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Dean should have seen it coming.
And in all honesty, maybe he did. He just did not want to acknowledge any of it, convincing himself it was none of his business and going so far as to reprimand himself for even thinking about nipping a freshly blooming love in the bud.
At first, Dean told himself he was overreacting and imagining things, but the more he brushed it off, the more obvious it became. Hell, he was there to witness every second of it, practically forced to watch the woman he’s in love with fall for his brother.
Over the course of the past few months, which felt more like decades to him, he noticed all the tell-tale signs. Signs that he wished he could bottle up and keep for himself, but that were being exclusively directed at Sam.
The stolen glances between them. The way her eyes lit up the moment Sam entered the room. The faint pink dusting on her nose when he greeted her with a smile.
At first, she’d bashfully fidget with her hands in that nervous habit of hers that he learned to notice immediately. Eventually, she switched to brushing Sam’s elbow with a hesitant palm instead. By the time their fingers started interlocking casually, Dean stopped paying attention. That is to say: It was like a car crash he couldn’t look away from, but he wanted to avert his eyes whenever it happened.
He only had himself to blame for this mess, too.
In what world would it be fair to be angry at her or at his brother, when neither of them could possibly know of his dilemma? Dean was stuck in a limbo, torn between feeling angry at them and happy for them; plus somehow being unable to openly show makes it a thousand times worse. Ironic, since bottling up his feelings was supposed to protect him from a broken heart — not cause it.
Part of him made peace with it, since it’s probably better this way — she deserves someone better than him, someone smart and reliable like Sam, someone who makes her smile in ways Dean can never even dream of. But the other part, his ego with a crack in it, doesn’t want to stick around to see it.
Thus, Dean finds himself retreating more and more, making sure to only walk around the bunker when he was absolutely sure he wouldn’t bump into them. Some locations he avoids entirely: The library, for instance, is off limits. The same applies to the kitchen during certain times of the day. And he always makes sure to go around the hallway rather than pass Sam’s room directly.
Whenever they have no other choice but to sit at the same table, Dean is uncharacteristically quiet. He’s certain that they can tell he’s acting strange, so when they have the guts to ask, he just scoffs and says he’s busy focusing on the current job.
The first couple of times it happens, he manages to sprinkle in some teasing words — “Not everyone has the luxury of floating around on cloud nine.” His spunk doesn’t last past their one-month anniversary, much less the weeks that follow.
Nowadays, his go-to excuse is solo hunting.
“Just another simple case, you two lovebirds stay at home.”
“Just meeting Cas, he called and said he needed help with something.”
“Just catching up with another hunter two towns over, don’t wait up on me.”
More often than not, Dean finds himself grabbing a pool cue and a bottle of beer at a random bar instead of his sawed-off shotgun and a flask of holy water at a demon’s hideout.
Tonight is no different; another evening in which he drowns his sorrows in pale ale and regretful decisions.
A pretty girl sits down next to him, makes light conversation, and giggles a little too hard at his jokes. Initially, Dean thinks it’s perfect. Maybe this is just what he needs, something fun that will help him let loose and forget for a while. But after the second round he buys for them, the woman’s laughter sounds too much like hers, and he finds himself comparing her eye color to the one he’d rather be staring into now.
It downright pisses him off how helpless he is against his own feelings. He can’t drown them in alcohol or other women, unable to think about anything but her hand in Sam’s, and he hates it.
Excusing himself, he leaves the bar alone that night, driving back to the bunker in solitude.
For a while, Dean avoids the garage like it’s a minefield. Aimlessly driving the thoughts in his mind, going round and round in circles, much like his car. Only when he’s sure it’s late enough, figuring Sam and her are probably asleep already, does he park the car and gather the courage to sneak into the kitchen.
Against his better judgment, he grabs another bottle of beer from the fridge, having long lost count of how many drinks he already had. Who gives a fuck, anyway? If every other joy seems to be denied to him, he should at least be allowed to indulge in this little craving.
“You’re back,” her voice appears in the doorway, making him freeze. “How was your hunt?”
Dean can tell by the sarcasm lacing her voice that she’s caught up on his bullshit. Seeing her glance down at the drink in his hands and the lack of blood on his knuckles just proves that theory.
“False alarm,” Dean chokes out through gritted teeth.
She raises a telling eyebrow at him, as though that stern expression could get him to elaborate. It doesn’t. She might as well try breaking into a fortress of steel. No matter how little Dean has, he still holds onto his pride and resolve.
“Where’d you leave your loverboy?” Dean asks instead.
“Out,” she replies calmly. “To meet up with Cas, who called and said surprisingly little about working on a case with you. Curious, huh?”
