It turns out that "breaking up" with Dean was the easy part; the hard part is living with this decision, especially with him and Dean living in such close quarters. As expected, Dean spends the first few days after their talk (Sam calls it "talk" for lack of a better term to describe the disastrous exchange that ended in heartbreak and tears) either glaring daggers at Sam or pretending not to care less about him. And he spends less time in the house now. Sam assumes he's socialising more with his school friends, or maybe he's made good on his threat and gone back to this Rhonda girl.

Of course the silent treatment Sam is enduring is also interspersed by incidences of A-class Dean- Winchester-style rudeness, specifically when the family is gathered round for dinner or spending some quality time around TV in the living room. Eye rolling, answering back in a derisive tone, facing away when Sam addresses him. The whole nine, though Sam does feel genuinely sorry for how the boy automatically becomes rigid when Sam talks to him. Cas, oblivious to the recent escalation and the fact that his wife and son were teetering on the precipice of an incestuous relationship, doesn't understand where this is coming from and eventually chalks up Dean's moodiness to teen hormones. This doesn't stop Castiel from having words with Dean or warning him that he's a breath away from being grounded or losing privileges like later curfews, generous

allowances or getting behind the wheel during time spent at Bobby's.

It's a tiring ordeal, and Sam wants no part in it, but it's part of the aftermath, and he's got no choice but to lay low or bend with the wind.

Several times, Cas would send Dean back to his room, or demand to talk to him privately, cutting into family time. Sam remains quiet all through, doesn't reprimand his son or even meet his eyes. Castiel usually steals glances at Sam to gauge his reaction, and Sam is sure Cas is surprised that his wife remains on the fence every time it happens, instead of jumping to Dean's defence as per usual.

Dean, more often than not, reacts to his dad like he's being personally challenged and has to prove that he can remain unfazed in the face of his wrath. Sometimes he becomes scornful, which riles up Cas even more, other times, Dean doesn't bat so much an eye at his father, though Sam knows too well that his son hates having his freedoms restrained—if only because it's a reminder that someone else is steering his life. It's all exasperated by Dean's untamed, premature, dominant alpha nature, coming to the surface too often now.

Sam fears that soon this nature may come unhinged, especially as his father becomes more frustrated and more intent on disciplining Dean.

Surprisingly, it's Sam who's not balking at all this, or at least he's taking it better than he thought he would.

Some days, of course, are harder than others.

On some afternoons, when he's stretched out on their fold-out couch breastfeeding Adam, who still nurses out of comfort sometimes, Sam remembers fondly how Dean used to lie next to him, head on his chest, licking and sucking at a breast, his fingers pinching Sam's nips or tracing imaginary shapes on his exposed skin. Just thinking about the heat of Dean's mouth and the pull of his soft lips, the steady swipes of his tongue, usually makes Sam chub up in his pants.

The memories bring with them a whiff of the raw alpha scent that is all Dean and which usually reduces Sam to a sweaty, squirming mess, melting from the inside out.

Months back, Sam would feel guilty about getting off on the thought of breastfeeding Dean, but now that's he's emotionally estranged from his eldest, he feels he's at least allowed to indulge. The memories of these sweet moments and the sensations they induce in him ... they're all he has now.

Still, despite the inner turmoil, the moment Sam decided to put the mental and emotional welfare of Dean and his family first, there was no turning back. It was like a switch was hit inside of him, and his mental state shifted. It's almost like Sam and Dean had to slide into depravity for Sam to wake up, step back and realise something has gone horribly wrong.

And now, very simply, he's up against the wall. When it was just intimacy, tender touches and sweet kisses (even as it sometimes edged on heavy petting), Sam could have at least continued to warp the situation in his head and tell himself it was all platonic; an unconventional expression of deep love and affection between his son and him, something that no one had a right to judge. But once it was all out in the open and he realised it was sexual and primal and bone deep, and that he doesn't just love Dean, but is "in love" with him, there was no running away from the bite of this truth. When did it all happen? How? At which point in time did he stop being crazy about Cas and, instead, became crazy about Dean? Sam has no idea. He's drawing blanks here, blank cartridges.

