noticing. Dean had already gone full berserker back on the hunt the second that ghost sent you flying. For one crazy minute there, watching him tear after it with that look on his face, you’d honestly thought he might never let you leave the bunker again.
But once the ghost was ash, once you’d told him three separate times that you were fine, he hadn’t done the safety lecture thing. No angry pacing, no hovering speech. Just that hard, shaken look in his eyes that he clearly didn’t want to put into words to avoid arguing.
Which was exactly why you were keeping your mouth shut now.
You adjusted the stack of napkins, then bent to straighten one of the plates when footsteps sounded behind you.
Sam came in carrying two giant pizza boxes, a six-pack tucked under one arm. He dropped the boxes onto the table, popped two beers free, shoved the rest into the mini fridge by the library entrance, then turned and handed one to you.
He lifted his bottle toward yours.
‘No, but seriously,’ he said. ‘Good job out there.’
You scoffed and clinked his beer with yours before taking a sip.
‘Yeah, sure,’ you muttered. ‘I’m out of practice. It’s been a while since I joined you guys on a hunt.’ You shrugged one shoulder. ‘Got a little too comfy in my lab.’
Sam stretched out into one of the chairs with a low groan, long legs kicking under the table. He took a swallow of beer and pointed the bottle vaguely in your direction.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I guess you’ll be coming with us a lot more often now, since my brother can’t seem to go a single day without you.’
A little warmth crept into your face.
‘Nah,’ you laughed. ‘He’s just riding the newlywed high.’ You shook your head and reached for your own chair. ‘Give him time. He’ll be happy to get a break in no time.’
Sam gave you a look over the rim of his beer.
‘Hey,’ he said, ‘I spent years on the road with Dean. And if I learned one thing, it’s that he doesn’t get tired of people he really cares about.’
You knew that. Of course you did. You smiled at him, softer now, and lowered yourself carefully into the chair across from him, trying not to let the ache in your side show on your face.
‘Especially,’ Sam added after another sip, smirking now, ‘the ones he can make out with all the time.’
You felt the blush deepen at once. ‘Sorry, Sam,’ you said, ducking your head toward your bottle. ‘I guess we’ve been kind of insufferable lately, haven’t we?’
‘Nah. Have at it. You earned it.’ He shrugged with a smile. ‘I’m just glad you’re happy.’
Your face softened again.
‘Thanks,’ you said quietly and took another sip of beer, letting the moment settle for a second.
Sam looked at the pizza boxes, then toward the war room, and back at the boxes.
‘Alright,’ he muttered, hand moving to his stomach, ‘I’m starving. What is taking him so long?’
‘No idea,’ you said, honestly. ‘He just said he needed to take care of something, and I didn’t have the energy to ask anymore.’
Sam sighed dramatically and was obviously about to complain more when the bunker door creaked open overhead.
A second later came the heavy thud of boots on the metal stairs.
You looked up automatically.
‘Finally,’ Sam said, already rolling his eyes. He threw both hands up as Dean came into view. ‘Dude, what was so important you needed to do it immediately after we got back?’
Dean walked in looking tired, clearly, but he was grinning too hard for it to mean anything bad. That grin got wider the second he saw you.
He held up his left hand, fingers spread.
‘Officially married again!’ he announced.
You couldn’t help smiling as he crossed to you first, leaned down, and pressed a quick kiss to your mouth before dropping into the chair beside you.
‘It’s done already?’ you asked, surprised.
Dean flipped open one of the pizza boxes and immediately grabbed a slice. ‘Yep,’ he said around a big bite.
Sam reached in at the same time and stole two huge pieces for himself.
You turned in your chair toward Dean, curious now.
‘Wow. It’s been what, a week?’ you said. Then you reached for his hand. ‘Lemme see.’
Dean let you take it without protest, still chewing.
And there it was.
On the plain silver band, set neatly into the metal, a small red stone. Tempered glass with a drop of your blood caught inside it.
Your smile came slower that time. You ran your thumb over the ring, then brought your own hand up next to his. Your engagement ring with Dean’s blood, the thin silver wedding band beside it. His blood on your hand. Yours on his.
You tilted both a little in the light.
‘Looks good,’ you murmured.
Dean just smiled around his pizza. ‘Mhm.’
You pressed a quick kiss to his knuckles before letting his hand go.
‘I know you guys find it weird,’ you grinned, reaching for your own slice, ‘but it’s so cool that we’re carrying each other’s blood around now.’
Sam made a face over his pizza.
Dean, naturally, took that as an opening.
‘Yeah,’ he said, winking at you, ‘it’s like my third favorite bodily fluid to share with you.’
