"That wasn't a big forest, Sammy," she giggles, "Don't look so scared."
I can finally see the family house far off in the distance, at last, and I hear birds singing. I release a sigh I didn't know I was trapping, my shoulders sagging, the terror that tightened my chest back in the forest losing its grip as quickly as my irises are catching the light of this otherwise bright day. The adrenaline withdrawal is making my knees go weak. And I know, now that the forest is behind me, that my fears are mostly irrational.
"But it was very dark," I insist to her, if only to save some face.
"It's grandfather's forest ... nothing to be afraid of," she says, voice bright and fearless, like always, eyes green with a little mischief. She lives for these moments of recklessness and adventure; plunging into them, both feet in, and with all her heart.
I hate and love her for it.
"Hey, what's over there?" I say stopping in my tracks, and holding her back.
"Hurm, sky. Trees. A squirrel-" she responds humorously, stating the obvious, never giving up an opportunity to poke fun at me some.
"To the west," I cut her off and nudge her shoulder, raise a finger and point to our left.
Silence.
"An unknown wind," I whisper.
"And the promised land," she says, suddenly gone solemn, gazing to where my stare is locked. My eyes flicker over to her. I watch her and that look on her face? It's as if the howling wind is calling her name. Her green eyes are glistening. In the light of day, the freckles dusting her nose and cheeks stand out. She's so beautiful. I gulp audibly, hold her hand, lace our fingers together and tighten my grip.
Sometimes, when she scares me, I cling to her.
A moment later, her hands wriggle free anyway. She slips from me. "Aren't you coming, little brother?"
And suddenly she's so far away from me, out of reach, golden locks blowing away in the breeze. I know what's coming next and I start to panic.
She walks towards the wind.
"No, wait. Don't go. Stop. Wait, Mary.
... MARY!"
Sam jerks awake, as his own hoarse voice tries to tear its way through the veil separating dream and real world - he comes to, with a sharp intake of breath. He's covered in sweat and tears. It takes Sam a few minutes to find his bearings. He can still feel her, like they were actually together again, like she was real. He can smell her and God, he misses her so much his heart breaks. He is too afraid to stir, or blink or inhale a little sharply lest the memory of the dream - of her face - may elude him. He wants to hold on to it for a little longer, with all his might.
He remembers his own voice from the dream, pleading with her not to leave him alone, and more tears fall.
Sam, Sam. The litany continues. "Sam!" Someone is speaking to him, but their voice feels like it's being carried from miles away. Sam is still in his head, tears pouring, trickling onto the pillow on which his head is laid. He's still naked; after all the love making, he was too spent to move. Until he woke up a minute ago, Sam hadn't even realized he had drifted off.
Suddenly, a weary-looking Cas comes through the bedroom door, looking a little perturbed. So it's Cas who called for him, Sam thinks. "I went checking on Dean, and he's in his bed, but he looks ill and he's not waking up," he declares.
Sam immediately jumps off the bed, all traces of his dream - and the nostalgia, longing and sense of loss that came with it - vanish. These feelings are now being replaced by dread and fear. Sam stands up too quickly, his vision swims. But he grips the night stand to steady himself, then without wasting another second, reaches for his sweats.
"Easy, Sam," Cas says quickly. "The boy's breathing, he's probably alright. He's just feverish I think, and out of it," Cas adds, seeing how distraught his earlier comment has made Sam, who now looks as pale as a white sheet. Damn, he shouldn't have scared him like that.
"We don't know that," Sam says sharply, quickly throwing a t-shirt and sweat pants on, going commando. "For all we know, he took a hit to the head in training and he's sustaining a serious injury. If he's unconscious-"
"I didn't say he's unconscious, Sam! Not exactly." Cas says as they both pad hurriedly to Dean's room, Sam still barefoot.
Once inside, Sam runs to his son's side, and starts patting Dean all over, looking for any sign of injury. He slides away the covers, to take a better look, searching for bruises, or breaks, feeling Dean's neck, skull, chest, wrists, legs and feet for breaks. Sam's touch less frantic, more clinical now. Dean is sleeping in his boxer briefs, so Sam doesn't have to remove any clothing. Dean doesn't protest or so much as wince in pain when Sam prods with his fingers.
Sam lets out a huff of breath. "Nothing looks broken to me Cas, no bruising ... Dean, honey, wake up. Dean!"
Dean's chest is wheezing, though, his face is tinged red, and he only stirs and his head lolls fitfully when Sam tries to rouse him. Sam can also feel the tremors going through his son's body now, so he pulls the thin covers over Dean.
Sam himself is now breaking in cold sweat.
"Cas, quick, bring me the extra blanket from Dean's closet," Sam says. Then gently, "Dean, sweetheart, you're scaring mommy here. Come back to me. Open your eyes, come on."
Cas throws the extra cover over their boy's shivering body. "I told you Cas, I told you, a million times over, these boxing classes are dangerous. They should stop. Dean could be sustaining a head trauma ... g-god forbid ... a concussion or internal bleeding, or-or something much worse. God, I'm never letting him go back there again."
"Don't you think his coach would've called if something bad went down?"
Sam ignores his husband's attempt at reassurance.
"Dean! Dean, honey." Sam is losing his grip fast.
"Sam, just breathe, I highly doubt De's in any mortal danger. Baby, he's woozy, but I bet it's just a fever, that's all."
"Just a fever?"
"I mean, if he were injured, it would-" Sam gives him a murderous look, and Cas lets his words die out. He knows better than to argue any further with Sam when his wife is in this viciously protective mode, and let's face it, he's worried too. "Alright, I'll go give Coach Hendrikson a call and see if Dean's taken any hard punches to the head. Or if he fell or something. Let's hope not though. Maybe the kids sparred. Check his temperature until I'm back, Sam."
