Sammy had a crush on him.

Dean knew all the signs, and he smiled softly to himself as he navigated around the grungy laundromat, moving their clothes from the washer to the dryer.

It was harmless enough, he knew. Dean himself had fostered a major crush on the bass player for one of his favorite rock bands when he was Sam's age. It didn't make him gay though. Dean knew it was more hero-worship than it was anything else. Dean had grown out of it. Sam would too. But he felt a little guilty nonetheless. Dean remembered what it felt like to be 14 and confused. He remembered just how painful those feelings could be when your hormones were wiping the floor with your brain.

And Dean's crush had been half a world away, playing to packed auditoriums every night, not sleeping in the bed right next to him. That would have made things a little more tricky, he suspected.

So he'd been trying to be especially nice to Sam lately, teasing him less and asking for his opinion more often. Dean knew that Sam liked to contribute to things. It was why he always threw himself headfirst into every school project that came his way, and it was why he was so good at research. Unlike Dean, Sam valued himself by how important he was to other people. What was often the extra mile for someone like Dean was just normal effort for Sam. And that was a major part of what made him the sweet, sensitive kid that he was. Dean was determined not to destroy that, and so he found himself sort of walking on eggshells around his maturing brother these days.

He would never, ever knowingly hurt Sam. He'd cut out his own heart first. But sometimes when Dean was just being his usual dick self - flirting with the cutest redhead at the bar or indulging in a little down time with one of his favorite magazines, he'd glance over at Sam out of habit and see pain etched in his expressive face. Dean would stop whatever it was he was doing then, and smile at his brother while suggesting they rent a movie or shoot a game of pool together. It was redirection, and Dean was a master at it.

But Dean knew it didn't make the pain feel any less real.

He shook his head and snorted gently. Man, it had sucked being 14. He wouldn't do it over again for anything, not for all the money in the world, not for all the shiniest new weapons, not even for Carmelita - the star of his favorite porno.

Not being in control of your own body, your own urges - that sucked ass.

So Dean understood what his brother was going through, even though he knew Sam would probably curl up and die if he knew that Dean knew that Sam felt that way.

But Dean would never let on, never sit Sam down and try to talk to him about … this. It would just be too awkward - probably more for Sam even, than for himself. And he knew Sam would never admit it anyway. Winchesters were tough. They were love 'em and leave 'em types. They weren't the kind of guys who gave into those mushy feelings when those feelings came knocking.

Not even when they were 14 years old and consumed by out-of-control hormones.

Sam would grow out of it. And in the meantime, Dean would do what he could to avoid causing his little brother more angst.

That was Dean's plan, and Dean's plans almost always worked.

Almost.