Sam winced immediately. ‘Ugh, Dean, come on. I’m eating.’
You had to bite your lip to keep from laughing out loud. Dean just smirked and took another bite.
You shook your head, still smiling, then decided to steer things back toward normal conversation.
‘Anyway,’ you said, glancing at Dean, ‘after we rest a little, would you be willing to try a spell with me? In the lab?’
Dean paused mid-chew and frowned at you. ‘What kind of spell?’
‘Nothing big,’ you said quickly. ‘I just need to see if a certain sigil reacts to a certain incantation.’ You shrugged. ‘On a small scale. The big-scale version could maybe help us with getting back to my original reality.’
That got Sam’s attention fast.
‘You’re already working on that?’ he asked between bites.
‘Just theories,’ you said. ‘I was on the right track before. Then I stopped for a while.’ You took a sip of beer. ‘I want to get back to it.’
Dean swallowed and shrugged once.
‘Sure,’ he said. Then he frowned again. ‘But what do you need me for?’
‘You’re my anchor, remember?’ you said. ‘My great-grandfather said I’ll need you for this to work.’
Dean seemed to think about that for a second. Then he took another bite. ‘Yeah, okay.’
Then he stopped chewing. Looked at you, his eyes narrowed.
‘Wait.’ He pointed his slice vaguely at you. ‘Will there be…’ he wiggled his fingers in that little gesture he always did when he didn’t want to say the word, ‘...you know. Fresh blood? Yours, I mean.’
You blinked. ‘Uh, yes. Obviously.’
Dean’s expression flattened instantly.
‘Then no. Nuh-uh.’
You frowned. ‘What? Why?’
‘Because,’ he said, setting the pizza down now so he could fully commit to being stubborn, ‘we just got back from a hunt where you got your sweet ass handed to you. You should rest before tappin’ your mojo.’
You shook your head at once. ‘No, no, it’s okay. It’s just a small spell. I told you, small scale.’
‘Absolutely not,’ Dean repeated. ‘Last thing we need is you forgetting everything again.’
You fought hard not to roll your eyes.
‘Dean,’ you said, keeping your voice even, ‘I promise you, that won’t happen. I just need to see if the tiny sigil flares. That’s all.’
He was already shaking his head.
You sighed, stood up carefully, and crossed to the mini fridge. Your side protested hard enough to make your breath hitch, but you swallowed it down before either of them could clock it. You grabbed another beer, came back, and held it out to Dean.
‘Please.’
He looked up at you, still frowning, but the edges of it had softened. A little.
‘I would do it without you,’ you said, gentler now, ‘but I need my anchor there just to be safe.’
That made him hesitate. So you kept going.
‘It’s honestly just a small spell,’ you said. ‘And I haven’t used my blood magic since the wedding. It won’t shut down, trust me. And if I feel even the smallest pull, I stop. Immediately.’
Dean stared at the beer in your hand. Then at your face. Then back at the beer.
‘If anything feels off,’ he said at last, taking it from you, ‘and I mean anything-’
‘I’m done,’ you said at once.
He held your gaze another second, then sighed through his nose.
‘Okay. Fine.’
You grinned, relieved. Then you bent down and kissed him. ‘Thank you.’
Dean’s hand came up automatically to steady at your waist for that half-second before you pulled back and settled into your seat again. The motion tugged hard at your side this time. A sharper sting. You hid it with a stretch and reached for your pizza.
‘But,’ you said, ‘I am taking a nap after lunch. In our bed, finally.’
‘Damn right,’ Dean said immediately, already reaching for another slice.
Dean had figured the nap would do her good. Just a couple hours. Enough to take the edge off the hunt, to stop her from pretending she wasn’t hurting.
Instead, she’d crashed hard.
Five damn hours.
Didn’t even stir when he came in after his own shower. She was already curled under the blanket, half on her stomach, half on her side, one arm shoved under the pillow. He’d slid in behind her, careful as hell, easing close, not wanting to jostle her ribs. The second his arm went around her middle, she just hummed. Tiny sleepy sound. Scooted back into him automatically.
Dean had buried his face in her hair and held on.
She’d been out cold in seconds. And yeah, he knew exactly why.
She was being hard on herself about the hunt. Of course she was. Because apparently getting launched into a damn wall by an angry ghost counted as getting a little rusty now. Which was crap. Total crap. She’d done great. In the fight, in the investigation, all of it. Sharp, calm under pressure. Caught things they didn’t. And when the ugly part started, she took the hit and got right back up.
Hell, if anybody had reason to be pissed, it was him.
He should’ve stopped it sooner. Should’ve gotten between her and that thing faster. Should’ve seen where it was going before it made its move.
