Archive of Our Own

The Winchesters aren’t exactly known for facing their problems in a tactful, healthy manner. That’s why Dean ran as soon as he could, and why, at age fifteen, Sam was one of two attendees of John Winchester’s funeral.

Sam moved to Sioux Falls with Uncle Bobby after that, and if Dean ever tried to come back, ever tried to say he was sorry, if he even knew dad was gone, he never made it known.

Sam started looking for Dean the moment he left and hasn’t stopped since, not really. Other things occupied him after dad died—adjusting to a new high school, to a new life where he wasn’t consistently parenting the adult more than the adult was parenting him.

Yeah, life with Uncle Bobby may not have been perfect, but it got him three squares and a roof over his head, and when Sam got into Stanford, it was like he couldn’t have been prouder. 

Uncle Bobby was there when he graduated, was there when he got accepted into law school.

It took a long time, but after nine years Sam was finally ready to admit that yeah, Uncle Bobby may be the only family he’s got left, but he’s a damn good man for the job. Nine years, and Sam was finally starting to accept that he would probably never see Dean again.

Of course the internet destroyed that.

The internet destroys everything.

He was on Facebook, sprawled out on his and Jess’ bed while she pulled mascara onto her eyelashes, swiping through a friend’s pictures when he saw it.

They were on a road trip through America’s Heartland and had stopped at a roadhouse for drinks. Harvelle’s Roadhouse, to be more specific, Sam checked the caption.

In the background of the picture, pouring drinks behind the bar, was very definitely Dean Winchester.

Alive.

His mind went into overdrive after that, cogs spinning so fast that he was sure he’d start smoking out of his ears. His face got hot, his chest got full and light all at once, as though pumped with hydrogen, fit to burst with it.

When Jess had asked what was wrong, Sam was sure he was speaking English, and at a reasonable volume, but she made him repeat it three times before she finally got it.

“My brother is alive.”

“Are you kidding me?” Jess’ eyes went wide. “Sam, that’s amazing!”

“I know,” Sam nodded. “He’s alive… And I’m gonna fucking kill him.”

It took a few hours after that to talk Sam down, but Jess was good at that. Sam was level-headed ninety-nine percent of the time, which she appreciated. Everyone had their moments, everyone had their problems, and for Sam, his family was a very large sore spot.  

Which, she admitted, was entirely understandable.

She made him promise before he left the next day that he would be careful, and reminded him that murder was a bad thing.

“I know,” Sam grumbled, still equal parts resentful and embarrassed that she’d held out her hand until he released his pocket knife to her not five minutes earlier. She had one sister, she didn’t know how brothers said hello after ten years.

“I know it’s not like that,” she gave him a look, and then a kiss goodbye. “I love you, be safe. Especially in that thing.”

Sam looked down at the Impala and shifted. Dean would be pissed if he knew the Impala rested in the hands of his kid brother, but it was his fault for taking off without it in the first place.

And anyway, it was the last thing Sam had of his dad and his brother.

It was special.

And because Jess is Jess, she understood.

Sam drove through the whole night, unable to sleep even when he stopped on the side of the road to catch a quick nap. He kept thinking about Dean, how frankly he was just there in that photo, how if Sam had decided to make himself a sandwich, or slip his hands up Jess’ skirt, or even check the scores on the Stanford-Cal game he was missing, how if anything else had gone differently he wouldn’t have even seen him.

That thought makes Sam a little sick.   

It’s nearly midnight as he rolls up an unforgivingly bumpy dirt road, right up to Harvelle’s Roadhouse. It’s a shack, definitely off the beaten track, but there are cars parked outside and flickering neon signs indicating life inside.  

Sam’s gut roils with hot acid, twisting up his intestines painfully, and suddenly he wonders if this was such a good idea. Dean has a notoriously short fuse, and the last time Sam had seen him… it hadn’t been good.

He shakes himself out of it.

This is Dean, his big brother. Dean may have cut and run, but before that he spent his time taking care of Sam when dad couldn’t, making sure Sam was safe and secure.

Hand shaking, Sam opens the door and steps out. It’s cooler than he expected, but the blood rushing in his ears makes it impossible to concentrate on anything other than, shit, he’s finally going to see his brother again.

It’s a mystery that Sam’s legs even work enough to keep him up, let alone carry him to the front door.

As the picture suggested, it’s dark and hazy inside. It smells like sawdust and beer and pretzels, like just about any bar he and Dean had to pull dad out of more than once. Sam’s stomach turns over as he scans the moderate crowd. There’s no sign of Dean behind the bar, which is tended tonight by a cheery-faced girl with red hair. The only other person Sam can see who may be even remotely employed here is a guy with a scruffy face and untidy blue hair.

Sam tries to get his attention, but he disappears in back before Sam can even raise a hand to flag him down.

Well, then.

He turns to an empty stool at the bar and slides up on it. The cheery-faced girl turns her cheer on Sam and greets, “Welcome to Harvelle’s. What can I get for you?”

“Uh, how about the best of whatever you’ve got on tap?” Sam decides, and the girl winks.

“Man after my own heart,” she nods. “Hang tight, comin’ right up.”

Sam nods and folds his hands patiently on the bar top, scanning once again for Dean. Still no sign of him, though the guy sitting a couple of stools down seems to have entirely the wrong impression about Sam. 

He and Jess have been in the Bay Area for over a year, Sam is no stranger to being sized up and hit on by men. It’s just a little more unexpected out here, especially in some place as ruggedly ordinary as Harvelle’s Roadhouse.

