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Sam frowned down at his computer, reading again the details of their victims. He and Dean were in the middle of a case in a small town in Texas, investigating the suspicious deaths of three people. They hadn't dug up much yet and the only connections they'd found were their gender and how they'd died. All the vics were male and they'd all been found hanging from nooses in their own homes, religious symbols carved into their bodies. No other members of the households had been affected and the police had marked them down as suicides. But Sam and Dean knew better.
So there he sat, at a desk in a dingy motel room at midnight, scanning over every last detail he could find on the victims and their murders, trying to discover a more solid connection. It wasn't age as the range was too wide. It wasn't race either because they had all been different. It wasn't their jobs—one had still been in high school and another had been unemployed. None of them had wives but...
Sam sat up straighter, pulling up the files he'd made on the victims.
Barry White … Married to Michael White.
Terry Cain-Matthews … Married to Paul Cain-Matthews.
Jonathon Carraway … Dating Peter Harding.
They had all been in relationships with men. Surely that wasn't a coincidence—it couldn't be. Sam had only been in this town for a few days but already he could tell that it wasn't the friendliest of places. It was June and not one rainbow could be seen. This wasn't unusual by itself, of course, but paired with the harsh words that had fallen from the sheriff's lips when Dean had asked about it earlier on sealed the deal for Sam—this town was homophobic. Could these murders have been a violent act of homophobia? Possibly one from the grave? If that was so, maybe that explained why they'd started happening in June.
"Hey Dean," Sam said, turning to his brother. He was lying on his stomach on one of the beds, flicking through the records of all of the deaths that had occurred in this town in the past century. "Check all the deaths from last June. Any like our vics?"
Dean flicked back to nearer the start of the records. He was silent for a moment, his eyes scanning the pages, before nodding. "Yeah, six deaths with the same memo."
"Does it list their partners?"
Dean gave him a strange look but checked anyway. "Uh... yeah." He frowned. "They were all killed as well." He cleared his throat before reading through the couples' names. "Barbara and Laura Rozier were married and died on the same day. Paul Fee and Luke Claypool were engaged and died within a few days of each other. Catherine Steen and Elizabeth Walker—wait a minute." Dean looked up. "They were all in same-sex relationships."
Sam nodded. "Exactly. Two of our vics had husbands, the other a boyfriend. We're dealing with some fucked up homophobia."
Dean snapped his fingers, realisation dawning across his features. "That explains the markings."
"It's probably a ghost," Sam said, pulling up the images of the crime scenes on his computer. He'd gotten them from when he'd hacked into the police department's online records, but no one had to know that. "Nothing else would be able to do all of this without leaving something behind."
Dean flicked through the binder in his hands. "Or be able to do it for over fifty years."
Sam whistled a note, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his hair. "People dying every June for fifty years and no ones bats an eyelid? This is one fucked up town."
Dean made a face that read tell me about it. "Homophobes are fucked up people. Have you seen this town? It's crawling with them." Sam hummed in agreement as Dean sat up to face him fully. "So... what? A ghost sees two dudes kiss and kills one off? What about the other guy?"
"No... I—" Sam bit his lip in thought. "I think they both die."
"Then why's only one half dead now? Why change it up after five decades?"
Turning back to his computer, Sam let out an inaudible huff. Dean was right, why did it change things up? Their three victims had all died separately to their partners, while the ones Dean had called out had died either on the same day or within a few days of each other. That just didn't make sense.
Something in his notes caught his eye. "It didn't," Sam said, grinning as his connection slid back into place. "Our first vic's husband died three months ago from cancer."
"So?"
"So, he couldn't be targeted because he's already dead. From what I can see in the photos, our victim still wore his ring. That's probably why he was killed—he still presented himself as being in a same-sex relationship. Our second victim's husband isn't in town, I don't think he has been all month. Only one half is dead now because only one half is around to be killed."
"Then how does the ghost know who to kill?"
"I think it doesn't have to actually see them together, it must just know."
Dean was quiet. Sam looked up to see him chewing his nail, a far-away look in his eye. His forehead wrinkled as he frowned, definitely worrying about something.
"Dean? You okay?"
