"Don't touch my junk, Sammy"

The younger Winchester cast his eyes upward, locking with his brother's fierce gaze.

"Dean," Sam started, almost pouting.

"No way. Sit down if you have to, you are -not- touching my junk"

Sam rolled his eyes. Things had already been awkward, but now it was just getting out of hand and this particular argument showed no signs of slowing. In fact, things could get ugly from here.

The angel stood by the door to the tacky motel room, nonplussed as his eyes moved from Dean to Sam and back again as they exchanged more and more colourful metaphors. Castiel tried to keep up, but by the time the brothers were in each other's faces, he no longer understood the references.

The weirdness had begun roughly an hour ago, when Dean, always the early riser, rolled out of bed.

The wrong bed.

In the wrong body.

SAM's body.

It was going to be a very, very long day.


Dean felt something off almost the moment his eyes had opened. For one, there was a bed blocking his view of the door. He always took the bed by the door, so he could get himself in the way of anything or anyone that tried to bust through the door and protect Sammy. That was his job, after all. He was the older brother.

With a jerk and a snort, he reached under the pillow for the demon knife, just in case. You just never know. When his fingers touched the cool steel of Sam's hunting knife, his guts twisted oddly. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he didn't like where this was going.

Grabbing up the knife anyway (because what the hell, right? Whatever this was, he was going to stab it in the face, repeatedly. And if it didn't have a face, well, he'd stab it in the face anyway), Dean rolled to his feet. At the ends of his too-long, too straight legs. Which were more than happy to acquaint his face with the floor.

Swearing loudly, punctuating each curse with vulgarity, Dean pushed himself up to his knees and flipped on the light on the night stand.

That's when he entered the Twilight Zone for real.

Staring back at him, propped up on his elbows, was a very shocked looking double of himself, his green eyes wide with horror, mouth an O of unvoiced screaming for what must have been a full ten second break before he watched himself spin off the other side of the bed- silver demon killing knife in hand.

His double seemed to fare no better, however, gracelessly landing on his ass on the other side of said bed in a tangle of sheets and crappy motel blankets with a very calm and collected "AUGH!"

"Son of a bitch, what the hell is going on.."


After a round of salted holy water, silver, a couple of quick lacerations with the demon knife and a battery of other tests and quizzes, the brothers finally accepted there was some kind of mind-swap dickery going on, possibly having to do with their current hunt.

They sat opposite each other on the beds, staring each other down.

"This is all sorts of freaky-deaky.." Dean grimaced. "I thought you said we were hunting a rugaru?"

"Yeah," Sam said, freaked out by the basso timbre of Dean's voice in his ears as he spoke. "I thought we were! I don't know, a witch maybe? It doesn't make sense..."

"Ugh, it would be a witch. Man, I hate witches... all those... bodily fluids.." Dean shuddered, which made Sam wince, seeing his body twitch with his brother's inherent mannerisms.

"Just... calm down. Let's check for hex bags..."

"I am calm, Sammy. In fact, I think I'm being extremely calm, given the current situation. I am the god damn SULTAN of calm."

"Look, whatever, just help me search the room, okay?"

The boys searched the room from bottom to top, turning up nothing useful, other than an old Playboy, stuck behind the headboard of Sam's bed, which distracts Dean for a moment before a pillow, thrown by Sam, whaps him in the face and knocks the skin mag out of his hands.


"Focus, please..."

"I am focused." Dean pouts as he plops back down on the bed despondently.

"... Maybe we should call Cas."

Dean opens his eyes, sighing. "Yeah. Good call. Maybe Cas can figure out what this is and fix us..."

"Worth a shot, right?"

Dean hauls himself upright, closing his eyes as he speaks. "Castiel, Castiel, wherefore art thou, Castiel. We could use a little help here."

Sam holds his breath as he waits. Dean cracks an eye open as the telltale fluttering sound floats through the room with an accompanying soft breeze, Castiel standing by the motel room door, all but gaping at the brothers, puzzled.

"So yeah," Dean says, smirking a bit with Sam's mouth. "Got any ideas?"

Castiel opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again, tilting his head in that infuriating yet endearing way he does when he's puzzled by something.

"Dean," Castiel begins, seeming to struggle for a moment.

"... Yeah?"

"... Why are you in your brother?"

Dean turns red instantly. "Well it wasn't exactly planned, Cas."

Sam rolls his eyes, throwing his hands in the air as he gets up from the bed. "I have to pee."

"Woah woah woah.." Dean jumps to his... Sam's feet. "You are not gonna go in there touching my junk."

Sam sputters, nearly stumbling, not sure if Dean is messing with him or not. "What? Dean, dude... come on, seriously?"

"No means no, Sammy."

"Dean, that is the stupidest..."

"I mean it," Dean fumed. "Don't touch my junk, Sammy."

Well, I think you're caught up to speed, now, more or less.


"You're acting like a five-year old, Dean. I think we've got more important things to worry about at the moment."

Sam dashes into the bathroom before Dean can provide any further protest on the matter, slamming the door shut and locking it.



At the sound of his name, Dean turns to face the utterly perplexed looking angel still standing shell shocked by the door and sighs.

"I dunno, Cas. No hex bags, no weird objects, no hoodoo of any kind that we could find in the room. I dunno, can you, uh.. see anything?"

"I will try, Dean..."

With that, Castiel moves close to Dean, assessing him closely. After a moment, the angel lifts his first and second fingers to Dean's (Sam's?) temple, closing his eyes.

"I'm still gonna be able to poop after this, right?"

Castiel ignores him, searching for the telltale signs of magical workings in the hunter.

After what seems like an eternity, Castiel opens his depthless blue eyes and lowers his hand, looking (much further) up to meet Dean's gaze.

"There is evidence of psychic transferral, however, I am unable at this time to determine what exactly this working is, or how to undo it."

Sam chooses this moment to finally emerge from the bathroom, looking frazzled and a bit green.

Dean scowls at him, but at the moment he's more occupied by his mind translating Cas's words into 'No clue, sorry, you're boned'.

"So basically you're saying we're screwed?" Dean yawped.

Castiel raised an eyebrow and inclined his head, almost conspiratorily.

"No," he stated calmly. "I merely said that I am unable at this time to identify the cause of your affliction."

"How is he afflicted?" Sam interjected. "He's not the one who has to be him at the moment."

"Shaddap, Sammy," Dean said flatly. Sam counted it a small victory.