“All right,” the redhead comes back and slides an ice cold glass in front of him. “Fat Tire okay?”

“Great,” Sam nods. “Thanks.”

“You need anything else, the name’s Charlie,” she grins.

“Uh, actually Charlie, there may be something else you could help me with,” Sam leans on the bar. “Is there a guy by the name of Dean Winchester working here?”

Her eyebrows go up, caution immediately clouding her face. She leans back, “Who’s asking?”

“Well, my name’s Sam Winchester,” Sam explains. “I’m his brother.”

Charlie’s lips part, her eyes go wide, token signs of realization.

“Oh, shit,” is all she manages to say, her voice tight in her throat. “Uh, can you just, um… yeah. Hang on.”

She unstrings her apron and runs from the bar, calling, “Gabe, watch the bar for me please!”

Sam’s brows knit together as he watches Charlie scramble out from behind the bar and into the back, where the guy with the blue hair disappeared before. Sam almost stands to follow her, but immediately in her place slides a stocky blonde man and he can’t get away fast enough.

“Hey-o, sport,” the man whistles, drums his hands on the counter and starts refilling people’s drinks. He makes his way back toward Sam, and a couple people away he notes, “Made Charlie book it outta here toute suite. You tell her Greedo shot first or something?”

Sam surprises himself with his own laugh. The man smiles back and sticks out his hand in greeting, “Gabriel Novak.”

“Sam Winchester,” Sam takes his hand, and Gabriel drops the bottle of whiskey in his other hand.

“Gabriel, goddamn it!” comes a woman’s deep chide from the other side of the bar.

“Fuck,” Gabriel mutters. “I didn’t do it,” he calls.

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” the woman replies, coming back behind the bar with a broom and a dust pan.  “Well, thank god it wasn’t full. Who the hell let you behind the bar in the first place, y’damn spaz?”

Charlie chooses this exact moment to run back behind the bar, reassuring, “I’m so sorry, Ellen, that was on me. I was just back talking to Dean, for Sam,” she nods at Sam. She then adds, “Winchester.”

It’s then that Ellen finally turns to look at Sam, and in an instant he knows she recognizes him.  Sam has never seen her before, he knows he hasn’t, but who knows what Dean’s told these people. Sam doesn’t even know what Dean had on him when he left, if he had his keys or his wallet.

If he had his wallet, there was a picture of them and dad together at Bryce Canyon. Dean’s the picture-showing type, maybe that’s where she knows him from.

“Little Sammy Winchester,” Ellen finally says, and Sam’s heart squeezes in his chest.

No one’s called him ‘Sammy’ since Dean left.

“It’s Sam, actually,” Sam clears his throat. “Just Sam.”

“Like Madonna,” Gabriel offers.

“Oh, hush up and get to cleanin’,” Ellen rolls her eyes. “Sammy, why don’t you come on back, I’m sure Dean would love to see you—”

“Actually,” Charlie steps in front of Ellen, and draws back slightly, like she knows she’s bringing down a reign of unholy terror for doing so. “Dean asked if Sam would wait until closing.” She looks at Sam and explains, “He’s just really tied up in something right now.”

“I told you Ellen,” says Gabriel from where he cleans the floor. “He and Cassie only get into trouble back there. They shouldn’t be allowed on the same shift, you’re just asking for a break room coated in bodily fluids.”

“Gabriel,” Ellen warns. Sam wrinkles his nose.

At least it sounds like his brother is still in order, sexually speaking. That’s got to at least be a good thing, right?

“Don’t cross the streams, Ellen,” Gabriel warns back, and Ellen gives Sam a world-weary shake of the head. Sam chuckles as Ellen comes out around the bar and pats Sam on the shoulder.

“Tell you what,” she hums. “Any brother of Dean’s is a boy of mine. Come on, now, I’ll get you set up at a table.”

They walk back to a corner of the bar, a little more secluded, a perch from which to survey. Ellen sits him down in a chair, hand still on his shoulder as she asks, “You want somethin’ to snack on while you wait? Got some peanuts, some pretzels. Could even point you in the direction of somethin’ back in town if you’re lookin’ for a good meal.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Sam chuckles.

“We haven’t been properly introduced,” Ellen says then. “I’m Ellen Harvelle.”

Sam’s eyebrows perk up, “As in, Harvelle’s Roadhouse?”

“You know it, darlin’,” she winks. “Anything you need, you just holler, okay? And whatever you do, don’t let Gabriel get it for you. We all know how that ends.”

Sam smiles, thanks her again, and pulls his bag up onto his lap. He pulls out his laptop and connects to the wifi.

“Hey, Gabriel,” Sam grabs him as he walks by. “What’s the wifi password here?”

“Fuck you and your novel, dick,” Gabriel comes back, and then smiles, “All one word, lower case.”

He walks away before Sam can thank him for his ‘help’, and on a whim Sam decides to type it in.

‘You are now connected to ‘Roadhouse_1’’

Huh.

Sam checks his email, gets back to a few of the people in his criminal law class and tells them he’ll be gone for at least the weekend. He calls Jess, gives her an update, and says he’ll call back after he’s seen Dean.

“Where are you staying?” she asks.

“I’ll find a place in town,” he rubs his temples and looks up.

The waiter with the blue hair is just staring at him.

“Okay, well, make good choices,” she bids.

“You too,” Sam laughs. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Well, I happen to know that you’d love watching cheesy movies and painting your toes all night, so I’ve got that covered.”