He snapped out of it, eyes shooting upwards to meet Sam's. Sam frowned too, confused, as Dean played it off as nothing, claiming he was fine. He was obviously not but Sam couldn't think of any reason why, so, against his better judgement, he let it drop.
They made plans to visit the boyfriend of the third victim in the morning and retired to bed.
**
Sam stood at the crime scene, guilt swelling up inside of him. He watched the ambulance crew as they placed a sheet over the body of seventeen year old Peter Harding and rolled the stretcher out of the room. Realistically, Sam knew there was nothing he could have done. Peter had been next on the ghost's list, that was just that. But if he'd only found the connection sooner. If they'd been able to get to him yesterday...
He felt a hand rest on his shoulder. "This isn't your fault," Dean said softly, his eyes on the severed rope still hanging from the doorframe. "We couldn't've known."
"I know, it's just..." He sighed. "He was just a kid, Dean. Who would target a kid?"
"There are some sick, sick monsters out there, Sam. This ghost is no exception."
Sam rubbed his face, exhaling deeply from his nose. "Let's go talk to his mother, see if she saw anything."
They made their way over to Mrs. Harding, who was standing in the landing talking to one of the police officers. To Sam's surprise, she didn't seem all that upset. Her expression was neutral as she spoke to the officer, her eyes dry and her face void of any red blotches. Maybe she's just in shock, Sam thought, giving the woman the benefit of the doubt.
They waited for the officer to leave before approaching. "Agents Benson and Stabler," Dean introduced, the two of them holding up their badges. Sam hoped she wouldn't recognise the pop-culture reference Dean had insisted on using. "Are you Mrs. Harding?"
Mrs. Harding looked them up and down, a hard look on her face. Crossing her arms she said, "I am."
"You notice anything odd last night?"
She narrowed her eyes, giving Dean a suspicious look. "What do you mean by 'odd'?"
"Like... cold spots?" Sam said, making sure to act as though it was a normal thing to ask someone regarding a death. "Strange noises? Flickering lights?"
The woman scoffed. "No, I was asleep. I didn't notice a thing."
"Did Peter seem to be acting strangely before his death?" Sam pushed. While it was unlikely, demon possession wasn't entirely out of the picture. Just because it was more than likely that this had been a ghost's doing didn't mean they could afford to leave some stones unturned, that just wouldn't be professional. "Odd behaviour, speaking uncharacteristically?"
"How am I supposed to know?"
Sam faltered, not sure what to say. He knew that parents didn't notice everything about their children (it was unrealistic to think that they would) but the harsh and unapologetic tone of her voice made it seem that she not only didn't know but didn't care either. What kind of mother was so uncaring about her own late son?
Sam noticed Dean frown. When he spoke, his voice was one of angry disbelief. "He was your son."
"That fag was no son of mine," Mrs. Harding spat, the malice in her voice strong. "He was a sinner, a spawn of the Devil that God bestowed upon me as a punishment. I am glad that he killed himself, that queer had no right to live on God's Earth. He's burning in Hell with all those other heathens, like they deserve."
Sam was shocked into silence. How could someone say that about anyone, let alone their own child? Sam just wanted to go. People like this weren't worth talking to, weren't worth trying to change. She'd get what she deserved when her own death came, of that Sam was certain. Crowley had a special place in Hell reserved for homophobes for her.
He looked over to his brother to suggest to him that they just left but was surprised to see that Dean had been affected much more than he'd expected. His body was tense, his fists clenched so hard that the knuckles had turned white. Sam wouldn't have been surprised if steam started billowing out of his ears. "You," Dean snarled, his eyes boring into Mrs. Harding's. If looks could kill, she'd be six feet under. "And people like you are the reason why this world is so shit. He was your son. You were supposed to love him no matter what. Who cares what he likes? Who cares who he loves? He was human just like the rest of us. I can guarantee you that he is in heaven right now because guess what? They don't care about that shit. They accept people no matter their sexuality. But you know who they won't accept? You." Dean leaned in close to the fuming woman. "Have fun in Hell. I'll make sure the king tortures you himself."
And with that, Dean turned and walked away.
**
Sam jumped when Dean slammed an old photograph down on the desk in front of him. "What—" He started but was interrupted.