Instead he’d watched his wife leave the damn ground.
That image still hit him wrong.
Dean kept his hand moving slow over her side, up and down, careful over the sore spot. Not enough pressure to hurt. Just enough to feel her there, safe in his arms. Tried to settle his own pulse with it.
Didn’t totally work.
Sure, they saved that family. Burned the ghost, wrapped the case. That was the job, right? Saving people, hunting things.
Yeah.
Except that hadn’t been the whole truth for a long damn time. Not for him, at least.
His first priority had always been Sam. Keep Sammy breathing. Keep Sammy safe. Then somewhere along the line it became Sam and her. Both of them.
And now?
Now he had a wife. And he had a new top priority now. Keeping his wife happy. That one mattered more to him than he was ready to unpack.
Which was exactly why he’d agreed to helping with the spell. Because somewhere out there was the place she came from, her family, her whole old life. Because if there was a shot in hell of helping her find it again, he was in.
All the way.
Dean pressed his mouth to the back of her head, breathed her in, and let his eyes close.
Eventually sleep took him too.
When Dean woke up, the room was quiet. She hadn’t moved much. Still fast asleep, face half-buried in the pillow, one hand tucked under her cheek.
He lay there for a second just looking at her.
Then, he eased his arm from around her and peeled himself off the bed inch by inch, slow enough not to wake her. She shifted once, sighed into the pillow, then settled again.
Dean stood there for a moment, watching, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Still ridiculous to him, after all that time. That this was his room. His bed. His wife sleeping in it.
Damn.
He headed for the war room. Sam was already there with his laptop open, reading something boring no doubt. But he looked rested. Better than he had earlier, anyway. Dean grabbed his cleaning kit, a bottle, two glasses, and set himself up right there at the table.
They fell into easy silence.
Dean worked on his guns, breaking them down and putting them back together. Sam clicked around on the laptop. Whiskey got poured, time passed. The good kind of quiet.
Then he heard the soft shuffle of slippers from the hallway.
Dean looked up at once and there she was. Still sleepy, a little rumpled, face warm and relaxed. She was looking at him with that soft, content little smile that always hit him right in the damn chest.
His face split into a grin.
‘Hey,’ he called. ‘Look who’s finally up.’
She made some half-mumbled sound, then stretched lazily and came straight for him.
Dean didn’t even pretend to resist the urge. He reached for her the second she got close and hauled her into his lap.
She protested immediately and caught herself on his shoulders.
‘Dean-’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he muttered, already settling her there anyway. ‘Save it.’
‘Dean, I’m serious,’ she huffed, squirming. ‘I’m too heavy.’
Dean rolled his eyes so hard he damn near saw his own brain.
‘Babe, for the last time…’ He hooked one arm around her middle and nuzzled into her shoulder. ‘Would you just drop it already? You always say that crap. Sit still.’
She made an offended noise, but she was smiling.
He rubbed his hand slowly over her thigh. ‘Get some rest?’
She leaned into him a little. ‘Yeah. More than I planned to.’
‘Good.’
Her fingers drifted over his shoulder, then she looked past him toward Sam.
‘Hey Sam,’ she smiled. ‘What are you doing?’
Sam glanced up from the laptop. ‘Looking for another case.’
She squinted at him. Then, with that sleepy little grin still hanging around her mouth, she said, ‘All work and no play, huh?’
Dean lit up at once. He gave her thigh a proud squeeze. ‘Hey, we should watch The Shining tonight.’
She hummed. ‘I’d be into that.’
Then her expression shifted, just a little. She turned back toward Dean. ‘Actually… that reminds me. Could we try the spell now?’
Dean’s hand stilled on her leg.
‘Now?’
She nodded, more awake now. ‘If you’re up for it.’
He looked over at the half-cleaned gun on the table, then back at her. Saw the little hopeful look.
He blew out a slow breath. ‘Alright. Just let me finish this.’
‘Okay.’ She slid off his lap before he was ready to let her go. ‘I’ll set things up in the lab in the meantime.’
Dean nodded once. ‘Be there in a minute.’
He caught her wrist before she could walk off and tugged her down just enough to kiss her. She smiled against his mouth, then kissed the top of his head once and headed out, humming to herself.
Dean watched her go until she disappeared.
Sam, of course, noticed that.
‘You’re so adorable when you do that.’
Dean frowned. ‘Do what?’
‘That.’ Sam waved vaguely toward the doorway. ‘That whole lovesick staring thing.’
Dean went back to the gun. ‘Shut up.’
Sam smirked into his glass.
Dean muttered a couple of offensive words under his breath and finished reassembling the weapon.
A few minutes later he was heading for the lab, nerves already crawling around under his skin.
