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Dean’s been… different. Which Sam expected, obviously. The black eyes weren’t going to be the only thing that changed about his brother, he knew that. But honestly, Sam’s more on edge than if everything had gone to shit as soon as Dean had opened his eyes. Instead, Dean has been eerily normal.
Except. Just a little Not.
It’s not like he’s violent. He’s been even more cautious around weapons than usual, hyper aware of what is inside of him that can burst at any moment. He only touches them to train, and even then it’s infrequent. Honestly, he spends more time on the dishes than with a blade in his hand.
Sam can’t really put it into words, which bothers him. He’s usually articulate when he wants to be, when he needs to be. But there’s no lore on this to borrow phrases from, not even a dictionary that he could consult that would have the words he needed to express what was going on in his life right now.
He watches Dean’s methodical movements above the sink. He washes dishes like he’s been trained to, and Sam knows he hasn’t. John would have deemed that too girly to spend time teaching Dean to do—it was one of those things he would have had to pick up on his own.
It must have been when Sam was in Hell, because they certainly hadn’t had any dishes to wash when they were younger.
“Sammy, stop staring at me,” Dean says, and Sam doesn’t need to see his face to know he’s rolling his eyes. “I’m not gonna snap if the grease doesn’t come off the plate just right.”
“I know that,” Sam replies, a little defensive.
That’s one of the things Sam can pinpoint as being different ever since Dean changed. He keeps calling him “Sammy.” He can probably count on one hand the amount of times Dean’s said “Sam” since waking up.
“If you’re gonna just stand there, you could pitch in. Grab the towel and start drying.”
Sam nods, more to himself than his brother, and moves to stand next to him at the sink. Immediately he and Dean sink into their motions like a well-oiled machine, like Baby with all the time Dean’s been putting into her lately. Not that he’s driving all that much.
Sam dries quietly, and Dean washes to some kind of natural rhythm he’s tapping his foot to. It feels domestic, like what it might have been like to do chores with their mom. He considers asking about it, but that’s the kind of topic Dean’s hesitant to share on. Most things about their childhood and teenage years and early adulthood and anything earlier than yesterday are hard for Dean to talk about. It’s just how it’s always been.
“Careful with the plates,” Dean tells him, and Sam wonders why Dean even asked for help. It’s not the kind of thing his older brother does. If there’s a household chore to take care of, Dean takes care of it. Like a mother might pick up a toddler’s toys.
Sam hums in acknowledgement, gently setting the plate up in the cupboard, making a point of it for Dean. He’s not sure his brother notices, too busy mumbling an old Zepplin song while he scrubs.
“You remember that time Dad shattered a mug against the wall? Musta been right after that werewolf hunt went wrong in Oakland. The glass was such a pain to clean up. I probably have a shard or two still stuck in my hand.”
Sam stops, his arm still halfway down from the cupboard. He doesn’t know what to say. Dean hasn’t even stopped washing, just letting his words slip out, weightless.
Yeah. Something is different with Dean.
It took Sam a while to notice it. Longer than he’d like to admit. But to be fair to himself, he had been watching for impulses of a more murder-the-world kind, not whatever was going on now.
It all really boils down to this: Dean styles his hair. Which Dean has always done, and Sam has always known. But the hair gel is no longer tucked away in the bottom of his duffel bag; it stays out in the open of the shared bathroom of the Bunker, and Dean doesn’t hide what he’s doing if Sam walks in.
“Heya Sammy,” Dean greets happily, running a hand through his hair.
“Hi,” he says back, nervously watching Dean’s actions.
He’s looking in the mirror, and it’s not until he stopped that Sam realizes Dean’s always flinched at his reflection.
“I’m going out tonight.”
“Where?”
Dean rolls his eyes.
“Chill out, kid. Just a bar over in Topeka.”
“Dude, that’s three hours away. Is the Bunker’s beer getting stale?”
“Beer’s fine. Kinda hard to get laid, though.”
Before Sam can respond, Dean shoots him finger guns and makes some stupid clicky sound with his teeth and leaves with an easy, “Don’t wait up.”
And that’s something he says now. “Don’t wait up.” Like Sam’s am overprotective parent. Like Sam was the one who waited up for Dean when they were kids. Like brotherhood hasn’t always been motherhood for the two of them.
“Dean, shouldn’t you…” he tries, unsure how to finish his sentence.
“Sammy, c’mon. I’ll be fine. Murder isn’t on my mind tonight. I don’t even have a switchblade on me.”
And Sam believes him, which is all sorts of fucked up, but the one he chooses to focus on is that Dean really is going to a bar on his own unarmed. Yeah, Dean can handle himself, but Dean’s skittish around drunks because their dad is stuck on their shoulders, and he never goes near them without some way to defend himself.
