hail the orphan king(s)

[kickingand]

Who: the winchester bros
What: it is time for The Talk (the pls shut up sam, talk)
Where: the SPN Boys apartment
When: mid-month?? (post cas' party)
Warnings: sensitive topics

[ Dean is hiding, though he's hiding from the past days events in a stark and powerful way. But if there's one person he's still almost hiding from, it's himself.

And then after that? After that, Dean is hiding from Sam and from the ghosts of their father, imaginings he's brewed without even having to try. He's told himself a thousand and one times that they'll despise him for all of it, that they'll see things in him that are more wrong than all the rest and he'll be even more lost than where he started. Not that he thinks Sam will hate him - but god, what if he does? What if Sam can't stand the way he's starting to walk (is he walking different? do his feet turn more inward while his body curls against the weight of his fear of this thing that he's become? is his spine breaking while he tries to shoulder the burden of the things he isn't meant to be?), is beginning to look at him the way his father might if he knew. What if Sam looks at his big brother and sees a man that has never been there before, one that is broken and skewed sideways; what if what Sam sees, he cannot stand.

Dean will never be able to look in the mirror again if Sam sees someone who was never meant to be and right now, all that he sees is something he can hardly stand.

Cas is still out from whatever nightly things he does while the angel cannot sleep, controlled by the parts of himself that are no more human than Dean images them to be. Sometimes Dean forgets that Cas isn't all the same parts of himself but he's thankful for the reprieve from emotions too strong for him to manage whilst still breathing, for a break from the raw feelings of what he'd spoken of with the angel, of his admittance and the dreams that followed while he attempted sleep. Still, fearful memories of Lisa and death and loss and his own frantic fears still dug out bags under his eyes, and have now made him feel exposed and frozen all at once, burned out and torn open and he swears he can't escape the taste of Cas, no matter how hard he tries to navigate through the pull of it. It doesn't make him feel awful no, doesn't even make him feel dirty and maybe that's the problem; the problem is he wants more and yet, again - he wakes up with the words sputtering across his lips:

But I wasn't gay.

Running fingers through his hair as he tries to walk the stiffness out of his joints, Dean winds his way to the couch, already planning his escape route for the day to keep from thinking of the things that he said, planning to run his way out of the apartment. Maybe still grab a bottle of whiskey and go. Sit at the dam, sit somewhere, walk somewhere else, imagine throwing himself to the cave fish that Noah had introduced him to. Anywhere but here, he keeps telling himself, anywhere but inside of his own mind where the words circulate at such a frantic speed that he can no longer keep up with. It's rampant, his dire need to explain himself to no one at all, as if someone out there is listening to the shouting that echoes through his skull. Every thought, every one that backpedals every other inaction is something he's terrified of, so scared that his body will react without his own consent that he's left shouting at the things he is and the things he isn't, sure that one more retelling of the same story is what will finally get him to the conclusion he's trying to leave himself with.

He wasn't gay. He's never been gay. So how is he now?

It doesn't matter that he's in love, doesn't matter that it's Cas- he can't be gay. There's nothing more than that, nothing else. And he keeps waiting for the moment where it cracks, where he splinters, where the words become finite reality and he'll stop having to question his paranoia as if he can make himself believe what has always been the case.

Still ignoring his coffee, Dean sits at the edge of the couch, staring off at nothing in particular as Sam finally manages his way out from his own bedroom, from whatever it is he's been doing since they both woke. Dean won't make eye contact, can't even begin to try and manage it for now because he's too rooted in fears that are echoing behind his eyes, the tremors of worry passing across his shoulders while he rubs the back of his neck and pretends he does not truly exist. He is something else, someone else, he is everything he used to be even now and he knows that the way Sam has been looking at him lately tells a different tale. Maybe if Cas would stop telling him that everything is going to be alright when they're all in the apartment together, acting as if he needs to soothe Dean at every moment, like he's breaking in front of them all without any of their permission. Cas has been too comforting lately and Dean has been pushing too hard, skittering and nervous and on edge and now the after effects of the party? It's all something of a mess.

But he manages it eventually, looks up with eyebrows raised to Sam's full height and pulls out a smile that presses his expression into something twisted and off-key, a song Dean keeps singing that just fuels all the things Dean can't bring light to. ]

Morning.

