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1.
The problem is, Dean is avoiding Cas.
“Dean. Hello.”
“Jesus, Cas! You wanna give me a heart attack?“
Well, trying to, anyway, and clearly failing, at least today - from Sam’s spot in the library, he’s got a front row seat to the the pair of them post-collision. Dean’s doing that shift-back-and-forth thing he does when he’s uncomfortable, and their favorite newly-resurrected is-it-a-houseguest-when-he-basically-lives-here angel is standing even stiller than usual, as though afraid to spook him. Sam, for his part, sinks down a little in his chair, hoping they won’t notice him there behind his laptop screen.
“I would not do that, Dean. Furthermore, in my current weakened state—”
“It’s, no— you know what, nevermind. I just didn’t expect you there, okay?”
“I see no reason why not. The kitchen is in this direction.”
Sam looks up again, having concluded quickly that he’s not actually in any danger of being noticed at all. Cas sways, just a little - he’s been like that since he came back, pale and tired and only good on his feet for the briefest intervals - and Dean shifts forward with an aborted hand motion that falls back to his side without connecting. Sam’s pretty sure that Miracle the dog, currently asleep like a big fluffy warmer on Sam’s feet, could get up, dance a jig, then blow on Lillith’s fucking Crook and neither man would even turn around.
“Yes, well. It’s not like you come out. Of your room. I mean—”
“I come out quite frequently. You always seem to be otherwise engaged.”
Sam doesn’t know why Dean is avoiding Cas, is the thing. Dean has a lot of flavors of avoidant - angry, embarrassed, annoyed - and this isn’t really hitting any of them, and Sam doesn’t like it. It’s awkward, and also unhealthy, and Sam’s about ninety percent sure something happened between them, before Cas got dragged to the Empty, something private, but no one’s seen fit to tell Sam and Sam hadn’t wanted to push. Hasn’t wanted to push, though now he wonders if he should.
“Um. Yeah. Uh. Sorry, just. Busy. How’s. How are— Uh. Tv! You’ve been watching, uh, a lot of tv. Right? That’s what Sam says - not that I asked him, he just, uh. Says. How’s that?”
Cas sounds unimpressed, but answers anyway. “Yes. It is somewhat nonsensical, but the underlying themes of—”
“Yeah, that’s great. You know what, uh, I’ve, I’ve got to—”
“Of course.”
It’s the resignation there that cements Sam’s concern. Plus, he can mentally fill in Cas’ big blue longing eyes even with the man’s back turned, so apparently that look is common enough for Sam to have it right the fuck there in the forefront of his memory. Yeah, Sam needs to say something. Or, more aptly, Dean needs to say something.
And Sam should be someone he can say it to, right? They spend all their fucking time together, anyway, at home and in motels and in the little metal box that is a moving car. They’ve had intense emotional heart-to-hearts with actual literal capital-G God - they can handle a little boy talk. Talk about boys, that is. Right?
Except they never have, Sam realizes. Not that they had deep talks about girls, exactly, but...it comes up. Who’s hot and who’s not and, when car rides get particularly tedious, how many names of one-night-stand they can remember. There’d been a truly obnoxious phase a few years back where anytime he wanted Sam to stop talking, Dean would shout over him with meticulously detailed stories of his own sexual escapades until Sam fled in disgust, because there are some things you never want to know about your brother and Dean knows how to use them like a goddamn machete when he wants to end a conversation. But boys...boys don’t come up.
“Hey! Disappearances, right?”
Dean drops into the chair; slides a beer across the table and immediately starts a jittered leg-bounce-and-finger-drum routine that Sam already knows is going to drive him nuts. A quick glance at the entry - from Sam, not Dean, Dean’s not looking anywhere but the label on his bottle, which he’s already started peeling - shows Cas, half-turned to stare blankly in their direction before his shoulders slump and he moves on down the hall.
“Earth to Sam? Come in? No reason to pay you the big bucks if you keep sleeping on the job.”