Now that Sam is at least conscious of how deep his feelings run, how they upended his mind and

how potentially destructive they are, he's painfully aware that these feelings could corrupt his family, that they have power to rattle the very foundations of this household and everything he and Castiel spent years building. There's no real choice but to stop and save Dean from the consequences. So yes, he is finding the strength and it's pleasantly surprising in an odd way.

In his dreams, at night, it's another affair.

In unseen corners of his mind, he's Dean's, every bit of him belongs to Dean and there's no changing that. In those nightly fantasies, Sam is the perfect omega to Dean's alpha, bending to his will and slaving away to please. In sleep, Dean is his dominant; taking him any way he wants and Sam the pretty obedient wife who has no shame and doesn't hold back. He dreams. Then wakes up aroused and aching, on the edge of orgasm, pining for his son, the memories of their physical intimacy vivid and palpable and Sam nearly trembles with need.

On some nights, he'd even rub himself against Cas, hump Castiel's leg like a dog as he sleeps; Sam would close his eyes, pretend it was Dean and soon after he would come in his shorts. On other nights, he'd stay up, shrouded in darkness, eyelids peeled back as he imagined depraved scenarios and wondered about things he didn't dare put in words: how would their non-existent first time be like? Would Dean want him face down on his belly or on his back where he could see his face? Would he be gentle, sensual, romantic; would he take his time to open him up and prep him for the invasion, whisper sweet nothings into his ears? Or would Dean talk dirty? Kiss him rough until his lips bruise, call him a whore and fuck him to within an inch of his life? If Dean were his mate, would Sam walk around the house like he does now in men's clothing, or would Dean force him to be in drag, even in public? Would he make him wear lacy bras and panties? Like the omegas Sam thought he'd never want to be, like he's owned? In the past Sam would cringe at the possibility, call this lifestyle 'backward', and this alpha-omega behaviour 'oppressive' and 'genderist' - Sam being what traditionalists would stereotypically call 'omegaphobic' or 'self- hating omega' (terms that Sam hates). But with Dean in the picture, being the boss of him in all these fantastical scenarios, Sam would shudder, in a good way, his dick would stir and harden and his hole would twitch ... sometimes leak at the wrongness of it.

On bad nights, he'd shift in bed as his restless mind took these scenarios and applied them to faceless strangers (the girls that Dean fucked) and to one face Sam remembers all too well: Rhonda. During these nights, Sam would grit his teeth until his jaw locked and pained him, and he'd end up losing sleep.

All these forbidden images, the arousal and the agony are hidden away within his heart and mind, shielded from view in the higher plains of dreams and thought, obscured by the dead of night and buried in secrecy.

In the light of day, he'd blank it all out ... forget. Keep on keeping on.

But that's something, and the reality of trying to navigate their daily lives like nothing happened is something else.

Dealing with Sam, Dean wavers between being hot and cold, angry and dismissive, but these are strong emotions whose wells are finite and will eventually dry up.

Dean might get used to the new situation after all, Sam tells himself (although he prays day and night that it doesn't happen at the expense of their love for each other. He prays, almost obsessively, that Dean will recover from their brief stint as lovers without hardening. He hopes against hope that somehow he may find it in his heart to forgive Sam, his Sammy).

But from his side, Sam doesn't know how to be with his son anymore - he's always fearful that his affections, if he let them show, might be misread as renewed interest or as a desire to rekindle the

romance that was nipped in the bud. His casualness might be misinterpreted as lack of caring. And opting for avoidance is just adding fuel to the fire, and may hurt Dean and cost them dearly on the long run.

In a first, Sam doesn't know how to be a mother to his oldest son.

When Sam reflects on it sometimes, he finds that he's at a loss of what really drove a wedge between them, what led to where they are now. Which should he blame for the current predicament: their erotic feelings for each other or Sam's decision to suppress them? Their love or the fact that they openly acknowledged it? Their pedigree or their fate?

If they hadn't put a name to their feelings, if they hadn't acted on them so passionately, if they had pretended that whatever they were feeling was just a deep unabiding love, a profound bond, would they have been better off?

...

A few brochures fall on the kitchen table right in front of Sam, assaulting his field of vision. Cas takes a chair at the table where Sam is already seated and waits for a reaction.