Comments

let's see what horrible icons an expired paid has left me with alkhfd

[hollowly]

( of all the things that sam could have ever possibly thought about his brother, even when things were strained between them – he could never hate him. there have been times in the past when neither of them have been able to stand the other's presence, when words have come to blows and more than left them feeling broken, shattered, wanting. whatever it is that has dean hiding from his younger brother and himself, it has to be something worth mentioning, and though sam has noticed his reclusive behavior, if there's one thing that he's learned from the years spent following dean's shadow, it's that he will only come around when he wants to.

( it's that he doesn't want to, this time, that should set off the first of the alarm bells. )

for the most part, he's been giving his brother a little more space than he had been previously; with the mark, with the talk they'd had in the caves, it's all become clear that it's changing him, whether he likes it or not. but he gets the feeling that whatever this is, whatever thing that has the older winchester acting as he has been is something of a completely different caliber. something that they haven't glossed over yet, and that –

it's enough to make him want to bridge that gap, approach the subject however awkwardly he has to to get the ball rolling, and that's exactly what he's been doing since he'd woken up that morning, even if he'd kept himself holed up in his room. ( he'd heard dean rustling around, the sounds of the newly-roused and the smell of coffee wafting underneath the door, but he hadn't yet laid down a game plan, and it's difficult enough to talk about sensitive things with his brother even when he does know what he's going to say going in.

it's impossible when he doesn't. )

his door cracks open with a muffled creak of the hinges, pads out into the main part of the apartment and stops in the kitchen for some of that coffee – because everything is just a little easier when he has caffeine in his system, it's something he'll never think to deny – and he's taking his first sip when dean finally acknowledges him, eyes raised to meet his own, and he swallows slowly, giving a simple tilt of his chin in greeing. tries to keep his expression neutral, from giving too much away. )

Hey.

( well. at least it's something.)

LMFAO it's ok. there there.

[kickingand]

[ Space was admittedly something that was harder to find between them than most. Dean was used to invading Sam's privacy, whether or not he meant to, simply because of their living arrangement. And it wasn't that they'd never been apart - they had been, a finite number of times, times that were painful and struck chords of memories that sang out in agony. But they were so often in each other's lives, so integral to the things they knew about living in this world, that finding an arm's length between them was often like looking for air that wasn't meant to be breathed. It was a near impossibility, something foreign and yet they still managed to find it when they looked hard enough.

Watching Sam for a moment, Dean let his mind swivel through perilous thoughts, worrying over far too much and trying his damndest not to let it show. It was as much effort as it wasn't, a thing Dean was used to doing until the dam eventually broke and Sam found out about it all. And while Dean wanted to impress upon the fact that he could survive without speaking on any of the things that upset him, that made him fear the end of his own little world, he wanted to give it all away just as badly.

He wanted confirmation, wanted to hear Sam say it was okay. Because no matter how many other people said it, tried to offer facts and ideas that he didn't have to be the things he always believed himself to be, none of it mattered until Sam said the words.

But that implied Dean was willing to listen. ]

You headin' out?

[ Easy questions. Only ask the easy questions was what Dean told himself, back to staring at his stupid coffee only after a moment instead of looking into Sam's casual gaze. Even Dean knew he was obvious, that he was pouring off the kind of worry that came of things he didn't want to talk about. But this settled awkwardly on his shoulders and he wanted to shake it off like a dog who'd jumped into things it hadn't counted on, hackles raised and trying it's damndest to hold on to what was left of its abysmal pride. Dean was a mess and it was stupid, he was stupid, everything was stupid and complicated and Dean wanted to be the same person he'd always been.

He wanted to make sense to himself, wanted to look in the mirror and see a reflection he understood.

So why did his outside look like all the things he'd always been? Why couldn't Sam see the obvious changes, the things that were so different, the things he swore he'd never seen before. How could he have gotten it so wrong? Dean finally looked back up to Sam, expecting something though he didn't know what, eyebrows raised as if Sam was the one who had so much to say. ]

weh

[hollowly]

