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It was supposed to be a good surprise. For the first time in…ever…he and Dad actually got home from a hunt early. The supposed werewolf had actually been a raging psychopath…even more disturbing, but much easier to put down.
Anyway, Dad had dropped Dean off at the motel while he went to pick up some celebratory beer (“because if you can hunt like a man you can celebrate like one”). He had sauntered into the room, expecting to find his brother bent over some nerdy textbook. Sam would look up, a brief flicker of pleasant surprise crossing his face (because no matter how much Sam fought with Dad now, he’d never stayed mad at Dean for more than a couple of days) before he covered it up with some smart-ass comment that was as close to an “I’m glad you’re here,” as they ever got.
He was not expecting to find his brother—his shirtless brother—jumping off one of the beds the moment Dean cracked the door open and shouting, “What the hell are you doing here!” while someone else—also shirtless—literally pulled the blankets over their head.
Assuming this person had been some chic from one of Sam’s geek classes, this would definitely have been the best moment of Dean’s life. Walking into Sam trying to get serious with his first girl would produce a lifetime’s worth of jokes.
The thing was, the person cowering under the blankets didn’t have boobs.
“What the hell, Dean!” Sam tried to sound pissed, but he couldn't begin to hide the panic in his voice, in his eyes…everywhere, really.
Now that he thought about it, Dean could feel bile rising in his throat, though he couldn’t really say where it came from: disgust or surprise or the same panic he saw reflected in Sam's eyes.
Take control! John barked, thankfully from only inside Dean’s head.
Dean cleared his throat. “I think it’s time for you to go,” he said, directing his gaze to the trembling figure under the blankets. The guy darted out from under the blanket, grabbing a pair of sneakers and a t-shirt at random (Dean was pretty sure the t-shirt was Sam’s, but no one was going to say anything about it at that point) from the floor and bolting out of the room without glancing at either of them. Sam’s eyes never left the guy, following his rapid escape and staring at the doorway after he vanished from sight. His expression was almost…wistful.
What the actual hell?
Dean glanced around at the tousled bed, at the guy’s t-shirt on the floor, then back up at Sam, whose gaze had now shifted determinedly to the floor. He smiled weakly, “Surprise.”
“Shut up, Dean!” Sam snarled with a special type of savagery that he usually saved exclusively for Dad. He grabbed the second t-shirt and started storming towards the door.
“Hold up, dude,” Dean said, grabbing Sam’s arm before the kid could reach the doorknob.
“I swear, Dean, if you don’t let me go…”
Sam’s eyes were still fastened to the floor. He was trembling under Dean’s grip.
If Sam left, Dean could think of about a dozen ways this whole thing could go spectacularly to hell.
“Look, I just want to talk,” he said, switching to his keep-victims-calm-to-get-information-quickly voice, “That’s it. I just want to know what’s going on.”
“I think that’s pretty damn obvious, don’t you?”
“Not really,” Dean said, “Cause it looks to me that you and your…friend were in the middle of having a nice moment, then I barged in and ruined it.”
Sam didn’t say anything, didn’t even move, probably wasn't even breathing.
Dean took a deep breath, “See, what I can’t figure is why any of that’s reason for you to get jumpy and defensive like this. The way I see it, this one's on me for not checking to see if you were busy before barging in here. You’re a fifteen-year-old with a hotel room all to himself for a week. What should I have been expecting?
“Boobs,” Sam mumbled to the ground.
Dean started to chuckle, but then thought better of it, “Maybe. But the protocol should be the same, don’t you think?”
“So you’re not…” Sam lifted his eyes but, for perhaps the first time in his life, he couldn’t seem to find the words he wanted, so he returned his attention to the carpet.
“Mad? No. You threw me…more than a little, and I’m still not exactly sure what’s going on. But that's no reason to get mad.”
“So you don’t think I’m a freak.”
The words were rushed and mumbled and enough to make Dean want to bash his head against something. For as long as Sam had been…Sam…he’d had this normalcy complex, this desperate desire to be like everyone else, even if he knew, more than anyone, how impossible that dream was.
Dean just wished he’d stop trying so damn hard.
“Freaks usually come with body counts, Sam. Now go put a shirt on, Dad’ll be back any minute.”
For once, Sam obeyed without arguing.
Sam opted for a full-on shower instead of a quick clothes change, which suited Dean perfectly. He took the few minutes of solitude to remake the messed-up bed, his hands moving with the effortless, military precision Dad had ingrained in him as he wrestled with this new information.
