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“Mornin’, sleeping beauty,” Dean hollered, slapping his younger brother on the shoulder. Startled by the movement, Sam flinched and blinked rapidly. As his clouded vision settled, Sam shook his head violently, taking in his surroundings and trying to regain his bearings. One would think that after the various frightful experiences Sam endured, a simple wake-up call wouldn’t warrant a similar, high-adrenaline reaction. Sam heard the rattle of mattress springs as he shifted, and Dean gently propped him up against the apparent bed’s headboard. He was in the bunker; he deduced as much from the distinct scents of metal and wood. Sam squinted at the cover of a Led Zeppelin vinyl leaning against the wall next to the turntable on the room’s desk, immediately indicating that Sam was not in his room. The unsettling part about all of this was that Sam recalled having already woken up this morning, in his own bed, no less. Begrudgingly, he sat up, the back of his hand pressed against his pounding forehead.
“Dean,” he said slowly, “what happened?” Dean replied with that supposed-to-be charming yet borderline mischievous smirk, which typically was never a good sign to Sam. Years of being around Dean as his major (and perhaps only) form of social life gave Sam plenty of time to study all his older brother’s mannerisms to a complete science; he could’ve written a book about every hand gesture and facial expression. This enabled Sam to narrow that wolfish grin of Dean’s to having one of two meanings. The first meant his brother was about to make a dumb joke that only Dean would find amusing. Usually, a pop culture reference no one else understood (yet Sam was called the geeky one), some form of innuendo, or a musing at Sam’s expense. On the contrary, Dean would give that look to reassure his brother that everything was fine. In reality, however, Dean had done something he was unwilling to admit to, which regularly had consequences that would appear later. In Sam’s experience, the smirk meant the latter.
Before Sam could attempt to interrogate his brother about what Dean had possibly gotten them into this time (and its possible link to Sam’s current hazy state), Dean outstretched his arms in front of him, shushing him gently. It was like watching him try to talk down a frightened horse. “Hey, it’s okay, man, you’re okay,” Dean assured. Sam grunted as the ache emanating from his skull began to subside. “What happened?” he repeated, more firmly this time. Dean positioned his arms in a mock surrender. “You just came back from your run, knocked on my door to deliver sustenance,” he turned and gestured to the paper takeout bag from a burger joint sitting on the other side of the desk. “And then you passed out on my bed for like five minutes,” Dean concluded, turning back to his brother. Sam looked down at his grey sweater, which was soaked and clinging to his limbs. His features then contorted in further bewilderment; the run sounded familiar, but he didn’t even remember knocking on Dean’s door. “I didn’t want to disturb your little mid-morning siesta,” Dean said, snapping Sam’s attention back to him, “but your sweat was getting everywhere, and I just changed the sheets, and then there’s the smell…” “Alright, alright, enough,” Sam interrupted, standing up. He rubbed his eyes, trying to rid himself of the disorientation he felt as Dean continued to beleaguer him, “I keep telling you, man, all that running was going to get you someday.” Sam gave a tight-lipped smile, not eager to discuss the subject further.
Nevertheless, perhaps there was some merit to Dean’s point; between the hunts and his morning jogs, Sam could have overexerted himself. To the point of passing out, however, it still seemed unlikely. Intending to exit and holding the doorknob, Sam recalled the potential reason he might have come to the room in the first place. “Oh, there’s a case just outside here in Oklahoma, I’m thinking it’s a vamp attack,” Sam explained. Dean nodded and clapped his hands together, “Nothing like doing some good ol’ fashioned beheading. Alright, gear up, I’ll meet you in the car in ten.” Sam nodded back, yet as he swung the door, he heard the briefest exhale of relief from Dean. Indeed, Sam’s instincts were right; his brother was hiding something, and any indication as to what that something could be was lost in his faulty memory.
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Sam Winchester loved running. As a child, he was constantly pestering his father to let him join a sport, such as track or a local peewee soccer league. Joining an extracurricular would’ve given young Sam the normalcy he craved in a lifestyle whose nature constantly denied it. He remembered watching from the bleachers as he waited to be picked up, all the other kids giddily sprinting to the fields in their numbered jerseys and knee-high socks— a sense of camaraderie between them. Meanwhile, Sam was about to be stuffed into a motel room to research some banshee lore or monotonously refill salt rounds.
Although putting paranormal creatures in the ground was still his life now, Sam made time to run. However, it was less about the normalcy factor and more about simply staying fit. Plus, there was something so gratifying about running, the routine of it, being outside, and the rush of endorphins that came afterward. This morning, he drove up to an outdoor trail a few miles outside the bunker (using one of the vehicles he located in the bunker’s garage. If he used the Impala, Dean would have his head) and just let the path take him away. It felt like a bit of an adventure, following the natural windings and curves of the trail, the breeze on his face as the forest trees whipped by, no thoughts except the focus on propelling his body forward. It was good to exercise instead of the usual exorcise.
