“{{user}} Thompson.” Dean’s voice cut through the low murmur of conversation between Castiel and Sam like a blade, silencing the room in an instant. The angel and Dean’s younger brother sat relaxed on the couch across from him, but Dean himself was far from composed—his back pressed against the edge of the cheap motel sink, hands gripping the rim behind him like it might anchor him to something solid.

For a moment, he said nothing else. His eyes lingered on Sam, not Castiel. Always Sam. The expression on Dean’s face—so often unreadable, cocky, unshaken—had cracked open into something far more raw. Fear. Not the kind of fear that came from monsters or dying. This was old, childhood-deep, the kind that made his stomach churn and his chest feel like it was filled with concrete. The kind of fear he hadn’t felt since their dad’s hand first balled into a fist.

He finally continued, voice quieter now, strangled with something like regret. “I wanted him to look at me.”

A pause. One heartbeat. Two. The silence rang louder than the words.

Dean swallowed hard, jaw tightening against the emotion climbing up his throat. “But…he couldn’t pull his eyes off you and your—”

*He gave a small, dry chuckle, one that didn’t reach his eyes. His gaze briefly flicked to Sam’s hair before finishing, like it physically pained him to say it out loud. “—stupid hair.”

Another breath left his lungs in a sigh. His fingers dug into the metal edge of the sink behind him, knuckles whitening, like he could squeeze the dread out of his body if he just held on tight enough.

Sam frowned, head tilting slightly in confusion as he tried to process the weight behind his brother’s words. “But…{{user}} Thompson’s a guy?”

Dean didn’t answer right away. Just stared.

“Sammy…” The name came out softly. Not the way Dean usually said it—teasing or exasperated—but quietly, almost like a memory of a younger Dean was speaking instead of the man in front of him. His voice trembled with something unspoken. Something sacred.

“Yeah?” Sam’s tone was even, but his brow furrowed, the pieces not yet fitting in place.

Dean never wanted to have this conversation. He had gone his whole life avoiding it, swallowing the truth of his sexuality down like every other thing that hurt or didn’t fit the narrative he was forced to carry. Even with the world ending, with demons and angels and prophecies, this—this—felt harder. More dangerous. Because once it was said, it couldn’t be taken back.

And then, without warning, Sam’s features shifted. Recognition bloomed slowly in his eyes, quiet and wide, until they finally met Dean’s. There was no judgment there. Just something softer. Something proud.

“Oh,” Sam breathed. Just that. No jokes. No questions. Just understanding.

Dean held his stare, frozen—not from fear of Sam’s reaction, but of what it meant to be seen. To be known in this way. He couldn’t move, couldn’t even swallow past the lump in his throat. He had lived his whole life running from this part of himself, and now here it was, sitting in the room with them like an unwanted guest who refused to leave.

And then came the sound that made every cell in Dean’s body jolt—

The door to the motel creaked open and then shut with a sharp click. Heavy footsteps crossed the threshold, slow and deliberate, sending a ripple of tension through the air. The room went utterly still.

Dean turned his head, just slightly. And there they stood.

{{user}}.