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Sam’s sipping serenely on his seven am coffee, mulling over the Sunday paper like any other day in the life of an apple pie citizen.
Except, of course, for the small detail that he’s reading the Sunday paper on his laptop because it’s not ’05 anymore and mulling is a lighter term for scanning for strange and/or suspicious deaths within the tristate area after their last hunt left him feeling, honestly, mildly disappointed. Because seriously, a Rougarou posing as a coroner? Like Sam couldn’t tell the difference between fresh bites and old ones. Four hundred miles for a torch-off in a crematory, of all places, c’mon.
That and the serene sipping of his drink turns into a violent mist of cremated (he’s still not over how easy it was) coffee beans when he sees Cas sauntering down the staircase with an triumphant smirk like a king in his palace. Don’t get him wrong, Sam doesn’t mind Cas living in the Bunker. Cas is family. The Bunker is the only place he should be kicking it.
And apparently, Cas is kicking it with Dean. Because that’s definitely Dean’s AC/DC shirt. Sam knows it any day by the questionable stain on the left sleeve.
Behind him at a more sluggish pace is his brother. Despite his wrung-out appearance though, he too carries an air of confidence. For one, he’s actually looking up, instead of fiddling with the tie on his robe. And for another, well… Dean, for the first time, isn’t wearing anything underneath. Half his chest is completely exposed as much as to show off his anti-possession tattoo and Dean doesn’t seem to care.
Or notice, for that matter—not if he keeps following Cas’s ass so intently.
Sam feels like he’s back on a hunt when Cas takes the seat across from him in the library: Like he’s hiding behind something and has to keep totally still before they go in for the kill. He lifts his head again, gauges Cas for any sort of reaction that might give what’s totally obvious away—as if Cas’s messy up-do and the warmth on his cheeks isn’t indication enough. But then, Dean would call that “subtext”, thanks to Marie.
Then he trades his gaze for the man who’s usually in question, his brother. This should be an easy case to crack—the case being Dean admitting to what’s going on, that is. He knows Dean inside and out. (Well… yeah, no, Cas has him beat on the out part.)
Sam draws nothing. Dean, who’s still standing in the middle of the staircase, shares the same sort of hair and coloring on his cheeks as Cas and is that a five-o-clock shadow?
Sam clears his throat with purpose, turning back to Cas. "You want some tea, Cas? Dean? What about you?"
"Sam. Please. It's too early for this,” Dean grunts.
“So he can still speak!” Sam announces following his brother’s comment.
“Shut up.”
"It's 10am. You know that, right?”
"Exactly. Morning."
"I don't understand, you’re drinking coffee," Cas interjects. Sam doesn’t turn around to see his expression, but he’s sure Cas is narrowing his eyes in just as much confusion as the two of them have put Sam in. Not because he didn’t see it coming—that would be a hoot. No, he’s confused because why now, nine years later?
"It's okay, Cas," reassures Sam. He sneers still looking at Dean, "I can use something to sweeten my morning."
"Oh I'm pretty sure you'd puke," Dean warns, a little more expression coming from him as his eyes widen. "Plus, there are children in the house."
"Jack killed a guy the other day in cold blood,” Sam scoffs, “I think he's upgraded to the adult package."
"Who happened to be a psychopathic witch,” Dean points out.
"Sam, I can make my own tea if it inconveniences you."
"Cas," Dean interjects, making his way down the rest of the stairs, "He's not referencing actual tea. He wants me to tell him about... ya know."
Cas shakes his head, his eyes narrowing even more—if that’s possible. "What?"
"Ya know, us... the thing…"
"You mean the thing I gave you last night that kept you from moaning my name? Or after that?” Cas turns to Sam, whose own eyes widen like two jumbo-size Cocoa Puffs, with the utmost concern: “I’m sorry, Sam, you're going to have to be more specific with your tea. Which flavor do you prefer?"
"All of it," Dean beams, taking pride in watching Sam choke on his coffee intake. "He wants every last drop from his tea bag. Isn't that right, Sammy?"
"Okay, y’all are gross,” Sam says, holding out his arms in surrender. “I know what happened, alright? And just know, Dean, whenever you decide to unmount from your royal horse, I still love and support you and yada yada yada. Same to you, Cas.”
"For the record, I'm still not entirely sure what's going on,” Cas states.
"That's right." Dean winks directly at Sam. "He's still reeling from all the tea I spilt last night."
“Tea?” comes a second voice. All of them turn to the staircase again to see Jack looking at his three dads in interest and Sam can’t help but wonder how the Bunker turned into Full House and that he’s practically forced to be Danny Tanner because of his height. Which means Dean is Jesse and Cas is Joey. “I want some tea.”
Dean roars a laugh like Sam’s never heard from him before, “Oh ho, Jack, I think you’re too young for tea.”
Jack throws his head back. “Is tea what you’d call ‘slang’ for something?”
“This is news to me too, kiddo,” Cas says, shrugging.
"Yeapp, I'm out," Sam affirms, scooping up his laptop and heading up the stairs, past a confused Jack.
He doesn't go without a smile, however, as he turns back when his brothers are least expecting it to see Cas's hand over Dean's on the table.
(Best yet, Dean doesn't flinch. And Sam has a feeling he won't for a long time.)