Didn’t matter how many times he told himself this one was small. Didn’t matter that she knew what she was doing. Didn’t matter that he trusted her.
Because he did trust her. That wasn’t the problem.
The problem was he’d seen what happened when magic took too much out of her. He’d lived through those blank eyes. Those missing pieces. That whole stretch of hell where she looked at him and didn’t know him.
He was never getting that out of his system.
But she was right. She rested. The last time she used her blood magic was the warding at the wedding, and that had been a few weeks ago. And he couldn’t preach about helping her find a way back to her family, then freak out every time she tried to do the work.
Dean stepped into the lab.
She was behind the counter already, everything laid out. Bowl, brush, notes, obsidian blade. The sight of that knife made his jaw tighten.
‘Alright,’ Dean said, clapping his hands once, trying for more confidence than he felt. ‘Let’s do this. Where do you want me?’
She looked up and immediately had that look on her face. That particular little smirk that said she was about to be a menace.
She stepped closer and slid her palms up his chest. Then she breathed in deep, chest rising against him before she let it out slowly.
Dean’s brain took one look at that and gave up.
‘Oh, I want you everywhere,’ she said, looking right at him. ‘All day. Every day.’
Goddamn.
Dean smirked back, already leaning down, already halfway gone on the idea of bending her right there over the counter.
She twisted away at the last second.
‘But right now,’ she went on, dragging a second chair into place behind the counter, ‘just sit your tight little butt here, please.’
Dean let out a low, frustrated groan and rubbed a hand over his mouth.
‘Not cool.’
‘Sit down.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
He dropped into the chair and watched her get to work.
She picked up the obsidian blade and cut her forearm. The cut wasn’t big. He knew that. She’d done worse. Still made him wince.
Blood welled up and ran into the bowl in a steady dark line. She added a few things from little jars and vials, mixing them in with calm, practiced hands. Stuff he didn’t recognize. Powder, oil, whatever witchy-scientist crap made the whole thing go.
Then she dipped the brush and started painting a small sigil on the counter.
Dean shut up and watched for a moment. She got this look when she worked. Focused, locked in. He loved that look. Loved watching her do things she was good at. Loved the confidence of it.
After a minute he cleared his throat.
‘So, the real deal won’t be this small?’
‘Nope,’ she said, eyes still down. ‘It’ll have to be big, on the ground. The usual.’
‘Right.’
Dean nodded once and tried real hard not to think about what that meant in practical terms. More blood. A lot more, probably.
Well. Screw it. He told her he was in and he meant it. No point starting a fight about it now.
After another moment, she set the brush down and straightened a little.
‘Alright,’ she said quietly. Then she reached for his left hand. ‘Now...’
Dean let her guide it over the center of the sigil.
‘Put your hand right over here,’ she said, positioning it carefully. ‘Yeah, like this.’
She laid her left hand over his and gave it a squeeze. Then she picked up her notes with the other hand and recited the incantation.
Dean swallowed and stared at the symbol under their hands.
Nothing.
He glanced up at her. She was still focused, eyes fixed on the sigil. Waiting…
Nothing.
Her brows pulled together. She glanced at the notes, then back at the sigil.
Still nothing.
‘Damnit,’ she muttered, let go of his hand and set the paper down.
‘Yeah, well.’ She sighed, giving one small shrug. ‘Back to square one, I guess.’
Dean heard the disappointment, even though she was trying to play it off. He got up, slid a hand around her waist, and pulled her in close.
‘Hey,’ he said.
She looked up at him.
‘I’m not worried about it.’ He brushed his thumb over her side. ‘You’ll get it. I’m sure of it.’
Her face softened. ‘Thanks.’
Dean kissed her forehead. Then helped clean up without being asked. Put lids back on jars, moved the blade away before he had to look at it any longer. She dumped what was left in the bowl, wiped down the counter.
Once they were done, she let out a long breath and leaned one hip against the counter.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’m gonna make us something good for dinner, and then we’ll watch Jack Nicholson go insane.’
Dean smiled. ‘Sounds like a plan.’
She walked out first, and Dean followed right behind her.
He reached back to switch the lab light off and pulled the door almost shut.
And for half a second, he could have sworn he saw it. A quick little flash of light on the counter. Right where the sigil had been.
Dean stopped and looked back harder.
Nothing. The whole surface was clean. Empty.
He stood there another second.
Probably imagined it. Wouldn’t be the first time his brain made a thing out of nothing.
Dean shook his head, pulled the door shut, and followed his wife out.
The dishes were done. The boys were fed. And judging by the satisfied noises Dean and Sam had been making while they inhaled the Italian meatballs, you could at least take some comfort in the fact that dinner had been a success.