Sam looks, and they're brochures for schools—boarding schools, that is.

Sam's head shoots up, his blood pressure quickly rising, "What the hell is this, Cas?"

"You know what, Sam."

Sam balks, not believing that they're still discussing this.

"Well, the answer's still no."

"Sammy—"

"Don't Sammy me, I thought we settled this."

Castiel gives him a labored look like Sam is the one who's being obstinate and tiresome. It irks Sam. He huffs in anger.

"Just hear me out," he begins. Castiel is choosing his next words meticulously in an effort not to offend Sam's delicate sensibilities or feelings for their son. "I think, given Dean's attitude and his penchant for rebellion, we should see this as an option."

Sam is visibly taken aback. Castiel isn't skirting around the issue any longer. Sam knows all too well what Castiel is referring to when he says 'attitude' and 'rebellion'; he doesn't just mean the regular pain-in-the-ass teenage attitude and rebellion, he means Dean's "different" nature, specifically his growing aggressive alpha tendencies.

Cas speaks again, softly, like he's not sticking a dagger in Sam's heart and twisting, "It might be problematic as he grows older, considering, you know, our unconventional lifestyle."

Sam looks down at the brochures again and hesitantly leafs through them. James Exeter School. Trinity School for Boys. Black Hills Academy. Stonewall Abbey. St. Apollo School. Castiel and his brothers attended the last one. Sam's heart burns in his chest. The schools in the pictures resemble castles and cathedrals with their high walls, lakes, surrounding parks, all in the suburbs apparently, and they bear all the hallmarks of traditional schools—and for the life of him, Sam can't imagine Dean being locked away from him behind those cold walls for most of the year. Not in any of those golden cages.

Sam takes in a deep breath, or tries, because right now, his lungs are refusing to fill up completely. He also tries to will away the disturbing images these schools stir up in his mind. It's not easy. He suddenly remembers Mary, his sister, and Sam's stomach turns and he gets the urge to throw the leaflets right at his husband's face. His muscles physically ache with the strain of keeping his hands to himself and his impulses well under control. Finally, he pushes the brochures away, across the table, toward Castiel.

Castiel continues talking, gently, like Sam didn't just confirm his rejection of the idea with this small but definitive gesture.

"If this was my father's house, if I were my father," Cas says, almost apologetically. "No alpha would be out of line, no matter how old. But we're different, Sam. And we raised our children to speak up, and have a say, and I'm not saying it's wrong, darling, but I can see it becoming a problem. Dean is ..." Cas stops, looking for the right word, "feral," he finally says, eliciting a bitchface from Sam that so far is probably his best, and Cas has known Sam since they were teens, so that's saying something.

Sam keeps his mouth zipped, so Cas soldiers on: "Look, you and me, we consciously chose this. You of all people know it took me a whole lot of effort and then some to become who I am today, to break ranks. And we paid."

When he's met with more silence, Cas adds, "I don't want to twist Dean out of shape or force him to be like us just because it's how we live. I want him to have the freedom to explore other options, away from any parental influence. Not yours. Not mine."

"If you were like your father," Sam finally speaks, voice soft but tight, eyes clouding over. "We wouldn't be married, Cas. There wouldn't be any 'you and me'."

"I know—"
Sam cuts in, "Besides, you don't know if Dean is different as you say he is." Sam knows it's a lie, but holds his ground.

"Darling, I do know," says Cas, patiently but firmly. "Trust my instincts on this, Sam ... please. He's my son too, and I understand this about his nature on a level that I don't even know how to articulate. I know it in my guts ... It's an alpha to alpha thing. And before you say anything, I don't mean to shut you out. But Sam ... There are things—there are urges, feelings beyond our control. ... Look, he reminds me of my brothers, at his age. Sam, our eldest is a traditional alpha through and through. If you don't get it already, then you're burying your head in the sand, and you need to stop."

"I'm not—" Sam begins, but his husband speaks over him again, and his words now carry a certain intensity that Sam, instinctively, submits to.

