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Where Overreaction Meets Sam Winchester And They Live Happily Ever After

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The Winchester and Campbell diet usually consists of things that used to be alive and things wrapped around what used to be living. It’s red meat, white meat, and anything that can swim in the sea. Acknowledging calories is heresy for the family and has not once been considered with anything resembling seriousness. Sam has always thought this flamboyance in diet was what killed his grandfather Samuel, who one day ten years ago keeled over with his hand on his heart and a mouth full of deep fried chicken.

Samuel’s wife, Deanna, has since remembered this day with something close to fondness. Saying he had died with a full stomach and there could be no happier way to go out of the world. Sam would usually roll his eyes and mutter in his head that Samuel wouldn’t have died so early if he hadn’t been eating god-awful food for the better part of forty years.

He kept this to himself.

It had been a quick death and had created a perfectly formed emotional scar for Sam to look back on as he viewed a table full of fatty meats and bowls of thick gravy. Sam’s father John, once when he had one too many beers, which wasn’t all that rare an incident, had put a straw in the little blue gravy boat that had been handed down what must have been centuries, and had sipped on gravy like it was a particularly tasty batch of Grandma Deanna’s homemade rum.

The point is, that the Winchester/Campbell family diet is horrific. Sam has, since going off to Stanford, traded in the mashed potatoes that are one part potatoes and two parts butter and all the other artery clogging foods that have made his family so happy, for salads and leaner cuts of meat. And sometimes, if his late girlfriend Jess had cooked it, tofu that had been grilled with a bit of butter brushed onto it if he hadn’t eaten anything too fatty beforehand. His body had never felt better.

Sam’s heart would do a happy little jig if it had legs.

On the Sunday night dinners, a tradition that goes as far back as the little blue gravy boat, Sam is usually the only one who fills his plate with lettuce and the juiciest tomatoes, who chooses the grilled fish over the steak that has a good inch of fat as a bonus layer. His mother makes it especially for him now, admitting defeat after a year of bringing his own food in crappy Tupperware with mixed matched lids.

His brother Dean who sits across from him usually has three plates stacked high with enough food that Sam’s heart cries a little every time.

The key word in all of this is usually. Usually Dean is the first one to go for the deep-fried anything. And usually Sam is reciting a eulogy in his head for his departed brother who died expectantly from a massive coronary failure. Usually Dean is a patriot for the Winchester and Campbell diet that has its own constitutional cookbook.

Usually should be underlined and put in bold with little neon arrows pointing directly at it.

But this Sunday dinner, Dean is sitting across from Sam with one plate—a single plate full of salad. Not a piece of red meat in sight. Not a speckle of gravy in the area. Not one greasy or fried animal smearing the good china.

Sam, of course, is not the only one to notice. But he is the only one to think it is a good change.

The table is suddenly very quiet as like a set of dominoes the entirety of the Winchester and Campbell clan stop shoving greasy food into their mouths and turn to look at Dean and his lack of what Sam knows his family considers ‘real food’. Dean is looking like a deer caught in the headlights.

Sam would feel sorry for him if Dean hadn’t mocked him for the good part of the last five years about what he eats.

His mother is the first to break the silence. She lays a hand on his shoulder, her other hand holding the little blue gravy boat filled to the brim with steaming gravy.

“You all right, honey?” Mary says motherly. The same tone she used when Sam had come home three years ago with a fever as high as a boiling pot of water and the sheepish hope that his mother would nurse him back to health.

Dean looks just as weirded out as the rest of the table, his eyes darting to one end where Grandma Deanna is staring in what might as well be the stock look of betrayal, and to the other end where John is sipping at a glass of fifty year old whiskey with an eyebrow raised to his hair line, finally stopping to land on Sam where he mouths ‘what the Hell?’ at him.

Sam shakes his head, and tries to impart the sentence ‘how do you not expect this to happen when for the past twenty-odd years you’ve been sucking down heart murdering food?

There was a time as a child when he had thought he and Dean could talk to each other with telepathy. He still is not fully sure he cannot do this.