That helped.
Not enough to completely kill the sour mood sitting in your chest, but enough to soften the sting a little. Because you would have been lying if you said you were not disappointed about the sigil in the lab.
You had not expected miracles. You knew better than that. The road ahead was long and probably much more complicated than you wanted to admit. This time you could not simply follow your great-grandfather’s design. You were not building protection now. You were trying to open a path to another reality. Your original reality. That was an entirely different beast.
So yes, you had expected difficulties.
Still, the complete lack of reaction had been a bummer.
At least you had a nice evening waiting for you. A movie with your husband, in a warm bed.
You were standing by the dresser in your bedroom, rummaging through the drawer for clean pajamas. You could hear Dean behind you by the couch, messing with the movie setup, muttering at the remote.
Your body felt tired all over again. Which was honestly ridiculous, you had spent half the afternoon unconscious. But then again, maybe that was the problem. Maybe people really were right when they said daytime sleep could mess with you. Or maybe it had just been that kind of day.
You finally pulled the oversized T-shirt you liked sleeping in, and in the process managed to knock a couple out onto the floor.
‘Great,’ you muttered and bent to pick them up.
Your side immediately pulled hard enough to make your breath catch.
Pain shot through your ribs and hip, hot and sharp, and you froze there for a second with your hand halfway to the floor, jaw clenching before the sound could get out.
Damnit.
You grabbed the shirts anyway and straightened more slowly this time, pressing your palm into the sore spot for a second before letting go.
Dean was still by the couch. He had not turned around yet.
You stared at the drawer a second longer, then decided there was no point pretending your muscles were not screaming.
‘Dean?’ you called, keeping your voice as casual as you could. ‘Would you give me a massage, please? My muscles are a little sore.’
You rubbed lightly at your hip, wincing.
There was a pause. Then…
‘Sure thing, sweetheart,’ he said, voice a little too low. ‘Just lemme get ready.’
You pulled the shirt over your head with a small nod, then took out the shorts.
‘Thanks,’ you said, still facing the dresser. Then his words caught up with you. You frowned. ‘Wait. Get ready?’
You turned around.
And nearly dropped your pajama shorts.
‘Dean,’ you said, staring. ‘Why are you naked?’
There he was by the couch, shirt gone, jeans gone, boxers on the floor. Standing there in absolutely nothing while he tugged one sock halfway off his foot, looking up at you in confusion.
He paused with the sock still hanging off his toes.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked, genuinely baffled. ‘Gettin’ ready for a massage.’
He straightened up, sock in hand, and squinted at you. ‘You meant sexy massage, right?’
You just stared at him for half a second.
Then you burst out laughing.
It just came out. Full force. You had to put a hand over your mouth for a second and even that did not help much.
Dean blinked. ‘What?’
You crossed the room toward him, still laughing. ‘No,’ you said, trying to get the word out properly. ‘I meant an actual massage. I honestly think my muscles need some actual attention.’
Dean froze.
And if you had not known him as well as you did, you might have missed the faint red creeping up the tips of his ears. The immediate realization that he had very confidently stripped naked for no reason.
‘Oh,’ he said.
That only made you laugh harder.
You stopped and looked him over slowly, because honestly, how could you not. Your incredibly hot, completely naked husband, standing in the middle of your bedroom, apparently fully prepared to provide deluxe services without the slightest hesitation.
‘But hey,’ you said, letting your gaze take its sweet time, ‘I’m not complaining. Whatever makes the masseuse comfortable.’
You smirked, stepped in close and gave his bare ass a few affectionate little slaps.
Dean rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah, you’re hilarious.’
He yanked the second sock off and reached for the sweats lying on the couch.
‘Oh, come on,’ you complained, already climbing onto the bed. ‘I was enjoying the view.’
That got him to glance at you over his shoulder, mock offended.
‘Well, now you’re being cut off,’ he said, dragging the sweats up his legs. ‘Privilege revoked.’
You snorted and slipped into the shorts before settling on the mattress.
Dean came over and stood next to the bed, hands on his hips for a second.
‘Alright,’ he said. ‘Now tell me where it hurts.’
You shifted around to give him access to the side that had hit the wall, moving carefully until you found a position that did not make your ribs protest too much. The mattress dipped behind you as Dean moved into place. His hand came big and warm against your hip first, gentler than you expected, then slid up your side.
He barely got started before you heard him yawn.
You glanced back over your shoulder.
Dean was already blinking hard, one hand scrubbing down his face.
You frowned. ‘Dean, you’re tired.’
‘I’m not,’ he said automatically.
Then he yawned again.