Almost reflexively, Sam grumbles, “You don’t pay me at all.” He does indeed blink back to his laptop screen, though his mind is still more than halfway on Dean and Cas and Dean-and-Cas and the mortifyingly teen-girl question of why do we never talk about boys? “Uh, right, yeah. Bunch of college kids go out to a lake in the middle of nowhere, two go out for a walk, they don’t come back. Kid left over claims she saw shapes in the water.”
“Huh.” Dean says. The label is almost entirely off his bottle, sitting in a little pile of scraps on the table next to it. He stares down at the corner he’s scraping off with idle vigor, “You know. Maybe we should...put someone else on this one.” Sam waits in silence until Dean glances up-and-back-down, adds, “Not sure we should be...leaving right now. What with, uh—”
Footsteps sound in the hall. Dean cuts off abruptly, tracks Castiel as he walks past the entry with a plate of something-or-other he doesn’t even need to eat. He looks away before Cas casts his own glance their way.
What the fuck. Sam trains his own stare on his brother, and wonders if this is, in fact, the point where they talk about boys. He clears his throat.
Dean says, “I’m thinking we could throw it over to—”
“You know you can talk to me about anything, right?” The words come out before he can think twice about them.
Dean blinks once, twice. His eyes do something shifty and he sounds both blasé and skeptical when he says, “...sure. What gives, Sammy, I miss a share-and-care memo or something?”
“Not from me,” Sam says. Dean’s eyebrows fly into his hairline and he gives Sam a scornful look that is clearly a dismissal. Sam, having no idea how to put we should talk about your boy problems into real life out loud words, says instead: “The lake’s in Kansas,” and yeah, maybe Sam held this back to see what Dean would do, so sue him, “like thirty miles away.”
Dean stops all his fidgeting. His mouth works, for a moment. He gets up, then sits back down.
“In Kansas?”
“That’s what I said, yeah.”
“Water monsters. In Kansas.”
“Hey, we do have lakes. Kind of.”
Dean gets up, for real this time.
“Sure. Great. Perfect. When do we leave?”
2.
In college, Sam went to a training for things like this - just one time, because his advisor said it would look good on law school applications, or something. It was called “Creating an Inclusive Community,” and it definitely covered a variety of strategies that, he thinks, would be very useful right now. He spends a solid fifteen minutes casting his mind back to that day, recalls the cramped room, the dingy drop ceiling tiles, the shitty institutional lighting. He remembers the nametag pinned to his chest and - vaguely - the brightly colored cast of panelists at the front of the room. He tries to remember what they said.
...and comes up blank. Considering it was countless concussions, at least five deaths, and half a dozen apocalypses ago, he really shouldn’t be surprised.
He googles it instead.
According to google, this isn’t a thing to be blunt about.
Which is fair. God knows he’s spent enough time walking on eggshells around Dean’s moods; damn near every apocalypse seems to come with a side of emotional turmoil his brother wants desperately to avoid. As search terms go, “getting brother to come out” and “how to tell if my brother knows he’s bisexual” provide...mixed results, mostly about college fraternities; “talking about sexuality w sibling” is a bit more useful. All the advice is along the lines of “don’t push” and “let them come to you” and “make sure they know you’re a safe space without putting on pressure.”
As someone for whom “safe spaces” have been a rare and hot commodity on a very literal level, Sam gets that. It’s just - he’s not sure how to do it. So he googles some more.
The next time he’s in town - not Lebanon, but the one by the lake, what with the case and all - he gets a sticker. Also, a crying college girl who insists that “Kaitlyn and Sunny would never just leave,” two shaken local men who apparently met the girls at the lake, and yet another disappeared townsperson, this time one of the deputies. But that’s all pretty normal for them, so Sam’s thinking about the sticker.
The sticker is small, rectangular, and rainbow. Sam puts it on his own room’s door, just to make sure it’s amply clear where the show of support is coming from.
Dean never mentions it. Sam’s pretty sure no one’s noticed it at all, actually, and he’s in the middle of trying to step up his game when there’s a knock on his door. It’s Cas.