"Nancy Little," Dean said, standing back and crossing his arms, a slight scowl on his face. "That's our ghost."
Sam picked up the picture and examined it closely. It was yellowing and crumpled, the edges torn and falling away—obviously not looked after. It was black and white and showed an aging woman with round glasses and a tight hairstyle sitting in an armchair. A younger man and woman stood on either side of her. None of them were smiling.
"How do you know?" Sam asked, rubbing his eyes and doing his best to supress his rising yawn. It was well past one in the morning and he desperately needed some sleep.
"See them?" Dean pointed to the young man and woman. "William and Nancy Little Junior—twins. Apparently they both came out to their mother about fifteen years after this photo was taken—in June. She killed both of them, their partners and then herself. And guess what?" Another photo was dropped on top of the last. Sam squinted at it. Four bodies hanging from nooses, all covered in bloody symbols.
"The same method..." He murmured.
"Exactly. Best part is she's buried in the old cemetery by the church. We can go there now, salt and burn the bitch and end this permanently."
Sam sighed, running a hand over his face. "Dean, it's too late."
Dean's face fell. "What?"
Sam stood and yawned, unable to hold it back this time around. "I want to stop this ghost as much as you do but I won't be able to dig a grave this exhausted. We'll go dusk tomorrow."
"But what if someone dies tonight, huh? Sam, we have to end this now."
"I noticed a pattern in its attacks," Sam quickly explained, sensing that Dean was getting angry. "Its first was on the first, its second the sixth. Then the eleventh and yesterday's was the sixteenth. If it keeps to that pattern, as ghosts tend to do, it won't be back until the twenty-first. We can take one night off."
Dean grumbled something that sounded like "fine". Sam smiled at him in thanks and took his sleepwear to the bathroom to change before climbing into bed for a good night's sleep.
**
Sam woke to sounds of struggle. Adrenaline erasing all evidence of tiredness, he shot upwards and instantly looked to Dean's bed. It was empty. His duvet had been thrown off and was currently in a heap on the floor. Something had dragged Dean out of his bed, that much was certain, but the question was what? Something human? Or something else? Panicked, Sam scanned the room.
His eyes landed on his brother and his stomach dropped.
Dean was dangling from the hooked ceiling light, a noose around his neck. He was struggling, his legs kicking at nothing and his fingers pulling uselessly at the thick rope. Deep cuts littered his face and limbs, all in the shapes of crosses and other biblical symbols. Blood covered his clothes (making Sam assume the injuries spanned across his entire body too) and dripped into a small puddle forming on the floor. A ghost stood in the corner of the room, a severed noose hanging from its own neck, watching silently.
Nancy Little.
Sam dove off his bed, reaching under it and pulling out his duffel bag full of weapons. Ripping it open, he grabbed a shotgun and aimed it at the ghost. Salt flew through the air and it disappeared in a cloud of smoke. He wasted no time in taking a knife out of the bag and climbing onto Dean's bed, starting to hack at the rope. His heart pounded and his hands shook, panic filling every fibre of his being. Dean was running out of breath, Sam could hear it. Shallow, wheezing gasps that seemed to be taking nothing in, no matter how desperately they tried, filled the frantic silence between them. His face was darkening as his body weakened, his hands falling as his eyelids started to flicker shut.
The rope snapped and Dean fell to the floor, coughing and gasping for breath. Jumping off the bed, Sam helped him pull off the noose. Dean almost died, his still panicked brain thought as he examined his brother for any obvious, serious injuries. I almost lost him again.
Once Sam knew that Dean was okay and was pretty sure that Nancy wouldn't be coming back anytime soon, he allowed himself to assess what had just happened. The ghost had gone after Dean but... why? They'd figured out why it was there and what type of people it was after—gay people. Or at least, people in gay relationships. Dean didn't fit into either of those categories, so why go after him? Maybe it knew they were hunters and wanted to stop them from ending its spree. But if that was the case, why didn't it target Sam as well? It had just stood there, watching Dean die, not even sparing Sam a second glance. It didn't make any sense.
Sam went to voice his confusion, hoping Dean would have an answer, but his brother spoke first.
"I know you have questions," he rasped, rubbing his neck and wincing. The rope must’ve damaged his throat more than Sam had thought. "But let's burn this son of a bitch before it comes back."