Dean nods at him and looks up at Mary.

“I’m fine, Mom. Just wanted to…” Dean stops and Sam is in shock to see his brother at a loss for words. Usually Dean can pull a lie out of ass so quickly Sam’s head spins.

But again, this is not a night for ‘usually’s. 

Sam interrupts Dean.

“He lost a bet, Mom.”

Dean nods and puts on a grin that Sam knows is the one he wears just to make their mother feel better.

John laughs. Grandma Deanna looks put out and keeps sending the dish of mashed potatoes smothered in so much butter that it’s melting to Dean who just sends it back her way. Christian and Gwen are shaking their heads and asking Dean what he ‘fucked up this time’. Mark is picking at his food like he always does, ignoring everyone.

Mary is sending unconvinced looks their way while both he and Dean resolutely avoid her gaze.

And Sam is going to solve a mystery.

 


 

After losing Jess and graduating from Stanford, Sam had moved back to his hometown of Lawrence. Dean had offered to let Sam stay with him but the idea of sharing an apartment with his brother was not in his game plan. It turns out though, that he might as well have because he sees Dean everyday. They have lunch and dinner together and sometimes they even get breakfast together.

Sam’s plan had been to learn to live on his own, without an amazing girl to lean on. Within weeks of coming home he had without realizing it, become dependant on Dean.

It had been a strange revelation. One that made him slightly uncomfortable. But he dealt with this strange feeling and wrestled it to the ground because without Dean’s help he wouldn’t have a job at the firm downtown and he most certainly wouldn’t be waking up most days feeling like it’s going to be all right eventually. Hell, he probably wouldn’t even get out of bed.

Which makes the growing shift in Dean all the more important to Sam.

 


 

The changes don’t start out small. It’s like someone flipped a switch in Dean and suddenly there’s this bizarro Dean who eats healthy food without complaining and making fake gagging noises.

They’re at the diner across the street from Sam’s law firm. One they frequent everyday, usually for lunch. It’s one of the few places that serve both hamburgers and grilled chicken that isn’t pumped with preservatives or salt. It’s the type of diner that Dean repeatedly refers to as ‘hippie’ and ‘indie bullshit’.

But the hamburgers are good enough to shut him up for forty minutes. Sam would usually applaud this amount of hypocrisy, but today is of course the day after Sunday where the word ‘usually’ has lost its meaning in the context of one Dean Winchester.

The waitress, Becky, knows them by name. She waves at them to come sit in her section everyday and although Sam feels extremely awkward when his food comes out heart shaped and Becky winks at him while breathing a little too hard, he knows at least that she won’t spit in his food or add extra salt.

Becky smiles at them, chirps a happy ‘hello!’ and brings over their usual drinks—a Diet Pepsi for Dean and orange juice for Sam.

“What can I get for you today? The usual? What about you, Sam? Anything you’d like to try?” She doesn’t so much wink as look pleadingly at him. Sam forces out a smile that he knows looks on the borderline of nervous. 

“Just the usual, thanks Becky.” He hands her the menu before sipping his water.

“I’ll take the grilled chicken.” Dean says and hands a stunned Becky his menu. Sam manages not to choke on his water.

“Are you sure?” Becky asks, looking completely uncertain she had heard correctly.

Dean looks uncomfortable. “Yeah, I’m sure. Thanks for keepin’ an eye out for me, sweetheart.”

“You’ve ordered a bacon cheeseburger for a year.”

“And?” Dean challenges. Sam watches in what quickly might dissolve into Dean stomping out of the diner in a rage and Becky breaking into tears.

“It’s just—“ Becky stammers looking more meek than Sam has ever seen her, especially with Dean.

“What? I can’t get something different?”

“N-No, that’s—that’s not it. It’s just…Um.” She stutters and backs away from the table, clutching the menus to her chest and moves on to a neighboring table.

“What the Hell, man.” Dean rubs the back of his neck, a move Sam recognizes instantly as Dean being embarrassed. “A guy can’t order a piece of chicken without getting the third degree?”