Sam smiles that love-drunk, idiotic smile he knows he gets every time he talks to Jess.

Years have gone by, and this woman can still make him smile like that. He dislikes being away from her. Through everything, undergrad, law school, even family stuff (mostly hers), she’s been his best friend. She’s the person he trusts most on the entire planet and, to be honest, sleeping alone tonight is gonna suck.

Maybe that’s why Dean hasn’t come back. Maybe he ran, and then somewhere along the way ended up here and settled down with this Cassie, whoever she was.

People start to leak out of the bar, finishing their drinks, their conversations, and tipping generously as they head out. It’s an odd collection of people for this venue. He knows dives have gained a sort of following with the rise of the hipsters, but something about it just seemed strange to Sam.

The last person leaves and Ellen turns out the neon “OPEN” sign, and all the lights out front.

Butterflies kick up in Sam’s gut and he slaps his laptop closed. It’s closing time, Dean said he’d talk to Sam after they closed. It’s after closing now, jerk, time to come out. Sam keeps his eyes fixed on the door into the back, but so far he’s got nothing. The door doesn’t even have any traffic to get Sam’s hopes up.

“Sam?”

Sam turns and leaps out of his chair.

Dean.

That’s Dean. Dean’s standing right in front of him, alive and well and—

“Holy shit, how the fuck tall are you?”

“Six-four,” Sam replies.

“Goddamn,” Dean laughs. His eyes crinkle up at the corners, because this is his real smile, and it goes all the way up to his eyes, and Sam hasn’t seen that in so, so long.

Screw it.

He comes forward and pulls Dean into a warm, tight hug. He still feels like Dean—a little more filled out in some places than he was, but Sam supposes they both are. He looks like Dean and sounds like Dean, even reacts to unexpected hugs as Dean always has, stiff as a board and shoulders up against his ears.

But he relaxes into it, and finally hugs back.

Sam’s crying when they break, just a few stray tears that he tries to wipe away before Dean sees.

Wishful thinking.

“Hah,” Dean gives a triumphant laugh as he swipes under his own eyes with the collar of his t-shirt. “Pussy.”

“You’re,” Sam swallows hard. “You’re alive.”

“Yeah,” Dean nods. “You too.”

“You’re alive,” Sam repeats, and before Dean can ask him if the needle’s stuck on a scratch, Sam socks him hard in the chest. “You stupid motherfucking jackass!”

“Sam, what the hell!”

“What the hell?” Sam repeats, and punches him again. “I’ve spent years thinking you were dead, Dean. Years. You couldn’t have just dropped a line? A quick, ‘not dead, don’t worry’?”

“Look,” Dean tries to shield himself from Sam’s blows, but fuck, Sam is actually a lot more angry than he initially anticipated.

“Hey, uncle!” Dean declares. Sam has no such intention of relenting, even if all this ends up being is Sam socking and shoving Dean back into a wall.

Ellen wrestles her way in between them though, face red as Sam has ever seen a face get.

“Just what in the hell do you think you’re doin’?” she shouts. “I know you’re pissed, but you don’t just come into my bar and start workin’ out your issues like this is the damned Maury Povitch show.”

“Springer or die!” Gabriel calls from the bar.

“Gabriel, get out before I throw your ass out,” Ellen bites back. Gabriel rolls his eyes and grabs his stuff from on top of the bar, almost like he’s disappointed he’ll be missing the show. Ellen holds up a hand for them to hold off until Gabriel has left the building.

“Now,” she begins. “I don’t know much about you, Sam, only what Dean’s told me. But as far as I know, you’re a reasonable guy. And reasonable guys don’t go around wailin’ on their brothers in public just ‘cause they can. And you,” she turns to Dean. “You know just as well as I do that he’s got every right to be pissed off, and don’t give me that look either. But fighting won’t fix it, you know it won’t.”

Dean gives her a look back. Whether or not it’s the look she warned him not to give, Sam can’t say. There’s desperation in it, almost the kind of look that a kid gives a mom when they’ve exhausted all other options.

And Ellen softens at it.

“I swear to god, boy, you’ll be the death of me,” she shakes her head and looks at Sam. “Tell me you’re not thrilled to see that face again.”

Sam shifts, and he and Dean meet eyes again. It’s bizarre to see him so old, to see smile lines bracketing his mouth and fine crinkles up around his eyes.

“That’s what I thought,” says Ellen. “Are we all sorted now? Can I leave you two be without worryin’ about one of you missin’ his head tomorrow?”

Dean and Sam both nod.

“Good,” Ellen nods back. “Now get on out of here before I lock you in for the night.”

They nod again.

Dean waits as Sam packs up his stuff and tries to lay down money for the beer, but Ellen threatens to lop off his whole damn hand if he doesn’t put his wallet away.

“Yeah, Ellen’s kinda rough around the edges,” Dean sighs as the step out into the cool night air. “She grows on you, though.”

“Yeah,” Sam just nods back. Then Dean stops walking and Sam realizes, shit, he sees the car.

“Holy shit,” says Dean.

“Yeah.”

“Holy shit.”

Dean runs his hand over the Impala’s hood, caressing it as a man would his long-lost love. Sam fishes the keys out of his pocket and, with a quick whistle, tosses them to Dean.

“You… where’s your car?” asks Sam.

“Cas took it back home,” Dean replies absently.

So Dean lives with this Cassie girl. Interesting.

“You just assumed you’d have another way home?” asks Sam.