After some minor hesitation, Sam nodded. Dean would talk when he was ready so Sam wasn't going to push. He helped Dean to his feet and the two of them wordlessly gathered together their salt, iron and lighters. They changed out of their sleepwear and, before he knew it, they were in the Impala on their way to the cemetery.
The drive was short and quiet and Dean was uneasy throughout. His whole body was stiff and he’d hardly looked at Sam since he’d saved him back in the motel. Sam didn’t dwell on it too much, his own mind still turning over what had happened.
The silence was only broken when the heat of the flames were warming up their freezing bodies and the stench of burning flesh was attacking their nostrils. "This isn't how I wanted you to find out," Dean said quietly, his voice still hoarse. He was staring down at his feet, avoiding Sam's questioning gaze.
Sam frowned. "Find out... what?"
Finally, Dean looked at him. The carvings on his body had stopped bleeding at this stage but, in their haste to get to the graveyard, he hadn't had the time to clean them up. This left him with streaks of dried blood trailing down his face, giving him the eerie look of an extreme cultist or pop-culture demon. A line of red circled his throat from where the rope had cut into it and Sam knew it would turn into a nasty bruise if left untreated. He wasn't crying but his eyes were full of what looked to be guilty sadness. But there was something else, something lighter. Relief. It was as if whatever Sam had supposedly found out was something that had been troubling Dean, but was also a huge weight off of his chest. "You haven't figured it out?" Dean asked, his voice one of quiet disbelief.
"You mean why the ghost went after you?" Sam shrugged. "I... I presume that it realised we're hunters and wanted to stop us before we—well." He gestured to the burning body. "Did this."
"Then why only go after me?" Dean asked. It didn't sound like a genuine question, more like he knew the answer and wanted to see if Sam did as well.
"I... don't know," he confessed. "Maybe it wanted to pick us off one at a time? Maybe it wanted to make sure you were dead before it went after me?"
"That's bullshit and you know it."
Sam half-heartedly sneered at his brother. Okay, he had to admit that it was a stretch, but what other explanation did they have? "Look, I don't know why the ghost went after you. Maybe you pissed it off somehow, who knows? Does anyone really know how ghosts' minds work?"
Dean let out a broken noise that resembled a chuckle, his gaze turning back to the flames. "And you're supposed to be the smart one..."
Sam's frown deepened. What was he missing? "What?"
"We know what kind of people it targeted," Dean said, sounding impatient. "The second you figured it out, I knew I'd be on the ghost's list. I—" His voice seemed to give out so he cleared his throat and tried again. "I didn't want to say anything. I presumed that we'd be gone before it would reach my name or that it would target the locals before a stranger. I guess it knew we were close to ending it and wanted to take me out first—didn't want to let one get away." He scoffed. "I don't know..."
Sam was still confused. What did Dean mean that he knew he'd be targeted?
Dean looked back up at him. After seeing Sam's perplexed expression, he rolled his eyes and sighed. "Do you want a fucking hint or something?"
By the tone of his voice, Dean was being sarcastic and was mocking Sam's apparent obliviousness. However, Sam was so lost that he found himself nodding anyway. Seeming like an idiot be damned, he was too puzzled and curious to care.
Dean let out an exasperated huff. "I'm bisexual, Sam."
Sam blinked. "Oh."
In a way, it made complete sense. All those men he'd caught Dean sneaking glances at in bars, the subtle jokes, the way he took LGBT+ matters that little bit too personally.
However, it also didn't make sense. The ghost specifically went after people in same-sex relationships, not people attracted to the same gender. So even though Dean was bisexual, it didn't explain why the ghost had went after him. Then again, Dean had asked if he'd wanted a hint—meaning his bisexuality wasn't the answer, just a part of it. It was a puzzle piece in the jigsaw that was the ghost's reasoning behind trying to kill him, Sam just had to figure out what the picture was. Judging by Dean's impatient and somewhat amused expression, it was something obvious. However, it must also be something big and hard to admit, seeing as he seemed to not actually want to say it himself and had been tense and upset before Sam's supposed idiocy had distracted him. Sam decided to break down the clue he'd been given. Dean was bi, which meant he was attracted to both women and men (and probably non-binary people as well). This in turn meant that, depending on which direction his heart led him, in the future he could have a girlfriend or a—
Oh. Sam fought the urge to hit himself. He really was a fucking idiot.
