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Sam Winchester pretends to be helpless when it comes to cleaning his gun, so that Dean Winchester can feel big-brother vindicated. The truth: Sam is as precise as Dean and knows some of their armaments better than his soulmate does. And he has been known to practice at nearby gun ranges when Dean thinks he is at artsy movie houses, watching Estonian films with captions.
But he'll never tell.
Dean Winchester pretends to be a little slow when understanding obscure passages of the Lore, just to goad Sam into lecturing him so Dean can listen to him talk. The truth: Dean has been reading through Bobby's library since before Sammy was in public school, as well as hanging out with Hunters in bars while Sam was still in diapers, soaking in the more arcane lore that the Hunters thought he wouldn't understand.
But he'll never tell.
When you love someone, you lie.
We all know the big lies the Winchester Chronicles have documented, from screwing demons and drinking their blood to planning the escape from the family business to finagling Angel possession. Sins of omission like not telling each other the whole truth about what happened in Hell, in the Cage, in Purgatory. And the minor sins, like stealing shampoo and the last French fry and forgetting to buy that One Important Thing he relies upon. Then wiggling out of disappointing him, once again, by saying the store was out. Or he did buy it, and it must have fallen out of the bag.
But there are other lies. Taking the blame to protect his sibling from the Wrath of John. Or provoking a fight with a war of words and wearing out the old man, who arrived at the motel drunk and disorderly, so that he would pass out before doing any physical damage to either boy.
Sometimes the Winchesters pretend to care or pretend not to care.
Situational lies to keep the peace.
But it's not a lie when Soul Mate #1 drives through a Kansas ice storm to get the really good cough medicine from an all-night Walgreens 15 miles away, over a paved, winding cow path that won't see a snowplow unless the National Weather Service declares a Ragnarok-level emergency, Baby gripping the road that's as slippery as a freshly Zamboni-ed hockey rink.
Or when Soul Mate #2 throws himself in front of a bullet, a knife, a punch, drooling teeth, blood-stained claws, or a wayward spell, fueled by the Prime Directive: Save Sammy. Save Dean. Save Us.
And still there are lies.
Not a problem. The Weather Channel exaggerates.
Not a problem. Doesn't hurt much.
And, despite the lies, there are the love truths, as in small gifts of attention. Double-bacon cheese burgers and anything with "salad" in the name, double-bagged so they keep hot or cold on the way back to the motel.
The extra blanket tucked over his side of the bed, and which, by dawn, has mysteriously switched sides.
And, finally, there is the "look." A thousand people have seen it.
Soul Mate #1 sits at the bar, sipping a beer, ignoring the lovely locals, male and female, who shadow him like pilot fish pacing a oceanic whitetip shark. They nurse drinks they don't want while lingering for a scrap of attention.
Soul Mate #2 is playing poker, or pool, or darts. The casual competitor, just wanting a fun night, will escape unharmed, delighted to have a couple of rounds with the friendly, good-looking man who was generous with free drinks and some solid advice about improving their game.
But the trap is set for players afflicted with hubris and greed, the ones who are easily deceived into thinking that this Winchester is low-hanging fruit, or at least his money is. A little drunk, a little awkward, and displaying a roll of twenties as thick as a fist.
Meanwhile, across the room, the look of neutral curiosity on the face Soul Mate #1–maintained at the beginning of the con so as not to alert the mark–morphs into some more. Hunkered down on the bar stool, beer forgotten, he commits to watching every move, an expert regarding what will come next. A smile of appreciation, eyes crinkle at the corners, and the room fades away. There is humor and pride and something else. Sweet and unguarded, he looks younger, with the joy and sense of wonder that comes with a first love, even though both men are approaching middle-aged.
More than one of those observers, the ones trying to capture his attention, will leave with the same thought: "I wish someone would look at me like that."
After the final reckoning, which usually involved a brief exchange with the ill-humored loser, our hero saunters over to his number one fan.
"Buy you a drink?" he asks, as if flirting with a stranger. The rest of the admirers slink away.
They toast each other with something aged in oak for twelve years.
They talk about tomorrow–the grocery shopping list, a Marvel movie in the works, a call from Sheriff Jody Mills, now retired, which needs a follow-up, and a visit from a pair of young hunters wanting access to the Bunker's legendary library. They'll be staying a couple of days, but no worry, the bedrooms are soundproofed.
And, they banter. Tonight, it's the ongoing, debate about the cranky washing machine, too old to easily find parts for, and the decision to replace it. They weigh the pros and cons of new versus reconditioned and make a list of the required features. It will come to nothing because they both secretly love the aged machine–too many memories–like the old dog that snores and farts and drools. Both Winchesters plan to restore it–via magic or skilled labor–as a surprise for their Soul Mate by the next major holiday, even while they pretend to agree to drive it to the Smith County dump, some day soon.
Another loving lie.