Minutes later, Cas returns. "There was no training today, it was cancelled."
"It's 102," Sam says, stomach churning.
"So a boxing injury is ruled out then," Cas says.
Sam is still trying to lure his lethargic son into consciousness. He climbs into bed with him. Some of the tension leaves his shoulder now that he knows something like a head trauma, a hit to the kidney or heart, or internal bleeding are off the table.
He's still dead worried though.
"I wonder where he'd gone to then? Why didn't he call? Do you think he might have come home early, and sneaked past us?"
"Here! His eyes are fluttering open," Sam says excitedly, not paying one bit of attention to Cas' musings. "Come on sweetheart, wake up for mommy, love. Yeah. That's it, beautiful. Show mommy those gorgeous eyes."
First, Dean becomes aware of murmurs, whose intensity ebb and flow. They scratch their way into his brain.
His head still feels like a brick, his lids heavy and tightly sealed, his breath short, and his brain is groggy. His chest, for some reason, is whistling.
He realizes he's lying in his own bed and the murmuring belongs to his parents. He forces his eyes open in response to his mommy's voice - it takes a few tries, but the room finally comes into view.
His mom is propped up against the headboard, lying beside him in bed, with Dean's head in his lap. Sam's face is hovering over his. His mommy's soft hair is falling like a curtain around his face, and his brows are knotted together in concern.
Dean looks back at his mom through droopy eyes, then past him to his dad, standing at the foot of the bed, and both look worried.
What's the big deal? Sure, he feels like roadkill. But Dean doesn't understand all the fuss.
His mom begins caressing his cheek. "Hey," he says, with a small smile.
Dean just flutters his eyes; he's finding it hard to both keep his eyes popped open and get his mouth to work and form words.
His throat is parched.
His mom feels his forehead again, then lays his palm against Dean's cheek and asks softly, "how are you feeling, sweetheart?"
"Water," he says, and Cas runs out and comes back with a glass of water. "Fetch some paracetamol, Cas," Sam says, and his mom helps Dean sip on the liquid, and then after, swallow the pills.
"W-what?" Dean says when he's done, can barely speak around the lump in his throat. His voice feels week when he asks, "what's wrong?"
Cas sighs in relief, now that his son is talking, then starts explaining.
"You're just running a fever, baby boy," it was Cas' turn to speak. "I found you here looking like death warmed over, fast asleep. Naturally, your mom and I got worried. Ehm, we didn't feel you come in."
Of course you didn't, thinks Dean with a tinge of bitterness, you were too busy fucking each other stupid.
"Your cheeks look flushed, and you were groaning in pain when we first tried to wake you up," Sam says, then his voice breaks as he continues. "You wouldn't wake up baby, no matter how hard we nudged. You scared me there, sweetie."
His mommy looks consumed with concern and nothing like the wanton slut moaning in bed earlier. He leans in to place a few feather-light kisses on Dean's nose, and the corner of his mouth. He'd turn his head away ... from the lips that were wrapped around Castiel's cock ... but he's too damn tired to move. So he settles for recoiling, stomach turning like he'll throw up.
"Let's put some fluids into him, Sam," Cas says, a shadow of discomfort flickering through his face at the intimate kissing.
Cas also hates that anything that goes wrong with the world can somehow impart a touch of guilt on his wife. He can see it, like it's Sam's fault Dean has fallen ill.
Castiel of course - and he knows Sammy is probably thinking it too - is mulling over the possibility that Dean's body got affected by Sam's waning heat once he came back home; the remnants of the intense, electrifying wave of omega arousal that hit Sam like a freight train, following a nearly three-year-long dry spell, must have shaken the young alpha up a bit.
If it's the case, then as the remains of Sam's heat subside and die out during the night, Dean will automatically get better, probably perfect by morning.
"Do you want anything to eat, darling?" Sammy purrs, still caressing his cheeks.
"No," Dean croaks. "Not hungry."
"If his fever doesn't let up in a few hours, I'm driving him to the ER," Sam turns to Cas saying, his voice becoming suddenly no-nonsense.
"Let's just wait and see it through the night. Give the pills a chance to work. He'll be Ok, I promise," Cas says, leaning more and more towards the idea that this is caused due to Sam's heat.
Sammy is being a drama queen, Cas thinks.
Sure, he's a little worried about his son too, but now that Dean's up, there's no need to be frantic about it. Besides, Cas is due back at work early tomorrow, and as much as he wants to make sure his son is fine, he also wants to have some rest in order to be useful for himself and everyone. Following four days of barely leaving the bed, keeping his Sammy satisfied, orgasm after another barreling through them, Castiel wants to collapse into a restful sleep.
"I don't think I can wait all night," his mommy says, voice hard.
"We'll see what happens, Sam ... I'll go heat up some soup, you stay with him."
"Get me the baby mo-oh, scratch that. Worry over De is making me stupid. Forgot Adam's not here."
This gets Dean's attention.
"Adam is not back yet?" he asks, clearing his throat, which is still scratchy.
"Not yet, sweetheart," his mommy says.
"I was about to go out and pick him up, De, when I realized you don't look so good," Cas explains. "Sam, I think I better call mom and Naomi and ask them to take care of him for one more night."
"You better, yeah. God knows I miss the adorable pipsqueak but Dean needs me more right now." Sam says, without hesitating. "Not leaving your side until you're 100 percent all right, sweetie," he says to Dean, placing a chaste kiss on his mouth. Castiel grimaces, but he doesn't comment; he knows better than to take Sam on this now.
Dean doesn't believe Sam just kissed him with the same mouth that was slurping up come from his father's cock. Yuck! If they french kiss, Dean would probably taste alpha semen. Double yuck!