Fact 1: Sammy was not actually a prude. Dean had teased him about his modesty since the kid was like, ten, but he was pretty damn sure that Sam was on top of that dude.
Fact 2: Sammy was apparently into dudes. Dean had heard of it, of course, guys going for guys, but frankly, he hadn’t ever really cared enough to think about it. He supposed, an hour ago, if he had been forced to give any sort of opinion on the subject, he would have said that he didn’t give a rat’s ass about whether or not a couple of hippy dudes felt extra kinky and decide to go at it with each other.
Fact 3: Sammy wasn’t kinky; he was a downright romantic, all about the connection of the heart and the body. Dean had figured the kid hadn’t gotten laid yet because he hated the idea of a one-night stand, and they were never anywhere long enough to allow for much else.
Fact 4: If Sam was going for it with this guy, it was because he felt something for the dude.
How Sam could even begin to feel like that for guy was completely beyond Dean’s comprehension, but there it was.
The door slammed open and shut. Dean didn’t even bother looking up. Not even a shifter could perfectly imitate John's movements.
“You still playing nursemaid for your brother?” Dad drawled, sounding only mildly belligerent.
“Sammy and I were wrestling.”
Dad made a noise in the back of his throat that indicated that he heard but was too tired to care. Dean didn't turn until he heard the pop of a beer can and Dad’s unmistakable sigh as he sank into the uncomfortable motel chair. This was as relaxed as Dad got, drinking a beer after a hunt, and Dean suddenly remembered that he had taken to joining him, sitting in companionable silence and basking in the lingering adrenaline rush.
Dean doubted he’d be able to fall into their comfortable routine, but he definitely wanted the beer, so he threw himself into the chair opposite Dad and opened one of the cans.
“Doesn’t feel as good as it usually does, does it?” John said.
Dean nodded, though he had frankly nearly forgotten about the screwed-up psychopath they had just hog-tied and dropped in front of the police station, “People are crazy,” he said, and took another gulp of beer.
Dad made a small noise of assent and they fell into silence. Dean finished his beer and grabbed another. Dad frowned at him but didn’t say anything. Dean couldn’t really care about wasting his liver before he was thirty.
He had almost reached the dregs of the second can when Sam finally emerged from the bathroom, shaking his floppy hair like a shaggy dog and dressed in—Dean cursed silently—jeans and a striped t-shirt that definitely did not belong to him.
The kid was pining.
Sam didn’t acknowledge either of them, just dug in his bag for one of his mammoth textbooks and sat on the bed, pulling his legs up, resting the book on his knees, burying his face in its pages, and clearly doing his best to make himself as small and inconspicuous as possible.
This was wrong.
Sam’s go-to defenses, whether he was angry, scared, or upset, were to fight head-on or run-away. His constant head-butting with Dad proved that. What Sam was doing now seemed an awful lot like surrender, but surrender wasn’t a word in Sam Winchester’s vocabulary.
Dean’s stomach lurched painfully, threatening to eject the beer he’d just drunk.
Fact 5: Sammy had decided that Dad and Dean would never accept him. He was so sure, he didn’t even try to fight.
Well . . . shit.
“So what’s his name?”
Dean actually went and picked up Sam from school the day after … that happened, despite his brother’s furious objections. Since this was the first time Dean had offered to do such a thing in months, he was well aware his ploy was a bit obvious. That being said, Sam always loved to talk about his feelings, and talking crap like this out was better in the Impala, so Dean figured some soul-bearing from Sam, some casual acceptance (and totally not freaking out) from him, and they’d be good.
They’d be even better if Dad found a hunt in Montana or something soon, and they could put this whole mess literally in the rearview mirror.
Sam, however, seemed to have different ideas.
“His name’s Screw You.”
“More like Screw You,” Dean quipped, and shit that was the stupidest thing he could have possibly said. He glanced at Sam, and the kid didn’t even curse him out, just scooted over to the other end of the Impala until he was practically sitting on the window.
He didn’t meet Dean’s eyes for the rest of the day.
“The hell’s wrong with him?” Dad asked when Sam actually started cleaning the weapons without being ordered.
Dean shrugged, “Just some school drama, I guess.”
“Hmm,” Dad shrugged and returned his attention to his journal.
Dean wasn’t sure how to feel about that.
The middle-aged librarian scowled harder at his request for books on homosexuality than if he had asked for information on the occult. He knew this from experience.
He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised at the pointed lack of useful reading materials in a small town library in rural Mississippi. The crap he did find was mostly pseudo-scientific garbage and recommendations to appeal to God for healing. He stopped reading when some of the shit started to sound eerily like exorcisms.