( growing up together had always meant being in one another's personal space, whether they meant to or not. it's no different here, when it all comes down to it, especially given that they have a smaller space to themselves than, say, the bunker would allow them. being apart from one another had always been something else entirely, something that he doesn't like to linger on now that they're both back in the same place, where they need to be as far as the magnetic pull that keeps bringing them back together no matter how far they stray. ( and truth be told, those stretches of absence that had found them both lacking are things that he doesn't want to bring about again, because it's happened too many times already, and even if it seems that history is doomed to repeat itself with them no matter how many times they try to correct their course, there's nothing he won't try to keep certain things from coming around again. )

suffice it to say that space hasn't been much of an option in recent months, no matter how either of them wants to look at it. and that just … goes without saying.

what also goes without saying is that sam has always been able to read his brother like an open book, even when he's trying his damndest to keep certain things from bleeding into his expression. sam can tell, beyond any other stretch of his imagination that dean is trying to keep something for himself, trying to keep some sort of whatever from giving himself away, and that in and of itself is enough to draw his attention more than it already had before. concern flickers in his expression, though at the very least the bottom half of his own expression is hidden behind his coffee mug as he takes another drink, ultimately slips over to sit not far from the other on the sofa. ) Not planning on it just yet. Still early.

( easy questions, yes, but empty ones meant to fill the silence that stretches between them, the strained sort of thing that hangs heavy with the questions that haven't been asked yet, that still need answers in order to get to some sort of understanding that may still yet be unnamed.

sam doesn't know what exactly is going on inside his brother's head, but he knows there's something going on, and it isn't going to be very long before he gives up on pretense and just asks. ( which would mean getting to that point in the first place, but … one step at a time. )

there's a beat in which he takes a breath and lets it out slowly, takes another sip of his coffee. ) There's something going on with you. ( there's the first of it, the tip of the iceberg, and he's looking back at his brother with a knowing sort of gaze, even before the next bit comes out of his mouth. )

It's got something to do with Cas, doesn't it?

fdfkjla weh yourself!!

[kickingand]

[ It's growing up together, living together, fighting the same battles and sharing blood in ways that most people couldn't even begin to think on. Sometimes Dean thinks that it has something to do with the years Dean had to take care of Sammy too, their entangled existence based on the need for survival at the earliest of ages - the years he made breakfast and did the laundry and would have given his little brother the last air in the room if it meant keeping him safe. As if he can't imagine not caring for the same kid in exactly the same way. As much as Dean knows how to be without, he still doesn't know how to imagine a world where Sam doesn't occupy spaces that he exists within and while he may bitch more than his fair share, he has nothing to complain about, not truly.

But Dean isn't clueless to when he's being searched for answers, inspected with uncertain looks, the way Sam glances sidelong at him as if his brain is peeled back, gears turning in open air. It's hard to be foreign to those stares when Dean is the one who often tries so hard to pretend as if he has nothing to feel - lost to emotions that burn hot and painful and wrong.

He wants to think it's not his fault that he's worried, that he's expecting some shit to hit the fan because while he can get Sam to back off at times, he can't always keep his brother from fighting that much harder to get Dean willing to out with what he doesn't want to say. And this- this is particularly rough, sharp around the edges and fiercely unnerving. Because where it has as much to do with Cas as anything, it has to to do with Lisa, with all the times Dean has been inept at knowing how to love. He swore he lost that chance when he was a kid, lost true understanding of the meaning for anyone except Sam and now he has to face the facts that he's not only terrified of whoever the fuck he is, but of admitting to things that were never meant to be his in the first place .

Maybe Dean should be sure of Sam's reaction - know him well enough to understand that he won't care in the way Dean's making it out to be in his head. But in equal measure, understanding is often given least of all to the people you spend the most time with, to those you look in the eye and believe you know best. Dean's sure that while Sam might be able to endure, his father wouldn't, and he keeps skipping thoughts like a broken record that he'd be shamed all the way to next Sunday were he to out with anything at all. Sam's known him his entire life, what if he sees something broken and jagged around the edges, a sharp faulty image of what Dean is still unable to truly comprehend.

Dean bobs his head a bit at the answer, his only response to the fact that Sam isn't planning on heading out the door just yet. Which means nothing good on the front of questions he knows he's about to receive, but he's capable of enduring because he's a Winchester, right? He has to face down the facts that Sam is waiting to spring words onto him that he doesn't know how to take.

It's impossible to not wish upon the possibility that Sam could just drink his coffee and leave it be, but that's apparently not in his cards.