"I'm fine," Dean croaks weakly, roughly rubbing his mouth on his naked forearm to remove all traces of that kiss. There's still some good old Winchester stubbornness left in him despite his condition, and he still doesn't want to be around his mom right now, with the pain so fresh, and the memory of what he saw so close.
It doesn't help that his mom is showering him with affection. He simply can't dismiss the images that keep attacking his brain every time Sam touches him.
"No, you're not, buddy. You better listen to your mommy," Castiel says, and his voice is poison to Dean's ears.
What the fuck ever, Dean thinks, but keeps his lips sealed.
It's one of those extremely rare times Dean feels his body is burning hot, not just from the fever, but from being so close to his mommy - and not in a sexy way. He smells nauseatingly like Cas, right now; the Alpha's scent is permeating through his mommy's body.
An Alpha scent cannot be washed away easily. It sinks into the skin, settles in it and it'll probably take a few days and several showers to fickle out.
To make it all worse, Dean catches a glimpse of his dad's fresh claiming mark on the side of his mommy's neck, and another love bite sitting low on Sam's collar-bone right above his chest.
Sammy's deep V-neck shirt is putting all these hickeys on display.
Dean wonders if Sam chose this item on purpose to show off his alpha's mark claims. The bitch. He's probably got more love marks, peppering his body.
His mommy is braless right now, the thin white t-shirt he's donning is thin, and thanks to his lactating breasts, Sammy's nipples are showing behind two translucent spots on the front. His mom's dusky as-good-as-exposed dark pink nipples poking obscenely through the material only reminds Dean of how Sam was finger fucking them earlier today as he writhed underneath Castiel in their marriage bed, his greedy, wanton hole fluttering and gaping, begging silently for cock.
The image makes Dean's vision go white all of a sudden. In panic, he sits up and he starts heaving, and then he empties the meager contents of his stomach. Thankfully his mom was right there with a bucket under his chin, which he'd fetched as fast as lightning, once the heaving started.
It's embarrassing as hell to throw his food back up like this in front of his parents, the man he loves least of all. And yes, his dad chose this minute to walk back into the room with the hot broth, just in time to witness his humiliation. But Dean's too drained to care right now. And at least he didn't get sick all over himself or Sam. Small mercies.
When he's done puking his guts out, his dad whips out a clean wet towel for Dean to wipe his mouth with, and then hands him more water. Dean takes a few gulps.
Before getting a chance to lie back down, Dean's suddenly snatched by two giant arms, dragged across the bed, and is being pulled snugly against his mom's chest. Dean lets out a small yelp, and finds himself sitting between Sam's spread legs, his back to Sam's chest. Sam's upright and leaning against the headboard.
Dean can feel his mom's groin against his lower back and his breath is one ear. Sam winds an arm tightly around him, and urges him to relax.
Dean stays stiff, however, and if he weren't too drained, he'd forcefully wriggle out of his mom's arms.
If you think that a mouth that was just overflowing with vomit is super gross and untouchable, think again, because Sam doesn't think twice before whispering, "come here," turning Dean's head back, and placing a quick peck on his lips. For some reason, his mother can't stop touching and kissing him in front of Cas tonight, and it's making Dean's cheeks burn. Dean rolls his eyes, and quickly rubs the back of his hand against his lips.
Cas gives his son this look; probably the man thinks Dean is turned off by his mom being extra schmoopy and overbearing. And he is, but for private reasons, and not because he wouldn't normally welcome this kind of attention to his lips.
To add to his mortification, Sam asks Cas to hand him the bowl of soup with the spoon, and very carefully Sam takes them, each in a hand, and brings a spoonful of the hot soup to Dean's mouth. "Come on, open up," Sam says casually, like spoon feeding his grown-ass 14-year-old son is the most natural thing in the world.
Again, this morning, Dean would've welcomed the cheesy gesture, but right now it makes him want to run for the door.
"No friggin' way," he says, and crosses his arms tightly, feeling trapped by Sam's giant arms bracketing his upper body. He's in fact sandwiched between Sam's torso and Sam's hands now holding the food right in front his face.
Cas is momentarily amused, what with Dean looking like a caged animal, blinking rapidly as he stares at the spoon like it's going to eat him alive. With all his snappiness, hard shell and strong opinions, it hits Castiel that Dean is still painfully young.
"Don't be a baby."
"No, mom, I'm being the exact opposite of that. Cos only babies are spoon-fed like, you know ... like babies!"
The fight is coming back to Dean now that there's something he can rebel against.
Sammy giggles; he's happy his son's attitude is back in force, it means he's alive and kicking, and strong enough to be a pain-in-the-ass. And God knows, Sam needs this. He almost suffered a stroke the moment Cas told him Dean's not waking up, back in their room.
He doesn't even want to recall the degree of panic those words stirred in him.
So he doesn't. And instead keeps torturing Dean with the spoon, which now Sam is pressing against a thin pair of tightly-sealed lips. Dean can grow up all he wants, or think he has, because to Sam, he'll always be his baby. And right about now, Sam needs to reassure himself his baby's here; the spoon-feeding is partly for him.
When his son opens his mouth to protest yet again, Sam uses the opening - literally - and shoves the spoon into Dean's mouth. Dean, of course, huffs and puffs but Sam eventually manages to spoon feed him every last drop.
Dean avoids eye contact with his father.
When they're done, Cas takes the empty bowl away, and moments later, Dean is fast asleep again.
Sam gently extracts himself from behind Dean. He goes to grab a quick shower. Cas keeps a vigilant eye over their boy during.
When he's all clean, Sam heads back to the room, and finds that Cas is already dozing off, head lolling on one shoulder. Sam takes pity on his man, walks up to him, places a soft kiss on his mouth to wake him up, then tells him to move to their room.
Sam himself peels the covers on Dean's bed, gets under them, and sinks into the bed beside his resting son.
"Sam, what are you doing?"