“Sam? Sorry to bother you, but—”
“No, no, it’s okay, I—” Sam hastily closes out of a dozen tabs ranging from a full-size rainbow flag to a dvd copy of Brokeback Mountain, then looks up. He cuts himself off at the sight of Cas, a blanket around his shoulders and his paleness of late highlighted by the slight red rims around his eyes. “Cas? Are you okay?”
“Oh, yes, fine. I just wanted to make sure you know I’m...here. If you ever want to...talk.”
“I...what?” Sam blinks at him, trying to get his bearings.
Cas blinks back. “I noticed, on your door. I wondered if that meant you—”
“Oh! Oh. Oh, no, uh—” Sam nearly bursts into laughter, but decides by the earnest look on Cas’ face that that’s probably a bad idea. Instead he says, “No. But...thanks, Cas. That’s...really nice.”
Cas opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. Finally he says, “I know you keep...asking Dean. About that guy from your case. Mitch, I think? And how attractive he is, but Dean is always—”
“You talking about me?” Dean’s voice makes Sam jump, and the minor flinch of Cas’ blanketed shoulders tells him they were both surprised. Dean appears in the doorway a moment later, pushed in enough to see Sam sitting on his bed with his laptop but not enough to touch Cas in any way. He does glance sideways, though, and does a double-take when he sees the same rawness Sam had noticed. “Cas?” He asks, sounding a bit lost with it, “Cas, is everything okay?”
The confused look Cas gives him is a direct counterpoint to his red eyes. “Yes, of course, Dean. Why do people keep asking that?”
“You just, uh. You look like you’ve been. Um.” Dean always used to be able to make full sentences around Cas, Sam thinks. Now, his brother stops short and finally says gruffly, “You look all, like, puppy-dog sad. It’s weird.”
Cas tilts his head in admission. “Ah, yes. A fictional death, on the television show Claire suggested I watch.”
It’s Sam who puts that together with their last conversation with Claire. He confirms slowly, “...Cas, didn’t she tell you to watch The Vampire Diaries?”
“Yes, that one.”
A moment of silence, and then Dean laughs. “You’re weepy over a teen vampire show? That’s what’s happening here?” He looks gleeful. He bumps his shoulders with Cas’, and even though it sends the angel teetering to lean heavily on the doorframe, things still feel almost normal.
Cas quirks a small smile at Dean’s laughter, “Yes. I seem to have become invested.”
“Uh-huh,” Dean hums, delighted.
“There are quite a few things that...do not make sense. And I do not appreciate the implication that humanity is something inherent to goodness, nor the supposition that it can simply be turned off and on at will. I have, however, found some of the characters...compelling. The vampire hunter, for instance. I liked him.”
“Uh, that’s. That’s nice—”
“He died.”
Dean, Sam thinks, would be blushing if he were prone to it - he’s not, so he shifts awkwardly on his feet instead. Finally, Sam says, “I wouldn’t worry too much. I’m pretty sure people come back from the dead in that show all the time.”
Castiel hums in acknowledgement. “Yes, well,” he says, voice heavy with sarcasm, “I suppose that makes it all better.”
3.
“Hey Dean?”
“What?”
“I don’t think you’re overcompensating.”
“...What?”
“I said, I don’t think—“
“I heard you. Sam, what the hell are you talking about?”
“I know I said it once, and I wanted to make sure you knew. I know sometimes really small things can stick with you - I mean, not necessarily you—“
“Whoa whoa whoa whoa - hold the fuck up. When the fuck did you say I was overcompensating?”
“Uh...a while back. That case in Connecticut. The one with the creepy dollhouse.”
“...Sam, that case was, like...ten years ago.”
“I know, I know. I just want to make sure it wasn’t...something you think about. Just in case it’s, uh, a thing you—”
“Sammy.”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re drinking this morning, but you either gotta share it or stow it, because there’s hoof-prints-and-human-livers-at-the-lake weird and then there’s you-right-now weird, and I’m thinking I wanna hang out with the livers.”