Especially not with words like that- ] C'mon Sam-- [ It's his first retort to the fact that 'something is going on with him' as if something is never going on with him, leave it alone. But Sam's next words split the air and Dean's jaw sets, and in that moment he knows he's fucked. The lack of an immediate response, the inability to come up with something sarcastic and brutal, it gives him away in an instant and he rolls his eyes with constructed sarcasm, built from all the words he doesn't know how to say. Lying is an inevitable possibility, but the words won't roll off his tongue and so he leaves them until the taste remains bitter and uncertain.

It's like a pressure point's been held for too long despite how it's only been seconds and Dean wants to bolt, stand up and brush off, say it like it doesn't matter. But it does and Dean only knows how to unfold in time, wishing he already had words planned to stutter into existence. ]

Its got nothing to do with anything. [ It's a stupid lie and Dean knows it, but fear feigned as annoyance is easy, at least until he looks back to Sam and stares hard, pretending that right now he knows how to play the aggressor, just for another second. ]

weh i say again! for ... no real reason lmfao.

[hollowly]

( regardless of what it's actually stemmed from, whether from their entangled childhood to their codependent adulthood, it doesn't matter much in the long run. the things they've seen, experienced, run away from and yet somehow come out little more than a bit bruised and scathed and worse for the wear, at the very least it's all been together, and nothing is ever going to be able to take away from that. no matter how much times has passed, how much of that they end up spending apart during one of their fits. it's all been enough to bring them here, to keep them together even when it had seemed like anything at all could tear them apart, and sam can't imagine having it any other way. not when it means everything that they can still be like this, as strained as it has a tendency to be on any given day.

( he would argue, at length, that they aren't quite sure how to be any other way. normal? healthy? that's for the birds. even though he'd tried convincing himself that all he wanted to be was normal in his younger years, he now realizes that there isn't a thing in the world that he would trade for this, even if it meant taking a backseat to the adventure and unknown that comes with their day-to-day. dean might say it better, but normal has a tendency to be … boring. )

here, now, sitting so closely together that they're all but sharing the same personal space, there isn't any hiding to be done, though sam is trying like hell not to be as invasive as he gets the feeling he might have to be in order to get any answers to his questions. dean has never been the greatest with letting anything show through, especially when it means breaking down the walls that he's built around himself in order to both keep things in and out. those walls have always been there for a reason, and even though he's always been the one to weasel his way inside, sometimes –

there are things better kept hidden away. things that don't need to see the light. and these things, damn it all, are the ones that sam is delving the deepest for.

what he wants to say – what he would say if he knew the depths of that which dean is so terrified to be free of – is that there is nothing, not a damned thing that could make him think any differently about him. that it doesn't have anything to do with being gay, that it doesn't matter if that's the label the other wants to put on it, because love is just that. love. and sam has always been a firm believer in the fact that love doesn't hold gender, or orientation, that it just is and no sort of bond that strong between two people should be judged for anything other than what it is –

which is just natural.

( and maybe … there's some reasoning behind his way of thinking. but he's always thought that way, as far back as he can remember, from as early as he could understand what it meant to have those kinds of feelings for another person. what brings the mosts joy, the most fulfillment is the one thing that should be seen through to the end, should be held close and protected. that's … all there is to it, with him. let there be judgment. )

it's a nice try, he has to admit, that dean stays so adamant, so vigilant in his denial. what he wants to keep to himself and away from the rest of the world is precisely what sam wants to be trusted with, whatever sort of thing that's eating him up from the inside out, wreaking hell and havoc on mind, body and soul – the latter of which has been run through the ringer already, and doesn't need any more torment.

sam huffs out a small sound and rolls his eyes. ) Look. Whatever it is, you know you can tell me. Right? When have you not been able to trust me? ( more than a handful of times, his brain supplies helpfully, and it isn't a lie; there have been so many times in the past that dean hadn't been able to trust his little brother as far as he could have thrown him, but each and every time he's at least tried to redeem himself, and that stands for something, doesn't it?

he rubs at his face with his free hand, and ends up setting his coffee to the side, giving his brother his full attention. )

Seriously, Dean. Talk to me. Please.

bc you're a stinker

[kickingand]

[ Dean's pretty sure he wouldn't know a healthy relationship if it smacked him in the face. Maybe someone could make the argument that what he had with Lisa came as something close, or maybe even turned into something that much closer, but even that Dean's not so sure of. A healthy relationship isn't inflicting someone with your crazed grief, isn't being taken in like a homeless dog with a desperate need to find respite anywhere. A healthy relationship isn't stealing someone's memories-- but that's not the point.

