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Dean Winchester has a soft spot for lesbians.
…It's not as weird as it sounds.
After his mom was killed by Yellow-Eyes, the Winchester family lived on the road. Town to town, hunt to hunt, dead end lead to dead end lead. They only carried with them what was absolutely necessary: a trunk full of weapons, a duffel bag of clothes, a satchel of hygiene supplies, and whatever canned food (none) survived the week-long periods of John out fighting and the boys huddled up in motels.
They didn't splurge on frivolous things. Wasn't worth it. They wouldn't be around long enough to enjoy 'em, anyway.
Overall, the transition from apple pie, picket-fence lifers to overly violent ghost-busting nomads was smooth. Concerningly smooth, actually. John had been itching to hurt something for a decade. He'd seen things overseas that messed him up long before he met Mary, and all that terror stayed trapped in his head as he built his happy life. Honestly, one could argue Mary dying was the best thing to ever happen to John. He got to go out killing, after all, and without the rigid structure of the military forced upon him. He made his own damn rules, cut down whatever trees he pleased. And unlike in Vietnam, hunting let him actually save people. It was a good stress reliever and it suited John Winchester well.
Better than parenting ever did.
The children's transition wasn't too bad, either. Sammy was much too young to realize what they lost, and Dean— Deanna, as he was called back then— was out of his mind with grief and confusion. And "out of his mind" is near literal. He didn't speak for about a year after the fire, not besides shushing Sammy to sleep and giving his dad an affirmative "yes, sir." Whole days passed that he couldn't remember, sometimes weeks, interrupted only by Sammy needing a diaper change or Dean's temporary fascination with his own hands or feet or something. When he wasn't completely checked out, he'd spend hours staring at his hands, shocked by their ordinary movements.
He was quiet and well-behaved. Calm, adults might say. Brave, said John. The bravest little girl the world had ever seen.
A smooth transition indeed.
As Dean got older, he learned to tuck those weird feelings away. It didn't matter if everything went fuzzy around the edges if he wasn't putting in the effort to keep his vision clear. Didn't matter if he felt like someone else was in his skin, walking him, washing his hands, keeping his brother safe. All that mattered was that Dean followed orders. And he did. Always.
But now, looking back on it, Dean's recognizing more things about the transition that he hadn't noticed before.
His clothes, for example. Asking for new clothes is, like, step number two of being a trans kid, right before a wacky haircut and right after realizing you're trans. But Dean has always had masculine clothes, and he can't for the life of him figure out how it worked out like that. It's not like his dad ever affirmed his gender. Dean tried to tell him when he was around fourteen that he wasn't a girl and John laughed it off as his daughter playing dress-up, trying to be like her old man. He died with Deanna's she/her pronouns on the tip of his tongue.
And yet, the clothes. Sure, Dean spent the first four years of his life being dolled up by his mom. Bows and ribbons in his blonde hair, poofy tulle skirts, and tops with shimmery sequins. He was his mom's baby doll, and honestly, he had a great time. He loved feeling like a pretty princess— still does, sometimes, though he prefers more mannish clothes (on the outside, and the girly stuff underneath).
After Mary, no mom meant no dress-up, and the change was immediate. Since they didn't take anything from the house in Lawrence, John and four-year-old Dean needed all new clothes. (Sam was still small enough to live in diapers, swaddled in blankets.) The cheapest clothes at the thrift store, both in adult male and young girl sizes, were beaten-in jeans and blank shirts. So that's what they got.
A month later, John cut Dean's hair. He didn't know how to do the cutesy hairstyles Mary loved, and even if he did, he didn't have the time. It was easier this way. For everyone.
And it wasn't like Dean didn't look like a girl. He most definitely did, long into his teen years he did. He spent all day hunting and all night up watching Sammy and still Dean had the softest, sweetest body. From his slim face to his size eight shoes, Dean was as feminine as they came. His nose was crooked from several breaks but still slender and delicate, almost button-y at the tip. He had the fingers of a piano player, long and slim, and round eyes like a doe, colored like dewy grass in the early morning sun.
He's heard it all. Lesbians get pretty vocal in bed.
Which brings us back to the start. Dean's soft spot.
He'll find another name for it later, but right now… It is what it is.