You gave him a flat look. ‘You are.’
He shook his head once, stubborn on principle, but the effect was ruined by the fact that his eyes looked heavy and his whole body had started moving slower.
You rolled onto your back and patted the bed.
‘Come here,’ you said. ‘Forget the massage. Let’s just get some more sleep.’
Dean huffed, but he listened.
‘I dunno what the hell’s happenin’,’ he muttered as he climbed next to you. ‘I’m just really tired.’ He settled onto his side and lifted his arm automatically, making room for you. ‘Guess it’s the food. And everything.’
‘Probably,’ you said.
You tucked yourself in against his chest, propping your head on his arm. Dean’s other hand found your waist at once, then slid carefully to rest over your middle, avoiding the sorest part. His warmth settled around you almost immediately.
You nuzzled in closer.
‘Okay,’ you murmured. ‘Play the movie.’
Dean reached for the remote. The opening credits had barely started before you knew you were not going to see much of it.
His breathing was already evening out beside you. Yours was not far behind. The room was dark, the bed was warm, and exhaustion had finally decided to stop being subtle about it.
The last thing you really registered was Dean’s thumb dragging once over your side, slow and absent.
Then everything blurred out.
You came back to yourself slowly.
Everything felt heavy in that strange, dragging way that made it hard to tell whether you were actually waking up or just briefly experiencing consciousness. Your eyes did not want to open. Your head hurt just a little, not enough to call it pain, but enough to feel wrong. Annoying.
The first thing you registered was warmth pressed against your side. Soft warmth. Kinda familiar, although your still-sleepy brain did not immediately know what to do with it.
The second thing was cold around your legs. Your feet, especially, something cold pressed right against them. But other than that, you felt much warmer than you should have. Or at least in some places. You could not tell. You just knew your whole body felt off somehow.
Your right arm was numb too. You frowned, still drowsy, and tried to move it. Nothing useful happened. Felt like it was pinned under some weight.
Your half-awake mind offered one lazy explanation after another. You just slept weird. Or you were coming down with something. Maybe the hunt finally caught up to you. Maybe you were getting sick.
Great.
You dragged in a breath through your nose and rubbed at your eyes with your free hand, groaning under your breath.
Then you froze.
The sound that came out of you had not been yours.
It was low. Rough. Deep enough that you felt it rumble in your chest.
Your eyes snapped open.
The room was dark except for the thin strip of light under the door. You blinked up at the ceiling, disoriented, and pushed yourself higher on one elbow. You reached for the pull string of the lamp on the bedside table and yanked.
The whole damn thing came down with a loud crash. It hit the nightstand, bounced, and slammed to the floor.
You jerked upright instantly.
The weight on your numb arm shifted and beside you someone stirred, making a sleepy, annoyed sound in a voice you knew a little too well.
You turned.
And stared.
It was you.
Your hair. Your face. Your body. Eyes still closed, brow furrowed, cheek pressed into the pillow. Your mouth opened slightly in a confused, irritated frown.
For one second your brain simply refused to process it.
Then the blanket on you slipped lower, down to your waist. And something inside you dropped.
Because there was no weight on your chest. None.
Just flat muscle and a broad sternum under skin that did not belong to you.
Your hands flew there at once, over your own chest, and found nothing familiar. Then lower, over ribs that were wider than yours, stomach firmer than yours, different shape, different size, different everything.
Panic hit hard and fast.
Even your hands weren’t yours. Bigger. Wider. Veins standing out, knuckles rougher, fingers longer.
Your breath came quicker. Your hands flew up to your hair.
Too short.
Then to your face. Jaw rough with stubble. Nose wrong. Mouth wrong. Everything wrong.
‘What the fuck,’ you breathed.
And that voice. That was not your voice. That was Dean’s voice. Your husband’s voice.
Your stomach turned over so hard it almost made you gag.
‘What the fuck,’ you said again, louder this time, panic cracking through the low roughness of it.
You scrambled backward away from the body beside you. Away from your own face, from whatever the hell this was. You moved too fast, too hard, and completely misjudged where the edge of the mattress was.
You hit the floor with a loud, painful thud.
‘Ow! Shit!’
That voice again. Dean’s voice.
From the bed above you came a sleepy, irritated mumble in your voice.
‘What’s goin’ on?’
You looked up just as your own messy hair and confused face appeared over the edge of the mattress.
‘Babe, you o-’
She stopped.
Your own eyes went huge staring down at you from above.
For one terrible second, neither of you moved.
You were still sprawled on the floor in Dean’s body, breathing too fast, one hand braced behind you, the other gripping the blanket where it had come down with you.