The point is that at the end of the day, Sam is something he knows. Sam and he have been their only version of family long enough now that his little brother is the definition of his every relationship, of his every understanding and attempt to gasp the people around him. Sam is his life, his reason, his being beyond what he knows of himself and Sam is nearly all the things Dean knows how to turn to when he's fairly sure he's lost in the world. And Cas? Cas has become all the rest of them.

But right now he's convinced himself that Sam couldn't possibly do anything but see him under a new light, one that casts him in overarching shadows and streaks of broken, grimy fluorescence. His brother might not hate him, no, but he'll see something about him that was never there before. He'll take on Dean like a new thing, a brother brandishing everything that he had never once been and Dean can only find terror in that. He still desperately wants to be Dean, wants to be seen in the same way when he can't even look at himself under the same light, as if he's been refracted into the pieces of himself he never was before. He doesn't know how and somehow he's managed to feel as if he's lost himself in all of this. As if all the lies he's told himself for too damn long were never there to begin with.

All the awkward bumbling in front of gay men, all the fumbling with flirtations he couldn't see his way through. Maybe it's always meant all the things he's never been able to recognize and that still is a thing Dean finds terrifying. For so much of his life he defined himself by the obvious and to not understand the very structure of his being is something he can't yet wrap his mind around. As if he's been betrayed by himself for all these years, spinning lies that can no longer stand on their own when all he knows is that when he looks at Cas he sees an extension of what family is supposed to mean.

And to Dean, all that's ever meant is love.

Maybe there's more to it than that, or maybe that's all he understands - Dean's not even entirely sure. He knows he isn't falling all over himself becuase of Cas' blue eyes and his body, knows he isn't a mess because he can't wait to fuck him five ways to Sunday. No- Dean loves him because of what he means. And he can't get it out of his head, can't shake it off, can't scrape it from his skin in an effort to free himself of his own confusion. He's desperate for it to stop hurting, aching the way it does, for the rattling of fears inside his own brain to quiet for even a moment. Some part of him knows that if he was just willing to spill his guts to Sam, just give himself up, then maybe he'd soothe the parts of him too paranoid to breathe when his head hits the pillow at night.

But instead, what Dean almost wants to say is that it doesn't always have to be something. But the argument there is an obvious one - Dean doesn't get upset over nothing. Sure, like most humans, he's not immune to moods but he's hardly one to let them dictate his actions for longer than a day. It's never nothing with Dean, and it never has been - never will be. Sam knows that, Dean knows that, they both know that, and the way Sammy's staring at him presses upon that fact loudly. Maybe if he was on the other side of the room, Dean would be capable, but he near flinches under the barrage of attention.

And then, finally- cracks. ]

What do you want me to say, Sam? That this isn't fucked? Because we both know it is. It's not- what part of this is me?

[ He doesn't know how to say it - doesn't know the vocabulary that exists that might be able to explain what he's feeling. He wants to wave a hand and capture words from thin air the way a magician finds doves spilling from between their hands. He wants explanations from another language, anything that will provide what he needs to give away things he can hardly explain to himself.

But Dean is instead trying so desperately to make this into something he hates, a fear running deep enough that supplies that if he hates it all himself, it'll make it acceptable. If he can't stand it just as much, then Sam can be equally allowed to despite it. To despite him. Turn it into a thing that nobody can stand and then suddenly it makes it all alright- Dean doesn't know. He's at a loss, and he's by far better at anger than desperation. Even while he tries to grit his teeth against it, Dean can feel himself cracking, trying harder to piece himself together when all the parts are finally settling into the wind. ]

And I know you're gonna give me lecture on free love and opening yourself to the possibilities but don't say it applies to me, because it doesn't. It never has, it's never been me. I've never- i've never been any of this. So don't even go there.

[ But it was all a lie, and that fracturing of his features said it more loudly than anything else. ] Because I don't know how to do it.

and yet somehow, you still love me ...