Dean's alone in the bunker, sinking into the couch with a book and a fifth of whiskey because no one is around to judge him. Sam's out of town on a salt-n-burn, probably just to get away from Dean, and who the hell knows where Cas is nowadays. It's raining, but that doesn't matter underground. If Dean closes his eyes and focuses— or, whatever the opposite of focusing is. If he channels that nothingness he felt at five, six years old, he can feel the rainwater soaking through the grass, through the bunker's ceiling and into his clothes. It feels more like a bath than a shower which makes no sense for rain but Dean doesn't care. He takes another sip of his drink and sinks and sinks and sinks.
"Across the country right now," the newscaster says, "wedding bells are ringing in Texas, in Alabama, in Georgia. Places where some people thought this day might never come." It's Lester Holt reporting, and while the Winchesters have never been a Nightly News kind of family, Dean likes Lester. He's got a strong voice and a ginormous forehead, and Dean thinks he'd be a good guy to have a drink with.
Dean takes another pull from the bottle and stares at the TV.
"Celebrations are underway tonight, and NBC's Hallie Jackson has all the latest."
The scene changes from Lester to a video from some random bar where people are clapping and whistling with joy. Another flash and it's two women, one with a buzz cut and a plain gray tee and the other shorter with long platinum blonde hair and a black lacy bra fully visible. Dean feels a swell of pride in his chest as they kiss, not unlike how he felt when Sammy took off on a bike for the first time without falling over and ending up with a mouthful of dirt.
"From the Stonewall Inn in New York," says Ms. Jackson, and the scene changes again to a large group of people standing in a heart-shape, "to San Francisco City Hall, celebrations decades in the making. But perhaps none as meaningful as these."
The next few clips are quick, all in courthouses where couples, who have probably been together for ages, are legally tying the knot. Each and every one of them, including their family and friends in the crowd or off to the side, looks close to tears. Dean feels like crying, too. He tries not to feel stupid about it because these people on TV aren't stupid at all, but there's something uniquely awful about Dean Winchester that he just can't explain.
"Same-sex marriage ceremonies in states where it was illegal before today. Like in Texas, where Jack Evans and George Harris finally wed after 50 years together."
Dean stares at the TV and doesn't cry. He doesn't. He stares and he thinks about Cassie Robinson who's turning 36, his age, and wonders if she's seeing this, too. She's probably crying, he thinks. Maybe she's got a girlfriend with her who's crying, too, crying tears of joy because finally queer people have something to show for all their hardship, and finally there's something to look forward to: getting married, having a lovely ceremony, having your love be recognized by the government as worthy.
Dean Winchester is legally dead three times over, so marriage is off the table anyway. He's not mourning that life anymore, hasn't been for awhile. No, tonight he's strictly happy on other people's behalf. On the behalf of Cassie Robinson who he would've loved to marry if she were into guys. They met in the only lesbian bar in Ohio, because back then Dean was only out as a trans guy to Bobby and Sam, and Sam was away at school. He didn't start HRT until after John kicked it, and even if he had, he still wasn't confident enough to pick up chicks like a dude versus doing it as a chick.
It's a different experience, flirting as a girl and flirting as a guy, and Dean knew even back then that he was way better off playing a lesbian than trying to stumble through anything else. Too unfamiliar and insecure about his blossoming boyhood to deviate from his norm. Lesbian culture came easy to him, thanks to the dozens of queer girls he met along his way back in grade school. And as he grew up, his one-night-stands were all sapphic girlies, too. The aforementioned talkative ones that waxed poetic about his eyes and his freckles and his tongue.
Cassie took him home because they were in a lesbian bar and only lesbians go to lesbian bars and only women are lesbians and Cassie likes women. Dean went by Dean, not Deanna, but he let Cassie use the wrong pronouns because he loved her that much. She talked to him about gender equality and anti-racism movements and queer culture and equity— things that were too big and hazardous for 2003, but not for Cassie Robinson. She spoke about the future, too, about adopting a kid and a dog and a cat, and getting a little house far away enough from the city to hear the crickets at night while also being close enough to be involved.
God, Dean wanted that so bad. Wanted to be with her until the end of time, 'til death do them part.
But he had to come clean. She deserved that much.
