Chapter Text
April
Senior Year
**
“Graveyard?”
“Jesus, Sammy, what did you do your first year of college?”
Dean is sprawled across the couch, idly scratching his head as he holds his calc book up to his face, but he’s not really taking anything in. Finals coming up in a couple of weeks, but he hasn’t fucking seen his little brother in about four months, so, yeah. Not exactly a recipe for paying attention.
“Study mostly,” Sam shoots back. “Which you obviously didn’t.”
“Shut up.”
Sam’s leaning back against the counter of their crappy little kitchen, slightly hunched over so he doesn’t completely tower over the rest of them. He looks like a giant in the too-small room, and Dean bites his lip, fighting back a laugh.
Sam crosses his arms, casting an indignant eye over the multicolored bottles littering the top of the cabinets, all shapes and sizes jumbled together.
“Dean,” he snorts, shaking his head. “You’re practically an alcoholic.”
He holds up a hand. “Hey, Cas helped.” He jerks his thumb to indicate the knot of messy hair over in the corner. “He can hold his liquor, for a complete nerd.”
“I resent that.”
Cas doesn’t look up from his philosophy textbook, and Dean can only see the top of his head, peeking over the pages.
Stupid Cas. He apparently didn’t know about the existence of styling gel, despite all of Dean's chastising, meaning his hair was always all over the place, like he had just whirled in after a particularly enthusiastic sex session in a closet.
Dean’s fingers twitch, and he sits on them.
Sam squints, inching closer to properly see one of the bottles, turning it around so the label is facing him.
“Skinny Girl margarita mix?” He asks, raising an eyebrow. Dean hears Cas chuckle quietly under his breath, and Dean scowls, kicking him under the table.
“Ash thought that would be oh-so-funny to bring as a housewarming gift,” Dean explains quickly, standing up. “Probably should get rid of that one, to be honest.” He crosses to where Sam’s lounging and starts to grasp for the offending bottle, but he can’t quite get to it. Sam laughs as Dean struggles, barely brushing the glass.
Cas pipes up.
“It wasn’t that bad, you know.”
Dean ignores him, still resolutely reaching up to the top of the cabinet, almost losing his balance.
“Here, Jeez—“
Sam takes pity on him and grabs it, shoving it into his hands. “Before you break something.”
Dean twirls it in his fingers, winking at him. “Thanks, Sasquatch.”
He tosses it into the overflowing recycling bin and walks back into the living room, flopping back down on the couch. “Have to say,” he admits, not bothering to pick up his textbook again. “Lotta memories associated with that night.”
He leaves the question hanging heavy in the air. Finally Sam bites, rolling his eyes.
“Such as?” He asks, putting on his slightly-more-interested-than-usual face. Cas finally sets down his book, looking up at the brothers.
“Well.” He glances at Dean, as if to give him a chance to explain, but barrels forward at the last second, spilling it all.
“That was when Michael and Anna had a friendly shouting match over who got to take Dean out for a date the next weekend,” he says smugly, tugging at a spare thread on the edge of his sleeve.
Sam snorts, shooting Dean a conspiratorial look. He waves a hand, scoffing.
“C’mon, Cas,” he says, reaching over to ruffle his hair. “You know they were teasing.”
Cas shoves his hand away, a smile playing around his lips. Dean grins and sinks back into the couch as Cas stands, pulling down his shirt from where it had ridden up on his hips. Dean follows the movement.
“Anna maybe. I think Michael was only half-joking.”
Dean cautiously glances over at Sam, only to see him watching him curiously. He coughs and looks away, propping his feet up on the table in front of him.
Cas walks over to the mini-fridge they keep just beside the TV, opening the door and peering inside.
“I can’t concentrate for the life of me,” he mutters, pulling out a couple beers. “You want one, Winchester?”
Dean hums his assent and Cas tosses him one, hesitating slightly before looking up at Sam.
“And, uh, do you—“
Dean butts in.
“Sammy’s here on my rules. He’s allowed to have a little fun.”
Sam grins at him and Cas smiles back, handing him a beer. Dean continues.
“Besides, it’s not like we ever exactly cared about being legal.”
Cas snorts, twisting his own cap off. “True.”
Sam takes a small sip, licking his lips as he swallows. He seems reluctant to let the issue of the graveyard go.
He sidles over next to Cas. “So, what about these then?” He gestures at the bottles in their hands. “They go up on the shelf too?”
Dean shakes his head, as if it were obvious.
“No, dude. It’s gotta fit the theme.”
Cas laughs briefly, walking down the hall and flicking on the light to his room.
Sam displays the magnificent bitchface #347, fiddling with the label on his beer.