It didn’t occur to him until a couple days later that when Sam demanded, “Just a couple hours to be a normal human being with normal friends!” every Saturday, he was probably referring to one friend.
Fortunately, there were only so many places for high school kids to go in towns like this, so it took Dean barely twenty minutes to track Sam down to the local diner.
Sam hated diners on principle.
He didn’t seem to mind this one though, not the way he was laughing at something the guy across from him had just said.
They weren’t stupid enough (or bold enough or safe enough) to actually touch each other. Dean, however, was an expert on all things Sam Winchester (except for having no idea about … this) and his big, goofy grins, his untouched food, the way he leaned across the table to catch his (friend’s?) every word. The kid was enamored.
The (boyfriend?) seemed nice enough. He had an average height and build with a wide face and large chocolate-brown eyes. He wasn’t quite as tall as Sam, and Dean chuckled when he realized Sam was hunching down in his booth a little, so he could meet the kid’s eyes.
The kid also stared at Sam like he glowed.
Dean still didn't know what this was, but he was well on his way to sleeping with a girl in every state in the continental US, and he had never looked at any of them the way that kid looked at Sam.
Dad found signs of demon activity just outside Montgomery. “I’m going to meet up with Caleb,” he said as he packed his duffle. “You and Sam take care of that Hoodoo stuff Sam found in Pelahatchie."
“Dad that’s low level crap,” Dean protested, “Let me come. Sam can handle the Hoodoo.”
“No Dean.” The conversation was over.
The Hoodoo was a bust, so Dean ended up scoring a part-time job at the local mechanic shop. Sam seemed content attending his genius classes for more than a month and spending more and more time with his “friends.” After tip-toeing around Dad and Dean until Dad left again, Sam apparently decided that Dean wasn’t going to run him out or burn him at the stake or whatever other nightmares his overactive imagination had come up with, so he finally started to meet Dean’s eyes again. It wasn’t the same. Sam was agreeable but withdrawn, as if they hadn’t spent the past fourteen years comfortably driving each other insane.
At this point, Dean didn’t really care if Sam was sleeping with every gay kid from here to San Francisco as long as they talked again.
Dean spent an agonizing week listening to pop stations whenever Sam was in the car. Finally, on their way to a totally superfluous food run, Madonna came blaring on.
“Gotta love her, right?” Dean risked shooting Sam a quick smile.
Sam stared at him like he had grown an extra limb.
He waited another day or so before trying again.
“Maybe when Dad gets back we can try to find a hunt in California…that’d be great, right?”
“Mmm,” Sam said without bothering to look up from his history textbook.
“We’ve never lived in California,” Dean continued, “I bet it’s awesome.”
“Meaning there’s lots of beach bimbos.”
“Hell yea,” Dean said, even though he was specifically not going to mention that, but he remembered Sam calling him from Oregon and asking him how to talk to girls and the way he blushed when Dean teased him about his “totally obvious crush” on Becca Allsworth less than six months ago. Had he just misinterpreted everything since the kid hit puberty?
Whatever this was, Dean hadn’t caught Sam in bed with Becca Allsworth.
“Bet we could find some awesome jobs around San Francisco,” he said, “Big city, all those miners, gotta be some restless spirits at least. Then we could check out Alcatraz and the Golden Gate and stuff our faces with sourdough bread. What d’ya think?”
Sam grunted.
“Come on Sammy. Beaches, pretty houses on huge-ass hills, sourdough . . .” Gay people. “What’s not to love?”
“Maybe,” Sam said icily, “I’d love to finish a semester at the same school I started it.”
Well . . . shit. He screwed up again. Sam obviously wouldn’t care about finding the gay Mecca as much as this gay kid. Because he was a bleeding heart romantic like that.
“You never know,” he said finally, “Maybe we will.”
“Riigght,” Sam slammed his history book shut and pulled another towards him.
Sighing, Dean flipped on the television and flicked through the stations until finally settling on a rerun of Back to the Future 3. It was lame, but it was lame enough to probably not distract Sam much.
So, you know, maybe he could do one thing right.
They didn’t say anything for the rest of the evening, but every once in a while, Sam would look up at his homework and open his mouth for a second before closing it again and returning his attention to his books.
Maybe they’d made some progress after all.
The dirty marqui in front of Southern Valley High announced “Valentine’s Dance Feb 13 Tickets $15.” Dad was going to be back in a little over a week, and Dean expected they’d be gone 48 hours after that.
