10 minutes to midnight
It's almost midnight and Sam feels his house has more dancing shoes than a nightclub. Almost every friend of Dean's brought a plus-one and unexpectedly, a few came with plus-twos, more than doubling the turnout. Sam acted quickly and ordered more grub, and now pizza boxes and discarded plates with leftover cake are overflowing tables and countertops around the house. The party had moved inside earlier to escape the night chill so people are now crammed wall to wall, some moving together like water. Everyone's intoxicated. Only Jo tapped out after the first hour of partying—Sam is pretty sure that the uninterested way in which Dean treats the poor girl contributed to this.
Ash, a scrawny but not bad-looking blond boy, is DJ for the night. He's also the only other sober soul besides Sam. Ash makes up in enthusiasm for what he lacks in music taste. Well, Sam finds his taste highly questionable; his choice of thundering rock tunes makes Sam's skin tingle and his ears ring. The kids, however, seem to be completely pulled in, jumping and dancing in huddled groups, their movements a little frenzied and their loud laughter piercing so Ash must be doing something right.
Sam could almost feel the floor rattling with the intensity.
The only other companionable adults left are Fergus and Meg, but from the way Fergus keeps checking the time and Meg's shy yawns, it seems they too will take off soon.
Sam's youngest is probably already fast asleep on the other side of town. He spent the first few hours of the party running around up until he blew the candles with Dean. The manic kiddo made his final crafts before passing out and leaving—sleepy and wiped out—with Naomi and Deanna. Yup, Sam's mother-in-law uncharacteristically showed up, and thanks to her, Sam and Dean have fallen out, and oh, Dean is liquored up to his eyeballs (Sam couldn't stop it, like a car crash in slow motion. Dean's friend Charlie, God bless her, tried to intervene too but her attempts were futile. Sam's son is stubborn as a mule; he gets it from his mama).
To add to Sam's indignation, Dean is wrapped tight around Rhonda, practically grinding on her in front of God and everyone. To the untrained eye, Dean and Rhonda seem romantically involved judging by the way they're eye-fucking like newly weds (and may be almost about to tear at each other's clothes and actually fuck, Sam thinks darkly) but Sam knows better. Dean is angry and tightly wound and this is his way of showing it. Perhaps he's trying to rile Sam up. Perhaps he's just letting off steam and making bad decisions. Whatever it is, Sam understands. He really does. Not that it hurts any less to see him glued to Rhonda for most of the night, a mere few hours after their lovemaking, their true first time together, but Sam guesses he deserves it a little.
The down and dirty is that Dean now knows of his parents' clandestine plans to send him away—well, there are two versions of this story, Sam has discovered. Castiel and Sam seem to have very different ideas on where Dean is being sent away, and that's another revelation that Sam has had to deal with tonight.
…
6pm: four hours earlier
"Nice of you to include the whole family, Sam," says Deanna. Sam flinches, his shoulders' tensing, when his mother-in-law speaks. He didn't hear her coming. The birthday crowd is in the front yard; their chatter and laughter can be heard through the walls. She should be out there too.
"Of course," says Sam, slightly surprised by Deanna's ambush visit to the kitchen. "Hey, can I get you anything?"
"Thank you, Sam. It's kind of you to ask," Deanna answers in her overtly formal manner, tone vapid. It reminds Sam of Cas back in the day when they first met, when Cas was more mechanical and hardened and less flesh and blood. "I came to see if you need my help."
"Just getting the cake," Sam says with a small smile, his lizard brain refusing to believe that Deanna came to check in on him without an agenda.
"Is anyone from your side of the family coming today?"
Here it comes.
Sam has endured Deanna's jabs—sometimes steely-tongued, often subtle and malignant and always there when Castiel was clear of earshot—by reminding himself that she's still Castiel's family. But Deanna can be many women depending on the audience. To Sam, a perpetually disapproving mother-in-law; or a moneyed omega married to a powerful man, traditional through and through. To Castiel, she's simply his beloved mother, and in some past life, his number one woman and confidante. To their kids, a grandmother who cares and sometimes pampers. She's all that and then some, and currently, she's bugging Sam with her presence.