[hollowly]

( neither of them, really, know what it means to have a healthy relationship. granted, sam himself has come closer to anything that might equate one than dean ever has, or even thought about, but every attempt at such has been cut short and left a bad taste on the back of his tongue, like something taken away too quickly and then left to sour. ( even when he can't help but to still want something like it, even if it means encompassing all the grief and anguish that comes from letting someone so close, in letting them see all the bits and broken pieces that come together to make the semblance of a whole. a bruised, battered whole in their regard, because they've never been perfect and that sure isn't about to change.

to be able to share the grief, the angst, the sorrow that comes from everything they've been up to now, that's … something that you can't ever take for granted. something to hold on to for dear life, for what it means, and for everything they've missed before now. )

that they both consider one another the closest they've ever been to a functional relationship surely says something about them, about their upbringing – even leaving out the fact that john winchester had probably been the most emotionally constipated soul to have ever been graced with the name winchester, though some of that is sure to have come from being a soldier, trained in the art of what it means to look past the downfall of emotion. they hadn't learned from the best, but they'd done the best with what they'd been given, and there is never going to be a time in which they don't see one another in the same light.

even if some things do change, over the slow and incremental passage of time, through days and nights spent both in wonder and confusion and everything in between, all of which seem to have assaulted his brother all at once and left him an agonizing mess of what am i supposed to do?

dean has never been anything but hard on himself, harder on himself than anyone else – sam included, and that goes without saying – and that he can leave himself agonizing over something like being in love is nearly enough to make sam's own heart squeeze in a way that leaves him short of breath, just this side of nauseous, because it should never be so complicated when it comes to doing what you want and not feel as though you'll be judged for what you can't help feeling. ( because he's going to drive that point home if he has to, literally, physically beat it into him. that isn't up for debate. it never has been, and never will be. )

but here they go, the casual but strained back-and-forth finally morphing into what sam had been hoping to avoid in the first place, and the words that come out of his brother's mouth are enough to have him sighing in slight exasperation, the fingers of one hand curling in on themselves and thumping lightly against his thigh. in thought, in trying to find some way to defuse the situation before it really has a chance to get started, because this is not what he'd wanted when he'd first thought to approach the subject. it's all an attempt to get dean to accept himself for what he is, and what he has with castiel, not bring the things he's been shoving down and down and down some more to a head and have them erupt.

but then again, how often does that happen, anyway, no matter how carefully he treads?

sam swallows once, twice, takes a sip of his coffee and sits in silence until the other is finished with his outburst and then attempts to pick out the pieces of that outburst that would be the safest to address first. ( really, he thinks, there is nothing implicitly safe about this conversation at all, but he can't do anything but try, and sometimes … that's really all he's good for. ) )

I'm not gonna lecture you. Not about something like this. ( trying to give his older brother a lecture has never been the right path to take, and even if it's taken him the years of his combined childhood and young adult life to finally come to that conclusion, it's something he continues to hold on to. dean and lectures – well, maybe john had been able to get through to him once or twice when they were younger, but it's always been like talking to a brick wall. a brick wall that had a tendency to smart-talk back and practically shit on any point you tried to make, and only end up pleased with himself that he'd managed to talk in circles and make no progress at all. ) I just have one question.

( for the moment, because any sort of long-winded rush of words from him isn't going to do either of them any good, when it all comes down to it. dean is terrified, scared that having feelings for an angel is going to somehow change him completely, turn him into something unrecognizable, just for the simple fact that it isn't conventional.

but here's the thing –

when have they ever been anything like that?

he lets the silence stretch on for another half-second, maybe two, and then – ) Do you love him?

I SUPPOSE

[kickingand]

[ The last thing Dean ever had, could come close to even pointing at with the sort of explanation that is meant to say look at all i've ever done wrong is Lisa. And Dean can't speak of Lisa because he threw up that wall the second their world crumbled. Swore he'd sock Sam one if it ever came to light again and since then, it hasn't. Dean's kept it from existing because he needs to pretend it never did just to get on with his own life because the guilt from it would damn near eat him alive even if he tried. It was his failure, his unreality, his fantasy that should have never been. And he destroyed it. Ruined a life, tore away a family that he could never have and shouldn't have intruded on to begin with.

It's more than enough to make his point. Or at least he feels that way in that he isn't allowed to love another being for what it's worth because look how he breaks the world when he tries his hand at loving it.

