A/N: Oh, you wonderful people, you! You reviewed! And you wrote such nice things, too. You have once again renewed my faith in humanity. When I read your reviews, it's as if the bleakness of my love life disappears, and I am no longer on the fast track to becoming a crazy cat lady! Please review again to distract me from the pathetically desolate reality of my existence.*
And now, on to the important business. This chapter comes back to Sam's POV, and in my original (very vague) plan for this story, it was to be the last chapter. Now that I've actually written it, I think it could go either way; I'm certainly not out of ideas, but if I continue in the direction this is leading, I think it'll be multiple chapters before I can wrap it up. I want to know what you guys think. Should I leave it as it stands, keep writing chapters, OR third option: continue the story as a sequel? Please review and let me know.
*Management apologizes for the author's bitterness. The author will be removed and severely chastised, and replaced by an author who is less self-deprecating. Thank you for your patience.
Sam Winchester was an intelligent man – very intelligent, by most standards. So when his brother started leering at a former angel across the lunch table, Sam got out of there fast, and he didn't come back for a long, long time.
He sat in the Impala in the motel parking lot, praying that three and a half hours at the library had been long enough.
One would hope that if things between Dean and Castiel got serious, they would have the common sense to get their own room, but Sam had been burned before. Get a few drinks in Dean and he lost all sense of decency and decorum in favor of convenience; if Sam didn't make a point of saying "I'll head back to the motel," Dean would assume he got dibs on the room. The best you could expect from Drunk Dean was a sock on the door, and that was a high expectation indeed. He didn't know if Dean would get drunk with Cas while he was gone, but he couldn't be sure.
So naturally, when Sam approached the motel room door, he did so with some apprehension. He knocked forcefully three times.
Well, at least there weren't any telltale moans or ecstatic cries coming from the room either.
Cringing and squinting his eyes to the smallest slit possible, Sam opened the door very very slowly. "Hello? Anybody home?" he called.
Miraculously, the room was empty. It seemed that for once in his life, Dean had been considerate of his brother. Sam heaved a sigh of relief and pulled out his laptop, eager to settle into an evening of research. Unfortunately, it was never to be.
Not fifteen minutes after Sam had first arrived, the motel door slammed open and Dean and Cas stumbled in, too busy playing a vigorous game of tonsil hockey to watch where they were going. It was like a horrible, horrible car accident – Sam desperately wanted to look away but just couldn't. Yeah, he'd been sort of expecting it, but nothing could have prepared him for the gruesomeness of the actual event. They were pawing at each other, and making these ridiculous noises, and Jesus Christ they were trying to suck each other's brains out through the mouth. Cas mauled Dean backwards into a nightstand and a lamp crashed to the ground, and Dean growled – seriously, he growled – and threw Cas onto the bed.
Sam blinked. Holy shit, they aren't going to stop, he realized. They are going to have sex right here in this room with me in it.
Dean had already frantically peeled his shirt halfway off before Sam managed to jump up and shout, "GUYS! I'm RIGHT. HERE."
They froze, staring at Sam, eyes like deer in the headlights (if those deer were heavily intoxicated), Dean swaying ever so slightly where he stood. Then Dean palmed his forehead. "Shiiiit, man, that's why we leeeeeeft," he moaned. "Sammy's here." Then he grinned down at Cas. "Jeez, Cas, you are a stupid drunk. That is – what you are."
Cas bolted up, outraged. "I am stupid drunk?" he exclaimed, his gravelly voice slurring slightly. "No no no, you are stupid. I – the entirety of human knowledge, to me –" His face suddenly blanched. "I'm going to vomit." And with that, he dashed to the bathroom and proceeded to puke his guts out.
Dean glared at Sam and bellyflopped horizontally across the bed. "'S all your fault," he accused. "Ruinin' my evenining."
"How is it my fault?" Sam demanded.
"Cas took one look at your ugly mug an' it made him barf," Dean explained, chuckling. "By the way, little bro, you were right. Totally has the hots for me." Dean rolled onto his back, his arms outstretched above his head and dangling off the bed. "And he – he is smokin', Sammy. Like I thought it would be weird kissin' him cuz he's a dude an' all but man you have got to try it, not with Cas though Cas is mine but like just kiss a dude and see if he does this thing with his tongue –"
"Dean! Stop!" Oh, gross. Too much information. He and Dean had had some disturbing conversations, but this was quickly climbing to the top of the list. Sam groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please, I don't need to know. I've already seen things that can't be unseen. Now, why don't you go help Cas clean up, and then you two can go… get a room. Literally."
Dean huffed. "Cas doesn't like help when he gets sick. Hates people watchin'. Thought you knew that."
Sam crossed his arms. "Am I the one who drags him out to bars constantly and gets him plastered because Sam is driving and I hate drinking alone?"
Dean blinked, his mouth hanging open slightly. "No. That's me. I do that."