Today, Sam had pushed himself and gotten a new personal best, as evidenced by his drenched sweater and dirt-smothered shoes. If he waltzed back to the bunker looking like this, he knew Dean would tease him. Dean Winchester was a damn good fighter, but for all his endurance and ability, he despised cardio. Despite Sam’s encouragement to make even the smallest changes to be healthier, Dean continuously binged on anything and everything that was high in alcohol and cholesterol and refused activities like jogging. “I know it’s good for you, but at what cost?” he had said. Feeling in a chipper mood from his workout, Sam decided to make a run for some breakfast; perhaps the offer of food would soften the blow of whatever quips Dean would come up with when he eventually found out about Sam’s morning activities.
Upon returning to the bunker, Dean was nowhere to be found, which is to say he is basking in the revels of their now non-motel living situation and sleeping in. Sam was initially reluctant to call the bunker home. Sam was a mere baby when their childhood home burned down; he had never known what home was like in the physical sense. Sure, wherever he was with Dean should’ve been home enough, but years of travelling with no permanent address made the unfamiliar act of returning to the same place every day feel unreal. Yet that’s what the bunker was, the safe place, the solid rock he could lean on and come back to even when everything went to hell.
Additionally, the bunker allowed for luxuries others took for granted, such as returning to your bed and crashing for more than four hours a night without the motel staff looking at you strangely. Sam didn’t even want to contemplate the number of times a receptionist stared at him and his blood-covered, salt-smothered, and gasoline-smelling brother when they came back from a job (the reason they couldn’t take off immediately after was that check-out time was the next morning, and they didn’t want to arouse suspicion). Of course, taking on cases outside the Midwest still required staying in motels, but that aspect of life was decreasing, and the odd domesticity of the bunker increased in its stead.
Wanting to be productive, Sam opened his laptop, not bothering to change, and scrolled through local news sources, scouring the internet for the next case. Lo and behold, there was an article about a string of seemingly unconnected victims drained of their blood. A probable vampire attack, Sam thought, and with the number of victims, this could be a nest. Eliminating a vampire nest would be a highly desirable win and easy enough, as the article claimed the deaths occurred in Stillwater, Oklahoma, only a couple of hours' drive. A milk run, Sam mused with the greasy cheeseburger he picked up in tow, heading to wake Dean and propose their next job.
Knocking on Dean’s door, his brother answered, his eyes bleary and barely open, fiddling with an unworn t-shirt in his hand. “Hey, look who decided to sleep in. Breakfast?” Sam said proudly, presenting the paper bag. Dean groaned a sort of thank you in reply, shrugging the black t-shirt over his head. Sam took the liberty of coming in, looking around the room and then back at his brother; something was off. He couldn’t explain it, but the Dean’s current state was in disarray, his hair sticking out from all ends, and he “reeked of sex,” as Dean himself would say.
Sam quickly put two and two together and turned back to his brother, unimpressed. The endeavour of having partners like that defeated the “secret” in the “secret bunker.” The poor unsuspecting woman could’ve been followed and attracted a monster or demon. Maybe if Dean’s judgment was impaired enough, the unsuspecting woman was a monster or demon trying to infiltrate their safe haven. For the sake of a future stranger’s well-being and their own, Sam found it essential to discuss the dangers of Dean bringing his “flings” to the bunker.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize you had company,” Sam said as matter-of-factly as he could muster, trying not to let his frustration and, admittedly, curiosity, lace through his tone. This was the first time Dean had brought someone here for purposes other than interrogation or solving a case. Also, the mechanics of how Dean would even convince someone to come back to the bunker confused Sam. “Hey, let’s go back to my place, it’s an old, hidden headquarters for a bunch of now-dead occult scholars.” Sam couldn’t help but wonder what made this particular instance so special. Dean merely shrugged, seemingly uncaring, and his speech was still thick with sleep. “All good. He just left,” he managed to say over a yawn. The scolding Sam had been harbouring vanished instantaneously, “He?” Sam asked.
Sam knew this was a long time coming; everything, from the way Dean dressed (cuffed plaid flannels, leather, silver jewellery adorning his fingers), the way he conducted himself, and his reaction to a particular lead doctor character on a daytime soap opera, pointed to Dean being, well, “not straight.” Hell, the number of times Dean defensively claimed he didn’t “swing that way” was enough to make any ordinary person raise a brow. Yet Sam also knew that Dean, being as bottled up as he was, would never admit it. His masculinity could be as fragile as a twig, a quality Sam liked to attribute to their father, who could not be credited for his progressiveness. When they were kids, Dean took whatever their father said as gospel. For years, the prospect of liking anyone but women and gaining attachment to them for more than one night had been inconceivable during childhood, a motto Dean subconsciously still tried to live by. Until now, Sam hoped.
