Sam stayed on the roof of the bunker for a few minutes after Dean and Castiel had disappeared, mind clouded with a million questions. What was next? Was there a new normal now? And if so, what would it look like? Schmoopy? Angsty? He knew both men had tempers, and were stubborn as hell. What kinds of fights would they have? Would they be all over one another, or would they keep it in the closet? And what the hell were they, anyhow? Boyfriends? Lovers? Or just a boy and his pet angel?
Sam knitted his fingers behind his head, leaned back, and looked up at a sky smattered with a trillion stars. He couldn't help but smile, but anxiety fluttered in the pit of his stomach. What was his role now? Would he see his brother less? Would they work less? Would Cas come on jobs more often? Most importantly, would Sam have to sit in the backseat?
Sam chuckled to himself, but then paused.
What if I do take the backseat? Sam thought apprehensively. Dean always says that family comes first, but family dynamics change. In a dangerous situation, who's back will Dean have? Mine, or his angel's?
Sam let his hands fall down to his sides and shifted uncomfortably from one boot to the other. He looked out over the misty field and noticed the Impala, door still ajar. That won't make Dean very happy, he thought.
He walked back to the hatch and slid down the ladder. He treaded quietly down the hall and paused at his bedroom door. Oh lord, I hope they aren't in there. He wrinkled his nose and carefully pushed the door open. Empty,he thought with relief. He continued down the hall and paused at Dean's door, listening. He heard nothing, but didn't dare check. He continued to the bathroom, where he found Dean's clothing still crumpled on the floor. He gingerly picked up his brother's jeans and fished a set of keys from his pocket. He continued to the end of the hall and saw them.
The pies. So many pies. Castiel had worked so hard, planned so carefully. Sam couldn't just let them sit around on the floor and the ground outside. He set the keys down on the large map table with a sigh and went about the business of pie corralling. He picked up the pies from the floor and all of the ones on the stairs, bringing them back to the table two at a time. He went outside and picked up the pie path, and when he got them all on the table there were a dozen and a half all told. He wrinkled his nose in thought, and then began rearranging them on the table. When he was done, he smirked at his handiwork. They spelled out one word in large letters: ASS.
Sam grabbed the keys from the table and ran up the stairs to move the Impala. Once he stepped through the door and saw the car he was hit with the realization that he was looking at it from Dean's vantage point. The angel had stood there, directly in front of him, all wild hair and bedroom eyes. Cas had sang. He'd fucking danced! He shot magic fucking light out of every pore and exploded goddamn wings from his back, all for Dean. Because of Dean. Sam let slip a small, sad, side smile. Nothing like that was ever going to happen to Sam. I don't even think I could handle something like that, he thought. His mind was sloshing with hang ups and confusion. Both people I could possibly talk to about this are actually the people I need to talk about. My life could be a TV show.
Sam looked at the keys in his hand, then up at the Impala, and then back to his hand. Screw this, he thought, I need a drink.
Sam rolled the Impala into town and parked out front of Dante's, one of the local bars. He walked through the doors and was greeted by the kitchy, roadhouse decor, pool table, and classic arcade cabinets. It was a slow night, and loud 70's rock music was blaring in the background. He walked to the bar and asked the bartender, a middle aged man named Dave who looked perpetually unamused, for one of the "snooty" beers on tap. Dean usually ordered them inoffensive, American lagers in bottles that served as palate cleansers for the whisky he drank, so Sam relished the opportunity to order something he actually enjoyed without Dean ribbing him.
He leaned against the bar, sipping his pint, and then noticed the Galaga machine in the corner.
Why the hell not? He thought. He was alone, no one here to judge him. He never got to play video games as a kid, and they always had the allure of the unattainable. He strolled over to it casually, dug into his pocket, and pulled out a quarter. He inserted it into the slot and hit the start button. This is a game for kids, how hard could it be? Within 30 seconds, he died. Game Over.
