It's been a week since DressGate - yup, that's what Dean calls it in his head now, ever since his fantasies of seeing mommy in that dress came crashing down around his ears. Well, a part of him knew he was being a bit of a drama queen about it but man, he's still pissed. The other parts sure are.

A couple of hours after that kitchen talk that sealed the fate of the white dress, Cas came into Dean's room to talk. Dean's responses to his Dad's reprimand ranged from grunts to nods to "yes, sir"s that were laced with a hint of sarcasm, and finally a reluctant "acknowledgment" that, "sure, I was rude." ... "Yeah, why not? I'll apologize."

His father knew better of course - Dean was as hardheaded as his mom, and as shrewd as his dad. He wasn't ready to be forced into a change of heart about what happened, nope he wasn't budging, that much was crystal clear to Cas, but Dean wasn't too stupid to admit this either and risk getting grounded, or worse, spanked like a child.

So Dean was simply humoring his father; bending with the storm, and occasionally giving Castiel what he needed to hear. And Cas was going through the motions too. Earlier to this, Sam wouldn't hear anything about "a spanking" or enforcing some discipline, being consumed with guilt and convinced he should've just thanked Dean and fake-promised to wear the damn dress so as not to hurt his son's feelings like this. Dean would've eventually forgotten the dress existed. He's a teen, Sam reasoned, and teens have the attention spans of goldfish.

In short, Cas knew that he wasn't going to punish his boy per se, but he needed to act the part of the angry dad, and chastise his son for his attitude towards his mom to avoid an encore.

But Sam isn't the only reason Cas is going a little easy on Dean.

If you point a gun to his head, and force him to talk, Cas would reluctantly admit that he had his own reasons.

He understood.

A big part of Cas - though mad at the way Dean snapped at his mommy, on mother's day of all days - knew where Dean is coming from.

See, not all Alphas are the same; Cas himself is a case in point.

Born and raised in a conservative house, where Alpha-Omega traditions were strictly upheld, and his father's word was law, Castiel still grew up to be a liberal, of sorts. He broke ranks with the Winchester's stringent beliefs about what Alpha-Beta-Omega gender roles entitled, and there was nothing his family could do to change his mind. Knowing Sam has helped Cas solidify these liberal tendencies, with Sam being outspoken, especially on Omega rights and their freedom of choice and expression. Both of them frown upon archaic laws that sometimes reduce Omegas to glorified breeding holes and whittle Alphas down to talking knot-obsessed animals. They both reject this picture, and their lifestyle was a living proof.

Unlike other Alphas in his family, Cas is content with having only two children, and would have been with just the one, knowing how much Sam's body suffered during pregnancy and after. Alphas in Cas' family run tight ships, each having at least a half dozen children, whether their Omegas like it (or can handle it) or not, with some taking on beta mistresses, besides their wives, and impregnating those too. "Spreading the seed, brother," his second cousin Zachariah - father of nine - would say smugly.

His sex life with Sam is pretty vanilla, also atypical of Alpha-Omega relationships where the Alpha usually assert their dominance through things like sadomasochism, public claiming, painful bondage, prolonged orgasm denial and forcing themselves on their mates. Some Alphas even dare to collar their mates, like dogs. Castiel mentally cringes at the thought. He wouldn't dream of doing any of that to his precious Sammy. His six-foot-four beautiful, sensitive, delicate flower.

And although Castiel was beaming when his son presented as Alpha (his joy was a guttural, knee-jerk reaction that couldn't be helped), he would've loved him just the same if he had turned out to be Omega or Beta, he would've treated him no differently.

But here he is - a considerate, loyal husband, an Alpha advocating equal gender roles, and a father who set rules alright, but made exceptions, and often indulged his family (Cas' cousin Gabe jokingly calls Castiel a "soccer dad," and again Castiel isn't insulted by the sneer) - but his own son is apparently yearning for the same Alpha-Omega dynamics he and Sam have once rejected.

What do you know, Cas thinks with a smile. My own father would have a field day with this if he knows. Cas will try to make sure he doesn't ever.

If Castiel is reading this right, Dean is worming his way into becoming a standard Alpha, and Cas simply can't get himself to punish his son for that. Castiel is well aware that the aggressive, possessive, dark sexual tendencies of Alphas are hardwired; people are not just their biology, sure, but innate nature cannot be discounted. Being an Alpha himself, he knows it takes a lot to reign in those tendencies, and if it weren't for Sam, Castiel himself might have devolved.

