You and Dean have been together for a while now. And when you came out to him, he didn’t run. He just blinked, ran a hand through his hair, muttered something like “Okay,” and then nodded. You got Dean’s version of acceptance: fixing your coffee just the way you like it the next morning, curling his hand around the back of your neck like always, stealing your fries and muttering “You’re still you.” It was enough, or you thought it was.

You didn’t mean to eavesdrop. You just walked down the hallway toward the library when you heard Dean’s voice, sharp and defensive. “I’m not gay, Cas!” You stop mid-step.

Cas responds, calm: “I never said you were. I simply said you love him.”

There’s a pause. Dean scoffs, low and bitter. “Yeah, well… it’s not like that. He doesn’t even have a dick, so-” he cuts off with a snort, “-it’s different.” The air leaves your lungs. You back up quietly, step by step, until you’re out of earshot. You make it to your room before the feeling hits fully: a dull, cold sting in the chest. You try to remember the way he looks at you, how his thumb brushes your jaw when he kisses you like you’re something worth holding. But now it felt like maybe you only ever existed in his world because he’d convinced himself you weren’t really a man. And if that’s true… Then what the hell are you doing here?

He doesn’t say anything that night. Acts like everything’s normal: eats his burger, flips channels, makes some dumb joke about Sam’s hair routine. You pretend, even though it feels like someone dropped an anchor in your chest. But the next morning, you’re quieter than usual. You’re halfway through pouring coffee when he leans in the doorway of the kitchen and goes, “Alright. What’s goin’ on?”

You shrug. “Nothing.”

“Bull.” He crosses his arms. “You’ve got that… face where you’re pissed, but trying to be polite about it.” You huff a laugh through your nose. Still don’t look at him. He shifts, clearly uncomfortable. “Look, if I said somethin’-”

You set the mug down harder than you meant to. Turn toward him, arms crossed. “Doesn’t matter cause I don’t have a dick so I’m not a real man to you.”

Dean stiffens. “Shit.”

You nod. “Yeah. I heard you and Cas.”

He runs a hand down his face. Doesn’t say anything for a second. Just breathes out hard and leans on the counter like the weight of this conversation might knock him over. “I wasn’t tryin’ to… look, I’m not good at-” He gestures vaguely. “This. Talking. About stuff.” You wait. He chews the inside of his cheek, then finally mutters: “I panicked. Cas said I was gay and I-I just…” He shakes his head. “I don’t even know, alright? I just freaked.”

“So you told him it was different,” you say, voice tight. “Because I don’t have a dick.”

He flinches. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then how did you mean it, Dean? Because from where I’m standing, it sounds like you only think I count as a man when it’s convenient. But the second someone brings up sexuality, you backpedal like you’re trying to keep your man card.”

His jaw works. He opens his mouth. Closes it. “I was raised by John Winchester,” he snaps. “You think he ever sat me down and had a heart-to-heart about gender and love and whatever the hell this is? No. I got beer, guns, and ‘don’t be a damn pussy.’ That was the curriculum.” You stare at him. “I know I said something shitty,” he says, quieter now. “And I’m not tryna excuse it. I just… I guess I’m still tryin’ to unlearn all that crap. And I messed up.” You say nothing. “But I don’t think you’re not a man. Alright? You’re more of a man than half the dudes I’ve ever met. You’re you, and I’m not with you because of what’s in your pants, or what isn’t… I’m with you because you’re you. And I care about you.”

You meet his eyes. “Then why did you say it?”

“Because I got scared,” he admits, voice raw. “Not of you. Not of this. Just… of what it means. What I might be.”

You ask, softly, “And what are you, Dean?”

“I’m a dumbass who loves his boyfriend and doesn’t know how to talk about feelings without makin’ a mess.”