Winchester Ghost Tours

Revelations

It's dark. Cold. Walking keeps Dean from feeling the chill. He focuses to keep his mind blank—as blank as possible. Doesn't think about Castiel. Doesn't think about Thursday. Doesn't think how they're the same fucking person.

It's hard not to relive every moment since his last time at the Moon River Brewery. Castiel must have walked into the bar, recognized him from his descriptions, and chose to keep it a secret. Chose to be misleading.

And everything since then he had done knowing Dean was his online romance. The breach of trust is a hard swallow. But what did it matter, if Dean had made up his mind just that day that he liked Thursday but wanted to try to be with Castiel?

Dean reaches the house and walks up, for once relieved that Sam's been spending all his free time with Jess. It means solitude. It means not having to talk about the disgusting knot of feelings filling up his chest.

Why had Castiel kept it a secret for so long?

All thoughts of a quiet contemplative period vanish when Dean opens the door and crashes head first into Sam's chest. He knows it's Sam's chest because he's staring at a green apron and a name tag.

"Uh, Sammy?" asks Dean, slowly canting his eyes up from the name tag to meet his brother's face. It's a familiar expression—like Sam can't decide exactly how much he wants to frown so instead his mouth and forehead twitch between several different versions all at once. It always means one thing. Guilty.

"What the hell is this?" asks Dean.

"Oh, man, this means your date? I'm sorry Dean, how bad was it?"

"Don't change the subject," says Dean, raising his voice and a finger, "please tell me you're going to some kind of college costume party and this was the best you could come up with for free..."

Sam sighs and stares down his own body as though he's shocked this green apron, name tag, and dorky collared shirt have appeared on his body. He closes his eyes when he finally speaks. "Look, try not to get mad?"

"Oh, too fucking late there, what is going on?"

"Dean, I found the taxes," says Sam, opening his eyes. "I know how worried you were, and you told me not to worry, but I worried." There's so much compassion in his eyes, so much understanding. Deep, green, bottomless. Fucking obnoxious.

"That's not your problem, that's my problem, what the hell do you think you're doing? You got a job?"

Sam opens his mouth, but Dean cuts him off before he can speak.

"Of all the places to work, you went and got a job with fucking Starbucks, are you insane? What about school? What about finding an internship? You should be focusing all your attention on law school."

"What, while we lose the house? I don't care if you want to sell, I wish you would sell this house, I want you to be happy, and you could be happy running the ghost tours out of a cheaper location. You could use all the money from the sale to pay off loans, buy a new place, travel some to finish the book, you don't need..."

"When have I ever failed to take care of us? You think I'm going to fail now? What, because the taxes went up, I have other ways to make money, I have time, I'm already making plans to finish the rest of the book, it won't even take that long if I just focus, but how can I focus when you're taking on extra jobs instead of focusing on becoming the best lawyer in the country?"

"Would you stop," says Sam, expression hardening. "Stop treating me like a fucking child, Dean. I'm twenty-three years old, I've been working just as hard as you have on this company since dad died, I should be allowed to make decisions about my own future, and I can decide if I want a job to contribute to this family."