"Don't think so. We're not exactly in touch," Sam says in a steady tone, grossly downplaying the truth of it. She already knows that her son-in-law doesn't talk to his folks, that he doesn't even know if his own father is dead or alive, but Sam figures she must like to rub it in.
"Interesting," mutters Deanna, side-eyeing Sam as he now stabs candles in the cake.
"Actually it's not interesting at all," Sam says, losing his cool. "We've been estranged for nearly two decades now. I thought you already know this, Mrs. Winchester." He just wishes Deanna would cut to the chase. He's quite sure she's not here to shoot the shit with Sam.
"No need to get so riled up, dear," Deanna says, her eyes widening theatrically. "I didn't mean to stress you. I was candidly wondering if things have changed considering how much time has passed."
"Nothing's changed," Sam says, firmly. "And I'm Ok," he adds briskly, then meets Deanna's eyes and holds her gaze, challenging her to push.
Sam sees absolutely no need to catalogue or rehash the hazardous qualities of his relationship with his parents to anyone, let alone Deanna, and he has frankly stopped trying to endear himself to either of Castiel's parents a long, long time ago.
Time seems to drag some before Deanna sighs, and breaks eye contact. She gives her back to Sam, reaches for an empty glass, holds it beneath the faucet and fills it up with water. Her movements are slow and graceful, almost rehearsed.
"It's OK to feel wound up when the future is uncertain, you know," she says, looking through the window above the sink, onto the party outside. "Castiel and I have been talking, and I know that you and Dean are close, so whatever you've decided on must be putting a strain on you. I imagine parting with Dean will be like open-heart surgery for you, Sam. But you'll get used to the pain of separation, in time."
"What now?" Sam says and he feels he's been wacked in the head twice.
"Whether you'll put Dean in boarding school or move him to ours, he'll be safe," Deanna says, unflinching, turning fully to face Sam. "Take it from an over-protective mother to another," she says, with a Stepford-soft smile, one hand clutching her thin waist and the other delicately holding the glass like it's filled with wine, not water.
"Move him to yours?" Sam asks, his eyes narrowing, ignoring Deanna's seemingly compassionate tone. What the hell is she talking about?
"Well, Henry is not 100% on board. For obvious reasons. But with some compromise and persuasion, he might actually allow Dean to move in. of course, only until he graduates high school, if that's what you and Castiel want."
"Wait—what? I'm sorry, Mrs Winchester. Can you please pull the brakes a little? Why do you even think this is an option? Why would we ever want that?"
"Why, I'm under the impression that it's an option that you and Castiel are considering," Deanna says, the hand that was at her waist waving non-committaly towards Sam. When she registers his deer-in-headlights-wide eyes, she quickly realizes what's happening.
"Oh," she exclaims. "You had no idea?"
"Erm, you must have misunderstood. Cas—"
"There was nothing to misunderstand, Sam," she says, tone level. "Castiel suggested Dean move to ours. He has been in discussion with me about this for weeks. But I will say no more. I think you should talk to your husband first. Get up to speed."
"Yeah, looks like I really, really should," Sam says, still dazed and confused.
"I'm sorry your relationship is on the ropes," Deanna says after a brief moment of silence.
"It's not," Sam shoots back, defensively, not believing she can stick her nose this far. "It really isn't."
"Are you sure, Sam?" Deanna asks, looking at Sam consolingly, as if her judgement on their marriage has been sealed and delivered.
"We're usually in the pocket, we discuss everything, it must've skipped his mind," Sam grits out, his rage quickly gaining potency. "There has been a lot on his mind recently," he adds, voice raised yet slightly trembling.
"Well, perhaps you know what's going on better than I do," she says, turning to discard her glass in the sink. She looks back at Sam, tone Stepford-like again. "I have to admit, though, that things seem quite complicated here. In my household, Henry makes all the decisions, and he doesn't have to run them by anyone. It keeps things simple and straightforward. I guess, here, there might just be too many cooks in the kitchen. I can imagine the kind of problems this situation would beget."