"What does it look like, Cas?"
Cas drags his hands through his hair. Sam can be too much sometimes.
"He looks better now, Sam. And baby, it's a small bed, and you're a Sasquatch. The boy needs his space."
"Not tonight he does."
Cas sighs heavily.
"Just come with. He'll be fine, want you in my arms tonight."
"Can't do, hon. I'm not leaving his side until he's out of the woods."
"He sort of is, I can sense that his fever is letting up already. And you must be weary yourself."
"I'm alright, trust me. You go get some rest, honey."
"Sam!" Cas says, voice colored with frustration.
"What?"
"What if it's the last of your heat that has caused this? Have you thought of that?"
"Of course, but my body is recovering by the hour, Cas, I can feel it. If my heat did cause this, being close to me won't make him any worse than he is now. And if it's not, being watched over by mommy will certainly help him sleep better."
"He's already fast asleep."
"Cas, please!"
"God, alright," he says, scrubbing his face with his hand. "You two are unbelievable, you know that?"
"We are, and you love it, come here you big baby and give me a proper kiss." Cas's shoulders slump in surrender, then he walks up to the bed, and presses their lips together. Cas kisses softly at first, then he picks up some speed, curling a possessive hand around Sam's neck, licking at Sam's sensual lips, nipping the upper lip, then suckling on it, plunging his tongue into Sam's mouth. He catches his husband's tongue and practically slurps it, the kiss quickly turned sizzling hot and sloppy. God, Cas can never get enough of his wife. He often wonders what he's done right to deserve him. Sam's head falls back, a little, his lips quirk into a smile, mid-kiss, then he moans into Castiel's mouth and pushes at his chest gently.
"Go, Cas," Sammy whispers sweetly. "Before we start humping like teenagers in our son's bed."
Sam adds playfully that they've had enough of that for today, and Cas, begrudgingly, agrees. He's beat.
"Ehm, Sam," he begins as he leaves the room, before he shuts the door. He doesn't know why he feels he needs to say this but he does. Before he hesitates, it comes out of his mouth, but he doesn't meet Sam's eyes as he speaks. "Just ... just don't take your clothes off while you sleep here, okay?"
"Woah, what? Why the heck would I-Where is this coming from, Cas?"
He doesn't know how to respond to this; clearly not thinking past his request.
"Cas?"
"I don't know. Forget it. It's a stupid thing to say. Go to sleep. I'll drop by to check on you both before I head out tomorrow."
"Yeah, you do that, Cas," says Sam, giving his husband a tight-lipped smile. Nodding his head, he adds, "Love you, okay?"
"Yeah, yeah. Love you back!"
...
Sam wakes up, at 6:00 am, curled around his son. He checks Dean's forehead and it's cool, and his breathing is even. They're okay now, phew. He allows himself to relax now. His husband is right; his heat is the culprit.
Sammy is still tired, but something has made his body restless, perhaps another dream that he now can't remember because he can feel the shadow of something lurking, and the memory of the other dream is re-surfacing, now that he's not as crazy worried about Dean as last night.
Sam pads to the restroom, splashes his face with some water, brushes his teeth, stares at his tired reflection in the mirror for a minute, runs his fingers through his unruly morning hair, finally sighs heavily and moves to the kitchen to brew some coffee.
Cas will probably be up any minute now. Cas always wakes up at un-Godly hours because he likes taking his time getting ready for work. Sam's hardworking husband is always first on his desk, and sometimes, the last to leave the office. When Sam knew him, Cas was being groomed to be his older brother Michael's right hand at their family-owned law firm. Cas had began studying law only to drop out and shift interests to marketing and PR - that was after he'd insisted on partnering with Sam, of course, and his father had told him that there was no place for him in the family business if he insisted on Sam, or their life. For Cas, there wasn't even a choice there. Sam was it for him. It seems like a lifetime ago when this happened, and although Cas and his father made up, Cas refused to change horses again, and stuck with his career choices.
Now, Cas is one promotion away from being the PR director at his company, a medium-sized enterprise. This promotion carries the promise of a much better pay and traveling opportunities and Cas is working so hard to get it. Sam is immensely proud of how dedicated Cas becomes when he's set his sight on something, though for long, Sam hadn't appreciated spending long afternoons and evenings on his own, or taking care of a kid, alone, thanks to Cas's sometimes ridiculous working hours.
Sam won't lie, he's pulled his share of tantrums in the past, ones that would make his hot-blooded son proud. He sometimes resented how demanding his husband's job could get. Sam is generally supportive and all, but sometimes, even for a family man like Sam, it's hard when it all falls on him; the cooking, cleaning, taking Dean to and from school plus his training, helping his son with his homework and projects, and now he does all that with a baby on his arm. Cas helps when he can, but naturally, with a full schedule, it's not near enough.
That being said, in the last couple of years, with Dean stepping up, and becoming a source of comfort for Sam, the brunt has been eased. He's still doing most of the work in the house - being the stay-at-home wife between them and with Cas providing - but it's now different. Now, he looks forward to the afternoons with his son, to their talking, to having his son's head on his lap, and to basking in all the love Dean has started to provide.
There was a phase between Dean being a cute and adorable baby, and him being a loving teen again, when the boy was snappy, dismissive of his mommy's affections and sometimes downright rude and hurtful. Sam has endured this dark phase, alright, trying to be patient as he could.
He got that his kid was growing up and fighting for a semblance of independence, but Sam was not happy.
He felt he was losing his kid - to his friends, to his obsession with boxing, to the first signs of adulthood - and Sam knows he's being selfish, but he loathed it. When Sam would try to kiss Dean, or take him out for an evening of fun "mommy and son quality time" and his Dean would recoil or refuse, Sam would genuinely feel hurt; sometimes he'd even cry in his room like a jilted lover, and he'd judge himself for it later, reprimand himself for being too attached.