Fuck. He should’ve known that lie would bite him in the ass eventually. His gaze drops to the floor, and he can only offer a shrug, as if he can brush off the implied accusations. The beer bottle turns into a lifeline, something to grip hard enough that his knuckles turn white, and he can excuse his unresponsive demeanor by taking a sip.
“You’re angry,” she sighs.
It’s a gut punch. Her eyes are soft and worried, her lips — too fucking enticing for her own good and he hates himself for noticing how plump they look and for wondering what they’d taste like — are forming a pout. She’s fidgeting with her hands, nervously, but never in the same fashion as when she’s feeling shy around Sam. How can that realization not make his stomach twist into knots?
“Since when are you an expert in psychology?” Dean huffs, attempting to sound playful and coming across as only gruff. Because that’s who he is, and that’s why she fucking picked Sam over him.
If it were his brother in this situation, he would handle it way better. Hell, he’d be smart enough not to fall for Dean’s girlfriend in the first place. He’d respect the boundary and know she’s off limits.
And while Dean is trying his hardest to do exactly that, he can’t help but want.
He wants to grab her, wants her to smile at him the way she’s always smiling at his brother, wants to see what other expressions that pretty face can twist into between whispered sweet nothings and tangled bedsheets. He wants to be the cause of every single one of them, wants it to be his name spilling from her kiss-swollen lips, wants to be the one that gets to hold her hand.
Alas, he’s in no position to do any of it.
Dean has two options here: Stay to watch his brother indulge in everything Dean wishes he could have, or stay as far away as possible.
“Have I done something wrong?” she asks, timidly, and the crack in her voice causes a crack in Dean’s chest.
“What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know, I’m— You never talk to me anymore, I barely see you around,” she shrugs. “If I didn’t know it any better, I’d say you’re avoiding me.”
Dean chokes out a pathetic chuckle, unnatural and forced, and shakes his head. “That’s not true,” he retorts, dangerously close to snapping it defensively. It’s the last thing he wants, to raise his voice at her. Then again, maybe he should, just so she’d stay away from him and leave him to suffer in peace.
She tenses visibly, leading him to run a hand across his face.
“I’m not avoiding you, it’s just— it’s complicated,” he mumbles.
“Complicated,” she echoes, her breathless voice merely above a whisper. “Dean, if I’ve done anything to make you hate me, just tell me.”
That’s his last straw. If it’s not her pained expression, it’s that uncertainty and unnecessary guilt lacing her desperate voice that undoes him. She slowly chips at the walls he’s built around himself, without even needing to try very hard.
“That’s what you think, sweetheart?” Dean asks, voice surprisingly steady. “That I hate you?”
He honestly can’t blame her. The way he’s been treating her, avoiding her, being nothing but downright rude? Of course, she thinks he hates her guts.
The worst thing is, sometimes he does.
When her laughter fills the room and makes his heart jump, only for it to turn to stone once he realizes she’s laughing at something Sam said. When she does that stupid thing she’s doing right now, that tiny pout that has him conflicted on whether to kiss her or shake her.
He hates that he doesn’t have the right to.
She’s not his to touch, after all. And the mere fact makes him feel hollow and aching in ways he doesn’t know how to tackle other than with his usual coping mechanisms:
Deflection. Distraction. Denial.
“Do you?”
Her question hits him like a freight train. He avoids her gaze, staring at the bottle in his hands. The silence cannot possibly last for more than a couple of seconds, but each of them stretches out between them, like an ugly, torturous thing hanging heavy in the air.
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to,” Dean grumbles.
Deflection.
He takes a languid swig of his beer, forcing himself to focus on the way it slowly flows down his throat, like it could fill a void inside of him. It’s not nearly strong enough to make him feel anything, as it can’t even compare to the burn of whiskey. Although he has a hunch that not even the strongest drink could suffice as liquid courage in this scenario.
Distraction.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he adds, knowing that even though his words must sting her, they’re sharp enough to cut his own tongue. “It’s not that deep.”
Denial.
Part of him regrets the words the moment they come out of his mouth, each syllable feeling wrong as they slip past his lips. They earn him nothing but a crushing silence and a sense of remorse.
She doesn’t deserve this cold-shoulder treatment, since she technically hasn’t done anything wrong. Her only crime is being happy with Sam, and fuck if Dean doesn’t want to grant both of them the joy of love. And fuck if he can’t fully do it.
She deserves the truth. But how can he possibly confess when he damn well knows it’ll destroy everything? Perhaps in this case, ignorance is bliss, and perhaps she’s better off thinking he hates her than finding out it couldn’t be further from the truth.
Thus, he does what he knows is right — what he knows is best for everyone involved — and pushes himself off the kitchen counter, brushing past her without sparing another glance in her direction.
“Quit pestering,” Dean says, the hiss of his cold words cutting through the thick air like a sharp blade.