Chapter Text
Grease slides slick over Dean's bottom lip and the savory scent of fried chicken tickles his nose as a thick thumb traces his mouth.
"You have lips just like your Mommy," the man breathes, coal hot and sulfur sour against his ear. "Does your Daddy ever kiss them?"
Dean doesn't shudder, shiver, and his belly doesn't tremble in disgust. He's brave, like his father is, like his father says his mother was. Instead he allows his eyes to drift shut, allows his mind to drift far, and gathers enough saliva to spit in the man's face.
"Bitch!" the man growls. The back of his hand lands heavy across Dean's face, knuckles biting into Dean's cheekbones, but Dean barely makes a noise.
The chains holding his father's wrists rattle violently. Dean glances at him, remembering the kind light and gentle strength that once shone in his mother's gaze, and tries to embrace her softness to ease his father's fear.
"Don't you touch him," John hisses. "Don't you - "
"Now, now, John," the man coos.
His hand comes to soothe the stinging heat pulsing in Dean's cheek. Dean tries to move away - he isn't flinching, though, because he's brave - but the man curls his fingers into the crop of Dean's hair, stilling the boy as he continues to stroke his rough fingertips over smooth skin.
"You get to play with this lovely little thing everyday. It's greedy of you not to share." The man smiles, dim yellow washed teeth dripping hunger over Dean's skin. "So pretty, hmm, just like your mommy. Isn't he, John? So pretty and so very stubborn. So very stupid. Does it make you want to do naughty things? Does it tempt you?"
Dean closes his eyes as the man moves closer to him, the heat from greasy lips burning through his skull. He prepares himself for the smear of that sour mouth on his hair. It never comes.
When Dean opens his eyes, the man is lying on his back, body convulsing as thick black smoke pummels violently from his mouth. Dean wants to close his eyes again, shield himself from the thick, clogging tornado of black and cruelty, but his father is watching him, eyes wide and frightened, and Dean won't leave his father alone.
-
The sitter John wrangled for Sammy eyes him warily when they return to the motel. Liam doesn't need to vocalize how wrong he thinks it was for John to tug his ten year old son along on the hunt, but John is weary, and his lips and throat are cracking dry, and he doesn't have the energy to explain again that using Dean as bait was the only viable option he had to lure the demon into their trap. John wasn't going to risk an innocent child, one who he couldn't depend on, one who couldn't take care of themselves, one who couldn't get the job done - one he couldn't trust.
John drops a kiss on Sammy's forehead before he stumbles into the bathroom. His wrists ache, chafe, sting, but his chest and mind feel clear: burned clean and hollow. He carefully avoids his own gaze in the cracking mirror as he splashes water on his face.
Dark words pulse along his skin, soft whispers of lips pressed against his, soft eyes calming his fear, making him strong. His hands curl around the counter. He breathes.
The silence and darkness of the night feels oppressive, slick and constricting in his lungs, as he gently closes the bathroom door. He needs noise, something hot in his throat, something to feed the fire which leaves him empty and cleansed for his boys and his fight.
"Shh."
John peers through the motel room to see Dean, so strong and brave and beautiful (just like his Mommy), running his small, sturdy fingers through Sammy's hair.
"Go back to sleep," Dean is whispering, lips against Sammy's forehead. A tiny hand is curled around his shirt, but Dean only smiles, gentle and indulgent, and pats his little brother's knuckles. "It's okay, Sammy, just go back to sleep."
Sammy shakes his head and tightens his grip on Dean's sleeve. "I d-dreamed, Dean, I - you - y-you and D-Dad - "
"Hey, hey, we're okay." Smiling, sun breaking through midnight (just like Mary), Dean brings Sammy's hand to his heart. "See? I'm fine, Dad's fine, and you're safe. Everything's okay."
"Will you stay with me?" Sammy asks softly.
"'Course," Dean answers easily. He settles into bed beside his baby brother and they curl together, sweet and innocent, everything in them John wants to protect and everything John has to burn from them in order to keep them alive.
As John moves through the motel, ready to head to the bar he saw on their way back from the hunt, he is struck by the picture his sons paint. It is so much like the view he used to stumble upon years ago, when Dean would crawl into he and Mary's bed with nightmares and clinging arms, bringing a smile to Mary's lips and warmth to John's heart. He aches for Dean to have that comfort again, for Sammy to know it, and for that sweetness to lull him to sleep.
-
"You're not coming."
Dean blinks at the gun in his hand before turning to blink at his father. He couldn't have heard the words correctly.
"Dad?"
Sighing, his father sinks onto the bed. He pats the space beside him. Dean moves instantly, confusion and dread beginning to beat heavy in his belly. He's done something wrong. He's been selfish, stupid, childish, weak: he's disappointed his father, failed at the job, let down his family and the people they're supposed to protect. He doesn't know how, but he must have. There's no other reason his father would be watching him with such somber eyes.
