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Cold comfort, but at least all three of them are equally embarassed.
Really, when he pushes through all those feelings of profound shame, Dean can sort of appreciate the hilarity of the situation. Humiliated to the bones and stuffed in a car for five hours because Cas didn't even bring his own car to the case; all three of them in love with each other in a mathematically accurate love triangle; not a single requited affection between them. They must be the worst sitcom set-up of the decade.
And they will be silent the whole ride, is the thing. They used to have the worst conversations in the car, but as time passed they started to wait until they got to the bunker. It's one of the good things about not being technically homeless— you have time to fucking breathe. You get to wait until you get home to have the most uncomfortable conversation of your entire life. And boy, will this be an uncomfortable conversation.
Fucking Valentine's Day cases, man. Always end up in a fucking nightmare. One comes to appreciate your vamps and vengeful spirits and whatnot. At least those just try to kill you, instead of giving you a goddamn magic compulsion to confess all the nitty gritty details of your lifelong love and lust for your brother, in Dean's case, or your good friend, in Cas and Sam's cases.
There's something to be said there unfortunately. Cas into Dean, that's a normal crush. Same with Sam being into Cas, as infuriating as it is on many differet levels. Neither of them incestuous and fucking— predatory. Dean's the biggest weirdo in this car, and it surely says something about him that every now and then he very seriously considers crashing on purpose and dying just so he doesn't have to arrive to the bunker and watch Sam's love inevitably becoming requited, Sam and Cas getting hitched and Dean not even being invited to the wedding because of his disguting incestuous love for the bride (because Sammy would be the bride because this is happening in Dean's head, goddamn it).
"Dude," says Sam. "Can you relax? You're gonna rip the steering wheel off." He does not look disgusted, to his credit. Or too bothered. It makes sense that he's acclimatizing to it already in a strange sort of way. He's always been the best of them all, brains and heart and all that. He probably already knew Cas wouldn't reciprocate, and he probably already knew about Cas's own feelings, and that leaves Dean with a single very pressing and distressing question. "Dean!"
Right. The steering wheel. Dean relaxes his hands. It's okay. He will deal with it at the bunker. They all will.
Except for one minute detail. At the bunker they don't, in fact, deal with it.
None of them know what to say, really. As soon as they enter they just stand there looking at each other like fucking idiots, until Jack comes in saying he tried to make dinner and asking how the hunt went. Dean's had his issues with that thing in the past but on God, Satan's baby knows how to save the day.
"Thank you so much, Jack," says Sam because he's the best there ever was. "We'll just go change in some more comfortable clothes and we'll have dinner with you, okay?"
Dean figures he should say something. "Yeah. That. Thanks, kid." Not incredibly witty but it does the job. Jack beams at him sweetly, and Sam looks at him with gratitude. Alright, proof #2 that Sam does not hate his guts just yet. Wonderful.
Castiel says, "I'll help you set up the table," because he doesn't do the whole changing clothes thing, like a cartoon character.
So he and Sam change, very much separately, and when they cross paths on the hallway Dean can't help but ask Sam if he's angry.
All Sam says is, "Calm down. When I get angry, you'll know."
Which does not calm Dean down at all. Minutes later, all four of them have the most uncomfortable dinner of Dean's life.
The food is alright, the kid's been learning the art of cooking from Dean recently. About a week ago Sam thanked Dean for spending more time with the kid, and Dean felt a sort of rage he's been familiar with since he was nine years old. He won't say, but while Michael was wearing Dean's skin as a suit, Sam was moving like an overworked housewife and the president of the States all in one. It's always the same damn story, with dad and Bobby and now mom and Cas. No one other than Dean bothers to help Sam with anything. And Dean's missed the mark a few times, no denying, but God, at least he tries.
Anyway. That's why Dean cannot let Sam push him away and get married to Castiel, see, because he'd be put in an apron and given a lobotomy. Or something like that, who the fuck knows. At best, Castiel makes a dumb mistake. At worst, well.
Well.
Dean's thought about it before. Now, he's got more information. There's merit in analyzing this, right? It will at least distract him until he can clarify to Sam that— what, he's not gonna do anything? That he's not gonna get in the way of Sam's relationships? He's already kind of doing that. He has done that, on more than one ocassion. Dean is rotten to the core. He might as well ruin Castiel's chances while he can, right?
This is what he thinks about during the whole dinner, and it's what he thinks about as he lies in bed staring at the ceiling until three in the morning.
Which is when he gets his door knocked.
He begs to an entity that he knows is not there for it to be Jack on the other side of that door. The least troubling option in this entire fucking bunker, that's how bleak things are looking.
