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I Dean of Genie	By : rae_roberts Category: Supernatural > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 2234 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to Supernatural, nor do I own any rights to either Disney's Aladdin or I Dream of Genie, which I have heavily ripped off for this fic. No money is being made from this silly little fic.

Chapter List
- 6
- 7
- 8
Author's note: Thank you to InvidiaRed and IdrilsSecret for the kind reviews! It seems not many people leave reviews on this site, so the feedback is much appreciated.

Dean lay curled up on the lush Persian rugs that carpeted the floor of the genie bottle, layered so thickly they felt like a mattress under his aching limbs. He swore none of his years of torment in hell had ever left him feeling so utterly battered. Whatever had gone wrong with Sam’s third wish had done a number on him for sure.
He wasn’t sure how long he skirted the border of consciousness, sometimes corporeal, sometimes a slowly drifting wisp of purple vapor, but eventually Dean became aware that he had a new Master. At least he thought so. The connection faded in and out, like an old FM radio with poor reception, but the pull when the bottle was rubbed was irresistible.
“Dean! You’re okay!” Sam was beaming with happiness and relief as he materialized in the room.
Castiel stood close by, holding the gaudy violet and gold bottle. Dean’s eyes widened when he saw him. It wasn’t exactly a shock that Cas was his new Master; it made sense that Sam would contact the angel for help. What was shocking was his appearance.   “Cas--”
Sam was chuckling as he looked him over. “I’m sorry, man, but seeing you in that crazy turban… And those shoes!” Sam shook his head. “That never gets old.”
Dean glanced down and saw he’d materialized wearing his genie garb: the ridiculously poofy purple harem pants and gilded leather slippers with turned-up toes. His bare arms and chest were mottled with dark, ugly blotches, as if he’d taken one hell of a beating--not surprising since he sure felt as if he had--but Sam seemed not to notice. He couldn’t see the bruises, Dean realized, any more than he could see the ruin of Castiel’s wings.
The connection tuned in at that moment, sharp and clear, and Dean met Cas’s eyes, silently agreeing to keep his brother in the dark about the sad shape they were both in. Dean blinked and dressed himself in his usual clothes, almost reeling from the effort it took. He dropped into a chair, managing to make the movement seem casual. “I take it Sam told you what happened when he tried to wish me free,” he said to Castiel.
“I got here as quickly as I could,” the angel nodded.
Sam broke in, “You scared the hell out of me. You lit up like a demon. You know that dirty yellow light they used to spew when we ganked ‘em with Ruby’s knife?”
Dean nodded. “It hurt like nothing I’ve ever felt before.”
“But then it turned this bright, pure white, as if you were taking an angel smiting.” Sam looked to Castiel. “Any thoughts as to what went wrong?”
“I was on a mission when you called. For Heaven.” Cas looked as awkward as Dean had ever seen him. “I’m sorry, Sam. I have a duty. I must get back to it.”
“Anything I can help with?” Dean asked, annoyed that he couldn’t just sense what Cas wanted done and wish it so. The connection still wasn’t clear, but that made sense, he reasoned, considering how weak he was after the failed attempt to set him free.
“Yes.   Your assistance would be invaluable.”
Sam nodded understanding, though it didn’t take a genie’s intuition to sense his frustration.   “Cas, you know more lore than anyone,” he tried once more as they walked out to the angel’s car. “What can you tell us about genies?”
Castiel’s expression stayed as stoic as ever, but the vague, staticky connection between Master and genie suddenly tuned in, as focused as a laser.   A surge of longing washed over him, so intense that Dean’s knees buckled and he had to stifle a gasp of pain. Whatever it was his Master wanted so badly, Dean couldn’t tell, but he could feel Cas’s helpless fury at its denial. It hurt, not knowing, not being able to grant Cas his wish. Dean was grateful his brother’s attention was focused on the angel’s reply as he leaned against the ridiculous old Lincoln Continental for support and willed his racing pulse back to normal.
“There’s very little information about them,” Cas was saying. “I cannot add anything to what you already know.”
Dean snapped his fingers for attention, impatient. They weren't going to get any answers out of Cas, not while Sam was around. “Toss me the keys. I’m driving.”   With a quick reassurance that they'd be back soon, they drove off.