“Figured Ellen would take pity on me if you cut and ran,” Dean shrugs. “Or that I’d end the night in an ambulance. Any way you slice it, I had a set of wheels.”

“I guess so,” Sam nods.

They get in the car and Dean starts it up, taking in a deep breath as the engine roars to life.

And then he turns to Sam and, holy crap, if looks could kill.  

“What the fuck have you been doing to her?”

“Wh—nothing!” Sam defends. “It’s an old car, Dean, it doesn’t exactly run like it used to.”

Dean revs the engine and then immediately brings a hand up to the dashboard. He gives the car a soothing pat and bids, “Shh, I know. I know. Daddy’s here now, though. The mean man can’t hurt you anymore.”

Sam rolls his eyes.

As they drive through town, Sam tries to get a hold of where he is. It’s much harder to do in the dark, when there’s no sun or scenery to orient you, and when you’re the passenger of someone who does know where he’s going, it’s all the more unsettling.

He has to trust that Dean’s not going to drive them off the edge of a cliff, and the only reason Sam has to believe that he won’t is that he would not crash the car.

Dean lives in a small house near the center of town. For a moment, Sam isn’t sure they’re in the right place. There are two cars in the driveway, a Honda that is far too practical to belong to Dean, oh boy, a VW Rabbit.

He thinks he saw both in the parking lot up at the Roadhouse.

“Are those both yours?” Sam asks as they exit the car.

“Ugh, don’t,” Dean shakes his head. “I’ve tried to get Cas to sell that shitty Honda, but no dice. And how many times have I had to fix up Gabe’s shitty fucking Rabbit? Y’know, just ‘cause I fix cars doesn’t give anyone license to own a shitty one.”

Sam chuckles.

But then something catches his attention.

“Gabe lives with you?” asks Sam. “The guy from the Roadhouse?”

“Yeah, he’s Cas’ brother,” Dean grabs his own keys out of his pocket. “Cas was goin’ through some stuff a while back, so Gabe came to help out. And then he stayed.”

“Oh,” Sam shoulders his bag as Dean unlocks the front door. “Kinda puts the kibosh on you two, though, doesn’t it?”

“Eh, not really,” Dean shakes his head. “Me ‘n’ Cas have been together long enough. Gabe keeps us on our toes.”

He flicks on the light inside and Sam peers around. It’s not so bad for being in the middle of nowhere. It’s cozy, definitely, with a couch and a TV and a record player. Movie posters and albums decorate the wood-paneled walls. From here Sam can see a tiny kitchen and a card table with three mismatched chairs around it.

“Now, don’t think I don’t have a sweet set-up for you,” says Dean. He yanks the cushions off the couch and pulls out the bed within. With a flourish, he turns back to Sam and nods, “Nice, right?”

It’s a standard pull out bed, Sam thinks, and he’ll probably have to sleep on it at an angle to fit on it, but he nods all the same.

“It’s great, Dean.”

Dean smiles and starts gathering up pillows and sheets for the bed. He makes it up just about as well as Sam would expect him to. Sam knows Dean’s hands work, he’s seen them sift through the guts of a car before with all the precision of a seasoned professional. Maybe that doesn’t carry over into bed-making.

Or, Sam realizes, maybe he’s as nervous as Sam is.

“Dean?” Sam begins, and Dean looks up. “I do wanna talk to you, but… y’know, it’s late. You just got done with work. If you wanna wait until morning, I’m fine with that.”

Dean looks away and back again, confused, “Well, that’s what was gonna happen anyway, so.”

Right.

Dean finishes up the bed and pats Sam on the shoulder. “Bathroom’s through there, and then me and Cas are the first door after that. You need anything, just holler, all right?”

Sam nods, and Dean pulls him into another hug.

“Good to see you, Sammy.”

Sam stays up way too late texting Jess about his night. She seems to think that Dean’s living situation is a good one, and that if he’s happy then Sam should be happy for him.

“It’s his life,” she reminds him. “If he’s happy and it’s not hurting him or anyone to live it, then what’s the problem?”

Sam grudgingly has to admit that there is no problem, and maybe that in itself is the problem. He doesn’t know that Dean is happy, just that he lives with his girlfriend and her brother, and that he works in a bar.

It could be a recipe for happiness, but it could also just be a front.

“Maybe he’s on the run from the mafia or debt collectors,” Sam suggests. That’s the most likely scenario he can come up with. He gets half a text and a lot of ‘b’s  in return, which means Jess likely fell asleep while texting, and then woke up and hit send without thinking about it.

Sam rolls over and hugs a plain brown throw pillow to his chest. He almost resents the fact that she’s able to sleep without him, and all he does is toss and turn without her beside him.

She does this thing when he can’t sleep, where she rolls over and runs her fingers through his hair until he nods off.

It’s crap not having her here, he should have let her come.

But ‘no’, he’d said. ‘he’s my brother and I have to do this alone,’ he’d said.

Idiot move, Sam.

Sam rolls over and stares at the water-stained ceiling. He doesn’t know if he’s gotten any sleep, though he suspects the worst. The sun is coming up outside, and all he’s done is pitch a fit all night.

A door shuts in the hallway, and Sam tries to remain still. If it’s Dean, he doesn’t want him to know he can’t sleep; if it’s Gabriel or Cassie, he doesn’t want either of them to feel obligated to talk to him when they should just go back to sleep.

