Dean hates Sam. His stupid brother makes his life miserable. And everything about this entire situation is all his fault.
Probably the crusades and the holocaust and the great depression are his fault too.
Also Sammy Hagar, Keanu Reeves, and Bush II.
Dean knows without a doubt that it is Sam’s fault that he is wearing high heels, makeup, a pasted on beauty mark, and a ten pound wig. Not to mention tights and some twenty-two layers of silk.
Sam also should’ve known the King’s brother was partial to stable boys when he decided to hide out with the Hostlers like the gigantic idiot he is. But he didn’t know this, because, as mentioned, he’s a gigantic idiot. Dean hopes that if he thinks, “it’s all your fault,” at Sam hard enough he will get down on his knees and grovel. However, because Dean never gets his way, Sam does nothing of the sort.
“I mean the prince no disrespect,” Dean says, standing before the silent guests readying to go out on a hunting party. “But I have already laid claim to this boy.”
Sam looks pretty pissed at being referred to as a boy, but he also nearly got walked straight into Louis’s brother’s bed so clearly he’s an ignoramus and can’t tell how Dean is trying to help him.
“Oh yes?” Phillip, The Duke of Orleans asks, not about to lose a prize so easily, “what claim is that? Is he your mother’s ill-begotten bastard?”
Dean figures Sam will like being called that even less, but as the brother obviously born on the right of the bed, he is quite willing to go with the flow. “Yes—yes, that is the—uh—claim I meant.”
“Well, no matter, I will award him a small plot of land for his services, and you will no longer have to worry about the stain he puts upon your good family name.”
Dean’s eyes bug out. Sam growls. Dean elbows him hard in the stomach. Sam should clearly have never been accepted to Stanford, it was all an awful mistake, because Dean is finding more and more evidence that he actually has a block for a head. “Shut up, do you know how close you’re coming to the guillotine?”
“They don’t use that yet,” Sam growls back. “It’ll be breaking on the wheel.”
“FINE!” Dean snarls back, “Do you know how close you are to getting broken on the wheel?”
The prince and his courtiers glance back and forth between them.
“Alas, your majesty,” Dean finally speaks up, “that is not the claim I meant.” Sam looks at him horrified. Hah, like he has the brainpower to tell where this is going. “I have already accepted the boy er—between my own sheets.”
Phillip laughs. “Your own flesh and blood?”
Sam puts his head in his hands.
“Uh—yes—that is how we do things in…Winchesterlande.”
Phillip’s expression turns serious and he looks askance at his brother Louis who is being hoisted on to his horse by three footmen. Louis sends a forbidding glare back. He ignores it and tugs at the ruffles at his throat. “I believe it not.”
“Must er--must needs I prove it?” Dean stutters. The Duke of Orleans nods back. Sam’s face looks both mournful and resigned as Dean tugs him in by his homespun collar and kisses him with a loud smack. When he steps away again, Sam makes a face and starts scrubbing at his mouth with his sleeve. Indiscreet bumpkin, Dean thinks and turns back to the group with a falsely huge grin.
Phillip looks astonished back and forth between Sam. “Uh, well—I believe that merits complications far too large, even for me.”
Sam bows his head respectfully as the onlookers march past, ready for sport. “ ‘That’s how we do things in Winchesterlande,’” he parrots scornfully under his breath when he catches Dean's eye as he struggles up onto his own gelding.
“Oh, shut up.”