"Hi," says Sam, because when has Dean ever gotten a break like that. "Please let me in."
Dean lets him in. Very fucking easy, you might say. Sam's leaning heavily on the doorframe, is the thing, and his pupils are big and birght and his cheeks are a sweet shade of pink, and it takes Dean less than three seconds to realize the startling current state of the love of his life: completely wasted.
He also lets Sam in because if he's here, he's not with Castiel. Small victories.
Sam plops face down onto Dean's bed and then, clearly making a superhuman effort, rolls and lands on his back instead, his pout facing the ceiling. Quite similar to the positon Dean had been in until very recently.
"Guess you weren't taking it as easy as it seemed," Dean comments as he shuts the door closed again.
"Taking it easy," Sam mumbles. Then he makes a weird sort of whine and a vague hand gesture, indicating he wants Dean to lie down next to him. They barely fit in, two fighting fit men well in their thirties, but Dean's not gonna say no to Sam until he's sure there's no wedding with any angels on the horizon.
Sam came all the way over here after presumably getting drunk all holed up in his room. It's fair to assume he has something to tell Dean, so that's why Dean is waiting for Sam to break the silence. No other reason, really.
Sam hums, then starts laughing.
Dean gives him a side-eye. At last, Sam may have lost his mind.
"Fucking Valentine's Day cases, man."
That, Dean can understand. If he had a glass, he'd raise it. God, Sam is drunk out of his mind. It's a bit worrying.
"Look," he says, "I don't mean to shit on your coping mechanism, but this is all very… well, me. Do you wanna do something more Sam-like? Like, I don't know," he winces at the things he does for love, "talk. Or something."
"I don't know how to say it."
Dean swallows his own dread. Tries to, at least.
"Just be honest. Don't sugarcoat it."
Sam starts nodding, first slowly, as though considering, then enthusiastically. "Yes. So smart." Dean nods too a few beats, still wary. Sam's always been kind of erratic when he's drunk. He never knows where Sam's mind's gonna end up at. Or his words. Or limbs. Very russian roulette.
In that moment, Dean regrets everything.
"I thought you wanted to wait until morning, though."
Sam sits up so abruptly that for a second Dean thinks he's going to throw up. He turns to face Dean and points his index at him.
"Dean, no, you don't understand," Sam says. Dean's pretty sure he does understand: he's been on the end of a speech before that started just like this one. "I have to do it now, I can't lose any more time! Morning, morning's gonna be too late. I had to come now."
And drunk off his ass, apparently. Irritation begins to spark up.
Because Dean can't help it but shoot himself in the foot, "I just don't think it's wise to show up drunk and vulnerable at your recently revealed to be an incestuous pervert brother's room."
Sam looks at him, puzzled, tilts his head like a puppy before lying back down, on his side this time. His hand falls on top of Dean's chest, loose and comfortable.
"Dean. Are you upset with me," Sam asks, absurdly.
He also sounds kind of sad, so Dean tries to be gentle when he responds. "Why would I be upset with you?"
Sam tears up at this question, for some goddamn reason. "I'm late," he says, nonsensically and whiny.
"Well, that depends on how you look at it," Dean tries for a joke. "Maybe you're early. It's gotta be, what, almost four? We've woken up at four before."
Not his best work. It's four, in Dean's defense.
Perhaps it says something about the desperate nature of that joke, or the state they're both in, but neither of them utters a word for the next ten minutes. Just the sound of their breathing, Sam's fingers brushing against Dean's cotton shirt and the very faint light of the bedside lamp. It's kind of relaxing, except for the fact that Dean's been sweating absolute bullets since Sam showed up. It doesn't help that Sam is staring directly at Dean while Dean pretends to be hypnotized by the ceiling in return.
Very softly, Sam says, "I don't mind it, you know?"
Overcome by a childish sort of longing, Dean realizes he just wants to pretend for a moment longer. "Mind what?"
Sam doesn't explain because he won't insult either of their intelligences like that, but he doesn't torture Dean with telling him not to play dumb. He just allows Dean to process what Sam said, waits a couple of minutes before continuing. "You've been killing yourself over it the whole day. I don't mind it. I'm not scared of you, or disgusted, or anything else you've been telling yourself. I love you."
Dean won't admit the relief he feels at hearing those words, but it's nearly a physical thing. It's like all the muscles in his body unclenched at the same time. Isn't that what it all hinders on? Sam's acceptance, tolerance, forgiveness? Every time, it's like being graced by a Saint.
"Okay. But don't say that." The love part, he means. That, he won't be able to tolerate.