Sam really wants to lash back at Deanna and tell her that how they run their house is nobody's goddamn business. And he can.
He doesn't owe his husband's family anything. They were not there for him, not when it mattered, not when he and Cas labored in one level of financial challenge or another during their first years of marriage, and not when Sam would get hospitalized for weeks after child birth and it would be touch-and-go for a while. If Sam tells Deanna straight to her face to back off, no one will fault him.
But right now, Sam's hostility is mostly directed towards Castiel. His husband put him in this awful spot. Sam wants to bite his head off and hand it to him. (A remote part of Sam's brain gently reminds him that he's been consistently lying to his husband, keeping bigger things from him, but Sam conveniently ignores the reminder in favor of nurturing his rage).
"I'll get out of your hair," Deanna announces, hands in the air so casually like she hasn't just flipped Sam's mood on its head, and steps out of the kitchen.
If Sam were reasonable, he'd just pick up where he left and file an argument with Cas for later. But Sam can't stop himself as he abandons the cake and runs up the stairs to his room, cell phone clutched in a death grip, his knuckles white, to get some privacy while he boxes Castiel's ears.
His husband doesn't immediately pick up, and Sam should take the hint from the universe. But he's feeling hot all over and ornery, and he needs this fight all of a sudden more than he needs air—a frail voice in Sam's head tells him that may be he's building up on the anger because, finally, he's found something he can pin on Cas. Perhaps it makes him feel slightly more superior, perhaps less in the wrong now that he caught Cas lying, as if their sins compare. But again, Sam ignores it.
The moment Cas picks up, Sam shoots from the hip, stumbling upon his words and spitting venom at his unsuspecting husband. It takes him a few fitful starts to explain what happened, and what he now knows.
"I can't believe I let you talk me into sending Dean to a boarding school. I was actually beginning to think it's a good idea. I almost called you to tell you I'm down. But now, I'm not so sure, Cas. I don't know what to believe anymore. I don't know if I can trust you," Sam says dramatically, ending his rant and exhaling sharply.
Cas is at first silent, then deeply apologetic, then somewhat defensive, but as Sam pushes and continues to argue and build more steam, Castiel's tone shifts too; defense warping itself into offense as finally, his husband starts to blame Sam for his own secretiveness and accuses him of being difficult and unapproachable. They battle for a few, swapping blame and kicking where it hurts. But in the end, they both calm down and agree to hash it out later. There's after all a birthday cake thawing on the kitchen's counter and a celebration waiting to happen downstairs. This is not the time, Sam realizes and hangs up.
Sam throws his phone on the bed. He combs a hand through his hair, takes a breath and pushes through the door and out of the room, heads towards the stairs. He isn't about to slow down when a voice from behind him stops him.
"Hey." It's Dean. The hair on the back of Sam's neck stands. Sam turns around to look at his son.
"Erm, De. Hey!" Sam stammers. "What are you—how long—"
"I heard," Dean cuts him off, penetrating him with a hard stare.
Shit.
"Right," Sam mutters, his pulse hiking. Sam knows exactly where this is going, so he thinks he shouldn't bother explaining. Not right now. He's gotta absorb this first. Let it unfold.
Dean is standing with his back against the wall, his arms loosely crossed. He nods his head, like he's hearing voices no one else can hear.
Sam wants to say so much, but he doesn't know where to begin so keeps his lips sealed. Anything he says may make things worse.
Only an hour or so earlier, Dean and him were alone in Sam's room, kissing tenderly after Sam hands him a special birthday gift - a rare edition of the Little Prince, a book Sam used to read to his sons when they were very young. He told Dean that he is his little prince and that he has tamed him. Dean tells Sam that he's his north star. Their kisses are sweet and loving, and Dean's taste lingers in Sam's mouth for an hour after.
And now here they are. Cold again, after a warm spell. By now, Sam knows this cycle too well. They'll be hot again tomorrow, then freezing cold again the day after, because there's no running away from how messed up their situation is. And Sam doesn't know how to shut this shit down.
"I'll leave ... but I get to pick where I'll go. You don't make this decision for me," Dean says distantly.