“I’m just, uh, gonna. Stop talking.”
“You do that.”
4.
Turns out, there’s a lot more to sexuality than Sam ever knew. Like - he knew things, sure, and he recognizes phrases here and there from times he’s spent chatting with Charlie and Claire, but he never realized how...structured...the whole community is. There are charts and forums and positively lengthy lists of terms, many of which carry the same whiff of obscurity his usual research into lore tends to.
By evening, he’s got at least twenty tabs open and the table is overflowing with open books and print outs, only about a quarter of which have anything to do with the current case. It’s very peaceful, and thus inevitably interrupted - this time by Cas’ voice, in that loud, frustrated growl that probably would read dangerous if Sam were not so used to it. It’s Cas’ fuck-you-I’m-an-ex-renegade-warlord-angel-of-heaven voice. He sounds like he’s grinding his teeth.
“I am not an invalid.”
And in reply, a shout, equally frustrated: “Cas, you are exactly an invalid!”
They spill into the room mid-argument. Sam would be happy to see them talking - not to mention Cas more animated than he’s been in weeks - but any positivity the moment might have is thoroughly quashed by all the storming and stomping and glaring going down. Sam ducks down and focuses intently on his laptop, trying to filter their voices out.
“I am not.” Cas insists. (It’s impossible to filter them out, apparently. Absolutely impossible, they’re too damn loud.)
More annoyed stomping from Dean. “You’re on bedrest! You take sit breaks on your way to the basement! You were essentially dead like a week ago! Your wings feel weird!”
“...I said that to Sam. I did not know you had been informed.”
“Yeah, uh, I just, uh, I happened to be...around...when— Cas!” There’s a clatter of chair-and-table, and Dean cuts off with a shuffle of feet. From the corner of Sam’s eye, he surmises that - despite his arguments - Cas had stumbled and failed to stay upright. Dean seems to have gotten him into a chair. Sam is staying the fuck out of it.
“Fine.” Cas says, a little breathless, deeply frustrated. “I may not be up to my full strength, but no doubt I am strong enough to help you with— what was it, again?”
Oh, right. Sam pulls open one of his minimized tabs; fits it so each window is sharing half his computer screen. “An each-uisge,” Sam mutters, wishing for a bigger laptop and also to be anywhere else. So much for staying out of it.
“A what?” Dean asks, distracted.
Sam speaks a little louder. “Each-uisge. It’s a lot like a kelpie—”
Dean turns on him, “What, we’re hunting a dog?”
“No, not a— ugh. They’re shapeshifting water spirits, from Scotland. Usually found in lakes, known to lure their victims in and devour everything but the liver. They usually take the form—”
“See? I am perfectly capable of contending with some paltry—”
Dean’s more interested in cutting off Cas than in anything Sam has to say. “Look, can you just...we don’t need you on this one. So, just, I’ll make you a cup of tea. Hang out. Watch your fang journals show - you gotta have seasons of that shit left —“
“Dean,” Cas says, in a serious, grave rumble, “I am very, very, very sick. Of watching. The Vampire Diaries.”
“Then watch something else!” Dean shouts, willfully missing the point.
“You’re missing the point.” Cas says.
“The point is, Sammy and I have got it. There’s no need to jump into danger when you’re not one hundred percent.”
“Oh, yes, because you have never gone into danger unless you were, as you say, ‘one hundred percent.’”
“Not if I didn’t have to!” Silence follows the exclamation, and Sam even unburies himself from his laptop to give Dean the most incredulous look he can. Cas, across the table, sports a matching one. Dean huffs. “Oh, shut up. Both of you.”
“We did not say anything.” Cas says, but Sam knows him well enough by now to identify smugness under his typical deadpan.
Sam is hiding his own smile when he glances back to his computer screen. His eyes catch on a line. Huh. “Hey, check this out.” He spins his laptop around.