“Apparently not.” Sam mutters. “And, without you getting all macho-douchebag on me, you mind telling me why you’re not stuffing your face with crap?”

Dean glares at him. It’s a glare Sam has been a recipient of once a day if not more so for the past twenty-six years of his life. Sam stares back at him, waiting.

Dean is the first one to break the stare and moves his glare-of-hatred to the silverware currently wrapped in a napkin. The waiting is not something Sam is new at. If he were to ever calculate how much time he has spent waiting, he would not be shocked to find out that it would all add up to a year of his life. He’s good at waiting. He excels at waiting.

What the Hell is up with you?’ Sam asks in his mind, directing the question over to Dean who is avoiding him perfectly despite only being three feet away from each other. Vaguely he wonders if they need to be looking at each other for the telepathy to work.

An idea pops into his head that is both terrifying and a complete possibility.

“You didn’t, you know, see a doctor or anything. Did you?”

Dean’s head shoots up at that and looks just as bewildered as Becky had.

“Dude! No, it’s not like that.”

Despite knowing that his brother is trying to be comforting, Sam ends up being more confused. After all, that really was the only likely possibility for such an abrupt change.

“Then what is it?”

“It’s nothing. Seriously, Sammy. Can we not play twenty questions?”

“It’s not a big deal, Dean.” Even though, yes, yes it is. “I just want to know. Yesterday at dinner all you had was a salad. You don’t even like salad! You didn’t even have any of the apple pie Grandma made. And I don’t think there’s anyone on the planet who loves apple pie more than you.”

Dean folds his arms. Sam realizes he is entering the territory known as ‘Get-The-Hell-Out-Of-My-Business’.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

The way Dean says it is reminiscent of John when he’s done talking. Dean rarely ever sounds like their father. Dean has always been more like Mary in most ways. Motherly and likes to force-feed Sam large quantities of food. Whenever Dean pulled out his John Winchester impression, it made Sam want to get up and leave.

Will he ever say this to Dean? No, not even through their possible telepathy.

Sam sighs. ‘Just tell me why you’re changing so suddenly. Dude, I don’t even think I’ve seen you eat a piece of fruit in the past ten years.’

But again, Dean is looking out the window and completely misses his message. Becky brings him a plate of egg whites in the shape of a lopsided heart.

 


 

Got a workout partner—See you tomorrow.

 


 

Dean cancels on him

For the first time in a year since moving back to Lawrence, Dean cancels on him.

Sam knows this shouldn’t be surprising. Dean is handsome—looks like a model really and don’t think that thought hadn’t popped into his head a few dozen times when puberty hit him like a brick wall.

But still.

Sam orders some Thai food from a local place a mile from his firm and stays late to fill out a few forms.

 


 

Dean is eating a fruit salad at lunch.

Sam cannot look away.

Becky is standing besides him, watching Dean shovel in mango and pineapple bits.

Chuck, the chef, wanders out of the kitchen to see what’s happening.

“This is so out of character.” He says and quickly ducks back into the double doors when Dean shoots his ‘I-Will-Murder-You’ rays at him.

Sam thinks that if this were a manuscript, then the author must be on acid at this point.

 


 

Change is always noticeable. At some point someone is going to point out that something is off or different. Sam notices right away. First Dean is eating healthier. He has not seen his brother eat a single fried or greasy thing in four weeks. Second, Dean is doing something and he isn’t sharing.

Sam was at one point tempted to follow him after the fifth call in one week from their Mother, concerned about Dean’s diet.

Thankfully he didn’t follow him. He still has some moral standing left in him to not stalk his own flesh and blood even though he is fairly certain Mary is about to hire a private detective. She always overreacts.

But his horse isn’t so high as to not allow him to use the spare key Dean had given him and go through his brother’s apartment in hopes that maybe there was a clue somewhere. All those episodes of Murder She Wrote and Poirot finally paying off to one glamorous climax as he stealthily sneaked through the living room to the kitchen.