Dean snatched the paper bag Sam had numbly been holding in front of him and started rifling through the contents. As he unwrapped the foil, he hummed in satisfaction as he took the first bite. Someone remembered the onions this time; he grinned. Meanwhile, Sam was practically vibrating with excitement. Without coaxing, Dean had opened up. There were times Sam never thought this day would come, that the damage was so irreversible. No amount of hinting and offer of support would make Dean comfortable enough to get over himself and admit to his sexuality.
Dean reluctantly turned his attention away from the sandwich and rolled his eyes, “For fuck’s sake, Sam, this ain’t the 1950s.” “I know, but I feel so honoured that you’re sharing this part of yourself with me and that you now feel safe to do so,” he replied. Dean’s brow furrowed as he took another bite of his sandwich, having no idea what Sam was talking about and why his little brother was suddenly so willing to discuss Dean’s sex life (because Sam had usually made his disinterest in the matter abundantly clear). “What’re you talking about?” Dean said blatantly, and Dean could’ve sworn he saw his brother’s eyebrows waggle as if to say: You know exactly what I’m talking about.
Dean then stiffened as Sam wrapped his arm around Dean’s shoulders, a few stray onions falling out of the burger, “Dude! Watch it.” “Oh, c’mon, Dean, don’t you get it? This is a wonderful thing,” Sam explained as Dean tried to wriggle free from Sam’s hold. “Sammy, wanna loosen the death grip?” “You’re getting over the crap that you’ve internalized from Dad,” Sam continued, ignoring his brother, “Now you can finally stop that macho overcompensating thing of yours.” Dean shot him an offended look, but that did nothing to fend off the hug/headlock. His gaze then flickered to the ceiling, shaking his head in the limited rotation he still had, wondering to the powers that be why he couldn’t just keep his mouth shut. “Alright, I’ve had enough of this. Can I get some help here?” he cried out. That was the last thing that happened before Sam went Memento.
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Castiel had been lurking in the distance, hearing and watching the whole ordeal. It was like being on the other side of a one-way mirror, like in an interrogation room from those cop shows the brothers loathed; Castiel could see them, but they couldn’t see him. While observing the exchange, Castiel convinced himself that this interaction was exclusively between the Winchesters, and he would only interfere when Dean wanted him to. Despite this rationale, the angel felt uneasy, as if he were stuck in a loop, reliving this conversation for the dozenth time. Which was not far from actuality; like clockwork, he and Dean would have a moment (the angel smiled to himself because "moment" was a severe understatement), then the next morning, Dean, beautiful, brilliant, yet stupid Dean, would find a way to hint at the previous night’s encounter. “All good. He just left,” Dean said, and Castiel saw in that split-second all the grogginess dissipate from Dean’s body as he realized what he had done (again). “He?” Sam asked.
Castiel did not understand why Dean was so determined to keep this a secret from his beloved brother. Over the years, the Winchesters had been notorious for withholding information from one another. God (wherever he was) knows Castiel had done his fair share of hiding things. Still, Castiel knew that, despite the secrecy, the lies were told without ill intent and that, rather, a greater good could (eventually) prevail. What greater good was there in hiding Castiel’s relationship with the hunter?
The first time he tampered with Sam’s memory, it was completely reflexive, like flinching after touching a hot object. The younger Winchester brother had barged in on them mid-makeout, and Castiel acted before a word was spoken; Dean didn’t even ask for his interference. If anything, he was supportive. Castiel stuck an arm out, and with a flash of light, the pair watched Sam collapse at the threshold of Dean’s door. Castiel sputtered a thousand apologies, swearing it was an accident. Shame flared through him; he made a promise to himself and the brothers that he would not interfere with another human’s headspace against their own volition unless necessary. “What did you do exactly?” Dean asked slowly, hands still clutching the lapels of the angel’s trenchcoat. “I-, I may have erased his memory of seeing us like, like this,” “But I won’t do it again, and he’ll be fine—” Castiel paused in surprise as Dean threw his head back and laughed, so hard it shook them both. “Did you turn my brother Leonard Shelby?” Castiel’s brows furrowed, “I don’t understand.” “That Chris Nolan movie, with the memory? Y’know what, we’ll watch it next week, but listen, Cas, I don’t care if you didn’t mean to do it. The only thing I care about is if you’d be willing to do that again,” Dean smiled conspiratorially. So, like many of the preconceived rules in Castiel’s life, when it came to Dean, he would make an exception.