There’s some sneaking and rustling around in the kitchen then, the sound of a pot being filled and the smell of coffee percolating. It makes Sam’s fingers itch, but he knows that if he has any caffeine he’ll end up wired, without any hope of falling asleep.

A few minutes pass and the coffee machine beeps. Whoever’s awake hushes it, and pours a cup for themselves. It could be Gabriel, it could be Dean, but it could also be Cassie and Sam is dying to catch a glimpse of this girl.

He rolls over and tries to be subtle about opening his eyes.

There is no woman in the kitchen.

There is, however, a very familiar blue-haired waiter in nothing but his boxers and a t-shirt, yawning and cradling a cup of coffee close to his chest.

Before he can help it, Sam shoots up where he sits.

He gets the blue-haired waiter’s attention, who gives him a sleepy smile and a genial, “Good morning, Sam.”

“Morning,” Sam returns warily. “Who the hell are you?”

“Castiel Novak,” he sticks out his hand, and Sam takes it, still unsure of what the hell is going on. “You can call me Cas, everyone else does.” 

Sam swears he can hear the high-pitched whistle of the drop right before the bomb hits, and a giant mushroom cloud goes up behind his eyes.

Cas is a guy.

His staunchly heterosexual, meat-and-potatoes, car-fixing, beer-swilling older brother is in a relationship with another man.

“It’s nice to meet you,” says Cas. “Dean speaks very fondly of you.”

“Uh, yeah,” Sam nods. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

Castiel nods and gives him another smile, waiting to perpetuate a conversation that Sam is not yet prepared to have. So, he looks down into his coffee and says, “There’s more in the pot, if you’d like a cup.”

He disappears after that, and Sam immediately makes a grab for his phone. He texts Jess, ‘CASSIE IS CASTIEL AND IS A MAN. S.O.S, THIS IS NOT A DRILL.’

‘Shut UP,” he gets back almost immediately. ‘Pics or it didn’t happen.’.

‘and say what? Hey Dean, my fiancé doesn’t believe that you’re sticking it to a guy, can I get a picture of him?’

‘Or whatever the subtler version of that is, yes.’

Sam hides his face in his hands.

Forget coffee, he could use a damn drink right now.

He searches for the remote and clicks on the TV. He needs something, anything to take his mind off of the wealth of connections firing off in his brain. This wasn’t why Dean left, was it? It’s no secret that dad had some sort of machismo thing, and that Dean played into it like the world’s greatest fiddler, but Sam never cared about any of that. Sam was the soft one, the one who said what he was feeling, the one who asked for help and tried to learn from his mistakes.

Put that together with his long hair and it wasn’t hard for anyone to feminize him, including dad and Dean.

He loses himself in an infomercial for the Ninja blender, and prays to whoever might be listening to give him strength.

Regular broadcasting starts up after a few more infomercials, and the floorboards creak behind him. Sam hopes it’s not Cas; he’s spent the better part of an hour plagued by images of what he and Dean probably get up to, and it’s hard to stop thinking about it now that he’s started.

Each thought gets punctuated with a wrinkled nose or, depending, a gag and a shake of the head.

He didn’t like it when it was Lisa, he didn’t like it when it was any of the other various girls he slept with when he was still home, and he doesn’t like it now.

“You met Cas, huh?”

Sam turns and sees Dean standing behind the couch, arms folded over his chest, in a similar state of dress as Castiel had been earlier. His hair sticks up every which way, his eyes closed up, sensitive to the light streaming in through the windows and blaring off the TV.

“Castiel?” Sam clarifies. “Yes, I met him.”

Dean grunts and sits on the arm of the couch, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, “You were so cool last night, figured you hadn’t met him yet.”

“I’m cool,” Sam shakes his head. “So cool. Just caught me off guard is all.”

Dean raises his eyebrows and leans forward on his knees.

“You are so not cool with this,” he concludes.

“I am!” Sam exclaims. “Honest to god, I’m a bleeding heart ‘No on H8’ liberal.”

Dean narrows his eyes, “Figures.”

“Dean, you do realize that this is a fuckton for me to process, right?” Sam raises his eyebrows. “I’m not mad, or judging, or anything like that.”

“Good, ‘cause it’s not your place to,” Dean comes back frankly and grabs the back of his neck. “And it’s nobody’s place to talk about this on an empty stomach. C’mon, let’s grab some grub."

“Uh,” Sam runs his fingers through his lank, greasy hair. “You mind if I shower first?”

“Yeah, go for it,” Dean waves him toward the bathroom. “You can use my soap, it’s in the green bottle.”

“Thanks, but I brought my own,” Sam pulls his ziplock bag of toiletries out of his bag.

“The fuck is this?” Dean snatches it from him. “I’ve never even heard of this brand.”

“It’s all-natural,” Sam tries to grab it back before Dean can get it out of the bag, but he’s too slow. He pops the cap and takes a big whiff, only to retch and shove it back at Sam.  

“That is fuckin’ rank, dude,” Dean shakes the scent out of his head. “Never make me smell that again, please.”

“I didn’t make you do it the first time,” Sam mutters. “Towel?”

Dean grabs Sam a towel out of a closet in the hall. “Make sure you lock the door,” says Dean. “A Novak’s gotta piss, they’ll go in no matter what unless you lock ‘em out.”

“Charming,” Sam nods, and gets a wink in return.

The shower is at least clean. Sam tries not to get too much of his hair on anything, and scoops up what he can so it doesn’t clog the drain. There are two sets of body wash and three men in this house.