"Sam, if I were my father, I wouldn't think twice about breaking my own son to keep him in line. Wherever that line is drawn," Castiel says, and it's bitter and it carries a hint of that anger Castiel took years upon years to release and let go of. Sam, in a first during this conversation, feels genuinely sorry for Cas imagining what it was like for his husband to grow up in such a harsh environment. Not that Sam had it any better, but still.

"And Dean? He tempts me. Sometimes I feel that he's asking for it. But we're not like that," Cas carries on. "And 'cause we're not, we have to open our eyes. Sammy, darling, this, what we have, it's probably suffocating Dean. And we need to let him breathe ... or on my life, we'll regret it later."

"Ok, Cas, let's pump the brakes a little bit," Sam says holding a hand up. "It's almost like you approve. If he's turning into something that we—"

"There's nothing to approve or disapprove of here, Sam. This is what I'm trying to say," Castiel says, his voice rising now. Sam's denial is eating away at his patience. "And that's what you need to get through this head of yours," he finally snaps, making Sam flinch, then swiftly collects himself.

He huffs a breath. "It is what it is."
"Cas, we don't have to accept," Sam says, desperation bleeding into his voice. "Darling, we don't have a choice."

Cas continues: "Now, the schools I've got here," he points to the brochures. "They're the best. Traditional. But not radical. They know how to coach alphas, nurture the wolf inside without letting it take over. We'll have to ask my parents to put in a good word for us, pull some strings. And I gotta break the bank to get him in. Maybe I'll even have to rob one at some point," Cas jokes, in an attempt to dampen the mood. It doesn't work at all, so he goes back to being gravely serious and adds reassuringly, "But hopefully with my promotion coming up, we can make it work. It'll be hard but it'll be worth it, I swear."

"Cas—"

"Sam, look, we don't have to make a decision now. There are other options too," he says, standing up and leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to Sam's mouth. He's inwardly alluding to his other plan of sending Dean to his father's house, which frankly Cas is leaning towards. Castiel has had his share of troubles and disagreements with his family, but sending Dean to them? It's a familiar option. At least he knows his family's ways well and he can step in if things go too far. There's his mom and Naomi to ease the brunt of the big change in Dean's lifestyle, and he'll find solace in the fact that Dean will still be surrounded by people who love him deeply. His son won't feel abandoned or rejected.

Certainly he'd still transfer Dean to one of those ridiculously expensive traditional schools, but Dean wouldn't have to board there and be raised by complete strangers.

But of course, he's not ready to reveal this to his clearly distraught wife. Not right now, especially with all the politics between his family and Sam. So Castiel doesn't elaborate on those 'other options' and Sam doesn't ask. He's probably too absorbed in the possibilities, Cas thinks.

He gets it. And he doesn't want to throw everything at Sam all at once. He'll be overwhelmed and his darling wife will lash back. So Castiel schools his patience and waits for Sam to wrap his head around all this. Castiel hopes they'll be able to come to terms on this. The alternative is too painful to think about.

...

Sam is in the shower when he feels it again: the burning need, scorching and deep in his belly. He's been feeling hot and bothered for the past few days, and he thinks he may be nearing his heat. It would be really off schedule if this is true, but he's been stressing recently, and he's certain it has to have some effect on hormones. And right now, he's feeling it hard.

His right hand moves south, and he kneads at his own balls a little too harshly in an attempt to stave off the warmth pooling in his nether region and giving him light spasms. He combs his other hand through his soaked hair, half in frustration at the thoughts that keep creeping into his brain at

the moment; thoughts of Dean and only Dean.

In a first, he makes a real effort to actually divert his thoughts to Cas instead of settling in for either indulging in forbidden, incestuous fantasies or blocking images of Dean altogether.

Perhaps if he conditions his mind to turn to Castiel instead of his son every time he feels horny, his mind will eventually go there on its own without making a long rest stop at Dean's, he thinks. A couple of years back, he'd cum like a freight train just fantasising about his husband's junk or their sensual lovemaking. Now, it's tough to even get hard thinking about Castiel alone.

He tries and tries. He fails, royally.

The more he pushes Dean out of his head, the stronger the images of them together come racing back. So he surrenders. Instead of continuing to grope his balls painfully, he moves his hand back a little and start massaging his taint then his fingers ghost over his hole. He's already leaking, but the constant pounding of warm water keeps washing his release away.