Cas leans forward over the table to look closer, while Dean crowds in over Cas’ shoulder, still studiously not touching him. It looks very awkward, and Sam resists the urge to roll his eyes.
Dean says, “So, what, it’s got these...Kinsey Scales…?”
“What?” Sam starts. His head whips up to Dean, then to Cas, whose eyebrows are knit.
Cas says, “Sam, I do not understand how the creature’s sexual proclivities—”
Sam spins the laptop back towards himself - and indeed, the page on Killing an Each-Uisge is sitting right next to a colorful window titled The Kinsey Scale.
“Shit, uh, that’s - that’s not quite.” Well, no time like the present, “That’s a whole thing about, like, who you’re into? Like, a lot of...guys...are into...guys.” They’re both staring at him blankly. Sam takes a deep breath, says, “A lot of people find it reductive, actually, but it’s a pretty simple way to, like, quantify how you don’t just like one gender. And are. Bisexual.”
“That is a very human concept,” Cas says.
and
“What the fuck?” Dean says.
and a phone starts to ring.
It’s Dean’s, it turns out, and he casts a final baffled glance at Sam - who is feeling stupider by the second - before he answers it. “Agent Frampton. Hey - hey. Hey, Mitch, dude, slow down. What - by the lake? You sure? Just...just stay put, okay. We’ll be there soon.” He’s moving around the room, now, all business, picking up his coat and tossing Sam’s to him.
Dean finishes off the call with, “And Mitch? Don’t go in the water,” then turns to Sam and Cas. “Apparently the whole crowd of them went back - looking for revenge or something, stupid kids. We gotta go now.”
Cas starts to get up, his glare matching Dean’s. Sam might as well not be in the room, again. “I’m coming,” says Cas.
“You’re not,” says Dean.
“I said I can—”
“I need you safe, okay?” Dean says, meeting exactly no one’s eyes. “I just— We just got you back.”
Another silence. That seems to be a thing, these days.
“Well.” Cas says, a voice loud against the room’s tension. He looks mutinous, takes a long moment to lever his way to his feet. “It’s good to know you care.”
The words are sarcastic, and Sam can imagine them playfully so, any other day - or any day before Cas got yanked back from the Empty, anyway. But there’s something sharp and bitter, now, and it clearly leaves Dean floundering.
“Well, I. Of course I. I—“
“Don’t die.” Cas says, grave with a side of petulant, and walks shakily towards his room.
They stand in the quiet of his absence. It’s very awkward.
“Dean—“ Sam starts.
“We gonna kill something? Get the keys; I gotta kill something.”
5.
“You did say you wanted to kill something.”
“Not a demon horse! You didn’t mention the demon horse.”
Dean’s attempt to stomp indignantly down the bunker’s stairway is hampered by a number of things: the waterlogged mess of his clothing. The mass of seaweed-and-guts trailing his left shoe. Miracle, usually surprisingly relaxed about this sort of thing, trying very hard greet them cheerfully. Castiel, a barely-conscious dead weight, slumped against his side.
Sam trudges down the stairs after them, slightly less encumbered. “I’m sure I said—”
“Water creatures, sure! Shapeshifting, totally! But you didn’t say demon horse, I’d have remembered demon horse. And you definitely didn’t say Mitch the Kansas demon horse with a side of ambush! Here I was expecting some bisexual lake guy named Kinsey—”
“That’s not what—” Sam starts.
“Kelpie.” Cas mumbles his words into Dean’s neck, just loud enough that Sam can hear, too. “It’s called a—”
"It's not!" Sam huffs, picking a string of guts out of his hair, then focuses on calming down their incessantly barking dog. “Miracle. Miracle, it's us - don't eat that, it's— ugh. Why is this so hard?" He shouts that last piece over at Dean, "it’s called an each—”
Miracle mostly placated, Sam turns, then trails off when he realizes that once again no one is listening. Cas is too busy trying to hold himself together, and Dean is too busy lowering Cas down into a chair with intense gentleness, a direct contrast to his harsh words.