The biggest clue of all ended up being the refrigerator.

Fruit. On every shelf there is fruit. And vegetables. And good god, non-fat yogurt?

Sam is starting to seriously consider the idea that his brother has been replaced with some sort of health-nut clone. Where did his real brother go?

Well, as the saying goes, that is the question.

Before he leaves, making sure to put everything he accidentally bumped back into place, Dean has always been so paranoid, he notices Dean’s cell phone plugged into the wall next to his laptop. Innocently laying on the hard wood desk, forgotten by his brother.

If anyone were to ask he would tell them he left and marinated in guilt for a few good hours for having snooped around his brother’s home. But no one would ask and no one would know he’d be there.

Reality is always more revealing of character, but Sam knows if Dean were in his shoes, first he would be annoyed that they were so big and second he would have probably gone through Sam’s browser history ‘just in case’.

The text messages he read were not so much revealing to the mystery of Dean’s sudden diet, but they did propose the question ‘when did Dean start liking dudes?

It is with enormous restraint that he does not say ‘and the plot thickens’. Though, it is a close call.

If only, Sam wishes, setting Dean’s cell phone back in its exact angle on the desk, he was Jessica Fletcher. Things would be so much simpler.

 


 

Sam finds himself spending more and more time at his office. He is reduced to eating lunch with his boss, Gabriel, because Dean is suddenly too busy to eat with him.

Gabriel Novak, one of the senior partners over at Novak & Milton Law, whose idea of lunch is a desert buffet with a chocolate fountain and writing it off as a business expense. Gabriel has had five different sexual harassment claims filed against him. He’s won every lawsuit.

Sam often wonders if this is because he paid the judge off. There is no way Gabriel did not harass those women, and the one poor male intern. Sam has been on the receiving end of Gabriel’s flirting and one thing to be said about Gabriel is that he is in no way subtle.

Sam still flinches at the memory of Gabriel smearing chocolate on his lips and telling Sam to lick it off.

Still, he doesn’t want to eat alone and it’s either Gabriel or Ruby downstairs and he’d rather not talk to her. She has a thing for blood and Sam doesn’t want to think about how he knows that.

“What’s crawled up your ass, Sammy-boy?” Gabriel plops down on the seat besides him, with a large slice of chocolate cake, his mouth full. Sam fights back the full body cringe as he watches crumbs fly out of his boss’ mouth.

“Nothing.” He snaps and hopes that today will be the day Gabriel decides that talking is overrated. This of course is not true.

Gabriel’s eyebrows shoot up and he leans forward, elbows on the desk with a smarmy smirk playing on his lips.

“Something really has got your panties in a twist. Come on! I’m not just your extremely handsome and rich boss, I’m also your friend. Your sexy, big packaged friend.”

Sam glares at him. “I should really start recording our conversations.”

“Aw Sammy, I didn’t know you liked my voice that much. You’re getting’ me all hot and bothered, you dirty dog you.” Gabriel fans himself with his fork.

“Don’t call me Sammy.”

Gabriel sighs and shoves another forkful of cake into his mouth. “Really Sammy, you have the worst manners on the planet.”

“Says the guy who got thrown out of a courtroom for propositioning a judge.” Sam mutters, burying himself further into his tower of files.

“Hey, we were dating. Not my fault she was shooting her ‘come hither’ eyes at me.”

Sam nods, absently chewing on his pen. There is an error in the subpoena. He crosses out the name for the witness, and writes in the correct one. He tries to ignore the sounds of Gabriel eating his cake. He is loud and obnoxious and he can hear every swallow and smacking of lips like it's in Dolby surround sound.

He must not have been hiding his growing annoyance very well.

“What the hell did your ginormous ass-hat of a brother say to you today?”

Sam pauses. “Dean was here?”

Gabriel nods slowly.

“In this building?”

“Yes.”

“Today?”

“Yes.”

“Dean? My brother?”

“I’m two feet away from you, how is this not getting through?”