But now, with Dean being everything to him again, not becoming embarrassed to be "joined at the hip" anymore (regardless of what his friends at school say), and not holding back his affections), Sam's in heaven.
His son's newfound passion for their relationship, and their growing intimacy, has breathed life into Sam.
Sometimes, Sam feels he can't get close enough - feels like he wants to burrow inside of Dean's skin, and sink into him ... He wishes he could take Dean back into his womb, in order to keep him safe, sound, nurtured and part of him for good.
And even though Sam dreams of the day when his son would grow up and start his own family, he honestly can't imagine being away from Dean for more than a day or two, let alone giving him up to someone else for life ... let alone hand him over to a beta or an omega who probably doesn't deserve him (and no, Sam doesn't even need to see who Dean would end up with to know that they don't and won't ever deserve Dean's beautiful heart or million-watt smile).
The sun shines out of his son's ass, dammit, and anyone would be immensely lucky to get him! If it's up to Sam, his son wouldn't mate with anyone before he's 40. He's a suffocating mom, so? Bite him.
Sam smiles to himself.
"Someone looks relaxed this morning," Cas says, walking into the kitchen, already suited up. "And oh, the coffee smells good. Morning, honey," he adds and swoops in for a quick kiss.
"Morning."
"I dropped by Dean's room, thought you'd still be there too. He looks much better," Cas remarks.
"He is, I think. But I'm letting him skip school today."
"Right before the weekend, well, lucky him! That's three off days in a row. Some of us don't have the luxury, sick or not. Which reminds me, I'll probably be staying late today. Don't wait up. From the deluge of incoming mail, it looks like the pile of pending work is high up to the ceiling. I'll have a tough day ahead of me."
"Aww, I'm sorry to hear that, come here," Sam says and pulls Cas into a quick hug.
"I'll call Naomi, and see if she can be a good soul and drive Adam back here later tonight. If she can't, do you mind picking him up yourself?"
"Sure."
Sam begins preparing some sandwiches for the road for his hubby, breakfast on the go, while Cas scrolls through his phone, probably catching up on his mail already. Cas usually drives for at least an hour to get to work; and in bad traffic, you can add an extra half hour for good measure.
"Cas," Sam says. "Remember Mary?"
Cas raised an eyebrow. "Erm, yeah. Well, from you mostly. I mean from your stories."
Silence. Sam's face looks sombre, all of a sudden.
"What's going on, honey? Who do you ask?"
"Nothing," Sam says. "Remind me to show you a picture. Ehm, she looks, ah looked, a bit like Dean. The, ehm, grass green eyes." Sam's voice cracks. "The f-freckles. Even the temper, ha! She was so goddamn beautiful, Cas. I wish you'd seen her, man." Sam's tears are running down his face now.
"Sammy, come here baby," Cas says and takes his wife in his arms, and Sam starts sobbing softly. For the life of him, Cas has no idea where this is coming from, or why Sam has suddenly decided to dwell on his sister's memory. But he doesn't need to understand, except that his wife is downcast right now and he needs him, so he holds him tight until Sam's calm again. Perhaps it's lingering emotions from the heat, who knows.
When the waterworks are done, and Cas is off to work, Sam's head feels weary, so he goes back to Dean's room and crawls into bed with him.
...
Dean wakes up to a heaviness at his back, and a solidness wedged between his legs. Spatial recognition takes him a moment, then he realizes he's in his bed, with his mom spooning him.
Sammy's arms are snaked around his waist, one palm sits low on his naked stomach (he's still in his boxers), and Sam's nose is buried in his hair; Dean can feel his warm, even breaths. Sam has pushed one of his long legs between Dean's own, and so their limbs are now tangled together. And hold the phone, Sam is shirtless from the feel of it; his boobs are squished against Dean's upper back, and Dean can sense some wetness, probably from his mom's hard and leaky nubs. He can feel those too, poking gently.
And of course, Dean - like the typical teenager he is - has popped some wood while sleeping, and Sam's proximity is not helping in this area. The covers are now bunched around their feet, so there's no where to hide either.
Trying to extract himself without rousing Sam is difficult, but no one can accuse Dean of not trying. Of course he tries and fails miserably, and mommy stirs, and pops his eyes open. Sam takes his arms away from beneath Dean, and sits half up, propped on an elbow. He gently turns Dean so he's lying on his back and he takes a look at his boy. Dean's dick is at full mast, and his face heats up, because mommy will see his wood right about now.
But Sammy's focused on his face and eyes for now, and once Dean meets his gaze, Sam shoots him a blinding ear-to-ear smile, dimples and all. "How's my boy this morning?" Sam says, carding his fingers lovingly through Dean's hair.
"I'm OK," Dean says, gulping, and turning his head away. He's super embarrassed, and still can't get himself to go easy on his mom; he just can't with what he saw last night. His gaze catches the clock on the side-table, and it's way past the time for school. He guesses his mom has decided he's off. See, today of all days, Dean wouldn't have actually minded school - if only to get away from his mom, get his mind off things and ask his "girlfriend" out after school, you know, to get lucky ... to blow off steam. Always to blow off steam, nothing more.
"You look it and I'm glad ... oh God, Dean, I was so scared baby," Sam says, tilts Dean's head back, and attacks his mouth. Between them, kissing on the lips is on the table now, but Sam's kissing right now has an edge of hunger to it that wasn't there in earlier kisses and which does nothing to help with his lingering phallic problem, down there between his legs.
Despite the temptation to reciprocate and deepen the kiss, Dean pulls back, burying his head further into the cushion to get away from his mom's mouth. But his mom's face is right up in his, and their lips are still almost touching when he manages to finally free his now throbbing lips from Sam's own.