Though what was supposed to be a "Sorry, I'm a man" talk with his (very lesbian) girlfriend somehow turned into a "Sorry, I hunt monsters" talk. Because of course. Any trans person knows saying oogie-boogies are real and I hunt them is easier than admitting your gender wires were prenatally crossed as a FUCK YOU from god. (Bobby calls it a mind-body mistranslation, and Cas says transness is always intended because it in and of itself is a beautiful identity, but Dean knows it's a royal Fuck You.)
On the TV, Ms. Jackson is taking about statistics. "Two decades ago," she says, showing a little chart from 1996, "only 27% of Americans supported same-sex marriage. Now, 60% do. But that shift is far less pronounced amongst Republicans. About 6 in 10 oppose the Court's decision, according to our latest NBC News Wall Street Journal Poll, with many Christians, especially in conservative parts of the nation, deeply unsettled."
Dean's proud to say his old man, while he wasn't winning any morality awards, wouldn't be grouped with these conservative douches. John may not have taken Dean's transness seriously, but he didn't give a shit about who loved who. He'd clap Dean on the back with a proud smile when he saw him leaving with a girl for the night, and he gave Sammy that sympathetic, fatherly look when the kid begged for a comic with some questionable artwork of Nightwing on the cover.
(To this day Dean's never actually confirmed whether or not Sam's into guys. Dean, like Dad, had a hunch about the sugar levels in Sammy's tank, but obviously they've had bigger fish to fry since then.)
There's a Republican senator from Iowa on the screen, squinting against the sunlight that's reflecting off his balding dome. Nothing like Lester's dome, this is much more humiliating. His name is Steve King (different from the horror novelist), and when he speaks, Dean ponders what angle and speed at which he'd have to punch this guy to leave the nastiest, gnarliest bruise.
"It is not the will of the people to have same-sex marriage," the senator says, holding his hands out in an exasperated gesture. Like this bozo has any right to be upset about random people loving each other. "Now there's no point in having civil marriage in this country whatsoever."
Cassie told Dean about the dangers of thinking like that. The "if we give them something, it means there's less for us" mentality. Dean can admit he used to think like that— sometimes he still does— but never in regards to random, innocent people. Sometimes he thinks if Sam or Cas stops paying attention to him, they'll love him less, but that isn't how love works, and it's not how civil rights work, either. There's not a limited amount of goodness to go around. Goodness can be— should be made and replenished and shared. We have enough bad, Dean thinks. We have more than enough.
Dean's lips find the bottle again, and the book he was trying to read is discarded on the side table. He doesn't like reading when Sammy's around, not sure why, but he can't take advantage of his alone time right now. His eyes are glued to the TV, to the next homophobe spewing nonsense on the news.
"This is a sad day for children," says Randy Thomsson. "A sad day for our constitution, a sad day for America."
Hallie Jackson goes on to talk about a rally in West Hollywood, but Dean's done. The whiplash he got from that happy old gay couple to the angry Christians— and that's another thing! They have no idea who they're pledging allegiance to. If God didn't care about The Apocalypse starring his two sons, or the second apocalypse starring Eve's buffed monsters, or the third with Nuclear Castiel, or fourth or fifth— why the hell would he care about Bert and Ernie doing the Devil's Tango?
…Bad choice of words and even worse mental imagery, but the point stands.
God doesn't care. That's a lame excuse to dog on people who just want to be happy. Not just the homos, but all the allies that are watching this piece of history unfold and thinking of their children and siblings and friends and neighbors, maybe people they don't know that they don't know, the strangers who are friends they haven't met yet. Thinking of those people and being happy that they get a shot at happily ever after. And call Dean a sap, call him a softie or a wimp or whatever, but he will always be on the side of humanity. It's what his whole life has been about: protecting the world so Sammy and other good people can have room to flourish.
Dean is queer, but it's not about him. It's about everyone who helped him get here. The queer women who, knowingly or not, guided him toward the man he'd always been.
Cassie Robinson, who, when they met again years later, Dean on T and close to passing without a second thought, congratulated him instead of chewing him out.
Rhonda Hurley, who Dean came out to after too many drinks and a sloppy make-out session, accepted him with nothing but giddy enthusiasm, switching gears immediately and gushing that the boy she'd been kissing was wearing panties.