He grabs his bag, taking long strides out of his office. He ignores Gabriel.

 


 

The office at the university is absent of one Dean Winchester, though not locked. Bobby Singer, a professor who shares the room with Dean and a man that had a hand in raising both himself and his brother, is there with a mouthful of bologna and mayonnaise.  Sam tries not to cringe.

“Just missed him.” Bobby says.

“You know where he went?”

Bobby raises his eyebrow.

“Don’t you two eat lunch together every damn day?”

Sam shakes his head. “He’s been cancelling.”

Bobby sets his sandwich down and wipes the excess mayonnaise off on a frilly napkin. Sam would venture to call it a doily, but he’d rather refrain.

“You got any ideas why?” Sam asks.

“Hell if I know.” Bobby pauses before he settles an all too familiar look on Sam. The look originating in the 90’s where Sam accidentally witnessed Dean playing with Bobby’s tools in the garage. The look where Sam is supposed to be a good boy and tell.

“Have you noticed him actin’ strange lately?”

“The eating?”

“I don’t think I’ve seen even an ounce of grease get into that boy the past few weeks. He didn’t get some bad news from the doctors, did he? He’s always been one of those ‘suffer in silence’ martyrs.” Says Bobby.

Dean a martyr?

Like a set up to a bad joke.

“He hasn’t said anything to me. He’s been acting weird, right? It’s not just me.”

“He has been acting a little…” Bobby pauses, “distant.”

Sam nods. When Dean does manage to have lunch or dinner with him—even at the dinners on Sunday—he get’s a glassy eyed look. He looks more content.

“Has he mention—“ Sam stops. He’s not about to be the little brother that outs Dean. “—Has he mentioned anything at all about why he’s suddenly Mister Health?”

“Like I said, no clue. It’s like someone flipped a switch in him.” Bobby sighs. “I don’t know if I should be happy or not that he’s not gonna get a coronary at forty.”

“Probably happy.” Sam says, shifting his bag.

“Yeah.” Bobby snorts. “Let’s just hope he doesn’t start going on the cleanse. This is already weird enough as it is.”

 


 

Sam plans.

It’s not hard. He’s always been the smart one. He went to Stanford. He got a full-ride to Stanford. Well, he had always felt like he was the smart one, but that was before Dean got his Masters in engineering.

Now, he can only safely say that he is the more emotionally available and mature one.

So Sam uses his liberal and self-defined smart brain to deduce what it is his brother is doing and most importantly why he is doing it. He summons the spirit intellect of the great Jessica Fletcher.

The best he can think of is to go to Dean’s apartment. He makes sure to have his spare key.

 


 

Skin.

Skin everywhere.

Dean on the couch that Sam has slept on frequently, on his knees with his head bent, panting and sweaty, with some guy behind him and—oh no thank you.

Sam had managed to push out an “Oh God!” before slamming closed the front door to Dean’s apartment. Standing in the hallway of the building Sam can clearly hear the sounds of Dean cursing and the—the man getting dressed.

How did he not hear them before he barged in?

What he was going to say to Dean, he has no idea. Really, the plan had been to barge in on Dean and ask him point-blank what the hell is going on. Catching him in the act though? No, that was never part of the Fletcher plan mainly because Sam had no idea what act he would be catching Dean in.

It isn’t the first time Sam has seen his brother having sex. That number is well into the double digits.

The door opens and Sam is greeted to the sight of what his brother looks like in mid-sex. Flushed. Ruffled hair. Shirt on backwards. Pants unzipped, but thankfully, on.

“You want to tell me what’s goin’ on here, Sam?” Dean whispers, looking back and forth between Sam and the closed door, which he still has his hand clasped around the knob. Probably making sure the mystery man won’t suddenly appear.

Sam opens his mouth and closes it.

 


 

The mystery man’s name is Castiel Novak. He works part-time at Sam’s firm. He’s also Gabriel’s younger brother.

