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Being in love doesn’t mean being loved back.
Castiel knew.
Sam knew that Castiel knew.
Because Sam knew too.
Being in love means experiencing intense, euphoric, and often romantic emotions for someone, marked by affection, passion, and a powerful desire to be with that someone... Or at least that’s what Google says.
For Dean, the word love meant protecting someone, putting others first and then yourself. Sam didn’t need to ask him, because he knew he was loved by his older brother… But that doesn’t really answer what being in love means, and when he asked, he never said anything good. On purpose, of course.
For Castiel, it didn’t matter that he was an angel; he was the most loving person Sam knew. He loved Earth, animals, people, books, art, music, he loved to learn. And Sam loved him.
Sam felt pathetic when he was around Castiel, even from the start. Back then it was just a crush—the kind where you laugh at stupid jokes just to make them keep talking, where you nod even though you’re not listening because you’re too distracted by their eyes… That type of crush.
Sam tried to push it away, as hard as he could. Castiel always said angels didn’t really feel human emotions, so Sam pushed his own away, like someone pushing a big heavy stone uphill. But when he realized the angel did felt them, those exact feelings, just not toward him… It felt like the stone rolled back and crushed him.
He noticed it in small ways at first, like how Castiel was more attentive to Dean, or how he responded faster to his brother. Sam thought it was only because Dean was Heaven’s “chosen one,” Michael’s vessel, all that.
But then it got more personal. Every time Sam fixed his hair, he wondered what Castiel thought of it. Did he like this style better than any other one he had before? Did he even really noticed? And then Sam realized Castiel unconsciously fixed his own hair whenever Dean was around—and of course, the fool, never noticed.
One of the few times Sam and Castiel were alone, they were in a bookstore and found a book about ways to express appreciation. One of them was gift-giving.
Castiel was observant. He watched a lot. Sam knew because he often caught him watching Dean because he often watched Castiel.
So Sam should’ve known. Should’ve known when Castiel brought back pie, a magazine, and a few beers. Or when he gave Dean a Led Zeppelin vinyl he had “stumbled upon” while out.
Or when he gave Sam a book... A book he would read over and over.
But preferences always betray you. Your own body can betray you. And today, it wasn’t Sam’s—it was Castiel’s.
Castiel rarely mentioned his wings. Sometimes he made subtle movements, like stretching his arms, rolling his shoulders, tilting his neck. Sam assumed they were imperceptible to human eyes.
Then they weren’t.
Big, radiant, shimmering with an iridescent hue. A little messy, but beautiful. Sam was stunned, he was definitely blushing. Castiel sat in a chair, uncomfortable, frowning, messy-haired.
— Woah, dude, why are you…? — Dean squinted, frowning.
— It’s molting season. I usually take care of my wings. We angels are vain about that, but with you two, I don’t have time for anything. —
Dean smirked and rolled his eyes. Sam looked away, making the "Sam, of course he's an abomination" expression.
— So why are they visible now? Can’t you just fix them or something? — Dean reached for a feather, touching it. Sam noticed how Castiel tensed. — They’re oily… — Dean muttered, rubbing his fingers and wiping them on his flannel.
— It’s grace — Castiel breathed, moving his wing out of Dean’s reach.
Sam’s eyebrow arched. Grace? Like angel’s grace? Like bird’s oil? That meant angels also needed waterproofing, flexibility, hygiene—all that came with wings.
How did angels take care of them? How often? Did they need another angel to help? He could help Cas.
— That would be helpful, Sam. — Castiel interrupted his thoughts, snapping Sam out of his trance, flustering him.
— What?
— You mentioned my wings. — Sam realized they were alone. — Your brother said he wanted to get something to drink.
— Uh, yeah, I was just curious… Sorry.
— It’s okay. But I’d be grateful if you helped me. It’s annoying for the parts I can’t reach.
— I can help you with your wings? — Sam asked, perhaps too enthusiastically.
— Please.
Sam didn’t need another word. They spent hours fixing Castiel’s wings, talking, Castiel answering Sam's questions and thoughts.
To Sam, it felt like a date. Intimate. His heart beating faster every time Castiel sighed softly as Sam pulled out an old feather.
It didnt really had nothing explicitly romantic. No kiss. No touch. No loaded glance. Just silence, care, laughter, Sam teasing Cas about being like a bird, and Cas not getting the joke.
Until Dean entered. Castiel’s wings puffed up immediately as he looked at him.
— Dean. — Castiel breathed, and Sam knew it was over.
Dean joked about something Sam didnt hear, Cas thanked Sam, then said he’d finish the rest himself. Sam smiled tightly, excused himself, and left.
He spent the next hour rolling on his bed, biting his nails, hugging his pillow too hard, thinking of Castiel—his eyes, hair, lips, chin, neck, shoulders, arms, hands, the way he stood, the way he tilted his head and frowned like a puppy when confused.
He did this almost every day.
After a hunt, Dean suggested hitting a bar. As they were about to get into the impala, Castiel offered to heal them. Sam loved watching how delicate Castiel was with his healing powers, how careful his touch was, how he always avoided to touch much of his face to not be rough. But then he saw Cas cupping half of Dean’s face as he healed him, and Sam had to bite the inside of his cheek.
Anyways.
At the bar, Dean ordered drinks, Sam and Cas didn’t, but Dean ordered for them. They talked about the hunt, Dean joking about needing a break, go to a Costa Rican beach or something like that, take a real break.
But they never got to take a break because an asshole, a drunk man made a comment about how Sam was looking, maybe because of how he was sitting, maybe because of his hair or because of the way he looked at Castiel.
Dean got into a fight. Sam tried to break it up but couldn’t. Cas did. They forgot, sometimes, that he was an angel so he was strong as hell, it only took time because he was gently enough to not hurt Dean.
Outside, Sam scolded Dean, but Castiel joined in.
— That was a damn stupid thing you did back there. — Sam went quiet.
— What? — Dean asked.
— You got into a fight with a drunk your size. You could’ve gotten seriously hurt. You don’t even care.*
— Come on! I’ve been in worse fights, we all know that! Plus, he had no business calling Sammy a f-.. — The word stuck in Dean’s throat, for some reason.
— I know, Dean. But still. We were having a good time, and now you’re bruised. Let me help you. — Cas cupped Dean’s face again, and Sam watched silently.
Every time Cas spoke, Sam gave him heart eyes. But tonight, Dean—who got progressively drunker—was doing the same. Looking at Cas like he was the only thing in the world, lips parted and silent panting.
Oh.
It hit Sam like a punch, knocking the air out of him. He stepped back, gripping his sleeves.
He’d been so focused on Cas not loving him that he hadn’t noticed Dean might love Cas back.
Being in love doesn’t mean being loved back.
At least, not for Sam.
Because he watched his drunk brother say "Fuck, Cas" and grab Castiel by the coat, slam him to the wall, and kiss him. And he saw Castiel kiss back.
Sam walked away. He knew no one would notice he was gone, and he didn’t plan to go back to the Impala or the motel room. He didn’t want to hear anything that would make him throw up.
He booked a single, cheap room at a nearby motel. He closed the door, let out the deepest sigh of his life, stared blankly. His stomach felt hollow, but he wasn’t hungry. His lips trembled so he pressed them together into a thin line as tears blurred his vision, dark spots forming on the carpet.
He was crying for a man. For a man who wasn’t his father, at least.
Sliding down to the floor, he hugged his knees to his chest, buried his forehead, and sobbed.
He felt so dumb.
Not being loved back isn’t the worst. But not being loved back because you’re not your brother?
That’s unbearable.