Dean and Cas probably share soap. Why wouldn’t they?

Sam figures he’ll need some time to start thinking this is cute and get over how weird it still is.

When he’s finished, he towels off and slips on a fresh shirt and pair of jeans. In the living room, Dean is already dressed, shoving the fold-out mattress back into the couch where it belongs.

“Come on, you son of a bitch,” he grunts and manages to force it down.

Some things never change.

“Ready?” he asks, and Sam nods. He sits to pull on his shoes (“So you weren’t ready.”) and rolls his eyes while Dean bitches through the entire process.

The moment he is ready to go, Dean holds up a finger and heads back into his room. Sam follows out of unbroken habit, wanting to go wherever Dean does, and stops just inside the doorway. The room is still dark, blinds shut tight. The familiar, smoky smell of stale bong water and hash fills his nose. On the bed, Castiel is sprawled out over blankets, passed out despite his earlier cup of coffee.

“Hey,” Dean jostles him gently, and he wakes. “Me’n Sammy are gonna get some breakfast, you want anything?”

“No,” Cas shakes his head. “Have fun.”

Sam accidentally watches his brother kiss his boyfriend goodbye. 

“Oh, wait,” Castiel grabs his sleeve. “Can you get me more papers while you’re out?”

“You got it,” Dean nods in the affirmative. “We’ll be back in a bit.”

“Papers?” Sam asks as Dean shuts the door behind him.

“Y'know, papers,” Dean explains. “Zigzags, rolling papers.”

“Oh,” Sam’s eyebrows go up yet again.

They walk to a diner a few blocks away. It’s the type of place where everyone knows everyone else, and everyone seems to be quite fond of Dean. He stops by a guy who sits at the counter, and Sam sees him slip him a couple of bucks for some packs of rolling papers. An odd place to be doing that kind of business, but if the local stoners don't frequent a 24-hour diner then they're really not taking advantage of the service provided. 

As soon as they're seated, they order right away, and Sam gets about halfway through his cup of coffee before he finally asks, “Okay, how in the fuck did this happen?”

Dean turns an innocent smile on him and yeah, fuck that. If Dean’s innocent, Sam is the damn queen of England.

“Depends,” Dean finally shrugs. “What’s ‘this’?”

“You’re dating a guy, Dean,” Sam returns frankly. “So you’re… bi?”

Dean blinks over his cup of coffee.

“Thank you for not assuming ‘gay’,” he just says. “Yeah, I’m bisexual.”

“Is that why you left home?” asks Sam, and Dean actually has the audacity to laugh at that.

“Man, you could fill a book with the reasons I left home,” he says. “That was not one of ‘em.”

He then looks Sam in the eye and, shit, he must be flashing puppy face, because Dean crumbles very soon thereafter. “Look, man, I didn’t leave because of you, all right?” he reassures. “Things just… got bad. And when I called up Uncle Bobby, he told me I should just get out for a little while, clear my head, but,” he shrugs, staring down at the table. “Once I started running I couldn’t stop.”

Sam nods, pretending that he understands even though he doesn’t.

“Bet dad barely even noticed I was gone,” Dean scoffs and shakes his head. “How is the son of a bitch, anyway?”

Sam’s stomach bottoms out.

Holy shit, Dean really doesn’t know, does he?

“You,” Sam shifts. “You never kept tabs on us?”

“Okay, if we can spare ourselves the Midol moments please,” Dean puts up his hands. “I kinda needed some space.”

“Dean, dad,” Sam’s throat closes around the words. “Dad died.

Dean’s shoulders sag.

“Shit,” he grabs the back of his neck. “When?”

“About a year after you left,” says Sam. “I, uh. I went to live with Uncle Bobby after that. He was good. Better, in a lot of ways.”

Dean just nods, the information sinking in.

“I’m really sorry,” Sam murmurs. “I would’ve told you the second it happened, but I didn’t know where the hell you were.”

“It’s fine,” Dean’s voice comes out strained, and shit, Sam thinks he may have fucked this up. There’s no good way to break this kind of news anyway, but it’s been so long that it’s just a fact in Sam’s life now, an objective statement. “I am Sam Winchester, I have brown hair, and both of my parents are dead.”

For Dean, this is new.

The waitress brings their food, and they eat in silence. Dean stuffs bacon and eggs into his mouth, all this heart stopping food that makes Sam’s insides feel all greasy.

“How’d he die?” Dean finally asks, and Sam purses his lips.

“Liver failure,” he explains, trying to remain objective. “Uncle Bobby and I didn’t find out he’d been diagnosed with any kind of liver disease until he was gone.”

“That fuckin’ bastard,” Dean mutters into his eggs, and that’s the end of it. They finish up, again without speaking. Dean foots the bill and Sam insists that he pay for dinner tonight, or breakfast tomorrow.

Somehow he gets the feeling that Dean isn’t going to let him go through with that.

When they get back to the house, Gabriel and Cas are both on the couch, Nintendo 64 controllers in their hands and bong nestled on the cushion between them. It’s something Sam hasn’t seen since his freshman year in the dorms, but for whatever reason it spawns a wave of affection from Dean. He slides up behind Castiel and wraps his arms around him, holding on tight.

“Shh,” Castiel shushes nobody. “We’re on Banshee Boardwalk, I have to concentrate.”

Dean buries his face in Castiel’s neck, and even though Sam knows that his brother is having a moment and he has no right to intrude, he quickly snaps a photo on his phone and sends it to Jess.