Lisa Braeden, the dazzling bisexual woman who taught Dean how to flirt as himself rather than as a play pretend lesbian, who then told her entire suburban neighborhood Dean was Ben's biological father so the sissy-hunting alpha males and their bored trophy wives would stop sniffing around.
They'd all made room for him before he'd learned how to make room for himself.
And Charlie.
Oh, Charlie.
Dean turns off the TV. The bottle is now finished.
He sits for a while. Feeling the couch. Feeling the rain. Feeling the old ribbons in his younger, blonder hair, the old sequins on his smaller, girlier shirt.
She's only been gone a week, but it feels like a lifetime.
He imagines what Charlie would say if she were here. She'd be leaping up and down for sure, screaming with joy, bouncing off the walls. She'd probably try to drag Sam, Dean, and Cas— hell, maybe Claire, too!— to a parade of some sort, maybe join all those people on the steps of the Supreme Court building in their dancing and chanting and shit, paint their faces and wave around some rainbows. "It's about damn time!" Charlie would cackle at the top of her lungs. Or maybe, "I knew they'd fold eventually, stupid homophobic bastards. Well, suck it! Another win for the Fags of America!"
And Dean would smile at her like nothing else, his little sister, his favorite girl in the world. He'd protect her like he protects Sam, with absolutely everything he has. Maybe she'd know or maybe she wouldn't, but Dean would do it anyway. Make sure none of those stupid homophobic Christian scum got anywhere near her sparkle. She'd stomp 'em out on her own, of course, but Dean would make sure she wouldn't have to. He'd make sure she had enough time to spread her joy to all the people who need it. The like-minded lesbians made of fire in need of a like-minded leader. The determined gay men who survived the AIDS crisis and the younger generation who refuse to be ignored like that again. The bisexuals who are sick of being called greedy and being told to pick a side. The queer children terrified of coming out, terrified of revealing their true selves and being punished for it.
Charlie would be there for all of them, both in this time of celebration and during the hardships to come.
She wouldn't sit on the couch, drunk and crying and useless. A murderer, a weapon, a soldier with no good ending.
Before he can spiral any deeper into his Bad Thoughts, a flap of wings signals the arrival of the Winchesters' Angel. Dean lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding and turns toward the sound. Lo and behold, there's Cas, rumpled trenchcoat and all. His brows are furrowed, confusion or anger, Dean can't tell, and he moves through the den like a man on a mission. He ends up standing over Dean, blocking the view of the powered-off TV.
"Dean," Cas says. It's incredible how much he can communicate with just one word, one syllable.
"Heya, Cas," Dean greets. It's rough, his voice is hoarse, but he manages. He's closer to drunk and tipsy, but he manages. "What can I do you for, Angel?"
Cas's frown deepens. "I noticed your distress. I came to 'check up' on you."
Dean huffs a laugh. "Sweet, but unnecessary. I haven't killed anyone. I'm a good little not-demon."
A tilt of the head from Cas is enough to make flowers bloom in Dean's stomach. He holds it together. Barely.
"Not violent distress," Cas clarifies. "Emotional distress."
Dean's eyebrows jump up to his hairline. "You can sense that kinda thing?"
Cas nods albeit hesitantly. "From you, yes."
"Not Sam?"
"I have not branded Sam the way I've branded you," Cas says all matter-a-fact. Branding, yeah, no biggie.
"Lemme guess," Dean sighs, "profound bond?"
Cas's nod is much more sure this time. Dean doesn't know if he wants to punch him or kiss him.
And that's the thing with Cas. Dean knows he's 110% head over heels in love with him. Has been for years. Probably since he slammed Dean up against the wall in the fancy Michael waiting room, officially rebelling against Heaven for him. Not only was that the hottest thing to ever happen to Dean in the history of ever, it was also the most trust anybody's ever put in him. Cas is razor-sharp smart, powerful literally beyond human comprehension, older than dirt, and gorgeous beyond belief, and he still looks at Dean like Dean's the one who strung up the stars. Cas is loyal and sweet and ambitious; he holds Dean accountable when he mouths off, and he loves and protects Sam which is already more than Dean could ever ask for. Loving Sam is loving Dean because Sam takes up so much of Dean's identity and always has. Cas understands that because Cas understands Dean.
Because Cas loves Dean, too.