In other countries of the world, things are different. In some places, omegas are even't allowed to step a foot outside the house, being seen with a mated omega can land you a fine, even a flogging depending on the nature of the encounter, while in others, like Europe for instance, Alphas are generally progressionists and the majority of Omegas live like Betas. Heck in Paris, the heart of the sexual revolution, Cas hears that Omegas can take multiple partners, "open relationships" and "free love" and all that. Even he can't stomach this notion. Thinking about Sam being touched by someone else, just the fleeting thought of it, makes his blood boil.

But in this society, traditional is the norm; him and Sam are the fringe movement.

Castiel's unconditional love for Sam, and his respect for their bond, tamed him.

But as liberal as he is, by this society's standards at least, Castiel is also open to the idea that perhaps his father's and his father's father's ways work for some people; that relating to one's nature on this primal level may also be a choice that he should respect.

So yeah, he understands his son might not turn out to be like him, and as scary as this idea is, if turns out to be true, he'll have to accept it, and only step in if his son goes too far.

Dean didn't know all that, of course, but he sensed his father was surprisingly level-headed about his rude outburst on that day.

Not that he regrets his outburst.

Dean, as agreed with Cas, murmured his apology, which of course his mommy immediately accepted, even apologized back but he still gave Sam the silent treatment for almost a week. Serves Sam right.

He'd speak only when talked to, sometimes responds with a mere shrug of the shoulders. And he keeps his words clipped.

He stopped following his mom around the house, and quit spending the afternoons in his arms, lazing on the sofa, reading together or watching TV or looking on as Sam breastfeeds his baby brother. Ever since his feelings had started last year, right after Adam was born, Dean and his mom have developed an intimate routine; not a day passes without them spending some time together, especially that his dad usually worked late into the evening so it was mostly just them.

Sometimes, they'd even unfold the living room's sofa bed, and take a nap together. Sam would lie down with Adam's tiny body sprawled on top on his chest, and Dean glued to one hip, drooling on his shoulder, their legs tangled together.

Not this week, Dean thinks. This week, he spends all his free time letting off steam in boxing training, or playing video games, surfing the internet or just lying on his bed and bobbing his head to AC/DC or staring at the ceiling, or sometimes, he'd jerk off and think of his mom.

He misses the intimacy, but he's holding his ground.

Part of him feels like teaching his mom a lesson. His omega. But the bigger part is just plain hurt Sam rejected him like this.

His mom of course is miserable. Only a day ago, when he'd strolled into the kitchen catching Sam off guard, he saw that his mom's eyes were red-rimmed and teary, and he knew it was because of him; his mom was sensitive like that, probably just as overly attached to him as he is to her. Not unlike him, throughout the past year, his mommy's heart was thoroughly warmed by their new-found closeness.

Sam actively encouraged the displays of affections, and heavily reciprocated, in all innocence of course.

When his mom noticed him come in, he quickly rubbed his eyes, cleared his throat, and asked him if he'd like something to eat. He did. They always had lunch alone. Dean had always thought of this time as his lunch dates with his mommy - with his dad out of the picture. They'd chat about random things, discuss Adam's latest baby antics or Sam would listen to Dean talk excitedly (or dejectedly, depending on the day) about his day at school, or out with friends (if it's summer time).

But this day they didn't exchange a word throughout the meal. Dean didn't look up from his plate, lest he be assaulted by a pair of doe-eyes that would probably make him lose all resolve. Time inched forward at an excruciatingly slow pace. On Dean's life, that meal was the longest 15 minutes of his existence.

Only at the end of that week, after they'd run into each other in the hallway, did the ice melt.

Dad was away for the day; he went fishing with his friends, the outing was planned weeks in advance, and Sam had stayed in to take care of Adam and Dean. He'd put Adam to sleep, after nursing him, and slipped into the shower. Sam stood under the hot water for close to 20 minutes trying to ease the tension in his shoulders and back. When he was done, he pulled a large towel around himself, covering up his swollen chest as well, and left the bathroom. Because of his figure, even the oversized towel didn't decently hide his nakedness enough.

The towel just barely covered his limp swinging prick, and if he bends forward just a little, his bare ass would jut out.

He should invest in a large fluffy bathrobe, pamper himself a bit, Sam thinks.