They look nothing alike. Castiel is tall and lanky, and clearly not as abhorrent as Gabriel. Maybe they’re adopted? He doesn’t know all that much about Gabriel other than him being a complete ass.

And he unfortunately knows a lot about Castiel. Much too much.

Sam takes a few moments to fully absorb the breadth of this new information. Dean manages to move him to the kitchen to sit at the little breakfast table without him realizing it.

Castiel looks embarrassed, but not nearly as embarrassed as Dean looks sitting besides him, his hand rubbing his neck.

The quiet is unsettling but Sam isn’t about to be the one to interrupt it.

“I’m sorry you have to endure Gabriel. He can be a bit…much.” Castiel says, breaking the silence.

“Dick-ish would be a better word.” Sam mutters.

Castiel huffs out a laugh and Sam watches as his brother smiles.

“So…” Dean starts, eyeing Sam, “What made you think it was a good idea to barge in here? You didn’t get one of your weird psychic feelings again, did you?”

Sam would point out that it was telepathy, not some psychic premonition. And Dean should know this because they both have telepathy.

He does not say this. He does, though, send out an ‘idiot’ to his brother.

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Spit it out. I know you’re dying to say something stupid.”

“You’ve just been acting... different. Lately. I just wanted to know why.” Sam says quickly, trying to keep things vague. He isn’t sure what part Castiel plays in all this.

“How long have you guys been seeing each other?”

Dean looks at Castiel who is picking at a loose thread in his trench coat.

“Almost two months. Why?”

Which, of course, is the reason why Dean is eating healthy. The great detectives would be ashamed.

But it all doesn’t really make sense, because why would Dean suddenly change?

“That’s the same time you started eating grilled chicken and fruit and abandoning junk food.” Castiel jerks up from his trench coat and directs one of the most intense stares at Dean.

Dean, who has gone bright red. His left eye is twitching.

“Dean.” Castiel says his brother’s name with reverence and places a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Suddenly Sam is aware of the fact that he had stopped two grown men from having sex and that they are very, very close.

“You know what? I think I’m just gonna head out. See you Sunday?” Sam says to deaf ears. Dean is looking at Castiel and Castiel is looking at Dean and it’s a fast countdown to what Sam walked in on.

“Right.” He says, grabs his bag by the door and makes his escape.

His questions could wait.

 


 

Sunday night dinners with the Winchester/Campbell family are usually the nights when something big will happen or change. Samuel had died during one monumental dinner. Gwen had announced her pregnancy only a few months ago while declining her customary glass of vodka. It was also the night of the great debate over whether or not she should marry the baby’s father. Gwen had declined to do this as well.

And now it was the night where Dean brought home his boyfriend.

The night where John was a little drunker than usual and where Mary was just confused. Sam wonders if she had been betting on Dean for grand children. The chances of him getting a woman pregnant had always been high.

Castiel sits to the left of Dean and to the right of John. He does not eat any of the fatty foods or any of the meats, but fills his plate with a tower of lettuce, onions, and tomatoes.

“I’m a vegetarian.” Castiel explains to Mary. Deanna looks disappointed and helps herself to a second helping of steak. John refills his glass, pouring a double shot of bourbon and downing it in one go.

“What do you do for a living, Castiel?” Mary asks, placing a hand on John’s shoulder.

“I’m a homicide detective.”

“Really?” John says, clearly not the only one at the table surprised, and for the first time that night is looking at Castiel rather than in his general direction.

“Wait.” Sam says. “I thought you said you worked with Gabriel at the firm?”

Castiel nods. “I do. I help him with a few of his cases.”

“Is that how you met Dean?” Gwen asks, leaning across Sam to get to the bowl of peas.

“Do we really have to do this?” Dean says, hunched over.

“Pansy.” Christian says around a mouthful of potatoes. Dean punches him in the arm.

Castiel tilts his head, “He was waiting for Sam to get out of his meeting and I couldn't help but talk to him. He looked extremely impatient.”

Dean laughs.

“Why would you talk to me if I looked pissed?” Dean asks, confusion written all over his face, but his grin is genuine.

