Steve was worried about Dean. Really worried. He hadn't known the brothers for more than three months, but he just knew that Dean and drugs didn't add up. The history professor's morning went by in a blur, and before he knew it, he was back home, climbing the stairs.
"Tones?" Expecting to see his husband sitting diligently by Dean's bedside, Steve furrowed his eyebrows in confusion at the sight of Tony leaning against the boys' bedroom door with his head hanging between his knees, the picture of defeat.
Hearing his husband's voice, Tony closed his eyes and tilted his head back until it hit the door–a thud that echoed with the man's despair. "He won't let me touch him, Steve. He–I–every time I try, he–"
Steve rushed over and embraced the distressed man.
"He fell off his bed because he was trying to get away from me! He–he called me 'sir,' and–Steve, he looked so scared! I must have scared him yesterday–I didn't mean to!" Tony wasn't crying, not yet, but it sounded like he wasn't far off.
"Shh, sweetheart, it's alright. We'll figure this out. How you reacted yesterday was justified, and if it scared him, then we just have to gain his trust back. It's as simple as that, Tony," Steve reassured his husband, somehow pulling him even closer.
Tony nodded and pushed Steve away from him gently, an urgency in his tone, now. "He–he might–say things that–well, frankly, Steve, it just confirmed what we knew about his past. Just–just be prepared. And make sure he drinks some water. I gave him a glass, but he didn't drink a lot."
"Will do," the soldier promised. "Come on, now, hun. Let's see how he's doing." Steve helped Tony stand and slowly cracked open the door. "Dean?" he called out, not receiving an answer.
Opening the door further, the men saw that Dean was fast asleep, sheets thrown away from him and hair sticking to his forehead with sweat.
"Dean, honey?" Steve neared the bed and lightly shook the teen until he heard a small groan. "Dean, I need you to wake up for a little bit. You need to drink some water."
Dean opened his eyes slightly and frowned when he saw the men hovering above him.
"Can you sit up for me, darling?" Steve asked. The teen nodded and began the arduous process of pushing himself up, grimacing the entire time. Steve moved to prop him up, holding out a hand for the extra pillows. Tony passed them over with apprehension, remembering what happened when he tried to do the same, but the boy just closed his eyes and allowed the man to adjust his body.
Tony let the relief of Dean finally accepting help overshadow the slight jealousy he felt at his husband being able to get so close to the boy without inducing panic.
He soon discovered the reason for the change in behavior, though: Dean, too tired to fight, had instead checked out; he was utterly detached from his surroundings and unconcerned with anything being done to him–resigned, and accepting of whatever happened.
Tony's heart broke at the realization, and he was flooded with sorrow for his son and all he'd gone through in his short, horror-filled life.
"There we go." The blond passed the teen the mostly-full glass of water from the bedside table. "Now, you don't need to drink all of it, but drink as much as you can without feeling sick, okay?"
Dean nodded and reached for the glass, surprising even himself when he chugged the entire thing. As soon as the boy was finished, he collapsed back against the pillows, and Tony surged forward to catch the glass before it could fall to the floor.
"You still look pretty tired, bud. Why don't you try to sleep it off a bit longer, eh?" Tony chimed in softly. The teen nodded sluggishly and offered no protest when his foster father removed the pillows and eased him back down.
Seeing his son sink into the mattress once more, Steve took the opportunity to check on Dean's fever. "Tony, he's still warm."
The engineer nodded. "The drug must still be in his system. It should go down soon; I'd say within the next hour or two, at least."
"Mmkay," the blond mumbled in response, the answer not alleviating his worries in the slightest. "Tony, can you get my laptop from my office? I'm gonna do my lectures from here to keep an eye on him."
Thus, Steve set up at Dean's desk, at an angle to better keep the boy in his peripheral vision. Time passed steadily as he spoke to his students about the Great Depression, and one hour faded into the next as he continued on to World War II. It wasn't until he was part-way through the rise of concentration camps that he noticed Dean writhing in his sleep, letting out sounds of distress.
Abandoning his lecture, Steve raced over to his son, shaking the boy's shoulder in an attempt to wake him from his nightmare. "Shh, Dean. C'mon, love, wake up! Everything's okay. You're safe. No one is going to hurt you, I promise. You're safe, darling."
Dean awoke with frantic eyes and a lazy attack that Steve easily blocked. Once the man saw recognition enter the teen's eyes, he gave a small smile and tilted his head in silent question.
Dean's eyebrows pulled together, and he shook his head, breathing deeply. Steve held his arms out, offering comfort. The teen studied his foster father, no doubt attempting to calculate risk versus reward, then extended a hand in return.
Steve grinned and slowly enveloped the boy's hand with one of his own, stroking his much larger thumb over smaller knuckles, imbuing as much love as he was able into the simple gesture. Thanking God he had such a large wingspan, the man reached out and snagged the laptop he'd left on the desk.
Never letting go of his son's hand, Steve got comfortable on the edge of the bed and continued with his lecture, watching Dean drift into a much more peaceful sleep.
It wasn't until he closed the computer hours later that Steve realized the entire exchange had taken place without words–only trust. He thought his heart might burst with the love he felt for this extraordinary child.