His surprise must've been written all over his face because Dean was smirking and rolling his eyes again. "There you go..." He muttered, looking as if he was trying to fight back a genuine smile. "You know, you're the stupidest genius I've ever met."
Sam ignored the backhanded compliment, a broad grin spreading across his face. Dean had a boyfriend. His brother had a boyfriend. He had found someone, someone to love him and care for him, to ease some of the worries and hurt that years of hunting had placed upon his shoulders. Sure, he had himself and Cas to help him with that too but having a partner was different, it was more intimate. After everything they'd been through, Dean deserved to be loved in that way, to love in that way. As a hunter, relationships were rare and difficult to come by. Unless their partner was in the life, a hunter's lifestyle was generally too dangerous and hectic for one, especially with that added responsibility of keeping that person safe.
This thought brought a question to the forefront of Sam's mind—who was Dean's boyfriend? Was he a hunter or just someone Dean had met out and about? While Sam knew the dangers of having any sort of relationship with 'normal' people, he found a part of him hoping that he was just some guy off the street. Deep in his heart, Sam longed for that tie to normality for Dean. While he knew that an ordinary life with a family and an actual house was his dream and not Dean's, Dean at least deserved a shot at it. Thinking selfishly, maybe it would be enough to get Sam that kind of life too. More than likely though, the man Dean was dating was a hunter (or at least familiar with the life). If that was the case, then they'd probably met on a hunt—meaning Sam more than likely knew him too.
"Is he a hunter?" Sam asked, deciding to voice his thoughts.
Dean seemed to think about it. "I... guess, yeah."
He guessed? It was a yes or no question, how could it be otherwise? Maybe he was one of those hunters that didn't actually hunt, just helped others with lore like Bobby had. Or maybe he only hunted occasionally—maybe he had one foot in their world and the other was planted firmly among the rest of society. "Do I know him?"
Dean hesitated as if he wasn't completely sure whether or not he wanted him to know the answer, then nodded.
Sam watched him, waiting for his brother to elaborate. Once it was clear that he was staying quiet, Sam probed further. "Well? Who is he?"
"Take a wild guess." Dean was smiling again though Sam could pick up on some nerves in the way that he kept his eyes averted and picked at his nails.
Sam thought about it, creating a mental checklist of all the men he knew. It was someone obvious, that much was apparent, so therefore someone Dean was around a lot. Sam had already been told that he knew the man but if he was somebody Dean was always with, Sam probably knew him very well and had not only met him once or twice. Already his list was narrowed down significantly; they weren't close to a lot of people. As Sam hadn't noticed Dean sneaking out of the bunker more often than usual, he had to assume that his boyfriend was someone Sam wouldn't bat an eyelid at if he saw him walking around. But... that couldn't be true. No one other than he and Dean ever visited the bunker. Well, no one except—
Sam's eyes widened. Cas.
It made sense, too much sense. So much sense that he couldn't believe he hadn't figured out before. All of the prolonged stares, the lingering touches. The way they'd always appeared to jump apart whenever Sam entered the room unannounced and how they'd always seemed to gravitate towards each other, standing practically on top of one another even when they had acres of space around them. There'd been so many times that Sam had caught Dean smiling at his phone or speaking in a hushed voice while on a call, just to brush Sam off with a gruff "No one, just Cas," when he'd ask who it was—especially in these last few months. Now that he thought of it, Cas didn't even have his own room in the bunker. He'd always brushed it off, assuming Cas didn't want one because he didn't sleep, but now he knew where he'd actually been staying.
All of these things that Sam had ignored, believed to be nothing, actually added up to so much more.
"Cas," Sam said aloud, his voice silent in surprise. "You and Cas."
"Ding, ding, ding," Dean said, his voice light and playful (though Sam could've sworn his cheeks were pinker than usual). "Took you long enough."
Sam ignored the jab, his grin broadening as he watched his brother, a million questions forming in his mind. He asked the most prominent one. "How long?"