"Sorry. But it's true. Not— not like you, but I do. I'd never— that's why I had to come, Dean. I just need a little more time."
Dean doesn't even want to think about what Sam means by that. What he's asking from Dean. He's not gonna ask, and he's not gonna tell Sam he's not making any damn sense because Dean might hate himself, but he's not gonna go around breaking his own heart either.
He just sighs and says, "Okay, Sammy."
It's been a while since they lied down like this, together, calm and quiet and close. Dean can feel Sam's breath on his skin if he concentrates enough. Somewhere in his gut there's an incessant tugging, not of yearning, not just envy. Something way deeper, more disgusting. What is Dean's baby doing, wasting his heart on a traitorous, ungrateful thing like Castiel?
"You know, I bet he wouldn't even fuck you right." The words escape Dean as though he's the one who's drunk. Unbelievable. Out of all the jealousy-laced thoughts running through his mind right now, that one's probably the worst one he could've said out loud by fucking far. He's not gonna back down now, though. "Just saying. His whole vibe screams 'junkless'. You can't just… settle. You can't marry that thing, Sammy. I won't let you."
Amazingly, Sammy doesn't tell him to shove his opinions where the sun don't shine, he doesn't ask Dean if he's gone nuts, nor does he have much of a reaction at all.
"It's not really about sex."
Great. The one odd Dean had in his favor.
Attempting to swallow his own bitterness, "What's it about, then?"
"It's just not fair," Sam whines with some bitterness of his own. Okay. That's a bit more… human, at least. Less Sam-like maturity that Dean doesn't know how to handle. Dean knows what this is, being butthurt over unrequited love. "You don't even want Cas. It's even worse than when you fucked my Prom date on Prom night, because you don't even want him. If it was true love, maybe it'd be— I don't know. It's not fair."
"Right. Well. Not that this isn't entertaining," Dean says, a little sorry and a little amused, "but I don't know if you should be saying this to me."
And he understands Sam. Completely. It's just that he feels a little like a nerd pining after the pretty cheerleader whose jock boyfriend treats her like shit.
Sam asks, "Who am I supposed to tell?"
"I don't know, man. Rowena? Eileen maybe. You know. Your friends."
And it's nice that Sam has those. It's good to have people who care about Sam. Dean hadn't really realized how lonely Sam had been for years after… well, who knows how long. But since he did realize, he's been grateful for these people. Jack, too. Sam's people. God knows people trail after Dean a lot. Just look Castiel, and at the situation they're all currently in.
"I wanna tell it to you. You're my best friend," says Sam, like it's that simple.
Now this has truly become a fucking coming of age movie. At any moment now, Dean's gonna break into a monologue about how Sam doesn't see him but they're meant to be, if only she'd leave her douche boyfriend who doesn't even want her.
That is, after the warm, fuzzy feeling he got at being told he's Sam's best friend fades away. Sam's his best friend, too. His best everything.
"You can't marry Cas."
"Okay."
"You can't." Dean finally says, "I think he's dangerous."
A few beats pass.
All Sam says is, "Oh."
Before losing his nerve, he continues. "For you, I mean. Dangerous for you. You can't… you just can't be with him. Don't think I've forgotten about the fucking wall, Sam. Let alone forgiven. And all the— the weird shit he's done over the years, I've, I don't know. I've been thinking."
"Not really a good sign."
"Shut up. I've been thinking. Other than the wall, I thought it was like, some sort of incompetence, maybe? Just well intentioned mistakes, like you always said when you were trying to defend him —which, hah, makes a little more sense in retrospect — but that doesn't… it doesn't cut it anymore, man. Doesn't it feel messed up to you? Like, more intentional? All that shit with Lucifer. Knowing, knowing that he wants me. And that I'm— I was noticeably looking somewhere else. Doesn't it make your skin crawl?"
Sam shuffles around a bit, then rests the weight of his head on his elbow. He observes Dean, very carefully. There's a long, long silence. And just when Dean has concluded he screwed up big time, Sam says, "I've always wondered. About the soul thing. He said it wasn't on purpose, leaving it behind in, in the Cage. I just, well. I don't know. I guess I just thought about it a lot anyway."
He sounds so… sad. Looks sad, too, all over his princess hazel eyes. Guilt starts eating Dean from the inside, as usual. "I'm… I'm sorry, Sammy, I didn't mean to say it like that."
"No, no, that's okay. I guess I never thought about it like that. But it's okay. It makes sense. You're watching out for me. My big brother."
Dean relaxes. Minimally. "Yeah, of course I am."
Sam grins, dimples showing. "With no… ulterior motive whatsoever."