He dips a finger in, experimentally, and it slides in easy. No lube needed, good. He pulls the slicked finger out and turns around in the bathtub. He leans back against the shower wall, and braces a leg on the rim of the tub. Sam adjusts his stance, spreading his legs wider, carefully so he wouldn't slip. He pushes his raised knee out and his butt cheeks part a little. He pushes a finger into his tight heat again and clenches his hole. He's gentle at first, then as his mind wanders into taboo territory, he goes to town on his own ass; at one point, sticking four fingers inside, trying to hit his prostate as many times as he can.

He fucks the fingers in and out, his pace punishing and his hard dick throbbing, and bobbing with his jerky movements. In spite of himself, he moans deeply, and then he starts flat out babbling as he fantasizes about all the ways Dean could take him, how he'd like his strong, well-endowed alpha son to fuck him until he passes out. The thoughts make his insides shiver. He whispers his son's name, Dean, as he finger fucks himself even harder, repeats it like a litany, Dean, Oh Dean, Dean. The lewd sounds are drowned out by the running water. Or so he thinks.

He doesn't hear it, of course, when the bathroom door is opens and someone comes in—in fact, he doesn't notice anything until suddenly the shower curtain is pulled back and there he is face to face with the very son whose name is on his lips as he's touching himself. Dean doesn't speak. His son stands there, and shamelessly stares. For a second or two, his mind freezes. Then when it unfreezes and Sam realises what he must look like, he quickly pulls his fingers out of his ass, but it's too little too late. The rush of seeing Dean, fully clothed, lustfully staring at his naked private parts, his gaze zeroed in on Sam's genitals and the hand between his legs, his eyes dark and wanting, coupled with Sam's impending orgasm, means he can't hold it in, hard as he tries. He shoots his load untouched right there, his soft pecs and belly wobbling softly as he bends forward a little and as the spasms coarse through his core ... and Dean watches, fascinated, panting, with a hand cupping the bulge obviously straining his pants.

The breath is knocked out of Sam for how strong his orgasm is. His face is burning and he shifts his gaze downward, just watching his come get washed down the drain. For a few seconds, he can't even will himself to look back up at Dean.

"I came in to pee, and I heard you. I heard my name," Dean says, explaining, still breathing heavy like he can't help it. Perfect, just perfect, Sam thinks bitterly.

"I thought you were in pain," his son adds. Dean's voice is hoarse and it's doing all kinds of crazy things to Sam. It's like his voice is caressing his sensitive skin with every syllable. Sam shudders and dribbles out the last of his release. He dares to look up. But he's spent and his head falls back to rest at the wall behind him.

Dean's eyes are still dark, and—what's that word Cas used—feral.

Well, Sam sees it now, and it makes him tremble. His hole is flexing, and his legs are still splayed out. His dick is drained and softening quickly, but he still feels the pressure around the head and at his slit, like it's pulsing from the inside.

Sam looks straight at Dean's eyes, and he feels like pissing himself. He feels the sudden urge to lose control of his bladder and humiliate himself ... for Dean, like some omegas would do as a show of complete submission to their alphas.

If he goes there, there's no turning back. No detours.

Stop. Stop. Stop. You can't let this go any further, his mind screams, or the part of it that can still make sense of the world and his surroundings right now. His nearing heat must be blinding his senses, he concludes.

So Sam shuts his eyes, and just whispers to his son to "get out."

"Mom," Dean says, and he's close to begging. His son must be hard and aching right now. He doesn't envy him. It must be too painful for words. He knows alphas. Not many of them have got this level of self control. If this wasn't Dean, he would've been as good as raped right now.

"Get. Out. Now," Sam says, a little ruthless, despite his dazed state thanks to a mind-shattering orgasm whose residual buzz is still a little numbing. "Don't let me repeat myself," he spits, at once demanding and begging. His heart beats double-time at the thought of Dean coming closer— Dean, imperious and strong, pushing Sam back and taking what he wants under a spray of warm water and against slippery tiles.

But he doesn't. Dean obeys, and he turns on his heel and slams the door.