Sam wrinkled his brow and dug out another quarter. This time he made it 45 seconds before the game again mocked his failure. Another quarter, then another, and then three dollars later Sam made it a whole two minutes before all his ships were destroyed. He hustled up to the bar to make change for a five dollar bill, and when he turned around he saw someone had swooped in and claimed the machine as their own.
Annoyance pinched Sam's face and he walked back to the machine, hands in his pockets. He saw that the usurper was a woman, late twenties, tall, sturdy, and vaguely androgynous. She wore skinny jeans and those Toms slip-on shoes, a grey cardigan over a Nine Inch Nails t-shirt, and dangling earrings that looked like silver human brains. She had a severe, black bob and was clearly far, far better at Galaga than Sam. She looked so out of place, yet somehow right at home.
"Ahem," Sam cleared his throat. The woman ignored him, focusing on the little spaceship. "Uh…" he began, "I was playing that game. I just went to the bar to get quarters and-"
"Did you call dibs?" asked the woman, eyes unwavering from the task at hand.
"Dibs?" he replied.
"You didn't leave a quarter on the machine," she said tersely, seemingly annoyed that she had to divide her attention. "The machine was open, so I played. Jeez, you don't even know about dibs? Have you even played a video game before-"
Suddenly, her little ship was hit and it was game over for her, too.
"Dammit!" she said in mock frustration, turning from the game toward Sam, blue eyes flashing. "Dude, you killed me!" she said with a smirk. "I guess it's your turn again," she said with an exaggerated shrug and a wink. Sam stood frozen.
She looked Sam up and down and said, somewhat impressed, "you're tall."
Sam looked confused for a moment and replied, "you're also tall?" voice lilting upward as if it were a question rather than a statement.
She nodded solemnly. "The struggle is real." She fished a quarter from her pocket and inserted it into the machine. "Okay, fellow beanstalk. Come over here and lemme show you how it's done."
Over the next twenty minutes, Sam learned all of the tips and tricks required for Galaga dominance.
"Okay, first clear all the ships but the two blue ones on the far left. Let the alien ship capture your current ship-"
"Wait, why would I do that?"
"Don't worry, you'll get it back later. Okay, wait, no, don't shoot your own ship!"
"But then what do I shoot?"
"Anything but that!"
"But wait, how do you win?"
"You don't win."
"Wait, what?"
"You don't win. You just don't die."
After they had both exhausted their quarters, the woman looked Sam up and down again, noticed their empty glasses, and gestured to a table.
"You sit right there, BFG, and I will return shortly."
"BFG?" Sam asked quizzically as he complied with the woman's request.
"Big Friendly Giant? Roald Dahl?"
Sam wrinkled his brow and shook his head slightly.
"Wow, you really didn't have a childhood, did you?"
The woman walked up to the bar and spoke to the bartender. Wait a second, was Dave smiling? Did they just high-five? The woman returned with two of the same beers Sam had originally ordered. The woman smiled broadly and slid into the chair across from Sam.
"So," the woman began, "tell me about yourself. Name, rank, favorite song by The Cure?"
Sam swallowed. This woman had more self-possession than anyone he'd previously encountered. She was friendly, but not phony. He could tell that she was smart, almost intimidatingly so. He did not anticipate the events of the evening leading to this destination.
"I, uh…" Sam trailed off. Sam's music choices were generally severely limited by the fact that Dean always got to choose the music they listened to in the Impala. He had his own personal music collection on his phone that he would listen to in his room or on runs, and did in fact have a secret passion for The Cure. "I like Why Can't I Be You a lot," he mumbled.
The woman's eyes lit up. "Yes! So underappreciated! Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me is a fucking great album!"
Sam chuckled to himself. He really liked this woman.
"Okay, pal, what's your name? What's a guy like you doing in a place with such low ceilings?"
"Uh, I'm Sam."
The woman's expression froze. "Wait, your name is Sam ? You don't happen to be related to a Dean, do you?"