“Don’t you correct me!” Dean blusters at him, “You’re an idiot, you don’t get to do corrections.”
Cas ignores him. He sounds half-dead when he says, “All together, now: thank you, Castiel, for saving our asses.”
Sam mumbles it back, because he can’t really argue with that. Dean, apparently, can.
“I told you to stay home!”
Cas lolls a bit to one side. Dean kneels, putting himself directly under the slouch so Cas has somewhere to lean; he peels a bit of seaweed of Cas’ neck.
“And I told you not to die,” Cas notes. His voice is weak but his glare is fierce. “You were doing a very poor job of it.”
Sam sighs. He leans down to take his shoe off; it comes with a small flood of dirty lake water and a squelchy bit of monster guts, which he once again has to shoo the dog away from.
“So, what?” Sam asks, thinking about being very nearly trounced by the colony of each-usiges back at the lake and hearing the flutter of wings, of opening his eyes to a very vengeful - and very annoyed - angel. “You have - no, Miracle! No, not food - you have wings again now?”
Cas’ breath is labored when he murmurs, “It seems...this resurrection...comes with certain...perks…”
“Hey, you. Stop talking,” says Dean.
“No, you stop talking.” It takes a moment for them both to realize Cas is making an accusation, not giving an order. “I bare...the soul...I don’t even have…to you...and you...try to die...by horse.”
“That’s not—“ Dean hisses, but interrupts himself when Cas goes limp, “Cas! Shit.”
He’s still alive - probably, it’s hard to tell with angels, sometimes, but there’s no shadowy image of wings on the ground, so. Still alive. With everyone exhausted and covered in monster-lake-goop, it takes both Sam and Dean (and Miracle, though he's more moral support) to get Cas into the bathroom and then the bed. Sam ends up hovering in the doorway with the dog while Dean goes through the business of fussing with the blankets.
“Dean?” Cas murmurs, maybe even in his sleep. Sam watches as Dean leans in close, places his hand on the pillow next to Cas’ face.
“Yeah?” Dean asks, the word soft.
“You...” Cas’ voice is rough and low, ground out laboriously like it’s vital Dean hear this before he sleeps, “are a dick.”
Dean rears back, face stricken for just a second, then tilts his head as if to say fair enough. Cas, eyes closed, probably doesn’t see it.
When Dean leaves the room, he closes the door very, very quietly. Then he leans against it, tilts his head back and closes his own eyes.
“You know,” Sam says, gentle, “if you need to talk—”
“Shut up, Sammy,” Dean says, and that’s that.
+1.
Sam worries all night. He worries while he stumbles into the shower and when he stumbles out, he worries while he scrapes the guts and seaweed off the entry floor and burns them in a big, stinking heap down in the basement. He worries all the next morning, too, when he’s brushing his teeth and taking Miracle out for a walk and checking on Cas and dragging himself into the kitchen to get first a cup of tea and then - when it remains untouched - a beer for Dean, who is doing that thing where he doesn’t want to be alone but he also doesn’t want to not be alone so he sets up his laptop on the front entry table and insists on being an absolute bitch every time Sam so much as walks past.
(Dean checks on Cas, too, whenever he thinks Sam isn’t looking. Sam’s about to call him out on it when he catches a flash of fake fangs from the laptop screen.
“Dean? Are you...are you watching—”
“No!” Dean shouts. He also slams the laptop closed, so like, it’s pretty weak.)
Sam worries about Cas, of course, but not too much. Cas’ll be okay. He didn’t get entirely resurrected and save their asses from, as Dean would put it, a demon horse just to not be okay.
Mostly, Sam worries about Dean. He worries so hard he barely puts up a fight when Dean bullies him into picking up burgers for lunch, which is good because Dean barely puts any energy into the bullying.
Because he needs to talk about it, Sam’s sure.
Sam’s sure, he is. Right up until the moment he re-enters the bunker.
The first thing he hears is panting.