Sam got home late nearly every night and politely cut Dean out of every part of his life that mattered.
It was a gamble, but this impasse was . . . empty.
You going to that dance?” Dean asked as they pulled away from the school.
Sam narrowed his eyes, “What’s the point?”
There were lots of ways to take that. There were lots of ways to take most things Sam said. Dean pointedly did not think about what Sam meant by it, though, because he was pretty sure it would make his chest hurt. Instead, Dean clenched his hands on the steering real and pointedly did not think of the million ways this scheme could make things exponentially worse.
“Dean. Where the hell are we going?” Sam asked the second they turned left instead of right to the motel they’d been living in for the past two and half months.
“Need some new boots,” Dean said. Boots were the only purchase that justified going to a mall.
“And I’m going because…”
“Because,” Dean grinned at Sam’s resigned scowl.
The parking lot was predictably empty on a Tuesday afternoon. Dean led them into Dillards. Sam trailed sullenly after him as they passed rows of dresses and handbags.
“Hey! Look what’s on sale,” Dean swerved down the aisle to the rows of men’s dress shirts. A little sign on the top of some of the racks said 15% off.
“Dean,” Sam sighed, “Those are still at least twice as much as we spend on any of our clothes.”
“We’ve got a bit more with the mechanic’s job. Let’s take a look.”
“You okay?” Sam raised an eyebrow in that was half mocking, half actually concerned.
“What? Is it really so hard to believe a handsome guy like me might want to dress up a little?”
“Dean,” Sam sighed, “I know what you’re doing.”
“What!”
“I know I’ve been a bit . . . off,” Sam said, “But I’m fine, really. You don’t need to do any of this,” he gestured vaguely at the clothes racks.
“No reason not to, though.”
“Dean . . .”
“Look, Sam,” Dean rubbed his hand down his face, “I don’t know exactly what you’re feeling now…”
“That’s pretty damn obvious,” Sam scowled and looked away in a vain attempt to hide the pink rising in his cheeks.
“Not just because of who you’re with,” Dean interjected, “Dude, you know me. Different bar, different girl every night. I don’t do the whole relationship thing.”
“That’s not . . .we’re not. . .”
“Sam, it’s okay. I know I flipped out on you before, but that’s on me, not you. You really like this kid, so you know what we’re going to do? We’re going to pick you out a nice shirt and some pants, you’re going to ask this guy to go to the Valentine’s dance, and you’re going to be cheesy and romantic and love every minute of it, alright?”
“There’s no way we could go to the dance, Dean.”
“Only lame-ohs actually take their dates to the dance,” Dean rolled his eyes, “Trust me.”
Sam turned away again, and Dean carefully didn’t notice him rubbing at his eyes. When Sam turned back, his eyes were red, but he was smiling, “Okay.”
“His name’s Jayden,” Sam said on the way home. He was holding the Dillard’s bag carefully on his lap like it might explode if he jostled it.
Dean shot him a quick smile, “Great guy huh?”
“Yea,” Sam smiled, despite himself.
Let it never be said that Dean Winchester can’t dress up even the most decrepit room for Valentine's Day. There were candles and fairy lights and a stereo with a bunch of romantic emo crap that Sam loved and a VCR hooked up to the relatively reliable TV prepped with all three Star Wars movies because they’re Jaden’s favorite (even if Sam let out an exasperated sigh every time Dean watched them).
Sam, unsurprisingly, cleaned up well. He sat in the ratty motel chair tugging nervously at his baby blue button down shirt.
“Dude,” Dean said when he opened the door, “Stop fussing. You look fine.” He set a Boston Market bag, a bottle of sparkling cider, and two plastic wine glasses on the table. Sam had had—and knew how to get—the good stuff, but every once in a while Dean decided to behave like an adult. He just hadn’t look in Sam’s bag for the past couple of days.
“You sure about this?” Sam muttered, still fussing at that damn shirt sleeve.
“Definitely,” Dean agreed. He gave his brother another once-over, “Stand up.”
Sam obeyed, frowning.
“You’re not a choir boy,” Dean said, unbuttoning the first two buttons of Sam’s shirt, “Actually you want the opposite effect tonight. He unbuttoned the cuffs Sam had been fiddling with and rolled the sleeves up to his elbows. “Much better,” he stepped back, “You’ll knock him dead.”
“Dean . . .”
“Hey,” Dean clasped his brother’s shoulder, “You’ll be great. You’ll both be great. You’ve spent how much time with this kid? You’re just making tonight a little special.”