Heading out of his room for a reprieve from his self-imposed incarceration, Dean sees his mom come out of the bathroom, just opposite from him, at the same time. He was nude except for a towel, obscenely short, and failing to hide the miles of long legs, still damp from his shower apparently.

The towel wrapped tightly around his chest pushed up the swell of Sam's mounds giving him a bit of cleavage. Sam's thighs are muscled, and well-defined, and in contrast, his tits are soft and feminine (probably leaking milk right now, Dean thinks). The son's gaze moves over his mommy, his mouth going dry.

The man standing in front of Dean is gorgeous. And it's too late to turn away and hide in his room.

"Hey, sweetheart," Sam says awkwardly. He takes a deep breath and looks Dean right in the eyes. The doe eyes, damn it. Dean's screwed. "Still not talking to me?" Sam says, biting his lower lip, wetting it then releasing it. It's shiny now, friggin' edible. Dean's a little gone.

"No, mom, we're OK. I was just a little taken back," Dean says. He won't say he was hurt. He's too proud to admit it to his mom's face.

"You know, Dean," his mom begins, and mid-sentence, he looks away for a second and lifts his hands and runs them through his wet hair. When he does, the towel rides up an inch or two, and Dean catches a glimpse of his mommy's flaccid cock. Just the tip. Dean swallows audibly, blood pooling to his groin. Sam continues, "I was hurt too."

Dean swallows again, and his voice comes out hoarser than he'd intended, "Yeah?"

"Yeah Dean," his mom says. "The way you spoke about me. You know, being an omega. That was-that wasn't nice, sweetie."

That damn subject again.

"But you're an omega, mom," he says stubbornly, his half-arousal wilting. He doesn't want to pick a fight again, so he flattens his tone, adding: "I meant no disrespect. I was just stating a fact. It is who you are, mom."

"Well one day sweetie, we need to sit and have a good talk about this. 'Least when I'm not half-naked and dripping water all over the carpet," Sam says and smiles. "I'm not like other omegas, and I'm sure you've noticed that. Cas and I ..." Gulp.

Dean could see his mom's Adam apples' bobbing as he swallows.

"Your dad and I, we do things differently, and we don't care for a second what society says about that. I'd like to keep it this way," Sam explains. But his tone is apologetic now. It doesn't carry the sting or resoluteness than it did a week ago when they first discussed the dress.

Still means no dress.

God, he's turning into a knot-head.

"Yeah, I can see that." Dean says, feeling a little defeated.

"You don't like it." Sam says, and it's not a question. He looks guilty, like he's disappointed Dean.

"Does it matter?"

"Sweetheart, you just don't understand it well enough-"

"Then make me! Help me understand it."

"Ok, first off, I wanna know ... why do you wanna see me in a dress? Is it that important to you that I be like other omega moms?" Sam asks, and he's genuinely curious. The conversation might linger, so Sam leans back against the now closed bathroom door, easing his posture and making himself a tiny bit more comfortable.

"Yes," Dean says without thinking. Sam's reading this wrong, it's not about other omegas and what they do, it's about you, mommy, being my omega. But that's okay. If Sammy reads him right, Dean's screwed. "I mean, would it hurt to be normal, on occasion, do what everyone else does?"

He rests his back against his door too, mirroring his mommy's more relaxed posture.

"It's not only that," Dean says softly then pounds his head back lightly, against the door. "It's just that you're-you're so damn beautiful, mom." He guesses he can get away with a little swearing right now. "It's ridiculous. It takes my breath away sometimes. And I just want to see you in something nice, that brings it all out, you know, how pretty you are. It's not like I'm asking you to wear dresses all the time." A lie. "Just once or twice. For me."

He's finding it hard to explain without being explicit. "And it's different than anything else you have. If you wear it, it makes you ..." Mine. "It's-And I-it's just that." Dean looks down, suddenly interested in the carpet pattern beneath his feet.

Sam nods his head slowly, though part of him is visibly trying to fill the gaps, between Dean's words, to decipher the pauses and the stutters. That part gives up. Sam looks touched by the declaration though.

Then he surprises Dean.

"Ok, I'll think about it."

"Really?" Dean's head shoots up.

"Yeah, sweetie. Really." Sam smiles big. "Now, ready to give mommy a hug and make up?" He says spreading his arms wide.

Dean throws himself into Sammy's arms without an ounce of hesitation. His mom huffs out a breath at the contact then giggles at his son's sudden enthusiasm, in the wake of a dead cold miserable week.