It was Sam's turn to freeze. "...Charlene?"
Charlene's face exploded with excitement. "Oh my god! Oh my god! You ARE Sam!" She bounced excitedly in her chair, wide-eyed, mouth agape, little brains swinging back and forth.
Sam opened his mouth and closed it a few times, no words coming out. The coincidence was startling.
Charlene reached across the table and took Sam's hand. "You have to tell me EVERYTHING. I am dying to talk to someone about this. Literally. My heart will stop."
Sam gulped. "I'm sorry, this is all very… strange."
Charlene squeezed Sam's hand and thumped it on the table. "I KNOW, right?"
Sam clenched his jaw and nodded.
Charlene let go of Sam's hand and brought her fingertips up to her temples. "Oh, lord, where do I even start?" Suddenly, she looked up at Sam, snapped her fingers, and pointed. "You need to tell me about Castiel." Her face eked out a sly smile and her sentences came out rapid-fire. "That boy is something else. Adorable! And weird. And lovely! Did you know he didn't know who John Cusack was?"
"Yeah, that became apparent when he got back home."
"Did everything go well? With the pies and the music?"
Sam broke into a grin, "oh, like you wouldn't believe."
Her eyes widened. "Did he love it? I knew he'd love it! He loved it, didn't he?"
"Yeah, Charlene, I can safely say that it was the most elaborate display of affection I've ever seen."
Charlene's jaw went slack. "You mean to say you got to… watch it?!"
Sam smirked. "Let's just say I kinda, snuck a peek."
Charlene leaned in and slapped Sam in the arm. "You little perv!" she teased.
Sam held both hands up. "Heeey, not like that."
"Mmmhmm," she hummed, then winked. "So, Sam… what's up with Castiel? I mean, really? He's… odd. Don't get me wrong, he's wonderful and I hope we become fast friends, but something is off with him. He's not quite…"
"Human?" Sam winced.
"Yeah! Exactly! There's this ethereal quality to him, like he's partly here and partly somewhere else. He dresses like a depressed accountant, has a voice like a supervillain, and eyes like a sad puppy who knows the mysteries of the infinite universe."
"That's probably the most accurate description of Castiel I've ever heard," said Sam, sipping his beer.
"Oh, and your brother! The way he talked about your brother made him seem like god's gift to earth!"
Sam choked on his beer. "You don't say?"
"I have NEVER seen someone so broken up about a boy before. He had all but given up. Your Dean's a bit of a head fuck, isn't he?"
"Oh, you have NO idea."
Charlene leaned in. "Where did they meet, anyhow?"
Sam swallowed. "Um, in Hell?"
"So wait, were they soldiers?"
"Of a kind."
"Oh, you're worse than Castiel! So cryptic!" She leaned back in her chair and stared him down. Sam tried to look away but got stuck in her fierce, blue eyes. She raised an eyebrow and said, "we need more beer." Up she popped again, and sauntered over to Dave. She was graceful, Sam thought, but didn't put on airs. She didn't look to be the type to try to impress anyone, yet she was still quite impressive. As she leaned against the bar, Sam could see a knife clipped to her belt, a nasty kerambit with a hooked blade. That was no common-place self-defense weapon. That knife could gut someone like a trout. Sam pursed his lips and nodded in approval. Good choice.
Charlene returned with a pitcher of beer in one hand and two shots of something brown in another. She handed one to Sam and then clinked their glasses together. "Loose lips sink ships!" and down the hatch it went.
Sam grimaced. "Oh, god, what was that?"
"Rum."
"Rum?"
"Yeah! Rum is a happy drink. Whiskey is a sad drink. I don't wanna get sad drunk with you, Sammy."
She called me Sammy. Only Dean calls me that.
"So you're trying to get me drunk?"
"Isn't it obvious?" she said with an easy smile. "Look, Sam, turnabout is fair play. You can ask me questions first, and then later I'll ask mine. When you are more… pliable."