And someone was staring at you from inside your body with the exact same dawning horror tearing across your own face that you could feel on Dean’s.
‘What the-’
Your voice, your exact voice, came out thin and strangled with shock. Then your body jerked fully upright in bed, threw the blanket back, and looked down at itself.
The expression on your own face got even worse.
‘No,’ your voice said. Then louder, panicked. ‘No, no, no, no. This is not real. It’s not real. This is just a weird-ass dream.’
You pushed yourself up off the floor too fast and almost stumbled because the body you were in moved differently. Stronger. Larger. Every motion took up more space than you expected.
You looked down again.
On the broad bare chest. The tattoo above your left peck, flat stomach, grey sweats low on narrow hips, long, solid legs. A body you had touched a thousand times and knew by heart from the outside.
And now you were in it.
Then, because your life apparently had no intention of ever being normal again, your own face looked at you and said, with utter panic…
‘...Sweetheart?’
Dean was staring at himself.
His own face stared right back at him from across the room, pale and shocked and breathing too fast.
He was sitting in their bed. Exactly where they’d passed out watching The Shining. What felt like five seconds ago. Blanket twisted around his legs, heart pounding.
Oh, and now he had boobs.
Dean looked down again.
Yeah. Boobs.
His hands flew to his chest before he could stop them. Soft weight. Warm skin. Nothing flat, nothing that should have been there. His stomach dropped so hard he thought he might actually puke.
‘Son of a bitch,’ he breathed.
The voice coming out of him wasn’t his.
That might have been the part that hit hardest. Because he heard himself speak in her voice That voice he loved more than anything on this screwed-up planet, the one he could pick out from across any damn room. And it freaked the absolute crap out of him.
This could not be happening.
No way.
He had to be dreaming. Had to be. Because there was no world where Dean Winchester woke up in his wife’s body. And not in the good kind of way. Not in any way he ever would’ve wanted.
He looked back up at himself. Well, not himself. His body.
And if he was in her body, then that meant…
‘Sweetheart?’
The word came out soft and wrong and not his. Across from him, his own face twitched.
‘Dean?’
His voice. His real one. Coming out of her mouth. He felt sick for one second, dizzy the next.
She was inside him.
Which, sure, they had joked about before. Talked about it once in bed, all teasing and curious. But they did not mean like this. In this batshit insane kinda way.
He dragged a hand through his hair and got a fistful of way too much of it. Long strands caught between his fingers and across his knuckles.
‘Goddamnit.’
Panic came on hard after that. Fast and ugly. His pulse was hammering. Her pulse, technically. Whatever. He forced himself to breathe.
Okay.
Okay. Think.
This had to be fixable. It had to. They fixed things. That was what they did, right? Monster crap, magic crap, Heaven, Hell, all of it. They always got through it.
He pulled in another breath and pain stabbed through his side.
Dean sucked air through his teeth and grabbed at his ribs. Right, the ghost. The place where she hit the wall.
He squeezed his eyes shut, got control of his voice again, and snapped, ‘How?!’
‘I don’t know,’ she shot back in his voice. But not the way he knew it. Higher than usual from the panic in it. Hearing fear come out of himself while looking at himself was enough to make his head spin.
‘I don’t know,’ she said again, shaking her head.
She was pacing now. Back and forth in his body, strides that looked strange because he knew exactly how he moved and she wasn’t doing it quite right.
Then she stopped dead.
Dean watched his own face go blank, gaze dragging downward over his own body.
‘What,’ she muttered quietly, ‘the fuck.’
‘What?’ Dean demanded, head pounding now. ‘What is it?’
She didn’t answer right away. Still staring down.
‘Dean, I think… uh…’
That was it. He was officially losing his damn mind.
‘What? What?! Talk to me!’
She swallowed. Then, still staring down, in his own voice, with the weirdest mix of horror and fascination he had ever heard in his life, ‘I think it’s… a morning thing.’
Dean just stared at her.
Then it hit.
Morning wood. His morning wood.
Oh, for the love of-
His wife was standing there in his body, dealing with her first actual boner, and he knew exactly what she was going through because he’d been waking up with the damn thing since puberty.
For one absolutely cursed second, he was too horrified to speak.
Then his brain caught up with something else.
There was nothing between his own legs.
Nothing.
No familiar weight, no need to adjust, no-
His wife’s hands flew to his wife’s face and he let out a rough groan that sounded all wrong coming out of her mouth.
‘This can’t be happenin’,’ he muttered. ‘This can’t-’
He rubbed both palms hard over his eyes, trying to wake himself up from what had to be a nightmare. Found only smooth skin and smaller features under his touch.
It was all real. Every second of it.