If it'll keep Dean in his arms, where he belongs, Sammy will man up and wear the stupid dress. It's totally worth it, he concludes.

They keep their hold on each other, neither wanting to let go first.

Dean's head rests comfortably under Sam's chin, his own chin lying on top of Sammy's breasts. At 13, Dean is one tall boy; and he'll grow taller still. But Sam is huge.

He's huge and ripe, and soft and solid, and the smell of his soap-clean skin, and his flower-scented shampoo, washes over Dean and calms him. Sam smells like home, he is Dean's home.

The fuzzy feelings soon start being replaced by heat, and Dean feels it in his belly and beneath. He knows that if he lets this hug drag on for much longer, he'll get hard, fast. So he pulls back a little.

His mom doesn't let go completely.

"I'm sorry mom." This time Dean means it. "I was too hard on you. You're not just an omega to me."

"I know, Dean," Sam's gaze doesn't falter. "I guess I was oversensitive too. I have my baggage, and sometimes, I keep it close to the surface. There's nothing wrong with being an omega, son. A male omega. And I-I know that. It's just that I'd like to think I'm a little more than a child-bearing, breastfeeding omega to the people I love," Sam says, repeating Dean's words from that day. Dean catches on, of course.

"Mommy, I didn't mean it this way. Not as an insult. Never. I'm blessed that you gave birth to me. To my brother. I'm blessed that my omeg-my mom is a man. And breastfeeding, it's not something to be ashamed of. ... It's totally cool actually!"

Hearing this, Sam giggles again. His smiles are contagious; Dean smiles wide too. "You think so?," he asks.

"I know so, mom."

They gaze at each other for a moment. Then Dean does it. He pushes up, and starts placing soft kisses along his mother's throat, sliding his lips against skin as he moves down to Sam's collarbone. Kiss. "I'm sorry, mommy." Dean wets his lips, then moves lower still. Along the swell of his tits. Kiss. Then another. Then another. Small, wet butterfly pecks.

Then Dean pulls his arms out from around Sammy's waist. And ...

... He unknots the towel some, without unwrapping it completely, just enough to reveal his mommy's breasts.

Sam lets him have this. Dean doesn't know why, he doesn't care. Sam's silent except when his breath quickens a little as his tits are revealed. The nipples harden under Dean's unwavering, hungry, gaze.

Sam's breasts are full, heavy with milk, his dusky buds are now hard and, like always, a dark shade of pink. It's not like he hasn't seen his mommy's tits before. But this, this is different. Dean senses his mommy knows it too, though he might not be able to put a finger on why.

Right in front of Dean's eyes, a drop of milk forms on one duct and trickles down. Dean catches it with a finger and licks it. Then places a chaste kiss on each nipple, whispering I'm sorry, his lips brushing the nipples as he speaks.

He hikes the towel back up, then braves a look at Sammy. His mommy's cheeks are flaming, he looks shy, confused perhaps but-his eyes are full of love. Like always. "Thank you, Dean," he whispers, clutching Dean's hands and pulling them to his lips. He places a kiss inside of each palm.

...

The following Saturday, Dean wakes up to some music blaring from the kitchen, and his mom singing along, probably dramatically, performing for Adam who usually squeaks and laughs at his mommy's theatrics. It's Angus and Julia Stone's Big Jet Plane, Dean recognizes the lyrics and secretly judges himself for it. His mom, the romantic. Argh, what happened to sweet old Metallica, mom? He thinks. He hates mornings. He splashes his face with water, brushes his teeth, and walks down.

And there he is. His mommy Sam in a white dress.

The white dress.

Adam is already up of course, in his high chair, spitting out food and making a happy mess. Mommy's lips quirk into a big smile when he sees Dean come in. He's prepared a big breakfast. Eggs and sizzling hot bacon, pancakes and orange juice.

Mommy gives him a quick pec on the cheek. Then swirls around, showing herself.

"What do you think?" Sam asks, a little shy from the looks of it. "Your daddy is out of town, and I thought I could just put it on for a few hours. It could be our little secret. Until I'm comfortable enough to wear it again, if I'm comfortable enough." Dean almost doesn't believe his ears. Their secret. Castiel is not going to have a piece of this. This is just for him?

Dean looks at Sam, from head to toe, taking it all in. The dress falls low on Sam's back, revealing it all.