"Dean, back up. I was wrong not to include you—" Sam begins, shaking his head on instinct. False start, so he tries again. "Scratch that! You're not going anywhere."
Dean actually rolls his eyes. "It's not your decision anymore," he says with a shake of his head and casual finality. He brushes shoulders with Sam as he walks away. "I guess we're over," Dean tells him, going for the jugular, then walks down.
Sam leans against the wall, head rolling back. He stays still for a few minutes. He needs to wrap his head around this roller coaster of a day and this clusterfuck. He should be crying; but instead he bangs his head against the wall a couple of times and actually laughs.
….
Sam spies Dean chatting with Deanna. He doesn't like it.
Feeling protective, Sam approaches and he catches the tail end of their conversation. "Well, dad and I will talk about it. And if he's leaning towards grandpa's house then I guess this is where I'm going. I don't mind it," Dean says, and hearing this is like a shock to Sam's system.
"Well, your mother was saying—"
"Sam has no say in this," Dean notes, like it's nothing. Like Sam's nothing.
"Oh my, you call your mother by his name. You're quite the alpha, Dean," Deanna says, patting Dean's cheek lovingly. "Here he is," Deanna adds spotting Sam. "I'll leave you two to talk. Looks like you all need to get on the same page."
Deanna walks away, and Sam feels like strangling her, but he reminds himself that he can't and shouldn't hurt a woman, his mother-in-law least of all.
"Dean," he begins, pleadingly.
"Save it," Dean says and whooshes past him.
….
10pm
"Are you and your mom screwing or something?" Rhonda asks, eyes piercing, skeptical, as she slow dances with a very tipsy Dean, bodies swaying in a relatively quieter corner of the house.
Her lipstick is smudged from the aggressive kiss Dean gave her a moment earlier. It was sudden, rough and devoid of sensuality; like an insult, or a call for help.
"Don't be ridiculous," says Dean, heart in his throat. "Why on Earth would you say that?" He should pretend to be disgusted but it's too much work at the moment.
Rhonda shrugs. "The way you're circling each other all night, barely speaking. Dean, you know you can talk to me."
"Nothing to talk about, Rho."
She surveys Dean for a moment then decides to let the bit about his mom go. She still circles back to the kiss.
"Why did you kiss me?"
"What can I say? It's my birthday. I'm single. And you're a great lay," Dean says, lips upturning.
Rhonda gently untangles herself from Dean, fishes her phone out of her skirt, checks it and says, "I'm gonna call a cab."
"Wait," Dean says, sobering. "I'm sorry, it's complicated. Man, I'm not used to downing so much booze," he laughs without mirth. "I'm not ok. I'm sorry I kissed you, alright?"
"Dean, don't apologize. You can do it again. You know how I feel. I just don't want you to lie to me. Not after we've become friends," she says sincerely. "It's not like before, you know."
Dean nods. "You're right. Come here," Dean says, and he holds her. She hugs him back, hanging tight to his waist. She rests her head on his wide shoulder and lets him lean on her as she leans on him.
…
10 minutes after midnight
Sam is officially alone after Fergus and Meg take off until Benny, Dean's best friend, comes up to him and shares his company. The boy is a straight shooter, thick all over, butch and Sam can see the kind of alpha he's growing into.
Drunk and uninhibited, Benny soon becomes a little loud and gets a little handsy. He stands too close, eyes falling on Sam's breasts from time to time and Sam almost feels obliged to remind the young alpha where his face is. So far he hasn't stepped out of line and Sam is pretty sure he can handle him if he does.
As Benny's tongue loosens, the boy shares some of his and his family's casually ignorant and grossly genderist views of the world, but the kid is still hilarious, without meaning to. He has a charming accent that makes what he says easier to dismiss. Currently, he's also Sam's only company so Sam half-amusedly endures.
When the sound of Led Zeppelin blaring through the rented speakers becomes ear-shattering, he and Benny step out onto the porch. Sam pours himself a glass of wine before he ventures out. The air is crisp and Sam feels hollow but a few sips of wine soon warm his blood, soothing the jaggedness wedged between his soul and body. Things are crazy now, he tells himself, but he won't panic. He'll think of something tomorrow. He'll find a way to make Dean listen.