“So…what? You save the bottles that you like? That you think are pretty?” He curls his lip, as if the thought of interior decoration was something disgusting, and perhaps contagious.
“Memories, Sammy. Thing’s gotta have memories.”
Sam doesn’t answer, that slight smirk of doubt still playing around his lips. Dean sighs and stands, walking over to him. He leans against the doorframe and tries to explain.
“Okay, look. You finish it, then you stick it up on top of the shelves. And then…well, the bottle is there to remind you. Hence the name—“ He spreads his arms, indicating the endless rows of glass. “The graveyard.”
He smiles at what they’ve accumulated over the years, turning to see Sammy nodding, as if he were trying to understand their strange Midwestern customs.
“Dude, just because you go to school in California—“
“That has nothing to do with it.”
“All the same. Just because you’re a big Ivy-Leaguer, doesn’t mean you can’t appreciate the beauty here.”
Sam laughs, loud and hearty. Dean tries to keep his serious face locked on, but he can feel himself smiling. He had missed his little bro.
“Okay, look.” He points. “Like there. The tequila from one of Gabe’s parties,” he explains. He scans his eyes down the row of bottles, remembering.
“Oh, and there…that bottle of wine caused a…well.” He shakes his head. “An impromptu dance party, I guess.”
Cas’s deep voice floats from the bathroom.
“You still can’t salsa, Winchester, no matter how much you try.”
Dean’s cheeks burn, and he whirls toward the direction of the hall.
“Dude.” He pounds a hand against the wall. “Not helpful.”
He only hears Cas’s bordering-on-maniacal laughter as an answer, and he grumbles, turning away from him. Sam just snorts, taking another sip from his beer.
Dean looks up again, trying to find another memory to share. He finds one particular black label. “That one…” he trails off, looking at the bottle of whiskey. “Um.” He shakes his head and quickly points again, trying to distract himself.
“There, Sammy. The bottle of champagne we had to celebrate you getting into Stanford.”
Sam’s face shows surprise and glee as he turns, looking up at the gold-foil covered bottle.
“Really?”
Dean nods, his smile sincere. “Of course.” He nudges him with his shoulder. “Always knew you’d get in, but nothing wrong with a little celebration.”
Sam beams at him. Cas comes back from his room, bottle in hand.
“By the way, never officially congratulated you on that.” He holds out his bottle, and Sam clinks his beer with his, smiling slightly. “I know we met, like, three hours ago, but I figured I should offer my wholehearted congratulations.”
Sam laughs.
“Thanks, Cas.”
Sam beams at Cas as they toast each other, and Dean watches the two of them, a stupid grin splitting his face. His best friend and his brother getting along famously. What more could he hope for?
His gaze drifts from Sam’s broad smile to Cas’s subtler one, his eyes twinkling as he takes another sip, his lips curving perfectly around the rim of the bottle. Dean tries not to notice as his tongue darts out to catch the stray drops. He manages to tear his eyes away, only to see Sam looking at him, an unreadable expression on his face. He clears his throat and quickly looks away, turning back to the safety of the TV and the living room.
“Hey, Star Wars!”
They get distracted by Attack of the Clones, and end up bickering over exactly which is the best movie out of the six. It ends up with them eventually agreeing that the prequels were terrible, but they’re still impossibly split on the originals. Sam insists on A New Hope, whereas Dean loves Empire, and Cas resolutely hangs onto the Return of the Jedi.
So they end up drinking and marathoning the whole damn trilogy into the night, laughing and joking during the commercials, shushing each other so they can recite the dialogue along with the characters during their favorite parts. And if at one point, Cas dozes off and drifts his head onto Dean’s shoulder…well. He barely notices. C’mon.
I’m sure Luke wasn’t on that thing when it blew.
Dean resolutely ignores the weighty feel of Cas, trying to focus on Harrison Ford’s face. Who he totally doesn’t have a crush on by the way.
He wasn’t. I can feel it.
He tries to remember why he thought it was a good idea to dress up as Han three Halloweens in a row when he was little, and he definitely isn't thinking about Cas, and how his soft breath is on his chest, that his body is warm and pliant against his own.
You love him, don’t you?
Dean’s gaze drifts from the movie to the sleepyhead on his shoulder, and he smiles without realizing it. Only when Sam’s voice cuts through the distraction does he shift away from him, clearing his throat. He rouses Cas and sends him and Sam off to bed, normal as you please. No big deal.
And he definitely doesn’t check on him after Sammy’s asleep.
He definitely doesn’t shut the door to his bedroom, wanting to kiss him goodnight.
And so he drops off to sleep, definitely not thinking of anyone else.