It’s a testament to his life that his very first thought is a placid something terrible must be happening, ugh, not again. He shifts the greasy paper fast food bags into one hand and silently slides his gun out with the other, holding it low while he quietly - quietly, ever so quietly - makes his way down the stairs.
By the time the entry table comes into view, he’s already put the gun away and stopped even trying to be quiet. Because the panting has given way to moaning, and also some particularly gross wet noises, and he’s pretty solidly certain what he’s going to see.
Yup.
What the fuck.
They’re on the fucking table. Sam does his best not to take note of the details, and thank god Dean’s back is shielding most of the thing from view, and thank beyond god they’re still wearing clothes, but he can’t avoid Cas’ legs all splayed out or the way Dean is bent over the table and oh fuck no that’s definitely Cas’ hand and it’s definitely going down Dean’s pants, small mercies it’s on the backside, except that’s a really fucking small mercy because ew, that’s his goddamn brother.
Good for them.
But more importantly: ew.
Sam clears his throat, to no effect. He stamps his feet a bit. Nope. “Uh...guys?” Not a thing. (Honestly, it’s embarrassing, is what it is - they’re supposed to be ever-vigilant monster hunters who save the universe. Emphasis on vigilant.) He pulls out a greasy carton of fries, takes one out, and chucks it at Dean’s head. Then another, then another.
“What the fuck! Oh shit.”
Ah, there it is.
Dean flings his way off of Cas, scrambling to right himself and casting a red-faced look at Sam and then away from him. Cas, having no decency at all, continues to lounge there and look all at once absolutely exhausted and deeply pleased and nauseatingly debauched.
Sam gives them his best what do you have to say for yourselves? stare. Unsurprisingly, Dean breaks first.
“Sam! You’re back! Uh...Cas is. Cas is awake.”
“I didn’t notice,” Sam drawls.
“Just, ah, keeping you up to date, and all, thought you should—”
Cas chimes in, straightening on the table but not bothering to adjust...anything. Ew. “I believe Sam is…’giving you a hard time,’ as it were.”
“Of course he’s—” Dean turns his glare on Cas, then his eyes narrow at Cas’ blank look. “You’re doing it too, aren’t you?”
“I do not know what you mean.”
“Giving me a hard time.”
“Well, you were just telling me about how har—”
“Nope!” Sam interrupts as fast as he fucking can, “Absolutely not!” He stomps his way down to the table, pointedly ignoring its current occupants while he digs his salad out of the paper bag.
“Sa—”
“Shared space! This is a shared, communal space!” Sam shouts, chucking the rest of the bag at his brother, “So you can do all...that...somewhere else.” He looks at Dean - who still looks mortified, but has somewhere along the line closed the gap between himself and Cas, so their shoulders are brushing. Sam takes a deep breath, pushes aside his horror (he eats here!), and says, firmly, “I support you.”
“Uh...thanks?” Dean just looks perplexed, and Cas looks amused, and Sam has a sudden, perfect moment of clarity where it dawns that maybe, possibly, Dean already knows that. Maybe it doesn’t even occur to Dean that Sam might not. Maybe Sam’s not the one Dean ever had to talk to at all.
It’s kind of nice to know, Sam thinks, as the last of his worry goes up like so much demon smoke (which is to say: probably not gone forever, but beaten back today by something good). He grins, he knows, and he shoves his head into his arms on the table - far away from any funny business - so Dean won’t see it. Also because: ew. He says, muffled, “I support you getting a room. Now get the fuck out before I need therapy.”
“You already need therapy,” Cas’ voice is matter-of-fact, but also fading, along with two sets of footsteps. “Both of you do, we’ve discussed this. However, due to the exceptional and incredible circumstances of your lives - incredible in that they tend to strain credulity, I mean - it is unlikely we could find a qualified—”
“Hey Sammy?”
Sam groans into his arms, loud enough for Dean to hear.
It earns him more of Dean’s voice, facetious: “If you need to talk about it…”
“Shut up!” Sam shouts back.
Because he wants to eat his goddamn salad in peace. But also because - really - there’s nothing else to say.