He's good for nothing. Sometimes he's not even good enough for a hunt and sure enough, here he isn't. He's useless in this stupid place and as much as Sam likes it, Dean feels as if it's impossibly empty, like he's done for and lost and struggling too much to be able to explain to anyone. Most days he'd kill to put his head through a wall but he doesn't want the questions, doesn't want someone looking at him and expecting words he cannot give. Everything cracks around him anyway, so why put the effort into destroying himself when the world around him does it so expertly, even when his eyes are closed.

And just like always, just like he tries so hard to make sure it still exists, Sam is there. He might not always be at arm's reach, hanging out with his chick more often than not, and Dean doesn't blame him. He'd run to if he could, find himself in distractions and with other people, try to figure out that it's still okay to have someone And Sam without their relationship fracturing too. It's always been Sam's life, always should've been more than what he could give him and sometimes he still thinks that it's all his damn fault. Sam should've had more than this, and so he should take whatever he can get and drink it up, have it until it's gone. There's nothing wrong with this world, nothing for them to fight, so why not take it when it's right there.

Except Dean can't do the same. He's too fucking broken to try.

It could still be said that they both are. That they don't know how to do relationships any better than they know how to live a life outside of the one they've always had. Sam doesn't even have it down pat and he's still got it better than Dean and he wants to laugh sometimes at how ridiculous it all is. How it isn't something he deserves or maybe even Sam deserves and they both know it. Both know that the outside life isn't for them to take, and so they get it where they can, but even that tastes foul. And Dean- Dean can't comprehend allowing himself this when it's wrong on all the levels he's ever told himself.

Not that there's anything wrong with it, but it was never wrong for other people - it was always wrong for him. He's looked at Playboy's since he was 12, he never picked up Men, even though it stood right there, nearby, staring him down. He always convinced himself of the things he was: his father, his father, oh and- his father. And his father sure as hell was never anything than a straight laced man and would always be, always had been. And Dean followed in those same exact footsteps and even now, even when he rejects and realizes that his father was a crazy, paranoid dickwad, he is still bred of the same genes and still walks in the same boots, and still figures himself a man that knows his insides are made of the same stuff.

And Sam wants to turn it into a lovefest?

Dean wants to reject the whole thing, wants to shove it away and force it to be all the things that he can handle. He wants Sam to give him a stupid lecture about this or that, about being gay or straight or a million other idiosyncratic bullshitty things that Dean can ignore and wave his hands at and make go away.

But no, instead he gets a question that feels solid enough like a punch to the face that Dean can do nothing but stare straight forward and wonder what would happen if he shattered his coffee into his palms, splintered his anger into a million pieces and pretended it was the only thing he was feeling. Because it's not, but anger is so easy for Dean, rage is such a thing he understands that trying to comprehend more lends itself to an ache in his chest that he despises. He doesn't like to feel because sometimes he just doesn't know how and it's like being ill, the kind of stuffed up brain feeling that leaves you walking the Earth sideways, wondering why you can't manage to stand up straight.

Does he love him? Is that a thing Dean even has to answer? Because if the answer is yes, then it means he doesn't deserve it to begin with. Means he shouldn't, means he can't, means he doesn't actually know how.

It's just one question and yet it's one question too many.

Dean stands up before he means to, and it's not because he wants to start a fight. No, mostly he just wants to remove himself so he can breathe, so he can try to feel his feet underneath him without wondering if he'll break in two. It's a slow walk to the kitchen, somehow wishing he was solid, wearing more layers, existing in a shell he could throw up around himself that would keep from conveying the things he can't express. Not to keep Sam out but to keep himself inside, keep from spilling over and overtaking the whole damn apartment with all the bullshit he never knows how to keep a grip on.

By the time he gets to the kitchen, he slides his mug across the counter where he's easily ignored and it's only then that he snaps, when there's distance, when he doesn't have to look Sam in the eye, where he doesn't have to feel his brother making it sound like one question is enough to solve all the riddles that Dean's always been too stupid to figure out. This is something he can't solve and yet Sam's trying to parse it out in less words than he's got fingers. ]

It's not that simple, Sammy.

[ Dean's not even sure if he's said it loud enough for his brother to hear as he nearly buckles over the countertop, palms gripping the edge tighter than a clamp could even manage, but he at least tries. It's not like he's trying to end the conversation, he's just trying to put space between himself and his words, and yet even those have chased him down and damn near choked him up, made it impossible to breathe let alone imagine a world where love is a thing he's even remotely allowed. ]