#rey writes

Sanemi doesn't sound annoyed or angry or even accusatory, but Obanai feels called out anyway. Called out on what exactly, he's not sure. He's not staring. Well, he is, but it's not like that. It's not.

“I'm not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

Who's being ridiculous? Sanemi, who's getting naked in front of his comrade? In a bath house, where people are supposed to be naked and take baths? Or Obanai, who's in a bath house, where people are supposed to be naked and take baths, and refuses to get undressed? There's a very clear answer to that question and Obanai is unwilling to even think that answer. The question is phrased badly anyway. Is Sanemi ridiculous for parading his scars around, or is Obanai ridiculous for keeping his scars covered? That's better.

“I'm being ridiculous?” Sanemi sounds amused, whatever the heck is supposed to be funny about this situation.

“Very much.”

He's not being ridiculous, Sanemi is being ridiculous. Scars aren't meant to be paraded around. Scars aren't meant to be seen by anyone except one's own reflection, and even that is entirely optional. They're not meant to be seen, is the point, and Sanemi missed that point by twenty miles, almost as if he's doing it on purpose. As if he not only doesn't care but actively wants to show off. Ridiculous.

Sanemi just rolls his eyes and turns away, finally, to slide into the hot water. “Well, feel free to join me as soon as you're done staring.”

“I'm not staring.”

Ignoring Sanemi's following scoff, Obanai turns way from his friend- his comrade to take his own clothes off. Scars aren't meant to be seen, but clothes aren't meant to be bathed and God knows he needs this bath. It would be fine. Sanemi would look away if Obanai told him to. He would think it's stupid, but he would do it. That's what Obanai likes about Sanemi and he's pretty sure that Sanemi likes this about him too. Sanemi thinks it's stupid that he's ashamed of his scars and Obanai only knows that because Sanemi had a bit too much to drink once. Obanai thinks it's stupid that Sanemi is ashamed of not being able to write and Sanemi doesn't even know that Obanai knows about him being ashamed of not being able to write. Because they don't talk about this stuff and that might just be the best part of their friendship. Camaraderie.

Rinsing himself off the sweat and blood feels like heaven and the heat of the water seems to suck all of the tension out of his muscles. Obanai groans quietly, unable to keep this sound of contempt in. You never realize just how draining a fight was until you experience the slightest bit of comfort and notice how much your current state sucks and how much better it could be.

“I didn't know you could make that noise.”

Leave it to Sanemi to ruin a nice moment of relaxation. Obanai shoots him a glare, trying to ignore the spark of amusement in Sanemi's gaze. No, he didn't take off his bandages, so what? Why is that funny?

“Was there really a need to comment on it?”

“Sounded like you were getting off for a moment.”

“I was relaxing.” Obanai can't believe this guy. Insufferable. Heat rises to his cheeks and he glares back at Sanemi's stupid smug grin in an attempt not to let his embarrassment shine through too much. Thank God he didn't take his bandages off. “I was getting comfortable.”

“You look anything but comfortable.”

Gee, I wonder why.

Obanai bites his tongue and just sinks further into the water, careful to not let it go up all the way to his face. He will not entertain this tomfoolery any longer, absolutely not. And he won't look at Sanemi anymore either. He won't give him the satisfaction of even being regarded. Right, that will show him.

He gets approximately one moment of peace and quiet, then the water moves and laps against him and Obanai furrows his brows. That better not be what he thinks it's about to become.

“Iguro.”

No.

“Look at me, Snake Boy.”

No.

“Hey, Kanroji!”

No, because here's the worst thing: he knows it's bullshit. He knows he's being fooled, but on the off chance he's not... Obanai can't even fathom his own reaction before he turns around to look towards the entrance, then he turns back to glare at Sanemi who's a lot closer than he was thirty seconds ago and smirking at him like a dick.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don't.”

No, he doesn't. But he doesn't say it out loud. Because they just don't talk about this kind of stuff.

Obanai leans away until his back hits the edge of the bath tub and narrows his eyes at Sanemi. “What do you want?”

Sanemi narrows his eyes back at him in a way that has Obanai perking up a little and then tilts his head in a way that has Obanai sure that Sanemi is just messing with him on purpose. “You're staring at me.” Just for fun.

“Because you're all up in my face!”

“You were staring earlier.”

“I told you I wasn't- why do you care?”

Sanemi grins and Obanai feels ready to strangle someone. Sanemi doesn't care. Of course Sanemi doesn't care, why would he care? He can't button his shirt to save his life, of course he doesn't care if anyone stares at him while he's naked. He would probably fight demons naked if Oyakata-sama allowed him. There's something about that complete lack of shame that's very admirable and Obanai hates that he recognizes that.

“You're childish.”

Something akin to hurt flashes through Sanemi's eyes and Obanai is sure that he wouldn't have caught it if Sanemi hadn't been so close to him in the first place. It's a strange sight, one he isn't sure he has seen before, and before he can take a closer look, Sanemi pulls back and turns away. Obanai watches him go underwater briefly and emerge, shaking his head like a dog.