Ah, they're going there. "Look, I— I know how it sounded, alright?"
Sam cuts him off, amused, "You were so jealous."
Dean's face heats up, and he gets irritated at the absurdity of the situation. Sam's teasing him like it's normal for Dean to be jealous, romantically, sexually, over his brother. Like they're just close friends, like Sam shouldn't be running for the hills right now. Or attempting it, at least, because Dean's not that charitable. But it's the principle of the thing.
But if this is the way Sam wants it to be, then, great. Fan-fucking-tastic. Gift, horse, mouth, etc.
"Well, can you blame me?" A little more flirty than he intended, but, well. What's it gotta be, like, five in the morning? And he hasn't slept. That's basically like being drunk.
What comes next, Dean doesn't really expect, and it reminds him of which one of the two is actually, chemically drunk right now.
Sam sniffles. Dean turns to look at him, a bit panicked. Sam's not crying, but he's not far off.
"I've always believed. So hard. Why doesn't it ever work? And why does it always work for you, if you never even asked? If I had— Dean, I'm sorry. I love you. If I'd had half the favor, the— the blessings you have, Dean, the things I could've— It's not fair. You don't even want Cas. The, the prayers and the… profound bond, whatever. You don't even want that. You don't give a fuck, and he adores you because you're so good, and I'm not. And you're everyone's favorite. Always, all the time."
Dean thinks about this. It's one of those situations where Sam tells him things, like when he's rambling about feeling unclean and being cursed and whatnot, and Dean has no clue of what to say to make it better. Some burdens of Sam's he cannot take because he cannot understand them, not really. To comprehend that fact took him a bunch of long and painful years, and it still leaves him feeling desperate to do something. Anything. Maybe hold Sam through it, rock him like a baby until the discomfort passes. If only it were still that simple.
The best he can do right now: "You're my favorite."
And he is. Sam's been… upset, in the past, about Dean supposedly favoring dad or mom or some other friends over him. In his mind, it's been an understatement that it was completely unnecessary. Sam always came before everyone, before everything. It wasn't until Amara that he realized this was a pattern. That Sam is a bit… insecure, of sorts. While Dean thinks it's a given, Sam needs something more.
So he looks Sam in the eye when he says it, which has been very difficult to do this entire night. It's worth it, though, because it seems to help. It seems to lighten up a load in Sam's mind, like he was waiting for Dean to say those exact words.
"I know," Sam says. He's smiling softly, though teary-eyed, like Dean's favor is enough to make up for a lifetime of silent and not so silent rejections. "I'm not late, am I?"
Dean still doesn't know what the fuck he means.
"'Course not, baby," he says, thumbing over one of Sam's beauty marks. Sam beams. "Uh, late for what, exactly?"
Sam doesn't answer him. Of course he doesn't. He's plastered.
"I've been thinking," Sam begins.
Dean hums. "Not a good sign."
"Shut up. I've been thinking." Sam sits up to reveal his thoughts, too, and that's when Dean knows something big and ridiculous is coming. Dean also sits down. Might as well. He doesn't want Sam to lose equilibrium and fall off the bed. "And I decided I'm gonna get over Cas."
Dean blinks. "You decided that."
"Yep."
Sounds normal enough. "Great."
"And I'm gonna fall in love with you instead."
There it is.
"Sam."
"I will. Just give me some time, okay? Not too long. A month at most. Three weeks, maybe."
"Are you drunk," Dean begins, "or just completely off your rocker?"
Sam blinks at him. Borders on batting his fucking eyelashes at Dean like a drunk girl at the bar, for fuck's sake. "You know, you were the one begging me not to marry Cas like five minutes ago. Lotta nerve," he burps a little, "talking about me being off my rocker. Why would I marry Cas? You're. You are gonna marry Cas. If I don't. Do something about it. Dean. Don't be an idiot. I am— I'm gonna."
Dean decides he's not gonna acknowledge most of that for now.
"Sam. No."
Something like panic flashes across Sam's face. "Why not? I never would've picked him over you, anyways. Just cause I want— it doesn't mean anything. I just gotta do the complete transfer, that's all."
The complete transfer, Dean's brain echoes. He's in love with a fucking maniac. Though he knew that already. Sam grabs both his hands and moves them around a little. Dean lets him, and makes a superhuman effort to not give in.
"Because it's— wrong. Worse than that, it's hell. You can't do this to yourself," somehow, he manages to get it out. Being a decent fucking brother for once. But Dean is a weak man, "I mean. Are you sure?"