His mom's gaze is locked with him, and Sam immediately senses his son's flinching. "What? What's wrong, Dean?"
"Nothing."
"Are you sure?"
And before Dean gets to respond, his mom's eyes accidentally flicker lower, and he catches the sight of his son's prick tenting his boxer briefs obscenely. Dean's face flares with heat and his cheeks are now tomato-red.
"Oh," Sam smiles, amused. "Erm. That's nothing to be shy about, sweetheart-"
"MOM! Just drop it," Deans says, looking away mortified.
"I will if you give me a big old kiss, woody wood pecker."
"Jesus, MOM!" He pushes him away, attempting to get up. Sam steals another kiss before he releases his son, not catching on the real reason why his son is extra snappy and a tad bit aggressive. Sam probably think he's irritated only for being caught with a stiffy, so he leaves him to be, without any more torture, saying he'll be at the kitchen, "preparing second breakfast." Dean doesn't get the joke, huffs a breath then sneaks into the bathroom for a shower, in which of course he gives some relief to Little Dean.
When he's done, he pops into the kitchen - he really wishes he could go on a hunger strike if only to avoid being around his mom, but he's just too damn hungry to make any such protests right now. His stomach is protesting noisily enough for both of them, though the bottomless pit that's his stomach has a different agenda.
He plops into a chair, and his mom puts a plate of scrambled eggs and sausages in front of him. As he grabs his first bite, a digital thermometer is pushed into one of his ears by his mom. "Hey," Dean yelps.
"Gotta double check, sweetheart." The thing beeps, and his mom smiles when he reads it. "All back to normal." He ruffles his hair.
"Stop doing that!"
"Doing what?" His mom asks, confused.
"Touching me, alright? Stop it," Dean snaps, then digs his fork into his food and starts eating.
"Well, I thought ..." His mom's voice trails off; Sam's bewilderment at the change of attitude clear on his face. His brows knit together, and his face loses some of its brightness. He takes a chair himself, next to Dean. In his peripheral vision, Dean can see Sam gazing at him, probably searching his face for answers. Sam bites on his lower lip, then he finally asks, voice quivering, "sweetheart, are you still mad?"
"About what?"
"You know, cos you had to stay away, at Uncle Bobby's? I mean we talked on the phone, you and I, and the last time we did, you sounded like you're over it, so I thought-"
"Well, you thought right. I'm not mad. Not anymore. In fact, I don't care."
"Dean-"
"Can I please finish my food in peace? I've had a rough night."
Sam nods, sympathetically, but his face is dark and sad now. Silence descends on the kitchen room for a bit, until Dean takes the last bite, then his mom starts asking if he wants some tea, juice, an apple, asking him what he wants for lunch already, obviously desperate to make conversation.
"For God's sake, stop fussing, mom," Dean snaps again.
"What is wrong with you?" It's Sam's turn to get irritated, running his hands nervously through his hair.
"What is wrong with YOU? You won't leave me alone."
"I wanna make sure there's nothing you need, here. And you're touchy and I don't know why. Are you still not feeling okay, you know, from last night?"
"I'm fine. I'm fine! If you ask me if I'm fine again, I swear I'll start throwing punches!"
"DEAN!" Sam's nostrils flare, the color draining from his face, and his eyes start watering. "Just go. Okay? I'm sorry for caring."
Sam doesn't know what's up, but he thinks he has an idea. When Dean was away, he sounded "okay" on the phone but in reality, he was probably just missing them. Now that he's home again, he's back where he left off; shutting down after his hands were forced, or so he believes. Sam backed Cas, but he hates the fact that his son was made to take a break from his own home against his will. And he gets that Dean's angry.
Dean leaves the kitchen, then holes up in his room for a couple of hours.
When he comes back down, to the living room for some TV, he finds his mom there, sprawled on the couch in a dress, in the white dress he bought a year ago, and which Dean had only seen him wear once. He knows what his mom is doing; and no, he won't let Sam off the hook so easily. He friggin' tore his heart out, made him feel like he only has eyes for him, then stood silent as his dad sent him away, and then gave himself to Cas completely.
Dean walks into the room, like he hasn't noticed the dress, though he's sure Sam caught the initial surprise on his face.
"Hey," Sam says, to get his attention, then pulls his feet back to make some room for Dean to sit. Dean just makes a non-committal sound, and places himself at the other end of the wide couch.
"What's up, sweetheart?"
"Here to watch some TV," says Dean. He was oscillating between dying from boredom and biting his nails in frustration, back in his room. He flicks the TV on, and after some searching, settles on the wrestling channel. He likes wrestling. He'd like to take it up next year, besides boxing, and perhaps add a martial art to the combo.
Learning the art of combat does it for Dean, more so than group sports.
"Come here, Dean. Want you in my arms," Sam says, voice apologetic and hopeful, arms reaching out.
Dean gives his mommy a level gaze, then turns back to the TV. "No, I'm good, mom."
"Sweetheart, just talk to me."
Sam sits up, and scoots closer to Dean. Sam's intoxicating smell is right in his nose. The dress' skirt, which boasts a high slit, leaves Sam's legs and thighs exposed. And his mom is not doing any effort to cover up, letting the skirt's sides fall open and the dress already reveals Sam's strong arms and his back. His mom's inner thighs are not touching; not used to dresses, he doesn't remember to put his knees together or close his legs when he sits, and the sight of those legs accidently teasing him like this is making Dean's mouth water.
"There's nothing to talk about," he forces out, and avoids looking at the naked skin, or he'll lose it. He's willing his anger and resentment - his disgust at what he saw - to take over.
"Dean, please, don't shut me out like that. Not me," Sam says and takes one of Dean's hand in his own.
Dean quickly snatches it away, "I'm not ... just, just let me be."
