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the bitter unwanted passion

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There is something inherently confining, restricting, about taking a vessel. To go from a manifestation of celestial intent, simultaneously as big as the universe and as small as a pin, the voices of your siblings a divine resonance frequency omnipresent in your being, to... a body. To a physical creature bound by laws of physics, by limited senses, by chemical impulses. It... reduces you, in a way. If Dean fully understood, he might call it "slumming." It is why so many of your siblings are reluctant to enter a body, and why those that do distance themselves from the sensations, the sheer physicality of it.

It's what you did at first.

But as you came to familiarize yourself with Jimmy Novak, you relaxed. Dropped your guard, allowed yourself to more fully inhabit him. There are advantages to that - your movements became smoother, your reaction times faster. When you had need of a body, you were better prepared to use it than your siblings, though they would have judged you for it if they knew why. You came to enjoy its quirks and intricacies, the little details of inhabiting it that annoyed you at first. You grew accustomed to a body, to that body.

You didn't realize the disadvantages that came with doing so until far too late.

Sitting on the stool Dean directed you to, you look down at your legs, swaying in the foot of empty air between your toes and the floor, and hate them. Golden hair falls into your eyes, and you hate it. You hate the stiff denim jeans that are not your dress pants and you hate the brightly colored sneakers that are not your dark, polished shoes and you especially hate the worn cotton hoodie that is not your trenchcoat.

A waitress places a plate in front of you, a piece of pie nearly buried under a scoop of melting ice cream, and for a particularly absurd moment, you hate that too.

"C'mon, Cas," Dean says, misreading your anger. He stabs at his own piece of pie, eating with noises of exaggerated enthusiasm. "It's damn good pie," he insists.

Would he be feeding you pie this night, you wonder, if the body you inhabited was adult and male? If you were in Jimmy, as you should be? There are other pleasures of this world beyond food, but this is the only one Dean believes he can give you.

This is the only thing Dean thinks he can offer, to ease your suffering.

His concern, while misguided, is appreciated. You force yourself to try the pie, but to his disappointment find the ice cream to be the most palatable part of the dish. Still, seeing you make the attempt eases his own suffering, and for that cause you would do many worse things.

Have done many worse things.

You give Dean the remainder of the pie after eating all the ice cream you can stand, and look to the clock nearest the ceiling. Your hour of reckoning creeps ever closer, but as you sit there in your too-small body, unfamiliar tastes still sitting on your strange tongue, somehow unsatisfied with the way this, your last night, is passing, you allow yourself to feel how very wrong this body is. Disgust and revulsion overwhelm you, for more reasons than you can count, and you shudder.

"What, can angels get brain freeze?" Dean asks skeptically. You give him an unamused glance, which he takes enjoyment from, and sigh.

In some ways, it will be a relief to die.