‘How’d this happen?’ he asked, more desperate now. ‘Just… how? And how do we get back?’
Silence.
‘Sweetheart?’
Nothing.
‘Baby. You hear me?’
He dropped his hands and looked up.
She was still staring down at his crotch in stunned disbelief. Legs spread a little, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.
‘So you’re just…’ she muttered softly to herself, ‘walking around like that, huh?’
Dean blinked at her, deadpan.
‘Babe?’
She kept staring, rocking his hips.
‘Would you just knock it off, please?’ he snapped, trying to raise his voice, but it came out wrong. Softer. Lighter. Not nearly pissed-off enough.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and heard a quiet, ‘Sorry,’ from across the room.
When he looked up again, his own green eyes were on him. Worried, and finally focused.
‘How?’ he asked again, quieter this time.
His face went serious. She scrubbed a hand over his jaw.
‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘But the only logical explanation is the spell. It must have backfired.’
Dean let out a short, humorless huff. ‘‘Course it did.’
Of course the one time he tried not to bitch about blood magic, it body-snatched his ass in his sleep.
‘Yeah, okay. Fine. But why this?’
She opened her mouth, stopped, then looked down sharply at his left hand. Dean watched her touch the ring there. The wedding band with the glass-set drop of her blood in it. Then she looked at the ring on the hand he wore now. Her engagement ring. His blood inside that one.
She frowned.
‘No,’ she said under her breath. Then louder, shaking her head. ‘No. That cannot be it.’
‘What?’ Dean asked.
She lifted his hand and tapped the ring finger with his own thumb.
‘The last time one of my spells backfired,’ she said slowly, thinking it through, ‘was when the other you came through the accidental rift. The apocalypse one.’ She swallowed. ‘And I always suspected it had something to do with your blood in my ring. So what if…’
Dean stared at her.
‘You’re kiddin’.’
She gave a tight, helpless shrug. ‘I’m not saying I know for sure. I don’t have any proof. I just… I don’t have a better theory right now.’
Dean looked down at himself again. At her body. At the hands in his lap. At the chest that rose and fell too fast. He could still feel everything wrong at once. The absence between his legs. The soreness in her side. The cold in her feet and hands. He hated every single second of it.
Not because he didn’t love her body.
Because she wasn’t in it.
And the whole thing made his skin crawl.
‘Can we fix it?’ he asked. ‘Can we go back to… us?’
‘For sure,’ she said quickly. She didn’t really sound sure enough. Then she added, ‘I mean, in theory, yes. Reversal spells exist. It’s just…’
Dean already knew he wasn’t going to like the rest.
‘It’s just what?’
She looked away for a second, thinking.
‘Those spells are usually not small,’ she said finally. ‘And I have no idea what kind of strain this whole… unfortunate situation already took on my magic.’
Dean went still. There it was. The one terror he could never do again.
Memory loss.
Watching her forget him once had been enough to ruin the rest of his damn life if it ever happened again.
‘I mean, we can certainly try right away,’ she went on, talking faster now. ‘We can’t exactly stay like this, so maybe if I just-’
‘No.’
He cut her off hard.
She blinked, stopped.
Dean leaned forward on the mattress, ignoring the weird drag of her hair over his shoulder.
‘No,’ he said again. ‘You’re not pushing yourself harder. Not for this. Not ever. We are not rollin’ the dice on your memory again.’
The room went quiet.
Yeah. He would deal with the boobs. He would deal with the missing dick. He would deal with hearing his own voice come out of her mouth and wanting to throw himself into traffic. He would deal with all of it before he let her burn herself out again and lose pieces of herself.
Not happening.
She held his gaze a long second. He knew part of her wanted to solve it now, fix it now, bleed for it now if that was what it took.
But she nodded once.
‘Okay.’
Dean breathed a little easier all of a sudden.
He scrubbed a hand down his face again, then immediately got annoyed all over because it was still her face and her skin and her damn hair in the way.
‘Just…’ He closed his eyes for a second and forced himself to speak around the knot in his chest. ‘Tell me how long. How long do you need?’
She didn’t answer right away.
He opened his eyes and found her already thinking hard. Running numbers. Guessing recovery time.
Finally, quietly, she said, ‘A week.’
Dean stared.
She swallowed.
‘A week,’ she repeated. ‘I should be able to put us back in a week.’
A whole week.
Dean looked down at himself again. At the chest that wasn’t his. Then across the room at his own body, at his own face, at the very obvious problem still tenting his sweats because apparently his dick had chosen the worst possible moment in human history to remind them it existed.
‘Awesome,’ he muttered, rubbing his temple.
Yeah… this was definitely gonna be one long-ass week.
CHAPTER 2 here
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