to spite him;;
viruden
It had all started out innocently enough ... okay, perhaps there was no INNOCENT bone in his body, but who could blame him for trying to pick up the girl? He had only flirted with the cute waitress at the diner Dean and his companions had stopped at. Something he had said struck her in an odd way though, something minuscule that he'd said. Why, he didn't even realize just how much that word irked her. "How 'bout some of that pie, sweetheart?" He didn't really think anything of it, the way her eyes flattened slightly, how her pearly white smile became hollow and empty. In fact, he had barely noticed. Dean was merely focused on the distraction that speaking with her brought. The last couple of weeks had been tough; they hadn't been able to pick up any leads on the case and, truthfully, sleep did not come to him as easily as he would have liked. A distraction, especially one like her, the pretty waitress, was very welcome. He didn't notice how, when she dropped off their orders with flecks of icy shards glinting in her eyes, she seemed to condense. Full lips, complete with cherry-red lip gloss, pursed into a straight line, but he was already reaching for that burger, which smelled of mouth-watering grilled beef. Just a distraction, that's all she was, a distraction. There was a lot he didn't know about her though, didn't catch the subtle clues. He didn't know that the nickname was the one that was given to her by an ex-boyfriend, whose hand had been too harsh and his tongue too sharp for his own good. Dean didn't know that sweetheart was a name that she felt belittled. And, most importantly, he didn't know that she was a witch, and she didn't take shit from a n y o n e. As they left, Sam and Cas and Dean himself, the elder hunter had given her a smug look, "You have a good one, sweetheart." She'd just about had it. The last thing he had expected, four hours later, was to find himself suddenly staring at his own brother, through eyes that were not his own; he felt strangely warm, as if he were wearing too many layers. There was something hugging at his throat. Hands came up to find a familiar blue tie, silky in his fingers. Brows furrowed. He looked up to Sam with confusion in his eyes, apprehension sinking into his gut. "Jesus, I've " Deeper voice, scratchier, older. It wasn't his own, it tasted weird on his tongue, hanging in the back of his throat. He was sitting in a chair, but hadn't he been standing moments ago? He ran a hand through his hair, then stole away as he realized that it was much too long to be the perfect hair of Dean Winchester. His hand dropped. Dean's gaze flicked from Sam to himself. He wasn't looking as Castiel, who he had been looking for, he was looking at himself, his body. Dean's brows furrowed, lips parted in surprise as he looked down to find that, yes, Castiel's trenchcoat was the source of the uncomfortable feeling of being stuffed beneath too many layers of clothes. "What the hell?"