The dress is not low-cut on the front, but the outline of Sam's pecs is clear, the hard nipples are poking out through two damp - now transparent - spots on the front, and Dean's eyes linger there for a bit. Sam notices, and quickly explains to Dean that the spots are washable. It's just milk. "It won't stain," he says. "This dress doesn't go well with any of my bras."

And thank the Lord for that, Dean thinks, his eyes going back to those wet spots. His cheeks burn hot and his cock gives a twitch. Then another when Dean's eyes move down along the expanse of Sam's body, all the way from his floppy hair to his bare toes stopping at the high-cut slit at the front of Sam's dress.

Every time he moves around the kitchen, the open sides of the skirt flutter revealing Sam's thick thighs and long unshaved legs. My heart, Dean thinks.

Dean needs to sit down, he decides, and hide what will soon be an embarrassingly full arousal behind the kitchen table.

When he does, he takes several deep breaths, thinks of big fat spiders, grandpa and grandma going at it and other ugly things that could help his erection die down. He succeeds a little, and his length falls to half-mast. Phew, disaster averted. Mostly.

...

Later this evening, Dean walks into the living room to find his mommy snoozing on the sofa. He still tires easily, ever since Adam, and he usually collapses by late afternoon, or early evening. Sammy is half sitting up, half lying down, his back resting against the arm of the sofa and his head is falling on his shoulder. Fatigue left him boneless, apparently, and drooling a little and Dean finds the latter adorable instead of gross.

Sam's mouth is slightly open, one arm falling to the floor, the other on his chest. One knee is slightly bent, resting against the back of the couch, the other is bent up and away, hiking up the dress, the skirt of it falling wide open and putting Sam on display. Not used to being in a dress, Sam's body is accustomed to comfort and openness. Being in shorts or pants all the time, it's subconscious; Sam's not used to closing his thighs or crossing his legs to hide his modesty, which is right now beautifully exhibited.

Dean's eyes flicker to between his mommy's lax legs, and Sam's white briefs are in full view.

His heart races.

His mommy is spread out like a delicious treat for his eyes only.

Dean moves closer, almost on tip toe, trying to be as quiet as he can. Don't wake up mommy please, Dean thinks. Just let me see, show me please. Show me. Dean keeps repeating this like a mantra in his head as he approaches his mom.

He's kneeling by the sofa now. His heart almost stops at what he glimpses. A fire burns hot in his belly. His gaze gets fixed between Sam's spread legs, and ...

... in his sleep, Sam's slack briefs have slipped to the side and now part of Sam's hairy sac is exposed. Dean can't stop staring, and it feels dirty wrong, in all the right ways.

He keeps staring, mesmerized, his own chest rising and falling sucking in breaths at double speed.

Dean wishes he could bend forward and take Sam's naked heavy balls into his mouth and suck, lick a wet stripe across Sam's junk, mouth at the head through the cottony fabric. Dean's own cock fattens up as his gaze travels between Sam's open mouth, slack briefs and his covered tits. His hips jerk. Once, twice. He starts alternating between rubbing his cock to give himself some relief, then kneading his balls (almost bruisingly) to stop himself from creaming his underwear. He desperately wants to rut against the couch, or better his mommy, but he can't chance Sam waking up.

His own briefs are now damp with precome.

He plucks up some courage, and runs a finger against mommy's balls. He looks up at his face. Sammy hasn't even stirred, his mommy is fast asleep.

Then without hesitating, Dean takes the rim of the threadbare, loose fabric and stretches it to the side exposing more of the hidden treasure beneath. He can now see cock.

For an Omega, Sammy is well endowed.

Now that he can see everything, Dean can't stop looking at his mommy's nuts and flaccid prick.

He wants to take Sam into his mouth and taste him there, nibble on the flesh. Perhaps bury his nose under Sam's sac, take several deep breaths. Smell his mommy down there, take in the pure omega scent.

He wants to breathe his mommy.

But he can't, not now, so instead, he kisses, very lightly. Nuzzling Sam's exposed bag, the inside of his thigh, his cock.

He releases the briefs, letting them go slack again.

Before he stands up to go back to his room - find some release there, jerking off to the memory of this display - Dean fondles Sam's mounds a little, brushes the pads of his thumbs across mommy's engorged nipples, then leans in and kisses the corner of his mouth.

One day he'll be able to touch his mom like this when he's awake, he tells himself. Holding this thought, Dean gets up and walks away.