The question, however, remained: what was the point of concealing their relationship from Sam? Then Castiel thought Dean was ashamed, ashamed of himself, Castiel, and the nature of their relationship. “No, Cas, it’s not that,” Dean had assured one night, looking at the angel tenderly. Technically, it was the early hours of the morning, and the two were lying awake whispering amongst the dim glow of the bedside lamp. Castiel enjoyed those times the most; it was ambient and quiet, and he and Dean were hidden from whatever lay beyond the room. He always felt blissful, his mind clear of any other thought but the press of the hunter’s limbs against his own, and hands gently caressing his sides. The mattress, clearly not made for two (and which Dean had been meaning to replace), groaned as Dean shifted, propped on his elbow to better face the angel. “What we have is great, man. It’s special and important to me because, for the first time in a long time, I’m happy. Like real frickin’ happy.” Dean reached for the angel’s hands, and Castiel gave a lopsided smile, feeling the warmth beneath the many calluses in the fingertips.
He’d be lying if he said he disagreed; he felt this new romantic take on his relationship with Dean was simply good. Castiel found it enthralling and wanted to protect that goodness for as long as possible. He had felt a particular connection to the hunter from the beginning, drawn to his determination, strength, and humanity. The two of them are so different, yet cut from the same cloth. Perfectly programmed soldiers, trying to erase their stone-cold coding and do the best they could to help others. Castiel admittedly felt like he wouldn’t be able to shake off the self-righteousness, the superiority he had from being a seraph, if he hadn’t met Dean.
“I’m happy too,” Castiel admitted, closing his eyes, relishing this moment before the day would inevitably come to break it. “But Dean—” “I just don’t want it to be anyone else’s business,” Dean interrupted, “especially Sam’s.” “He’s your brother, Dean,” Castiel frowned, “How do you expect, practically, for us to go on like this. He’ll know eventually. The question is, do you want it on your terms or not?” Dean grimaced and shook his head, “Cas, I just know he would be so annoying about it.” Castiel gave a nod in understanding, not wanting to spend the rest of their precious time arguing. Dean’s expression softened, and he tightened his grip on the angel’s hand, bringing it to his lips. “Let’s just have this,” Dean whispered. Castiel's entire body buzzed at feeling Dean’s words against the flat of his hands. “Something that's just ours,” Dean said. Just ours, Castiel liked the sound of that.
But now, it was simply getting ridiculous. “Alright, I’ve had enough of this. Can I get some help here?” Dean cried out. Castiel had to stop himself from audibly groaning in frustration before he appeared in corporal form in Dean’s room and gave a quick tap on an overly giddy Sam’s forehead, effectively erasing all memory of this conversation. Castiel found it unfortunate. Sam had displayed nothing but enthusiasm and support for his brother, and in Castiel’s mind, letting Sam know the truth did not make him judgmental or insufferable.
Like he did every time, Sam’s arms went limp, his eyes glassy, and he tipped over like a piece of timber. Thankfully, he was right in front of the bed; one did not want him to experience a concussion on top of the memory loss (or have to drag him by the foot like last time). Dean sighed in relief and turned to Castiel with a smile, “Thanks, Cas.” Castiel squinted at him, arms crossed and unimpressed, to which Dean replied with a pout. “Dean—” Castiel began, “Didn’t I tell you he’d be annoying?” Dean interjected. If Castiel loved Dean any less, he would have simply agreed. Yet, he had had enough of wasting his grace and no longer wanted to delay the imminent conversation between the Winchesters. “Perhaps the only reason you find Sam annoying is that he’s telling you things you’re too stubborn to hear,” Castiel said curtly. Not that Castiel entirely blames Dean for the difficulty he experiences in coming to terms with his feelings, but if Dean can allow himself to be expressive with Cas, certainly he can extend the same courtesy to Sam. “What’s that expression you humans have?” Castiel began, “Soon you need to ‘face the music’ and tell Sam about us someday, Dean. We’re getting to a point in brain damage that even I won’t be able to fix.”
Dean nodded slowly, not meeting Castiel’s gaze or fully committing to agree. Castiel withheld from anger; he knew he could not convince Dean instantly, but he wouldn’t refrain from trying. “Love is patient,” as the saints say, and Castiel recited that verse like a mantra; he would keep trying to be patient for Dean and wait a millennium if he had to. He and Dean then turned to look at the unconscious Sam before them. “What’s the last thing he remembers?” Dean asked. “He was coming to tell you about a case,” Castiel answered. “Be careful with him, Dean; with the way we’ve altered his memory, he’ll be very fragile,” Castiel said sternly before he vanished. Dean’s eyes widened; even after all this time, Cas teleporting was not something he was used to. He faced his younger brother, so childlike when comatose, knowing that there wasn’t enough angel grace in the world to keep this charade up. One day, he had to concede. “Someday,” he chuckled before reaching for Sam, “Mornin’ sleeping beauty.”