Cas pauses the game and turns to Dean.

“Are you okay?” he asks

Sam hears Dean reply something that sounds very much like “I love you” into Cas’ shoulder.

 Ellen gives Dean the night off.

Dean gives himself the night off and tells Sam that he just needs to be by himself for a little while.

“Come to the Roadhouse with me,” Castiel suggests. “Ellen will let you sit in the break room.”

Sam looks back at Dean, curled up on his and Castiel’s bed with the lights off, and can’t help the prickle of worry at the base of his spine. He looks back at Castiel, who picks the lint off of what is definitely one of Dean’s shirts, and furrows his brow.

“Are you sure he’ll be okay?” he asks, and Castiel looks up.

“Dean?” Cas asks. When Sam nods, Cas shuts the door and ushers him out into the living room. “He just gets like this sometimes, believe me. I’ve learned not to take it personally.”

“I mean, is he going to be okay if we leave him here,” Sam reiterates.

“Almost definitely,” Cas affirms. “Mostly I leave him alone to sleep it off for a few hours, come back and he’s gone koala.”

“Gone koala?” Sam asks, desperately hoping it’s not a weird euphemism that he’s never heard before.

“Yeah, you know, when someone goes koala,” Cas nods.

And then demonstrates by wrapping his arms tightly around Sam’s bicep.

“See? Like a koala.”

“No, yeah, I got it,” Sam nods. “My brother’s a cuddler now, I get it.”

“Not so much cuddler as he is an angry marsupial,” Castiel considers, and yeah, that sounds about right.

Sam packs up his computer once again and accompanies Castiel on his shift at the Roadhouse. The car ride up is quiet, save for the Grateful Dead strumming softly through the speakers. It takes Sam a while to identify, but that’s definitely what it is.

“Dean hasn’t snapped this CD in half yet?” he asks.

“No, not yet,” Castiel chuckles. Sam doesn’t mind Grateful Dead. You can’t really get too far back home without liking at least a little of The Dead’s work.

They pull up to the Roadhouse, and as they walk through the parking lot, Castiel says, “I’m glad you’re here, Sam.”

“Yeah?”

“The way Dean talks about you,” Castiel pulls a joint out of the pocket of Dean’s shirt and lights it. He smokes it like it’s a regular cigarette, like it’s no big deal. “I can tell he regrets leaving you with your father. He wasn’t well, though, when he left. He was doing what he had to do to get better.”

Sam frowns.

“Cas, how long have you known my brother?”

“Six years,” Castiel replies promptly. Does he just go around with that information at the ready?

“And how long have you two been…”

“Fucking?” Castiel offers, and Sam nods. “Just about as long… no, as long.”

Wow.

Dean couldn’t even keep a toothbrush for a whole month when they were younger, and he’s been with one person for six years.

“Was he, uh,” Sam quotes the air, “‘better’ when you met him?”

“Nah, he was still kind of a wreck,” Castiel musses up his hair and gives Sam a smile. “We both were. But,” he licks the tips of his finger and stubs out the joint at halfway. “Works in progress, just like everyone else. Don’t let his decisions determine the trajectory of yours.”

Cas pats him on the shoulder and continues on his way into the Roadhouse.  

They enter about the same time Sam had the night before. It’s Saturday, and so much more crowded than last night. Castiel leads Sam through the clusters of people, men chatting closely with other men, two women goading each other in a game of pool.

It hits Sam square in the chest.

His brother works in a gay bar.

“Ta-da,” Castiel pushes open the door to the break room with a smile. “Our own little slice of heaven.”

The room’s only occupant is Charlie, who bobs her head to something going on her iPod and waves to Sam the moment she sees him.

“Uh, so,” Sam sits on the couch beside Charlie, watching as Cas shoves his stuff in his locker and ties an apron around his waist. “I had no idea this was a gay bar.”

Cas laughs at that and nods, “Nobody does, unless they know.”

Sam raises his eyebrows at that.

“It’s like the Leaky Cauldron,” Charlie pipes up. “Unless you’re looking really hard, or you know where it is, you can’t tell it’s there.”

“Hiding in plain sight, basically,” Sam nods his understanding.

“Aren’t we all,” Cas makes a noise that Sam thinks he intends to be spooky, but actually comes out cartoonish. Sam laughs nonetheless.

“It’s actually a really sweet story,” Charlie slips her headphones down around her neck. “Ellen’s daughter Jo came out to her years ago. One night when a couple of guys got a little mouthy about dem gays, she tossed ‘em out like yesterday’s trash. Word spread that Harvelle’s was a safe space for queers, and after a while, we’ve become the only clientele.”

“So,” Sam leans forward on his knees, trying to get a grip on the situation. “Everyone who works here is queer too?”

“Well, except Gabriel,” Charlie counts off the staff in her head. “Yep, everyone’s sitting pretty on the Kinsey scale.”

“As Gabriel will tell you, he’s our token heterosexual,” Castiel shakes his head. “Don’t listen.”

“He’s not?”

“Oh, he is,” Castiel nods. “It’s just fun watching him try to defend himself.”

Sam laughs and decides that yeah, he likes Castiel just fine.

By the time they get back to the house, Sam is about ready to crash. He bought a plane ticket back home for tomorrow afternoon, and he really should get some sleep.

‘you’re leaving the car?’ Jess’ text glows blue on Sam’s face. He slides his bag off of his shoulder and onto the couch.

‘He loves it. I’ve been meaning to bike more anyway,’ Sam texts back.

