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It was another six months before Dean dared bring up the whole gay thing again.
They were in a town about an hour north of Portland, Oregon tracking down a nest of ghouls. Sam had bullied him into a freakin’ Starbucks, arguing that since he was doing all the actual research, he got to choose where they worked.
“Besides, no one is surprised when people camp out in coffee shops,” he finished.
So Dean consigned himself to several hours sitting in this stupid coffee shop with his stupid grande coffee because this place was too good for normal sizes. At least Sam buzzed a little with happiness every time he took a sip of his latte, which tempered his normal I-hate-hunting scowl. That was something.
“What’s that?” Dean abandoned the article he was only half-pretending to read in favor of craning his neck to get a better look at Sam's cup.
“What?” Sam didn't look up.
“This,” Dean reached across the table and snatched Sam’s napkin, pointing at the number scribbled hastily in black sharpie. The writer even added a couple hearts to the end of the row of digits.
“The barista gave me his phone number,” Sam said in a slow, patronizing voice. “You’re not the first person to think of that you know.”
“Right,” Dean glanced up at the barista . . . a high schooler with black skinny jeans and eye liner, “So, you gonna call him?”
“Not my type.”
“Right,” Dean fingered the napkin for a couple seconds, “Speaking of. I’ve been meaning to ask, and no judgments I promise. . .”
“Yeess.”
“You are gay, right?”
Sam looked up, seeming to consider Dean for a few seconds, “No.”
“Oh. . .” Dean blinked stupidly, “So Mississippi was a one-off thing?”
“No,” Sam said, returning his attention to the stack of news articles and cemetery maps in front of him.
“Look man,” Dean said, “I’m not trying to be a jerk here. I just don't get what you’re saying.”
“What can I say, Dean?” Sam said, “I dated Jayden for three months and spent a month after that crushing on a girl in my lit class. Guys and girls turn me on sometimes. My sex life is just as freaky as the rest of my screwed-up existence.”
“Woah, no need to get defensive,” Dean said, “Like I said, no judgments here. I was just curious.”
“Well, now you know. Can we talk about ghouls, please?”
Dean snorted, “Sure. Whatever you say.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Dean said as he threaded a sterilized needle and turned to the deep cut oozing blood on Sam’s arm.
“That’s new,” Sam gasped as Dean poured whiskey over the wound.
“Shut up,” Dean said mildly, “Hold still.”
Sam grimaced as Dean started stitching the wound, “So what grand epiphany did you have while a ghoul wacked your head against a gravestone?”
Dean ignored the bitchy tone. “Those ghouls back there, they’re freaky monsters, right?”
“Right,” Sam narrowed his eyes.
“But compared to some of the other crap we hunt, a bunch of nasty bastards digging up and eating dead bodies isn’t that bad. Hell, we’ve probably desecrated more graves in our lifetimes.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m just saying, we know from experience that things other people might find . . . different, aren’t really that big a deal.”
Sam frowned, “So you’re saying compared to ghouls, my screwy sex drive isn’t that freaky?”
“Nah man . . . I’m saying it doesn’t even register.”
“A vast majority of the world’s moral authorities would disagree with you.”
“Eh,” Dean shrugged dramatically as he reached for the whiskey bottle again, splashing booze on the floor, and maybe (a little) in Sam’s hair. “Most of those guys say monsters aren’t real, and look how much they know.”
Sam narrowed his eyes. “Is that why you’ve kept this from Dad?”
“I haven’t told Dad because you don’t want me to.”
“Right, and he’d take it so well.”
“You never know.”
Sam snorted, and yea, Dean couldn’t blame him.
“Anyway,” Dean said, “Just because he’s Dad don’t mean he’s always right.”
He finished the last stitch and doused Sam’s arm in whiskey again.
Sam hissed in pain, “Wait,” he said a little breathlessly, “Are you implying Dad can be wrong?”
“Shut up, bitch.” Dean started wrapping a linen bandage around Sam’s arm.
“Jerk,” Sam retorted.
Dean tied off the bandage and stood, moving over to the sink to wash his brother’s blood off his hands.
“Thanks, man,” Sam said quietly from behind him.
Dean rolled his eyes, “You know, I should have known. No straight dude could love chick flick moments as much as you do.”
Sam lobbed a bar of motel soap at his head.
A month later, Dean poured a bottle of glitter in Sam’s bed. Sam retaliated by replacing all of Dean’s boxers with lace panties.
So began the most intense prank war of their lives.