#SamGabeHSAU -

Sam knocks on Dean's door, and when there isn't an answer, he knocks again, louder.

"No admittance to Bon Jovi fans," declares Dean from behind the door.

"Dean!" Sam can't help but smile a little, despite his dark mood. Dean does that to him. Puts everything a little bit more in perspective through his sheer shallowness.

"Do you have any idea how painful it is to have to sit through 'I'll Be There for You' from down the hall? It's torture!" But Dean opens the door and looks Sam up and down. He sees the clenched fists, the thin line of his lips, and he leaves off the ribbing.

Sam steps inside. Dean's room is a messy, messy thing; clothes and magazines and photos and all kids of crap everywhere, and even the walls are a hodgepodge of rock poster and pretty girls with barely a scrap of wallpaper still visible. He sits down on the bed, since that seems to be the best spot, and lays his fists in his lap. "So."

"So?" Dean raises an eyebrow, saunters over and leans on the back of his chair.

"What did you mean, good?"

"Huh?"

"When you asked me whether I meant me. I said no, and you said, 'Good.'"

"Oh. That."

He's not answering. Sam remembers what Jess said on the phone. "What did you mean?" he asks again, and tries hard to listen to the answer.

"Well, it'd suck," Dean says.

That's not promising. Sam stays silent. Tries not to judge.

"I mean," Dean goes on, "it sucks to be gay, right? You have to come out to everybody, and half the guys you look at aren't interested, and then there's all kinds of closed-minded dickbags out there who'll give you hell for no reason at all, and it's just a whole world of crap that you have to go through. Why would I want you to go through that?"

And now Sam's lost for words.

In his silence, Dean has room to think. "Oh, geez. You thought I was being a dickbag myself, didn't you?" He tosses his head back, laughs. "Dude, it's the 21st century. I don't give a crap. I don't wanna think about any of my friends, or you, sleeping with anyone. Girls OR boys. Except maybe girls on girls, that's kind of hot," he admits with a slight blush. "But yeah, I just wouldn't want you to have to deal with all that crap."

"But if I was?" Sam asks. His voice is trembling. "If I did?"

"Then I'd kick the crap out of anyone who tried to make your life difficult," Dean says. And pauses. And fights with himself, and finally asks, hands white-knuckled on the chair, "Are you?"

Sam looks into his lap. "I don't know," he mumbles. "Maybe."

Dean nods. "You'll figure it out," he says. "Just as long as you don't try to feel me up."

"What? Ew!" Sam gets up and smacks Dean on the shoulder in a lighthearted punch.

"I'm kidding, geez!" Dean ducks to avoid Sam's next punch. They're both laughing as chaos ensues, and once again, Mom has to yell upstairs to make sure they're not killing each other.

They manage to avoid fratricide this time, but when Sam creeps back to his room, he blasts "Livin' on a Prayer." Just because he can.

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