Sam's puppy dog eyes start watering, and that's it, Dean can't have this anymore. He stands up to leave. Sam catches his arm. "Please don't walk on me like that. Not before telling me what's wrong."
Dean shrugs off his mom's touch and pulls away.
"I know it's the past four days. You're still mad at me. Fine, get angry at me, shout, throw those punches if you want, but don't push me away like that!" Sam says, eyes pouring. Like he's the victim here, Dean thinks. The audacity.
"What do you want me to say, mom? That I'm angry! Alright, I'm angry. But what difference does it make? You know what? A big fat nothing," he says then starts walking quickly towards the stairs, to seek the sanctuary of his room again, hide in his "cave."
"And stop pretending like you care that much!" he adds, as he starts climbing the stairs, his mom now following him.
At those extra words, Sam flips, from weepy to somewhat angry himself.
"Don't you dare say that, Dean. You of all people should know how much I care about you!"
"Really?"
"Yeah, really!"
"Didn't look like it when I was forced to hole up at Bobby's, while you were here ... aargh! You know what? Just get away from me."
When he reaches his room, Dean goes in and attempts to close the door behind him, but his mom holds it open, then pushes back and squeezes himself in.
"I'm not going away until we resolve this!"
"There is nothing to resolve."
"So what? You're gonna cut me off? Stop talking to me, again?"
"Maybe."
"Yeah, well I won't let you."
"It's not up to you."
"God, Dean! I'm your mom! It's me! Look at me, you can't do this, not to me," Sam walks right up to him, as he speaks, face inches away from his own, and despite his height and anger, Sam feels small as he stands there pleading with his son, practically begging him to take him back. He can't bear this coldness, he can't let his son dismiss what's between them in anger like that.
They're more than mom and son, they're ... soulmates.
"You're being too hard on me. And for what, Dean? For pushing you away so you won't get hurt. You saw what happened to you last night, and in case you didn't put two and two together yet, that fever was triggered by my heat."
"Bullshit."
"It's not, Dean."
"Stop blaming it all on that heat."
"I'm not. And I'm not lying. It was all for you, and now you're being a baby about it, and trying to punish me for my biology."
"I'M TRYING TO PUNISH YOU FOR BEING A DIRTY WHORE!" Dean screams it at his mom. And he flinches at the words the moment they leave his mouth. It's too late to swallow them back.
Before he gets a chance to whip an apology, a sharp slap lands on his left cheek, and it burns. Neither parent has ever laid a hand on him, not like that, never. He freezes for a moment, so does his mom who looks as shocked as he is.
Dean's eyes prickle and suddenly a blind rage overwhelms his senses. His right fist clenches and he feels like punching ... his mom, or someone, anyone, anything. Before he knows it, his fist is raised, ready to land on his mom's face, it only takes Dean's mind a tenth of second to backtrack and decide, no, he won't - can't! - go there, can't hurt his mommy, and so changes course. Instead of jabbing his mom's face, he hooks his arm and his fist swings into the vanity mirror, right beside Dean.
His punch is solid, sharp, filled with hot rage, and the mirror shatters noisily on impact. His mom jumps, shouts his name. He's in a daze, and before he realizes it, he's rushing out of the room ... trying to get out of the entire house.
He's already downstairs, steps away from the door, when his mom manages to catch up with him. When Sam fails to force him to stop, he throws his weight at Dean's back, hugging him from behind, and they slump to the ground together, with Dean locked tightly in Sam's arms. "Oh God, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," his mom repeats over and over right in his ears, his face wet with tears and so is Dean's.
Dean suddenly realizes there's a throbbing excruciating pain in his fist, and when he looks, his hands are dripping blood, and there are at least a couple of pieces of glass still wedged in his flesh. He holds onto his wrist and brings his hand to his stomach, wanting to hide it, wanting to disappear himself, get swallowed by the Earth. The lower part of Dean's shirt will soon be soaked in red. He's angry at his mom, but he's also angry at himself, for calling his mom, "a dirty whore," for almost hitting him, and most of all, for loving him so consumingly it's eating him up inside.
His mom's litany of apologies doesn't let up. And now Sam is trying to grab the injured hand to inspect the damage, sounding teary and frantic with worry. "Let me see it, De. Sweetheart, you're bleeding. Let me see," he sobs. Dean holds his injured hand tighter to his body and doesn't let go. "Let me see it," Sam repeats, his tears soaking the side of Dean's face. Then Sam starts kissing his face, brushing his lips back and forth against Dean's cheek, nuzzling his neck, his ear, and Dean leans into the soft caresses and squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn't understand how this man can put him together and break him like this, only to patch him up again.
Sam continues to cover Dean with kisses, desperate, open-mouthed, kisses that are wet with salty tears. "I'm sorry." He's kissing Dean's eyelids, the side of his brows, his cheek, he tilts Dean's head then places feather-light kisses on his nose, grazes his lips against Dean's lips, his chin, down to his neck, and his collarbone. His lips don't leave skin, grazes, pecks, nibs softly. "I'm sorry, please, there's so much blood Dean, please, you're killing me here sweetheart. Please, De."
Dean opens his eyes, and this is what he sees: his mom's hair falling over one side of his face, his mother's cheeks blotched with dark pink, and his eyes are tired and dripping with tears, lips red and swollen with kisses.
His mom locks their lips together again. When Dean starts speaking against his mouth, Sam pulls back an inch, to allow him to.
"I saw, mom," he says.
"Saw what, baby?"
"I saw you and dad together. Yesterday."
At first his mom doesn't look like he gets it, then Dean sees the exact moment when he does. His eyes widen a little, and his mouth goes slack. They remain speechless for some moments, then his mom nods his head, and more tears fall. "Okay ... Okay, I get it. I'm sorry, Dean."