He slides his phone back in his pocket and looks up, only to see Dean standing in the doorway to the kitchen, looking like he just woke up.

“Hey, good lookin’,” Dean greets Cas with a sleepy smile.

Cas smiles back, and replies, “Hey, stud. How’re you feeling?”

Dean grunts in response, which must be a good sign, because Castiel slips up to him and pulls him into a kiss.

Okay yeah, Sam is pretty sure this is going to be awkward for a little while.

“You have fun tonight, Sammy?” asks Dean, forehead pressed flush against Castiel’s.

“Yeah, very educational,” Sam nods. “I learned that there are way more verses to American Pie than I remembered.”

“That’s a given,” Dean chuckles, eyes shut. “Charlie make you sing it with her?”

“And Gabe,” Castiel grins. “A welcome into the family.”

Sam’s phone buzzes as Dean laughs. Jess replies, ‘A true American hero. Can’t wait to have you back.’

Sam’s lips curve into a soft smile, and Dean clears his throat.

Sam excuses himself to the bathroom.

Fuck, why is this so hard? Getting the plane ticket was one thing—granted, he didn’t have to look Dean in the eye when he did that—but saying he’s leaving, telling Dean that yeah, this was great but he has a life to get back to, it’s just a little more difficult than Sam expected it would be.

He splashes some cold water on his face.

He has to say something.

When he finally resurfaces, Dean and Cas have retreated to their bedroom. The door is ajar, so Sam figures it’s safe to pop his head in. It is, thankfully, though Castiel is bent in some yoga position that makes every single one of Sam’s muscles scream out in terror.

“Hey,” Sam greets. Dean is watching something on his computer and looks up when he hears Sam’s voice. That’s a face Sam recognizes all too well. It’s the face Dean always made when Sam said he was hungry, or that he needed help with his homework.

“What’s up, Sammy?”

“Uh, I just wanted to let you know that I got a flight back home tomorrow,” he says. Dean looks over at Cas, who stands upright again and shifts his arms behind his back, stretching out his chest.

“You do realize you drove here, right?” Castiel asks.

“Yes, I do,” Sam nods. “But, y’know… the car needs some work, and I sure as hell can’t do it.”

There’s only a moment’s pause before Dean leaps up over the bed and pulls Sam into an enormous bear hug.

“Oh, now you’ve done it,” Castiel shakes his head.

“Shut up, Cas,” Dean mutters into Sam’s shoulder. “God, we can finally get rid of that fucking Honda.”

“Hey!”

“It’s such a fucking eyesore, Cas,” Dean doesn’t move from his place against Sam’s shoulder.

“It’s nice.”

“It’s tan,” Dean grips Sam even tighter. “We drive a tan ’91 Honda Civic. That’s the worst sentence I’ve ever said.”

Castiel gives Sam a long suffering look, and Sam chuckles.

“But hang on,” Dean pulls back, now processing the actual nut of the original statement. “We don’t mind if you stay a little longer.”

“Yeah, I’ve got school to get back to,” Sam clutches the back of his neck.

“I thought you’d be done with school by now,” Dean’s eyebrows furrow together, and shit, Sam’s been withholding all sorts of information, hasn’t he?

“I’m actually in my second year of law school at Berkeley,” he explains.   

“Holy shit,” Dean replies back quite frankly. “Cas, we got a non-dick lawyer in the family.”

“Hallelujah,” Castiel comes back.

“And there’s one other thing,” Sam clears his throat, and hates that Dean even thinks to worry about what he’s going to say. “I’m… engaged.”

Dean and Cas both go still at that.

“What?”

“My girlfriend Jess and I,” Sam explains. “Uh, fiancé now, I guess. We’re engaged. We’re getting married as soon as I’m done with school.”

Dean and Cas both remain silent. He’d been afraid of this. When he’d told Uncle Bobby, he’d been equal parts thrilled and insistent that Sam was way too young to be thinking about marriage.

“Dude, you’re twenty-three,” Dean finally says.

And there it is.

“I know,” Sam nods.

“And you’re in law school.”

“I know that, Dean,” Sam bites back. Not that Dean had any right to tell Sam what he could and couldn’t do with his life before, but he’s pretty sure he relinquished any and all rights the second he blew town.

“Look,” Sam runs a hand through his hair. “I know it’s a while off, but I want you to come. And I want you to meet her before then. You’d really like her, and she already likes you.”

“That makes sense,” Dean looks back at Cas, who now rolls a brand new joint where he sits on the floor. “She hasn’t met me yet, that’s why.”

Castiel rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

“There really is nothing quite like your self-deprecating humor, dear,” he sucks the joint between his lips to seal it.

Dean flips him off.

“Anytime, anywhere,” Cas replies, and Sam wrinkles his nose.

“Am I going to regret inviting the both of you to the wedding?” Sam asks.

“Probably,” Dean nods.

“Most people do,” Castiel confirms and lights the joint. “We’re a hoot and a half at the bachelor party, though.”

“Do I wanna know?” Sam grimaces.

“Probably not,” Dean replies just as Castiel lets out a fond hum at whatever memory it is that they share. 

“Hey, man,” Dean holds out his arms. “C’mere, I’m happy for you.”

They embrace again, briefly this time before Dean pulls away and gives Sam a pat on the back.

He remembers what Jess said. If Dean is happy and he’s not hurting himself or anyone else, then what reason does he have not to be happy for him?

“Yeah, man,” Sam nods. “I’m happy for you too.”