"It's not that you're not a good partner," John begins. Dean bites his lips and wills the tears, stupid pinpricks of heat, not to well in his eyes. "Dean."
"I can do better," Dean whispers solemnly.
"Dean," his father repeats again, more sternly this time. A heavy hand curls around his shoulder. "Look at me."
Hesitant, overwhelmed by the gnawing humiliation and failure beating in his lungs, Dean tips his head and meets his father's gaze.
"I don't want to lose you again," John says softly.
Confused, because he has never been lost before, Dean tilts his head and opens his mouth to question his father's words. John closes his eyes, though, and his entire body sags as if his muscle has turned to stone. Feeling unsure but unwilling to watch his father ache, Dean brings his own hand to his father's arms, patting it gently the way he does when Sammy dreams of ugly things. John sighs.
"This family can't lose someone else. Sammy can't - can't lose another Mommy."
Dean's hand falls from his father's arm.
"That's what every family needs to stay together," John continues, but his eyes are still closed and his body is still tense.
He sounds wary of the words he's speaking, which ratchets Dean's own sense of panic. His father is always sturdy, never unstable, never unsure. These words, this message, must be difficult; it must be important too, though. Dean can read it in the way his father's hand trembles on his shoulder.
Carefully, slowly, softly, Dean licks his lips and asks, "A Mommy?"
John releases a sharp breath. Eyes trembling with the force he's squeezed them shut, John nods. "And a Daddy. A - a family needs both, Dean, to keep from falling apart. You... you had your mother - " And Dean tenses, squeezing his fists and his own eyes tightly, because they never mention the mother who held him through his nightmares and made him laugh and kissed his forehead at night. " - but Sammy never really got to know what that was like."
Dean feels a seizure of sympathy for his little brother, who never knew the melody of their mother's laughter or the warmth of her chocolate chip cookies.
"You miss her, don't you Dean?" Before Dean can answer, his father whispers, "I miss her. I miss her so much. Every day."
It's so strange to hear his father speak of his mother, to hear his father speak so softly or sincerely. Dean squirms, uncomfortable, the same feeling of not knowing how to react that made him awkward when the TV at their last motel was stuck on Lifetime. He wonders briefly if his father is possessed. The christo is on his lips when John squeezes his shoulder and finally opens his eyes. They are red and wet and heavy. Dean wants to wrap his arms around his father the way he would for Sammy, but he remains still.
"You're so brave, Deano, and strong, just like your mother was. I need to you to keep that up, okay? I need you to be what she was for this family."
Eyes wide, Dean nods.
-
Things are different after that day.
Things are better.
Dean doesn't go on hunts except for very, very rare occasions, but he still gets to clean the weapons. He learns that not hunting doesn't mean his father doesn't trust him, though, because his father trusts him to take care of their family, of precious baby Sammy who is the innocence his father is trying to keep safe in the world, of John himself, who is a hero, who doesn't need help killing monsters but does need a gentle, knowing hand to bandage his wounds.
Dean doesn't disappoint his father anymore.
When he cooks, John eats his meals and smiles wide, patting his stomach and complimenting Dean's recipe; when he cleans, attempting to keep the motels and small houses they rent presentable, John kisses the top of his head and thanks him for working so hard; when he helps Sammy with his homework, plays games with him, keeps him company, John hugs him close and tells him that without him, Sammy wouldn't be happy and John wouldn't be sane.
Dean doesn't go to school, which makes Sammy cry at first, then whine, then fume. He argues with John about it until Dean presents a pie or suggests a game of cards or places his hands softly on both of their shoulders, draining their energy for screaming. There are times Dean misses it, too, but really, he knows all he needs to know: how to take care of his Sammy and his John. There isn't really much more he needs or wants to learn.
There are a few occasions when Dean resents his new role.
He can't play with other children his age, can't speak with anyone when he takes Sammy to the park (neither can Sammy, which settles jagged in his chest, but he only discusses it with John once), and he can't go to the arcade or the movies.
Eventually, though, sitting in his room, reading and trying and failing and re-trying different recipes, sewing Sammy's torn clothes, sewing John's torn skin, and keeping the weapons and the Impala shining become enough.
-
Sam knows when his father insists he call his big brother 'Mommy' that something is wrong. He's seen a picture of his mother a few times, her golden hair and light eyes and bright smile, and while he can recognize something similar about the way his heart swells for her and for Dean, he knows they aren't the same.
"A Mommy takes care of you," his father explains while Dean flits through the kitchen, stacking mismatched meats with stale bread for lunch. "Cooks for you, cleans for you, helps you sleep when you have bad dreams. That's what your Mommy does for you."
Something curdles sick and sour and thick like bad milk in his gut. His father's gaze is trembling, as if he's begging for Sam to just embrace the sickness while his words are demanding Sam to believe them. Sam doesn't really understand why his father is asking him this, why Dean is going along with it, but it makes him feel hot and cold, makes his blood surge like when he stumps his toe and screams more in anger than in pain.