And Sam doesn't even know what exactly he is apologizing for; what his son saw, or the fact that what he saw happened in the first place? He won't explore this right now, he tells himself, he just needs to make sure his son is fine, that he hasn't broken any bones, that nothing cut into muscle or injured nerves. His son's fist is sturdy from training, but still, he's broken skin, and there's a lot of blood, and Sam's getting nauseous with worry. He'll even punish himself for that slap later; or accept whatever punishment Dean wishes to inflict, whatever it takes for Dean to forgive and hopefully forget.
"No, you don't, mom. You don't get it."
But Sam does, he thinks. It would be disturbing for anyone to see his parents together like that, and being so close to his mommy, Sam knows it must have been harder on Dean. ... Or what if?-Could it be?
Then the possibility hits him, and he feels a little dizzy with it.
"Dean," he whispers. "Di-did it, you know, turn you on?"
Dean gives a little nod, and Sam buries his face in his son's neck. He feels like it's his fault somehow. It must be eating Dean up, he must think he's dirty and wrong for getting aroused from seeing his parents making love. Poor Dean, Sammy thinks and holds his son tighter.
"Forget it, De ... just let it go, baby, alright?" Sam says soothingly, placing yet another kiss on his son's cheek. He just wants this out of the way in order to tend to Dean's wound. Nothing else is as important right now. "Now, please baby, let me take a look at your wrist. Feel my heart? How fast it beats? I'm so scared Dean, so let me see how deep the cuts are. Please baby."
Now that he said it, Dean feels a wave of tranquility wash over him. It doesn't change what happened, sure, but nothing could anyway, so it's better to get it off his chest. It may also give him an opening, some time when they discuss it again, to tell his mom how he really feels about him, and how as his rightful alpha, he can't tolerate his sexual relationship with his dad any longer. That he won't.
If it takes him some pain, tears, and a mangled fist to get there, so be it. His mom is worth it all.
Dean's shoulders finally sag and all the fight leaves his body, his head falls back on his mommy's shoulder, and he tells him weakly that his hand hurts, which it does, like a bitch. For a second, he also wonders how they'll explain all this mess to Castiel, but decides they'll cross this bridge when they reach it.
Hearing his son acknowledge the hurt to his fist is Sam's cue for action, and he springs up, helping Dean up with him. Dean can walk just fine, but his mom snakes an arm around his waist and supports him all the way to the kitchen still.
After inspecting the now swollen hand, his mom removes the shards of glass carefully, washes and cleans the wound as best as he could, then ices it, and declares he's driving Dean to the ER. Dean hates hospitals but reluctantly agrees this time; he's badly bruised and tender, and Dean can't risk leaving an injury like this untreated, being a boxer and all. Sam gives Dean something for the pain, discards the dress and changes into one of his proper outfits, and rushes them out of the door. "Baby, hold it to your chest. Keep it above your heart. De, don't move it."
Sam insists on helping Dean get into their SUV, so he wouldn't rely on the hand in any way, fastens and locks the seat belt for him.
In the hospital, after an hour of waiting, Dean's hand is nicely patched up. He's suffering a minor fracture, and two of his fingers were misaligned, which the ER doctor fixed. And it hurt like hell. He was also put into a splint, which means he'll be off training for at least 2-3 weeks, depending on how fast he heels. And at his age, the doc expects it'll be lightening fast.
On their way back home, Sam stops for ice cream, and Dean feels he's being babied. "It's not for you Dean, it's for me," his mom says, squeezing his healthy hand. Ever since they left the ER ward, Sam has been constantly keeping this hand in his, clutching tightly, fingers interlaced, unless when he's driving.
In the car, Sam puts on some Metallica, for Dean's benefit, and even hums along from time to time. He occasionally curls a hand around Dean's thigh and squeezes. Or looks at him, and throws him a (somewhat sad) smile. And his mom can't stop apologizing.
"I'm sorry too you know," Dean says, eyes on the ground. "For calling you, you know."
"Forget it, honey. You were angry, and you had a right to be. Just-just try to reign your anger a little, baby, from now on. Take deep breaths when you feel like reacting harshly. For you."
"Yeah."
"Dean, about what you said earlier. About what you saw ..." a pause. "Eh, I don't want you to feel guilty, honey. It happens, it doesn't mean anything. You're young. When I was your age, everything turned me on."
Dean stays silent.
"De, what I'm trying to say is, don't overthink it. There's nothing-"
"I watched. I didn't just-I stood there and watched."
"Dean."
"When I saw you come untouched, I jizzed my pants," he says without even a side glance at his mom. He shivers at the memory of Sam spread out, moaning, writhing, shivering with want, caught in the woes of desire, so pretty and vulnerable, and so soft. Dean suddenly feels shameless about his small confessions. This is his Omega, he should know how he riles him up, what he does to him.
Besides, it's nothing compared to the whole truth. And he needs to prepare Sam for it. So yeah, baby steps.
Sam doesn't respond to this, swallows audibly and keeps staring forward into the distance, eyes on the road. Dean, too, stays looking ahead.
A moment later, Sam takes Dean's uninjured hand in his, brings it to his lips, and places the softest kiss there. He stirs the wheel with his left, and keeps holding Dean's hand with his right, then he interlaces their fingers together and brings their entwined hands to his heart. He shouldn't drive like this, so he slows down significantly. But he doesn't pull the car over.
"Don't hurt yourself like this again," Sam whispers softly. He's talking about that punch to the mirror. "It's not a request, De. No one, and I mean no one, is worth hurting yourself over. ..."
Dean doesn't respond, so Sam squeezes the hand wrapped up in his. "Are you listening?"
Dean nods.
"Not me, not anyone, De. You hear me, kiddo?"
"Yeah, yeah mom, I hear you."
Sam places another kiss on his son's fist, still closed around his, then takes them home.