It's Sam's turn to do the laundry, and while it's a lot easier now that they've got the bunker, it's still not an enjoyable task. Sure, it beats sitting at a rundown laundromat glaring at everyone who looks too long at the suspicious amount of red stains he's rubbing out of one shirt or another. And now that they've splurged and got a new washer and dryer that saves time and money (in the long run, at least, Sam's done the math), it's damn near easy as shit. Throw the clothes in, come back in 45, throw the clothes in the dryer, try not to start a lint fire and that's that.

But there's still the very unpleasant task of getting out all those red stains (and sometimes black ectoplasm which is so much worse), and sifting through fabric to find them which is sometimes harder than finding a ghosts grave. It doesn't do well to find out that your FBI shirt has a suspicious mark right when you need it to convince the townfolk that no really, we're the law ma'am, and we're just trying to get to the bottom of Mr. Pufferton's disappearance and would really appreciate your full cooperation, there's really no need to call the police. So the arduous task happens once every two weeks like clockwork, cleaning clothing as meticulously as they clean their guns.

This processes, this time honored tradition that makes sure they don't get the real FBI called on them, is of course the reason Sam learns that Dean's cheating on Cas.

Sam's mind stutters offline when he sees them. They're so far from the realm of normal that it actually takes a moment for his brain to catch up. And when it does, they're still there, sitting innocuously on the pile, no longer hidden by the Stanford hoodie that Sam's kept around all this time. He actually feels a bit betrayed by the thing. For hiding the evidence or for eventually revealing it he's not sure.

There's no mistaking it though. Women's underwear. Deep blue and lacy, scalloped edges and a damn white bow on the front. As if, somehow, if the panties are pretty enough they'll lesson the reality of the situation. That Dean cheated.

The laugh that builds in Sam's throat does anything but diffuse the swirl of terrible feelings he's having, so he kills it before it gets to his larynx. God how could he do this.

They'd been so happy, Dean and Cas—Cas always looking at Dean like he hung the damn moon and Dean looking at Cas with a bit of awe, like he doesn't know what he's done to deserve Cas but he's going to try to earn him anyway. The same way Sam used to feel with Jess, a lifetime ago.

And Dean threw it away for a night with some woman with a thing for fancy underwear? Because Sam's going to have to tell Cas, can't not. Not when Cas means so much to him. Not when Cas is the best friend he's got outside of his brother and a dead archangel. It'll tear them apart. Sam's throat clicks, dry. Will Cas move out? Where would he even go? Will he stay? The bunker becoming an oppressive silent witness to the destruction of a family, Sam the teetering thread holding it together.

But that's why he has to tell Cas, even if that happens, even if he is caught between. Because Cas is family, and Sam's learned his lesson and then some about secrets and doing what he thinks is best for another person without giving them the option to choose.

What made him do it, though? And when? Unless Dean snuck off using some kind of super stealth to silence the hefty weight and grinding hinges of the front door, then it had to be a time both he and Cas knew Dean'd be gone. Was it a damn shopping trip? Or when he said he was checking the perimeter? Or—the ghost case in North Dakota? Did Dean not actually meet up with Charlie? Was there even a case?

God, maybe it was just some old conquest, from before they got together and it just came up now. Sam lets out breath, unsatisfied. Is Dean finally having the gay freak out that Sam had been waiting in the wings for for the first two months of their relationship? He'd taken it so well at the time that Sam had slowly relaxed into the idea that Dean didn't have the internalized homophobia that Sam'd always been worried about.

The lingerie is still there, taunting, and Sam can't stand it, stand this—doing nothing but wonder when his brother might have screwed up the best thing that's happened to him. Regardless of reason, Sam just can't let this lie.

Snatching up the offending cloth, Sam stalks out into the library. Dean's been going through some old records there, and sure enough, he's still there as Sam rounds the corner.

He finds, in the moment, that he can't actually say anything when Dean looks up at his abrupt entrance, too many words clogging his throat. So he holds out his fist, blue lace hanging from it accusation enough.

Dean sees it and goes red. Good, he should be ashamed, should be regretful because this is going to tear Cas apart. Dean opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. It's at Dean's loss for words that Sam finds his.

"I can't believe it Dean, I really can't. You two are so good together and you decide to just what, throw it away for some faceless woman? Do you even know her name?"

Dean's mouth opens and closes again, face falling deeper into its red hue.

Sam's heart sinks, "that's what I fucking thought. God, Dean, are you that scared of being happy that you'll fuck yourself over at the slightest sign of—of—anything?" Sam waves his arms around in emphasis, trying to convey that Dean sabotages himself at the first sign of happiness—but also trouble or caring too much or love or anger or disappointment—really anything when it comes to relationships. Dean runs, he screws himself over, gives people a reason, an excuse to be angry, so they'll leave him. So they leave him for whatever transgression he's done instead of ever being able to leave Dean for who he is. Too afraid of being hurt on anyone else's terms that he'll hurt himself again and again on his own.

"Sam—"

"I just can't believe you'd do this to Cas, Dean, you love him. He's family." Sam's almost pleading, like somehow if he gets Dean to understand, Dean can fix it, can make it so he never went and cheated.

"It's—it's not—" Dean closes his eyes, bringing his hand up to shield his face, "they're—" Dean cuts himself off, a sound of regret leaving him. Good, Sam thinks desperately. Maybe Dean really can fix this, maybe if he comes clean and they talk and Dean actually opens up about his fears, about what drove him to this, just maybe an angel would forgive.

"Oh."

Sam whirls around at the sound. Cas is standing there, fresh from the shower, towel wrapped tight around him. He looks at Dean, curled in on himself, eyes peeking out from behind his hand. Then to Sam, whose expression one of surprise falling into agony. He's holding still as he can, because in his outstretched arm it's there, and maybe, if he doesn't move, Cas won't see and he won't have to learn of Dean's betrayal like this. That's when Cas' eyes fall to the panties and Sam feels crushed.

Cas walks over, and for that brief moment that's the only sound in the bunker, bare feet on wood floor, deceptively quiet for the level of destruction they'll bring to Sam's world.

Cas reaches up, hand open-faced under Sam's fist and Sam squeezes his eyes shut as he uncurls each finger, feeling the blood come back to them in a rush, feeling the imprint the lace left on his palm, feeling the ache in his chest for Cas. He can't ignore it though. Just like his father taught him, even if you close your eyes, the monsters are still there.

"Thank you." Cas says, and turns on those bare feet to patter out the way he came, heading down the hall back to his room.

"They're Cas'" Dean blurts, the words punched out of him, face again buried in his hands.

Sam doesn't turn to look, too busy trying to ignore the flush breaking across his face "O-oh"

Dean makes a sound like he's dying.

Four weeks later, when Sam's stuck with laundry, there's more than one pair of panties. There's actually quite a lot. Sam just throws them in the wash and hopes that someday this whole experience with be a faded memory. Sam's hand catches on a black thong. Or a forgotten memory. Forgotten would be best.

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