Before Sam knows it, it's two in the morning, and he and Benny are still out shooting shit over a bottle of wine they sneaked out and cigarettes. Sam typically hates smoking—with a passion and on principle—but tonight he allows himself to indulge. It relaxes him. Makes him forget about the quality time he's not spending with Dean.
Sam lets his mind wander to whether or not Benny might sense what's going on between him and Dean. Sam doesn't advertise the depth of the emotional bond he has with his son, but sometimes he wishes his friends knew how much he means to him. He may be biased but love like theirs doesn't come along too often.
Sam skillfully stirs the conversation to Dean and uses the opportunity to sneak in some questions about his son's other life away from home; curious to see Dean from his friend's perspective. The conversation soon becomes solely centered on Dean, and it's a reprieve from all the mess behind the closed doors steps away from them. It feels good to talk about Dean like this; like two boys bonding over a mutual crush.
The conversation slowly tapers off and Sam decides that he better check on the party, and perhaps try to wrap it up (if anyone plans on getting any sleep tonight). Inside, the dancing is going strong and the house is still packed tight. Sam searches with his eyes until they land on Dean. He looks like shit; lids sagging and face flushed. Sam observes his hot-blooded son about to take a swig of what is probably a hard drink. Instinct propels Sam in his direction and he catches Dean's wrist before the glass touches his lips.
He pulls it away, brings it to his nose and sniffs its content. Soda and whiskey. Fucking perfect. Sam already suspected hard liquor has been generously smuggled into the party but seeing the evidence on his son's tired face, bloodshot eyes and breath makes him about ready to combust. "Dean, that's enough," he says, expression strict.
"Don't tell me what to do."
"I'm gonna. Last time I checked, I'm still your mom," Sam says, growing more incensed.
Benny spots them. He joins and molds himself to Sam's side, a hand coming up to touch the base of his spine. Sam is a little taken aback by the unsolicited closeness and Benny's invasive paw, but right now his main concern is Dean.
Dean however doesn't miss how Benny fused himself to Sam, his eyes flicking between them; a fire crosses over his face, eyes flaming for a moment and his shoulders square.
"Your mom's right, brother," Benny slurs. If Benny was half-sober he'd see how Dean is eyeing daggers at him and he'd back off out of self-preservation.
Sam, despite the excess wine in his own system, is fully aware of his son's alpha rising to the surface. Not wanting to drive a wedge between the boys, he gently eases Benny off. "Dean, come on, you've had enough. Let's get some water in you."
Surprisingly, Dean lets himself be dragged away by Sam into the kitchen, a testimony to how worn he is. Sam puts a bottle of water in his hands. Dean unscrews the top and gently lifts the bottle to his mouth. When he tilts his head back, he feels a wave of nausea overtake him and his knees slightly buckle. Sam must notice because he places a protective hand against his back as he wobbles. "Let's get you upstairs," Sam suggests gently, like he's treading on eggshells. "Dean," he whispers softly. Dean nods, shoulders slumped.
They walk upstairs, and the crowd parts only a little as they squeeze through. When they're finally inside Dean's room and sheltered from the noise downstairs, Sam speaks as the relative darkness cocoons them. "Baby, I know you're upset. I get it! Just don't take it out on yourself."
"You could care less."
"Don't say that," Sam says.
"Whatever, I need to lie down," Dean says and staggers towards the bed. Because Sam is not wrong. Dean has been downing alcohol like it's punishment. When his head hits the pillow, his soul folds onto itself and he feels as if he's drowning.
Sam sits on the edge of the bed, and plants a hand on Dean's thigh, anchoring him. It burns like a brand, and Dean wants to slap it away but he's just too tired, so he uses his words to bruise instead.
"Did it feel good whoring yourself out to other alphas your son's age?"
"Dean, what are you talking about?" Sam sounds tired and hurt. Good. Let him hurt, Dean thinks.
"Saw you. With Benny. Saw how he looks at you. How he stares at your chest like it's fucking dessert."
