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The tension in the Impala could be cut with a knife. Sam’s still wearing the stupid Sandover tech support shirt and slacks. Dean had changed clothes as soon as they’d found Baby-- the crap he’d been wearing before must have been expensive, but thinking about anything involving Dean Smith makes his head hurt worse than the worst hangovers he’s had.
“You wanna talk about it?” Sam asks, like he knows the answer already, which means Dean doesn’t even dignify the question with a glare.
Because really, there ain’t much to say, least of all from Dean’s perspective. He’s not sure which part he wants to think about the least, the corporate sell-out, the fucking cleanse , or the fact that Dean Smith, who, really, had just been him in a fancy suit and a degree, had definitely been gay.
The last part of that, Sam may not have picked up on. Dean can only hope he hasn’t and that he never will. He’s not actually sure how good Sam is at telling those kinds of things, or how obvious he’d been. Either way, unless Sam asks (and why would he), Sam gets the benefit of the doubt on what exactly Dean Smith did with men.
Dean Winchester was not granted the benefit of the doubt, he got the friggin’ highlight reel, instant replay, anytime, anywhere.
“Heard you went full Hulk smash on your cubicle.”
The pause between Sam’s question and Dean’s only tangentially related response is too long, but Sam scoffs nonetheless, either taking the bait or not realizing that’s what it had been.
“Yeah, I think most people who work in a cubicle feel like that.”
Dean grunts because he still doesn’t want to acknowledge the past three weeks in any capacity. Which, of course, doesn’t stop his mind from running in circles about everything that wasn’t the ghost.
He doesn’t like admitting to how easy it had been to be Dean Smith, corporate sell-out, how he’d woken up in bed in an only vaguely familiar ritzy apartment with hazy memories and aches and bruises that he can now place as having been caused by Alastair. Smith’s assumptions had been different ones. Knowing they were caused by Alastair actually comes as some kind of fucked up relief.
At the first sign of a roadside diner, Dean pulls off. They’d raided their own fake apartments and Sam had actually had some real food in his, but other than a couple snickers and an entire bag of trail mix, Dean hadn't actually eaten since they'd gotten out, because getting away from angel bullshit had been priority number one.
Maybe the cleanse was a worse offense than the gay stuff-- Dean’s not been thinking about the gay stuff for years now, but it’s not like he doesn’t know. The cleanse was an entire worm cannery, because Dean gets it. He knows the unsettled feeling he’d had, the strange unsettled undercurrent of fear that Smith had dealt with that was at once familiar and strange to him. Smith had still had the same nightmares that had been plaguing Dean ever since he’d been raised from hell, but Dean had the benefit of knowing where they were coming from.
Being hungry, it’s a special kind of misery, not quite like hell, but enough of a distraction to keep his mind off of hell. Or Smith’s mind off of what Smith hadn’t known had been hell.
Dean isn’t Smith, though. He doesn’t have the luxury of going on a fancy cleanse or wearing ironed shirts every day. Smith’s worst problem for most of the three weeks that he’d existed had been a full inbox at work.
So, screw Smith, time for a burger.
Sam doesn’t comment on the blissed-out sound Dean can’t help himself from making as he takes his first bite of bacon-and-cheese perfection. He does give him a look, though.
“Should I leave you two to it? Sounds like you need a private moment.”
“Dude, I haven’t eaten in like a week, let me have this.”
Sam does, thankfully, let him have his moment with his burger, and then another moment with a slice of pie. It’s going to wreak havoc on Dean’s insides, but for now he doesn’t give a shit.
Once he’s eaten he actually feels like talking again, too.
“I think the angels just gave us miserable lives on purpose,” he theorizes, now in the passenger seat of the Impala, Sam having taken over as driver for a couple of hours.
Sam nods, slowly. “That’s why I was in a cubicle, you mean?”
“And I was the worst kind of douche, yeah.” Maybe not the worst kind of douche, but close enough.
“Come on man, you weren’t that bad.”
“Two words Sammy: Master Cleanse.”
Sam doesn’t disagree with him there, just nods in the way he does when he agrees but doesn’t want to admit it.
They fall into silence, Dean trying to fall asleep, Sam driving.
“Actually I was wondering…” Sam starts, then pauses, presumably to glance over to Dean.
Dean, a master at pretending to be asleep to avoid difficult topics, flinches. He tries to pretend to keep sleeping, but with his cover blown, Sam punches against his arm a couple of times. Dick.
“Dean Smith was gay, right?” The way Sam says it, it sounds like he’s spent a lot of time thinking about how to say it. Which means he was absolutely able to tell from the very beginning.
Dean tries, very hard, to shrug casually. “Told you, it was about us being miserable.” It’s the excuse he’s been workshopping. An excuse that doesn’t hold up to any scrutiny whatsoever, because Dean had very much gone to those clubs and bars on his own and the experiences he’d had had been far from miserable. But it is the story he’s sticking with. He’s definitely feeling fucking miserable about it now, so maybe he’s even right.
“Right.” Sam’s voice is a little more clipped now. “You know there’s nothing wrong with being gay, right?”
“This isn’t an After-School-Special, Sammy.”
“I’m just saying.” Extremely pointed.
Dean squints, then flips the script, because it’s easier than explaining himself. “If you got something to tell me--”
“Just don’t be a dick.”
Dean shrugs. “Just saying. Zach basically told me, too. Had a whole bit about how I happy I should be I get to fuck women again.” It had been extremely creepy and Dean did not want to think about it.
“You ever feel like every angel we meet just gets worse and worse?” Sam seems to have thought something similar.
“Dude, you’ve got no idea.” Dean laughs, relieved for the change of topic, even if it makes entirely new thoughts pop up in his head. He falls asleep thinking about angels and heaven, the phantom ache in the scar on his shoulder flaring up only briefly.