"Am I sure?" and now, inexplicably, Sam's a little fired up. "Of what? Paying attention to the only person who always puts me over everything? Who loves me more than anything?"
Dean's genuinely on the verge of hysteria. Getting out more than two words proves to be slightly more difficult, requiring a strength of character that Dean does not currently possess.
"Sammy…"
Sammy ignores the fuck out of him. "I can. And I will. I won't keep mooning over some… idea of heaven that I can't— that doesn't want me and never will. Least of all now that the fact that Cas is mooning over you is out there, and if you ever decide to look back—"
Okay, that's a little offensive. "That's never going to happen."
Sam drops his hands and grabs Dean's face instead. For a brief and horrifying moment, Dean thinks he's gonna get kissed. Sam's so serious now, like he sobered up all of sudden. He hasn't, but a man can dream.
"Of course it won't. I won't let it happen. I'm gonna keep your attention right where it is now. You wanted me to be honest, Dean. Don't sugarcoat it. Who do you think I'm gonna be more jealous over? Honestly, have you ever fucking met me."
"I don't think you understand," says Dean, "how crazy you sound right now."
"I am crazy, Dean! I'm completely off my rocker. You know I wish I wanted to fuck you. At least you've got a name for what you feel."
"Yeah, fucking incest."
It's unbearable, the way Sam's eyes soften. "You're in love with me."
Dean closes his eyes because of how unbearable this situation has become. Against his will, his hands have found its way sneaking around Sam. His voice may tell Sam to stop, to save himself, but Dean's body won't let him. It's not in his DNA.
"Don't make it sound so cute, Sam. I'm," he's gonna fucking puke, "I'm dangerous."
Sam frowns. Pouts. Shakes his head in disagreement. Like an overgrown puppy, he makes himself fit on top of Dean's lap, wraps his arms around Dean's neck and stays there.
It was always gonna end like this, in retrospect. Sam's always begging Dean for affection that Dean couldn't ever give him without risking revealing all his sickness. Now that the sickness is bare naked on the operation table, there's nothing left for either of them to lose. Sam's gonna ask for affection. Dean's gonna give it.
"I don't hate you for it," says Sam, and Dean can feel his breath next to his ear, "I never have. You're worthy of heaven, of course you are. I'm mad at Cas. Because it's unfair. But I hated him during the apocalypse, for trying to turn you against me. I hated— I goddamn hated Benny and Crowley and Amara and dad and even Charlie, for a while after she died. I'm a monster."
"They're nothing. You know that." Sam hugs him tighter and Dean starts caressing his back, comforting him easy as breathing. "You're my life, Sam. My whole life."
"Yeah. I know. I get it now. I have to— I have to keep it that way. Doing this, falling for you—"
"It's never going to change, Sammy. Never. That's why I'm dangerous. What you do doesn't matter."
Silence. Dean's afraid he's doomed his only chance by convincing Sam. Can he take it, moving on from this like nothing happened?
"The amulet was supposed to be for dad," Sam speaks at last.
Dean's heart must be getting sliced in half. That's the only explanation.
"I threw it out."
"And I picked it back up."
This is it. Dean's not gonna fight it anymore. He kisses Sam's cheek. Greedy.
"Okay."
Doing his best to maintain his balance, Sam separates from Dean, just enough to look at his face.
"It's why I came here. And why I'm telling you now. Just, wait. Okay? Wait for me. A month, tops. Don't look back at Cas. Just give me a chance to make it right. Us, together, just you and me."
Something about the phrasing takes him back to the months after the trials. Shoving an angel inside Sam so he doesn't die, so they can be together like they were meant to. Making it right.
"Right."
Once again they're here, shoving something inside Sam for the sake of their relationship. High risk, high reward.
Sam smiles at him again, wide and wet and he's heavy on Dean's lap because he's a man who has faced the world, heaven and hell. He's also just Dean's baby that he raised and fed and took to school. His sweet boy, the sweetest, the best there is.
"Sounds good, doesn't it?" says Sam, low and intimate, gently scratching Dean's scalp. As though he still needs to convince Dean, or make sure he's convinced. "Just you and me. And you can have me all for yourself. No one else around. No Cas, just me and you. Doesn't that sound nice?"
It does sound nice. A deep, dark sort of satifaction burns in Dean's gut at the idea. Their lips brush every other word, but it's not a proper kiss. Something — and Dean's not sure what; pride, perhaps, if he's got any of that left — possesses him to put his thumb between their mouths, pushing Sam back very, very lightly.
Sam looks at it and back at Dean's eyes, a silent question.
Dean takes a deep breath.
"Calm down," he says. "When I kiss you, you'll want me to."