He thinks about Cassie and how she'd react to Cas, how the two of them would probably get along like peas and carrots. Lisa, too. Maybe even Rhonda Hurley. Really, Dean can't think of a single person he's met that wouldn't adore Cas, and maybe that's because he's biased, because he loves Cas, or maybe it's because Cas is someone Dean could only love because of everything that came before him. Those people carried Dean until he could walk on his own, and he decided to walk in Cas's direction.
Well, too bad neither of them will make a move. It's the world's fault, really. Not the homophobia stuff, (though that definitely sucks) but the Always In Need Of Saving stuff. No happily ever afters until the dust has settled, and from the looks of it… Well…
While Dean's brain prattles on about the glory of the Angel of Thursday and the shitty reality they live in, the angel in question sits beside him on the couch. Cas studies the area a moment before picking up the remote to turn the TV back on. Ms. Jackson's voice is gone and instead is replaced by Lester Holt and his forehead, interviewing some senator about all the gay marriages occurring around the country. Cas watches, enraptured, as the two men talk about how love has finally won.
"I don't understand," Cas says, though he sounds like he's thinking out loud. "Was same-sex marriage not already legal?"
Dean decides to answer anyway, sinking a little deeper into the couch cushions as he does so. "It varied by state, but now the federal government says it's legal, and federal trumps states."
"I see." Cas turns his attention back to Dean now. "Is this distressing for you? Do you… not like same-sex marriage?"
"Dude!" Dean snaps, more shocked than pissed but still a little pissed. Didn't Cas rebuild his body after Hell? He knows Dean's trans, and after purgatory he knows Dean's into men as well as the women he'd been picking up his entire adult life. How the hell could Cas think Dean's against the only kind, welcoming community he's even been in?
"It is just a question, Dean. I'm trying to find the source of your distress."
"Well, it's not the fucking queers getting married," Dean grumps. Realizing that sentence was worded shittily, Dean adds, "I'm happy for them. For… us. It's a step in the right direction."
"Us?" Cas echoes.
Dean can't hide his grimace. "Yeah, buddy. Us. As in my- my people. Gay people."
"Oh," Cas says. "Yes. Homosexuals."
"Dude."
Cas pouts at him, literally pouts. "Is that not the term?"
Dean sighs, though there's a smile on his face. "It is, it's just… It's like when you say anus instead of ass. It's right, objectively, but it's fuckin' weird."
At this, Cas grins. "Yes, I see. Gay people, then." His expression turns slightly more inquisitive. "Do I qualify for that category?"
"What, being gay?"
"Yes."
Dean shrugs. He feels hot all over, but he's blaming the alcohol. "I dunno. Do you like guys? Wait, are you a guy? Angels don't have, like, gender, do they?"
"Most Angels don't," Cas agrees, "but I'm not most Angels, remember?"
Dean nods shakily.
"And yes, I do like guys. Well," Cas smirks right at him, "one guy, at least."
"Yeah?" Dean's voice has been obliterated and replaced by sentient sandpaper flapping in the harshest wind to ever grace life's green earth. "Tell me about this guy?"
"My pleasure," Cas beams. "To start, he's extraordinarily good. Within him run rivers of love deeper than any body of water known to man, known even to the divine. He understands that love is infinite and can be gifted in small doses no less concentrated than the mass amounts of love shared between family. He contains both tenderness and assertiveness, equally impressive and equally arousing to witness. His multitudes know no bounds, nor does his loyalty. To be trusted and deemed worthy by this man is more valuable and rewarding than anything else I've come across in my billions of years of existence. I have seen empires rise and fall. I witnessed the single cell organism, no bigger than an eighth of your eyelash, evolve into creatures twenty times your size. There is nothing more wondrous, more beautiful or fulfilling, than being in his company."
Wow.
Well, Dean was expecting a "he's got green eyes and he's right next to me" type of response, but this…
Wow.
What the hell can Dean even say?
Besides, of course:
"Damn, Cas. You wanna get gay married?"
(Much, much later, when they're lying in bed with matching rings and matching smiles on the laziest of lazy Sunday morning, Dean will tell Cas about the women who ushered him forth, and Cas will look at him with love and relief and gratitude and happiness. Cas will say, "I'm glad they loved you well," and Dean will kiss him and think about ribbons in his hair.)