“You're not supposed to do that.”

“Bite me, Obanai.”

Oh, okay.

Obanai's gaze lingers on a water droplet running down Sanemi's back and getting caught in the slightly different texture of a particularly big scar for a moment. As the droplet runs further down Sanemi's back, Obanai's gaze lingers on the scar and the way it stretches when Sanemi reaches over his shoulder to rub his shoulder blade, subsequently moving the skin on his back. It looks like a slash, or maybe a scratch from a claw. One of the less smoothly healed off injuries.

Slowly, Obanai moves closer, now watching the water lap against Sanemi's spine. Sanemi's hand stills the rubbing and for a moment, his nails dig into his skin, then he lets his arm fall down his side again and doesn't even flinch when Obanai grazes his fingertips of the prints Sanemi's nails left behind. They're nothing against the many scars all over his back, but they feel more severe. Maybe because Obanai feels like he caused them himself. Maybe because they're proof of the effort it costs Sanemi to trust him to do this. Though that's not a bad thing, not entirely, that their trust is costing him effort. Obanai likes the thought that Sanemi is putting effort into their friendship quite a bit. Camaraderie.

Suddenly, he feels sorry for calling Sanemi childish just for messing around. That's also not a bad thing, feeling comfortable enough to be foolish. Obanai never sees Sanemi fool around with anyone else.

His fingers now graze the big scar and that doesn't make Sanemi wince either, even though it probably hurts, at least a little bit. Even though Obanai touches the scar like it's nothing. To Sanemi, it probably is. Admirable, in a way.

Obanai's hand goes up to his own face, then he leans forward and Sanemi jumps away with a yelp, whipping around. “What the fuck?!”

Obanai examines the mark his teeth left in Sanemi's shoulder with a pleased look on his face.

“I bit you.”

Having Sanemi stare at his face when he doesn't have his mouth covered feels strange in a way he can't entirely put his finger on, but he doesn't do anything about it. He knows that Sanemi will scoff-laugh and say something jerky in a moment. He wants Sanemi to see him laugh too.

Three seconds of silent looking – looking, not staring – then Sanemi scoff-laughs and shakes his head. “You're ridiculous.”

“Yeah.” Obanai smiles and allows Sanemi's gaze to linger for a moment longer before he pulls his bandages back up. “Maybe a little.”

Because. Because it's not like Dean never had an inkling he was into dudes as well as chicks before. Not like he never had any tiny lightbulb moments while drooling over Doctor Sexy or being 16 and watching a hunter in his 20s clean a gun in front of him. It's just that every time that lightbulb flicked on, Dean had been very quick and very thorough in burying it 6 feet under like it was a body in a grave after a salt'n burn. Expert, even. Like he was was with real graves. He could go years without that lightbulb resurfacing, and he could forget. He could flirt with women and forget, kiss women and forget, take women back to his motel room when he was 24, haunting small towns all alone, and forget. It was easy. Because women's waists and women's hair and women's voices made it easy. When they pitched their words low and came on to him with confidence and a shadow, a daintier echo of violence than what he was used to, it was easy. What would have been the point in—in anything else?

Nothing. No point.

Until his best friend told him he loved him and his graveyard of buried lightbulbs was flooded, upturned, exposed. Electrified. He sees the bones of every man he ever desired like they're cartoons sticking their fingers into sockets.

Bzzzt. That hunter with his rolled up sleeves, exposed forearms, cleaning his gun while chatting easily to John. Dean sitting there, trying his best to be a part of the conversation, puff himself up like he belonged at the table, 16 in a too-big jacket, a real hunter, a real man, dragging his eyes away from the hunter's hands again and again until he could unfocus them entirely with the beers his dad let him sip.

Bzzzt. A shop teacher of his, once, during a 9th grade stint somewhere in Nebraska. Mr. Callaghan. Showing the class how to use a circular saw, sparks flying, Dean's eyes wide, mouth a little dry.

Bzzzt. Benny in purgatory. Slicing and hacking his way through monsters to get Dean to Cas before they could escape. Dean's weird, twisted up, sickening feelings of - I love you because you know my secret. Because you know I love someone else even though I won't let my own self know. I love you because you have big hands and a big heart and an appetite for blood and because I can bully you into staying, searching, endlessly, for the one. The one I love the most. I love you until I find him and then I still love you a little because you helped make that possible and because you did it for me.

Bzzzt. Cas. Castiel who walked into a barn, sparks again (maybe men are electric and women are grounding, or - fuck, who knows, maybe sparks are just hot) a few days after Dean rose from the dead. Castiel who walked towards him with steady eyes of blue fire and withstood every act of violence Dean could commit against him (or so he thought). Castiel who saw into his soul, maybe not even into it, just the whole scope of it, macro and micro. Cas who shoved him into walls, laid hands over his mouth and a knee between his thighs (accidental?), Cas who spoke to him vulnerably one moment and then disappeared the next, Cas who stared into his eyes and made Dean's chest feel molten, his tongue feel heavy. Cas who wore a stupid trench coat, even when given a fresh start, an opportunity for reinvention. A trench coat Dean grew to hate because of the sheer amount of times he imagined pulling it gently off the angel's shoulders. It always stayed. Dean could burn that fucking coat.