“Fine pair of immortal, all-powerful beings we make,” he joked as they turned on to the interstate. There was no question of either of angel or genie teleporting them away. Dean’s body still hurt all over, but at least now he could say he’d felt worse during his long hunting career. He was on the mend.
Cas didn’t answer, just smiled tiredly, slumped against the passenger side door. Dean could feel his relief at not having to drive, and even though it wasn’t the rush of granting a wish, it still warmed him to be able to perform this small service for his Master.
It was only a couple of hours later--a short drive, by Dean’s standards--that they stopped for the night at a motel.   He winced when Castiel got out of the car and his wings unfurled. The feathers were dull and ragged, the long flight pinions torn or outright missing. It was obvious Cas’s stolen grace was fading.
Shrugging out of his jacket, Dean pulled up the hem of his shirt and saw that his body was quickly healing, the bruises already faded to a bilious yellow. His power was replenishing itself, too. Dean was starting to rethink his earlier idea that his weakness was the cause of the staticky connection between himself and Castiel. He gave the angel a sidelong look as they each sprawled on a bed. “Don’t try to kid a kidder, Cas. You’re dying. Don’t drain your battery trying to shield me from it.”
“Don’t let it trouble you. It is my choice.”
“No way. As soon as I’m back to full power, I’m going to wish you your grace back.” As he said it, Dean caught another surge of longing, but it was muted, almost resigned, Castiel’s earlier rage faded to regret.
“No, Dean. I became your ‘Master’ only to release you from your prison. I will not be making any wishes of you.”
“Right, because you dying isn’t going to get me sucked right back into that bottle. That’s awesome,” Dean said sarcastically.
“Please,” Cas murmured. “My death is not imminent. I would prefer not to talk about it until it’s necessary.”
“All right, then. You might be able to lie to Sammy,” Dean told him, “but you know that won’t work with me. Tell me why Sam couldn’t wish me free.”
“The Mark of Cain,” Castiel said, his gruff voice oddly gentle. “It renders you immortal.   You cannot be killed.”
“I don’t get it.   Sam didn’t wish me dead. He wished for me to be set free,” Dean said slowly, thinking out loud. “Wait, you’re saying the genie curse--”
“Can only be broken by death,” Cas concluded.
“So there’s no way out for me.” Dean leaned back against the headboard, processing it. When he was sure his voice wouldn’t betray him, he said, “What am I now, Cas, really?”
There was a long pause, maddeningly empty of any sense of connection between Master and genie, and then, “We do not speak of it,” Castiel said stiffly.
“‘We’? You mean that giant bag of dicks you call the Heavenly Host. Well, I ain’t them, Cas, so cut the crap and tell me.”
The angel sighed. Huddled on the bed in his rumpled trenchcoat, mangled wings wrapped around himself protectively, he looked tired and frail, but he gave Dean a faint smile as he reached out a hand. “All right. But instead of telling you, I’ll show you.”
Dean’s eyebrows arched, skeptical, but he reached across the narrow space between the beds and took Cas’s hand in his…
And squinted in the glare of desert sunlight. He was standing inside a dusty compound, thick walls surrounding a close-packed warren of low stone buildings. Angels in white robes bustled everywhere, but these were no Christmas choir angels, Dean realized. Many wore armor, and all had swords scabbarded at their waists or across their backs. “This is your garrison, back in the day,” he said, catching on. “Am I-- Am I dreaming this?”
“You’re remembering. Sharing my memories. You’re no longer human, Dean. You can perceive my true form, now. Hear my true voice.” Castiel spoke slowly, choosing his words with care.   “Your mind is now… Expansive enough to touch my consciousness without it destroying you.”
“Awesome,” Dean breathed, scanning the hubbub of activity. Cas’s voice came from inside his mind, an angelic voice-over, but this was the angel's own memory, Dean reasoned. He had to be here somewhere. Then he caught sight of a tousled head of dark hair up on the wooden catwalk that circled the inside of the outer wall, and broke into a grin.
“Aw, Cas, look at you!”
“...That is not an accurate representation of my true form.”
Dean laughed out loud. “Hey, it’s not my fault my mind’s so ‘expansive’ I can see baby you!”
“This is not a detail from my memory. You’re making things up.” The angel’s voice narrating the story in his mind was affronted. “Dean. Even as a young angel at the beginning of Creation, I was never a... A mere child,” Castiel complained.

But Dean ignored him. He was already climbing a rough-hewn wooden ladder, eager to meet ‘baby’ Cas.
- 6
- 7
- 8
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I Dean of Genie