"Just a few months," Dean said quietly, staring into the dug grave with a look of what Sam could only describe as love in his eyes. "But... I've loved him for years, I was just too chicken to admit it. I uh... It happened when we went on a hunt by ourselves a few months ago. We got into a fight. He'd done something stupid, tried sacrificing himself so I could get to safety. Would've died had I not turned back." He paused to cough, rubbing his throat again and working his jaw. Cas will have to heal that later on, Sam thought absently.
"We got back to the motel and I just... exploded. We were yelling and arguing and then he..." Dean took a steadying breath. "He said that it wouldn't have mattered if he'd died, that it wasn't like I would've missed him."
Sam couldn't supress the small gasp that escaped his lips. Disbelief and denial flooded his mind. Cas surely didn't think he was worth so little, did he?
"Yeah, I was shocked too," Dean continued. "So I uh... I told him. I told him how much he means to me, how much I owe him for. I told him that I love him and he said it back." Dean was smiling softly. He wiped his watering eyes and composed himself. "We stayed an extra night to—well, you know." He winked and (while inwardly he felt like he was about to be sick with that image planted firmly in his mind) Sam gave Dean the best bitch face he could muster.
"We thought you'd figure it out by yourself," Dean went on. "That we wouldn't have to sit you down and tell you ourselves. Never imagined you'd be such a fucking idiot."
Sam slapped Dean's arm, scowling playfully. They both chuckled and then there was silence. Sam took that as an opportunity to examine his brother closer. He watched his smiling face and shining eyes, his posture that had softened after a far too strained car ride. Just by looking at him, Sam could tell that he loved Cas more than mere words could describe. He was happy for him, glad that he'd found someone, delighted that it was Cas. Cas was someone that knew the life, he was someone that was more than capable of keeping himself safe. They could love each other freely, not having to worry about the other's safety (though Sam was certain they would anyway). Sure, it would take some getting used to on Sam's part—he wasn't sure how unusual it would be to see his best friend act all lovey-dovey with his brother—but it would be worth it in the end. If Dean smiled like this more often because of it, then Sam didn't care (besides, if push came to shove, he could always invest in a good pair of ear plugs).
He heard Dean laughed wetly and forced himself out of his thoughts. His brother was wiping his eyes again, laughing seemingly at himself. "Look at me," he was saying. "Getting all emotional over this shit. What am I? A—"
Sam hugged him, cutting him short. "Thanks for telling me," he said. "I am so, so happy for you—for both of you. I'm glad you found each other. You deserve it, you deserve happiness."
He felt Dean melt into him, squeezing him back. "Thanks Sam. I mean it."
They didn't stick around for long after that. They went back to the motel and packed away all of their stuff before starting the long drive back to Lebanon. Dean didn't talk much so Sam didn't either, the comfortable silence between them filled with the familiar melodies of Led Zeppelin. They'd swapped halfway through so that Dean could get some shut eye, resulting in Sam being the one to park Baby in the garage a few hours later. He woke Dean gently and the two of them lugged their bags into the main bunker.
Cas was at the map table, reading what looked to be one of the crime novels Sam had gotten him last Christmas. Sam wondered idly if he was enjoying it. His head shot up when they entered and he jumped to his feet the second his eyes landed on Dean. Worry etched itself across his features as he met them at the bottom of the stairs. He opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by Dean dropping his bags and falling into his arms, pulling him close and murmuring something that sounded a lot like "I love you." Cas's startled eyes met Sam's and he visibly tensed as panic washed out the worry. Smiling, Sam just mouthed, "I know." Cas looked confused, his brow furrowing and his mouth dropping open as if to speak, but then he smiled back. Placing a kiss to Dean's temple, he relaxed into the embrace, rubbing soothing circles into Dean's back and murmuring words Sam couldn't catch as Dean's wounds began to glow. Deciding it was about time he left the two of them alone, he grabbed Dean's abandoned bag and headed off in the direction of the bedrooms.
Sam had thought it would be strange to see the romantic interactions between Dean and Cas, that it would take some getting used to after knowing them both as nothing more than friends for years, but it hadn't been. Seeing them together like that... it was natural. It fit, it felt right. They loved each other—always had and always would—and there was nothing unusual about that at all.