He kept that coat. He carried it. He misses it.

Dean comes to in the middle of a fucking pride parade with the desperate, overwhelming urge to press a coat that he no longer has into his nose. He needs—

"Earth to fuckin' Dean Winchester," Claire is saying, eyebrow cocked kinda like Cas, which is weird because he doesn't remember Jimmy ever doing that. He guesses he didn't know Jimmy very long though. Maybe he's just seeing Cas wherever he can manage it.

"Sorry, kid," he says lamely. No follow up. He feels the hole and it aches and aches and he needs to get a hold on it before it engulfs him.

"Dean," Claire says gently, and she sounds like she knows where he is. Like she can find him back here among his grief that is so far removed from, and unrelated to the situation.

He looks at her and forces a grin that cracks his face. Painfully. Half rolls his eyes.

"C'mon kid, show me the ropes then," he says. He's here now. Probably wont ever be again, but he's with Claire.

And he loves Claire. Because she reminds him of his not so long ago self—young and angsty and passionate and angry and full of mistakes past, present and future—and because she reminds him of Cas. Her face, her independence, her stubbornness, her smile. Because Cas loves (loved, Christ) her, even if her feelings towards him might be more convoluted.

She doesn't let him off easy, a trait she kind of shares with both of them.

"Dean... I miss him too".

Years ago, maybe even just months ago, Dean would have rolled his eyes and changed the subject. He would have deflected: "so how do you get on one of those floats" or "why is there so much mesh here" or maybe mouthed the words to You Make Me Feel (Mighty Real) right along with the drag queens in the parade without even realising it.

But now—

"Claire—I can't. Not if we wanna— not if today's gonna be any good."

His voice sounds far away and raw and he feels tears in his eyes even still. Even still after all these months. He wants. Wants Cas back so hard it scalds his insides.

Claire's mouth sets hard and she nods once. There's a grim-feeling cloud around the two of them, a black hole in the middle of this rainbow candy-land ass street block on a sunny day.

And then Claire scares it away. Physically waves it off like she can see it and then plasters a grin on her face that's almost conspiring. She can rally, Dean'll give her that. It's not as if Claire completely fits here either—she looks more like him than she does most of the other revelers. Black tank top, red flannel tied around her waist, black shit kickers. Hunter get-up. But she grabs some stickers from a drag queen that's handing them out and slaps one on her chest - it says "I support gay rights and gay wrongs" on it and the circle behind it is striped orange and white and pink. Dean snorts. He doesn't know for sure what that means but he guesses it's probably for lesbians cause he knows everybody gets their own flag in this world. He's learned that through osmosis at group*.

She grabs his hand and slaps another sticker on the back of it. The circle is blue, purple, and pink, and he does know the bi flag, has figured that one out at least. The words in the centre say "oh no, everyone is so hot".

Dean rolls his eyes so hard he almost throws his neck out. "There's no way in hell you think I'm keeping this on," he says.

"You are keeping it on, old man, and if i see you've taken it off I'll take you to the face painting tent and make them give you full bisexual glam." The threatening tone of her voice contrasts too deeply with the contents of that sentence and Dean huffs out a surprised laugh.

"Oh yeah? How do you think you're gonna make that happen?"

"You're not the only one packing here, Winchester."

Dean keeps the sticker on his hand. Stares at it for a minute, then looks all around him, taking in the colour and the joy like a thing that's not used to the sun would. A rodent or a worm. Maybe a monster.

"Don't get me wrong but this doesn't really seem like your scene," he says.

Claire shrugs. "I dunno. Maybe a couple years ago I woulda felt the same. Used to think it was all real frivolous and silly y'know?"

She pauses for long enough that Dean's pretty sure the conversation's over. Finally, she speaks again, just a bit quieter: "But, I kinda figure, I can be more than just one thing, right? I can be a hunter and still enjoy some of the nice shit in life. Frivolous and silly is kinda fun."

She's not wrong. Dean doesn't get a lot of moments to be frivolous and silly, but he takes them when he can. Feels like maybe if he'd been born in an different universe he could've known those feelings full time like they were an engrained part of him rather than just fleeting visitors.

Then Claire says, "you're more than one thing, y'know. You're lots of things"

Dean huffs a little laugh and shakes his head, not really sure what he's denying.

"Don't make me give you a whole rundown on your own personality dude. You're not just some workhorse hunter, you got other stuff. Like, gay shit like this doesn't have to be one of your things. But everything's worth a shot once, right?"

He wants to agree. Thinks maybe he'd like to be a lot of things, but everything is kind of blur right now, has been for a while. What are the things he'd like to be? Like to enjoy?

He shakes his head again, not so much denying as delaying.

"Okay Oprah, what got you so wise?"