“I thought you worked there and Gabriel keeps telling me I should socialize more outside the station. You looked as annoyed as I felt.”

“You two certainly are a pair.” Deanna says dryly, sipping at her own drink.

“Guess we should thank him, huh?” Dean says.

Castiel shakes his head.

“His head is big enough already.”

Sam definitely agrees.

“Do you know Rufus? He hasn’t been shooting suspects again, has he?” John asks. Sam can tell that their father is overlooking the fact that Castiel is not just Dean’s friend.

But at least he’s acknowledging his existence.

And really, could any of them ask for more?

 


 

Standing outside in the backyard, Sam hands Dean a bottle of beer. Castiel is inside, talking about the new chief down at the station with John while Mary flutters around him, unsure of how to approach her son’s new gay lifestyle.

“So, can we have an honest conversation?” Sam starts. Dean sighs, loudly and put-upon.

“Yeah. Let me guess,” Dean glares at him, “you want to know about the food.”

Sam nods. Anticipation building inside him. Weeks and weeks have been leading up to this single moment.

“It has to do with Castiel, right?”

Dean takes a long swig from his beer.

“He’s a diabetic. He can’t eat a lot of food.”

Sam isn’t sure whether or not to be disappointed.

“So you’re not dying or thinking about the long term effects of your diet? How you’d basically be dead by forty at the rate you were going?”

Dean laughs.

“Have you ever known me to think about what I eat?”

“Well, now you do.” Sam crosses his arms, beer bottle dangling from his fingertips.

“I’m not the best person to explain this, but he’s gotta watch what he eats. And I guess I was trying to be supportive, you know? I’m new to this whole relationship thing.”

“That’s really—,” Sam searches for the right word because Dean only open up once in a blue moon,”—sweet.”

“Don’t.” Dean snaps. Sam can’t help but smile.

“I thought you were dying or something horrible—Hell, I even thought you got replaced by a clone that liked fiber bars. It turns out you’re just in love.”

“It’s like you don’t know when you’re about to get punched in the face.” Dean lifted his hand, flexing it into a fist.

“You’ve only known him for, what? Barely two months? And you’re already changing the way you eat. That must be some connection.” Sam had had that with Jess. It had only taken him a few minutes after talking with her to find that out. Maybe it was a Winchester thing.

Dean shrugs.

“I like him.” He admits, looking back at the house, through the screen door.

“You know,” Sam says, “I was really freaked out when you kept cancelling on me.”

“Sorry about that. The dude has a weird-ass schedule.”

Dating a detective must be tough. Hopefully it isn’t like anything they portray on television. Dean isn't exactly a damsel, so that’s different at least.

“I feel like ‘usually’ has lost all meaning.” Sam says. Dean hums in agreement.

“We live in a world of the abnormal.”

Sam frowns. “I don’t think it’s weird that you like guys, Dean.”

“Yeah, you do. Hell, I do.”

“You shouldn’t though. Because it’s not weird. It’s fine. I’m happy for you.”

Dean gives him a weird look.

“I already had my gay freak out. I’m not planning on another one.”

Sam doesn’t remember that ever happening.

“When was that? I’d think I’d remember Dean Winchester worrying if he likes dick or not.”

Dean snorts.

“It’s all in the past, Sammy. For once, just let it go.”

“Right.” Sam sets his beer on the patio cement, turning to face Dean.

“Can I try something?”

“Go for it.”

Sam grabs his brother by the shoulders so they face each other. Dean is looking at him with wide eyes, clearly unsure of what is happening.

Sam makes sure they’re staring at each other.

“Don’t look away,” Sam says quietly.

“This is so gay.” Dean mutters.

“Because sleeping with a guy is just so hetero.”

“Shut up.”

Staring deeply into his brother’s eyes, feeling more uncomfortable by the second, Sam thinks, ‘Can you hear me?

Dean looks startled, managing to open his eyes even more. He starts and stops to say something.

“Dude, how the Hell did you say that without moving your mouth?”