"I don't know what you think you saw, Dean," Sam says, swallowing around a lump in his throat, his hand moving up Dean's thigh, kneading. Sam's palm is still scorching hot. Dean feels it through the clothes and he can't bear it. "He's your best friend and we were just talking."
"Did he kiss you?"
Before Sam could respond to this incredulous accusation, there's a knock on the door. Sam wants to ignore the intruder and continue to talk to his son, but Dean shuts off the opportunity and invites them in.
It's fucking Rhonda. Sam curses in his head, the hand resting on Dean's thigh retreating.
"Sorry for interrupting, Mr. Winchester. I'm here to check on Dean," she says, like taking care of Dean is her birth right.
"He almost drank himself into a stupor. I think he'll need to knock out," Sam supplies, boring holes into Rhonda like she wronged him just by being. Right now, he can't stand her sight.
"I'm right here you know," Dean says, voice prickly, and tries to sit up. When Sam bows his body forward and tries to help, Dean tells him to cool it. After a couple of stubborn attempts, his son, however, surrenders letting his head land back on the pillow with a thump.
Rhonda steps closer and sits herself on the bed; too close to Dean if you ask Sam, but he tries not to show his distaste and looks away instead.
However, he can't unsee, in his peripheral vision, how Rhonda places a hand on Dean's chest. Sam's cheeks burn when Dean takes her hand. And when his son intertwines their fingers together, Sam's stomach overturns.
"Don't think I'll be fun to be around anymore tonight," Dean whispers, and Sam suddenly feels like he's being pushed to the sidelines of an intimate conversation. It's torture. He wants to snatch his son's hand out of Rhonda's and hold it to his own heart.
"Look, Dean. I won't leave you alone," Rhonda says, slurring her words. "I'm not just a pretty face, dude. I can be a ride or die friend too. And I plan to be friends with you for life, so let me help you."
Help yourself first, Sam wants to say but he forces himself to shut it. He knows he's being petty and bitter. He's well aware he's insanely jealous of a girl nearly half his age but God help him, he can't stop himself.
"Rho, look, no offense, I don't really feel like company tonight."
In his head, Sam sighs in relief.
"We don't have to do it, you know," she teases, and Sam can't believe his ears. The audacity. He suddenly feels like keeling over and throwing up. How can Dean allow this? Are they still casually fucking or is the girl jerking his chains? "I'll just be here in case you feel sick or need anything in the middle of the night. We can cuddle if you want." Rhonda adds.
That's it. Sam has to take himself out or he will do something he may regret. It seems that Rhonda doesn't have the decency to be embarrassed by Sam's presence and Dean is not protesting.
"Fine, I'll leave you two alone," he announces to the room at large and pushes himself off the bed, but he might as well be invisible.
He'd hoped Dean would stop him. Sam wouldn't mind spending the night in his son's arms, making amends and atoning for his sins. In fact, it's all he wants right now. He must admit he's also worried about Dean. But neither acknowledge him.
After a brief hesitation, Sam tells Dean to call if he needs him and slips out of the room, certain he won't sleep tonight knowing Dean is sharing his bed with someone else.
"You and your mom don't seem to be on great terms," Rhonda tells Dean in a whisper, in case Sam is still in earshot or lingering in the hallway.
"Yeah."
"It's okay," Rhonda says, and leans forward to place a soft kiss on Dean's lips. He doesn't kiss back but he doesn't seem to mind her kisses. She smacks their moist lips together one more time, then another. She could do this all night but she doesn't push her luck.
"Do you have anything I can change into?" She asks. "You know what? Never mind! I'll help myself to a clean shirt, one of yours. Unless you don't mind me sleeping naked."
"Rho!" Dean protests weakly, his head already swimming and lids heavy.
"I'm kidding, I swear. I'll change then get you out of those pants."
Dean cracks a smile, eyes half open, and before she leaves his side, he squeezes her hand and whispers "Thank you" as darkness overtakes him.
Best and worst day ever, he thinks faintly as he drowns deeper, consciousness swiftly abandoning him.
Sammy, he almost whispers and then he's out.