“You are,” Sam mumbled.
“Nah, I’m just providing the grub. Tonight’s all about you,” Dean smiled, “And that cheesy emo crap you like.”
Sam huffed a little in false indignation, “Maybe if you would listen to anything past 1970.”
“Oh hell no!” Dean protested. He checked his watch, “I’d better go. He should be here soon.”
“Have a good Valentine’s Day.”
He grinned, “Hell yea! Best day of the year! Maybe if I’m lucky enough I’ll find two . . .”
“Ew! Shut up you freak!”
Dean went to the door, cackling, “Hey Sam . . .”
“What.”
Dean snapped a condom at his brother’s head like a rubber band.
“Dean!”
Dean left, cackling as Sam threw every curse he knew at him.
He waited in the back of the parking lot until Jayden knocked on the door at exactly seven-o-lock, shifting uncomfortably in his own white button-down shirt. The door opened immediately and Sam hurriedly ushered him in.
Right. They didn’t have the luxury of prolonged door step hellos.
Dean waited a couple more minutes before pulling out of the parking lot. His chest was clenching with too many emotions to define easily. Sam was the one more suited to all that soul-searching crap.
He spent the night with a girl named Hannah, but even their most creative moments weren’t as memorable as Sam’s casual, “Hey Jerk,” when Dean returned a little after lunch the next day.
“Hey bitch,” he yawned, wandered to the mini fridge, and pulled out the leftover Boston Market macaroni.
“This is Jayden,” Sam pointed at the kid he was currently propped up against in the bed.
“Hey Jayden,” Dean said as he dug into the macaroni without bothering to heat it up first.
“Hey,” Jayden said in the least casual casual voice Dean had ever heard.
“This Empire Strikes Back?” Dean asked needlessly as he watched Luke carried Yoda through the swamp.
Jayden nodded.
“Best one, right?” Dean said as he flopped down on the other bed.
“Hell yea!” Jayden said.
Sam rolled his eyes, “And you guys call me the geek.”
“You like documentaries, Sam,” Jayden said.
“So do you!”
“Shark week totally doesn’t count…”
They bickered until Luke and Darth Vader’s fight scene when Jayden started talking mouthing along to Vader’s lines, coming in dramatically at “I am your Father!”
“You’re such an idiot.”
“That’s why you love me,” Jayden said. He froze, glancing anxiously at Dean.
He thought about pretending not to hear, but if Jayden was half as angsty about this as Sam, he’d take it all the wrong way, so Dean met his eyes and shrugged before returning his attention to the screen. Jayden sagged in relief and Sam settled himself more comfortably against his chest.
Dean popped open the bottle of untouched cider and turned on Return of the Jedi. Sam fell asleep before they’d made it out of Jabba’s palace, and Jayden eventually became distracted for a good half hour carding his fingers through Sam’s hair before dropping off to sleep too.
Dean finished the cider and the movie, then spent a couple minutes watching his brother sleep easily with his boyfriend. Then he went outside to do some needless work on the Impala.
For the first time in his life, he desperately hoped Dad didn’t find a new job for a long, long time.
It was a fantasy, of course. Dad was back a week later, already talking about a black dog in Michigan and ordering Sam to withdraw himself from school the next day.
The resulting argument shook the foundations of the motel. Dean busied himself tuning the Impala and waited for the storm to pass. Sam knew he would lose, knew this day would come the moment he started seeing Jayden. Dean wasn’t sure what it meant that Sam fought so hard anyway.
The motel door exploded open and Sam stormed out, ignoring Dad’s continued shouts after him. He barged past Dean, and it wasn’t hard to guess who he was going to see.
“Hey!” Dean called after him.
Sam paused, but did not turn to look at him.
“Let me give you a lift there . . . save you a five mile run.”
After a moment’s consideration, Sam nodded sharply and threw himself into the passenger seat of the Impala. Neither bothered to speak until Dean pulled up to Jayden’s apartment complex.
“Play hookie tomorrow,” Dean said, “I’ll take care of the school stuff and pick you up around noon.”
Sam nodded and got out of the car without sparing it or Dean a second glance.
Heaving a heavy sigh, Dean pulled out and returned to his equally irate father.
Dean picked Sam up the next day, an hour after John had left, still muttering about obstinate kids needing to learn to accept the life. He wasn’t wrong, really, but Dean couldn’t really say he was right either.
Sam got in without a word. Jayden was standing at the door of the complex, and Sam craned his neck to look back at him until long after he had vanished from sight.
They didn't speak for six hundred miles