Sam’s just a little terrified that Dean doesn’t think he needs anything to defend himself anymore. And Sam’s a lot terrified that he’s right.
“Dean’s different,” Sam says as soon as he’s gone, cornering Cas to demand answers.
“Your brother is a demon now.”
“Thanks, I hadn’t noticed,” he deadpans, and Cas looks unimpressed, and when did he start talking to the Heavenly hosts like this again? “I mean he’s been… he’s not violent, is he?”
Cas presses his lips together and Sam knows he’s not the only one who’s seen it. “No, he’s not,” Cas admits. “His adjustment has been strange, to say the least. I’ve been trying to reach out to Crowley.”
“And?”
Cas rolls his eyes. Sam thinks sometimes he could stand to be a little less human. “For some reason the King of Hell is being a little uncooperative at the moment.”
“Well then let me talk to him,” Sam offers. “Everyone knows Winchesters are worse than angels, and I want to figure this out sooner rather than later. I hate it but… I’m waiting for him to snap any day now.”
“Sam.”
He doesn’t understand Cas’s tone. “What?”
“Dean’s not boiling with some barely contained rage. He’s different because he’s happy.”
Yes, there’s something wrong with all of them. Yes, when Dean shows up decidedly alone from his trip to the bar with a head wound, Sam is relieved because Cas is wrong and Dean really does want to murder the world. And yes, it’s much, much worse when they find out what happened.
“Kid, it’s nothing. Really,” Dean says while he applies disinfectant to the cut on his head. Ever since he woke up dark side, Cas’s healing powers haven’t worked on him.
“Dean, you can understand why we’re concerned,” Cas grits out and Sam gives him credit for not exploding the room because Sam’s this close to doing it and he doesn’t even have his powers anymore.
“It was the wrong kind of bar. Misread the situation.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Sam demands, watching Dean examine himself in the mirror.
Dean sighs. “It means we’re in Kansas and I should have thought a little harder before trying to get into some guy’s pants.”
Dean’s bisexual. He’d probably die at least two more times before ever using the word, granted, but he is. He swings both ways or whatever ridiculous outdated metaphor he’d use for it.
Sam knows this. And maybe Dean does too. Well, obviously Dean does now. But they have never said anything about it. The one and only time Sam had tried to bring it up when he got back from college, Dean had slammed his foot on the gas and played the radio so loud Sam was yelling for days to be able to hear himself.
Sam’s not stupid, so he put together why Benny was so important and why Dean had done absolutely everything he's ever done with regards to Cas and what exactly the connection between him and Charlie was, and because Sam’s not stupid he also knows why Dean won’t ever say anything. As much as he finds out every day through stories from Dean that he and Sam didn’t actually live in the same house growing up, Sam knew enough about their dad. It’s miserable, but Sam has resigned himself to watching his brother resign himself to misery.
And now he just says it, in front of Sam and Cas like he hasn't been hiding it from Sam his whole life and running away from Cas because of it since the day they met in the barn.
Winchesters don’t hug unless it’s the end of the world and they apparently don’t come out until they’re demons and that’s a lot to unpack, but Sam decides he needs an expert before he tries.
“Dead humans don’t make deals,” Cas offers as a bargaining chip, but Sam’s sick of bargaining and he’s sick of politics and he’s sick of religion and one day he’s going to find a way to go back to his younger self and tell him to stay out of the confession booth.
“All we’re trying to do is make sure Dean doesn’t murder the world, Crowley.”
“Do you even hear yourself?” the demon demands.
Sam gives him a confused look, and Crowley sighs.
“He’s got the Mark of Cain. He doesn’t want to murder the world, Sam, he wants to murder you.”
“What’d Crowley have to say?” Dean asks, long after the King of Hell left with his shouted final words.
“I make demons! They’re tortured souls, Sam. Who knows what happens if you take the torture out?”
“Nothing useful,” Sam sighs. “He’s still got no clue how to get rid of the Mark.”
“That’s not what you were asking about.”
Sam stiffens. “What do you mean?”
“You’re worried about me. I can tell.” Dean pulls a chair out with his heel and sits down. “I can practically read your mind. You’re my kid.”
“Your kid?” Sam asks, laughing.
Dean shrugs. “I mean, you might as well be. I know you like to think there’s only four years between us, but come on, you know that’s not true. I cooked you meals. I checked your homework. I was Santa and the Easter Bunny and the tooth fairy, and I took the beatings from dad so you didn’t have to. Dad wasn’t around enough to be a dad. I raised you.”
And that’s when it hits Sam. What’s different about Dean.
He’s stopped lying.