Sam sighed. "The question was rhetorical, Dean, you don't have to – you know what, never mind. The point is, I'd appreciate it if you two took it somewhere else. I'm trying to research."
"Whatever, bitch," Dean retorted noncommittally, scratching his belly. "You're not researching, you're lookin' at YouTube videos of kittens and shit."
"Jesus, that was one time!" Sam protested.
The toilet flushed and Cas emerged from the bathroom, looking worse for the wear. "I'm sorry Dean," he mumbled. "I think I should sleep now."
"Hey." Dean got up from the bed and staggered over to Cas. "Don't 'pologize, dude. Not your fault. I shouldn'a got you so liquored up." He hooked one arm around Cas's neck and glowered at Sam. "But Yao Ming over here wants us out, so I guess we gotta go to th' desk…"
Sam sighed inwardly. Damn his bleeding heart, but Cas just looked so pale and exhausted that he couldn't help but take pity on the guy. "Wait, look. If you're just going to sleep, you can sleep in here."
Dean grinned, winked and made gunfingers at Sam, making a clicking noise with his mouth. "Thanks a million."
"Only sleep," Sam warned. Then he moved his computer so that his back was to the beds, because Drunk Dean was handsy and Sick Cas looked so pathetic there was no way that snuggling was not going to occur. And while yes, Sam would probably have to get used to it eventually, he'd had more than enough thoroughly weird for one night.
He wasn't sure what about the pair that was so weird in particular; it was just a combination of the discomfort and distaste Sam always experienced when Dean was macking on some girl in front of him and the fact that it was Dean and Cas. Castiel, ex-angel of the Lord, awkwardness incarnate. Posterboy for "People Who Are Totally Chaste and Would Not Know Flirtation If It Pinched Them on the Ass." Friggin' Cas. Slobbering all over Dean.
He heard the thunk-thunk of shoes coming off, the familiar sound of clothes rustling and jeans unzipping. One of them flicked the light off, which was fine with Sam since his screen was bright, but it irritated him that they didn't ask first. Then there was the annoyingly loud creaking of rusty bedsprings, Dean chuckling, a whispered rebuke from Cas, a sigh from Dean, and then quiet. A few minutes later, they were both competing for the prestigious Loudest Snorer award, and Sam was satisfied that he was safe from any nighttime funny business. He plugged his headphones in, pulled up his iTunes, and – surprise, surprise – actually got some research done.
Nobody said that being the world's best brother would be easy, Sam, he counseled himself. And, to be fair, you were kind of the one who got things rolling.
Having the whole afternoon to himself, Sam had had a lot of time to think. The more he'd thought about Dean and Cas together, the more it started to make sense. Yesterday, he'd been totally blown away by the concept that Dean could be lusting after a man, but he'd come to terms with that. Then he'd been pissed because he thought Dean and Cas were sneaking around behind his back, and that turned out to be untrue. Then he'd been a little pissed on Castiel's behalf, because Cas clearly cared about Dean and Dean was taking advantage of it because he was a horny douche. But later, he'd finally realized – there was no way this was just about sex. Dean was straight, except, apparently, when it came to Cas. That had to mean something, right? There had to be some deeper connection there. And if Dean was on the road to a deeper connection with anybody, Sam was in favor of it; the fact that it was Cas was merely a small speedbump.
Sure, pursuing this relationship probably wasn't a wise choice, considering Dean's truckload of emotional baggage, Castiel's sudden mortality and the impending doom that was hovering over all of their heads, but when had the Winchesters ever played it smart? Running away to Stanford had seemed like the smart choice at the time, his best shot at a normal life, but honestly, the logic of the decision had been a thin veneer for Sam's emotional need to go out and get something that he wanted for himself, not something for his Dad or anybody else.
When Sam thought about it, Dean had never really gotten that. He'd never gotten the chance to pursue the dream, to go after something he desperately longed for and take it, no matter what anyone else said.
Maybe Castiel could be Dean's Stanford.
And if he was really honest with himself, Sam hoped Castiel could be Dean's Jessica, too. As much as it still smarted to picture her face, back then to Sam she'd been… hope incarnate. Life. Promise. And Sam wanted Dean to have that, even for a little while.
Sappy as it sounded, Sam wanted Dean to have a chance at love.
As soon as he thought that, a rueful smile sprung to Sam's face, and he bit back the laughter bubbling up in his chest. Man, Dean would punch me so hard if he ever heard me say that.
Sam rubbed his neck, which had become sore from craning at the computer screen, and flipped his laptop shut. Time to call it a night. And maybe, just maybe, tomorrow Dean and Cas would have the decency to be embarrassed about their behavior and Sam could lord it over them. This permanently scarring experience could turn out to be the best ammunition he'd ever had.
He sank into the mattress, pulling the covers over himself and smirking at the sound of twin chainsaws running in the other bed. One can only hope.