He raises his hand, isn't sure if he's going to slam it on the table or sweep his glass to the ground, but is sure he needs to do something, when Dean slides a plate in front of him. The sandwich is stacked high and there is a pile of Cheetos and Funions on either side. Sam looks from the plate to his big brother's face to find a small smile playing on plush lips.
"Eat your lunch, Sammy," his father says from the other side of the table. "And thank your Mommy for your sandwich."
Sam narrows his eyes at his father. He's not hungry, feels nauseous, and his mouth has never even formed the word he's being commanded to speak. Another look at Dean's face quells one of the ice spikes of sickness clogging his throat, though, and he finds his mouth moving.
"Thanks," he says. Swallowing heavily, he continues, though his belly rumbles queasy and sour as he does. "Thanks, Mo - Mommy. It looks great."
Dean beams at him before pressing a kiss to his temple. Sam closes his eyes and breathes through his nose, but the warm slide of soft lips on his heated skin does comfort him.
Later, Sam throws up his lunch. He goes outside, though; he doesn't want Dean to hear to him.
-
Dean knows he isn't Sammy's mommy the same way Mary was. Obviously. He didn't give birth to Sammy. He's not a chick. But he is Sammy's mommy.
He is the one who makes Sammy breakfast, who irons Sammy's clothes for school plays, who tucks Sammy in and wakes Sammy up in the morning. Those are things that make a mother: love, support, comfort, caring and care taking. Biology doesn't have anything to do with the tender things that make Dean the mother of their family (even though their blood does beat the same).
With every intent, for every purpose, Dean is Sammy's mom. Dean knows Sammy has trouble adjusting to his new role. It's heartbreaking, really, how awkwardly Sammy says the word 'Mommy', how he tenses when Dean tells him stories at night, how he squirms when Dean washes his hair.
Dean reminds himself that it's just because Sammy isn't used to having a mommy, but when his heart hangs heavy, John will run a hand through his hair and tell him he's the best mommy their family could have hoped for. The words soothe Dean. He's never been the best at anything, doesn't think he could be the best at anything else, but it doesn't matter; being a mother to Sam and a partner to John is the most important role Dean can imagine for anyone, and he's the one who’s allowed to fill it.
-
As the years pass, the roots of Dean's role burrow further into his spirit. Every time he grows, it is deeper in love.
His spine lengthens and and his shoulders broaden and he grows more protective; he keeps Sammy closer to him when they walk through neighborhoods, is quicker to raise his voice or hands to anyone he deems a threat.
His muscles thicken and he grows more loyal; the secret smiles girls shoot in his direction, the ones that once made him ache to slip from Sammy's bed and into the warmth of another body, are not nearly as appealing, not when there could be evil lurking in the delicate bones that reach for them, not when a taste could lure him from the family he keeps together.
His hair gets longer and his skills as the cook, the cleaner, the care taker, grow.
-
As the years pass, Sam finds clarity, and with understanding comes anger, disgust, and devotion.
The older he grows, the sharper his mind becomes, the more startling the disease his family breathes becomes. He listens to the words his father speaks into his brother's ear, watching the poison slither through Dean's head, and his blood burns with rage and his throat burns with bile. His understanding of his father's sickness, the sickness he is imprinting upon Dean and attempting to sink into Sam, makes him clench his jaw until it aches. He can barely speak past the hatred to grunt single syllable answers to his father's questions.
Harsh as realization makes him to his father, the insanity pumping his family along softens everything he feels for his brother. He can't find it in himself to be frustrated with Dean; every time he looks into his brother's spring green eyes, he only finds adoration, achingly pure and fierce.
Dean was slated with taking care of both himself and their father ever since Sam can remember; of course John's trembling, terrible words and pushes convinced him playing mom in their crumbling house was best. Sam knows his father used him as leverage, as sick reasoning; knows that Dean answers to mommy because he thinks its what their family, what little Sammy, needs. He doesn't understand how his father could do that to his own son.
-
When Dean turns eighteen, he's allowed to take Sammy to school again. He had to stop when he was around thirteen; it brought up too many questions when he walked Sammy to the front doors but didn't go in himself.
Dean had been waiting for his birthday, eager to bring Sammy to the classes he loved so much, to watch over him on his way to and from the halls and protect him from demons in the shadows or bullies in the light.
He nearly bolts out of bed that morning.
They're renting a two bedroom on the wrong side of town this week, so there is actually a kitchen for him to make breakfast in. He's setting the coffee when Sammy shuffles into the kitchen. His long hair is knotted on one side. Dean can't help but laugh and shake his head before pulling a comb from his pocket.
"Morning, sleepy head," he greets teasingly. "Sit down. The coffee'll make while I get that nest outta your hair."
Sammy, still groggy, takes a seat at one of the mismatched, wobbling chairs. Dean smiles. His boy is so ridiculously precious.
He moves behind Sammy and trails the comb through some of the smoother strands. Before running the comb through the tangled mass on top of Sammy's head, Dean takes a fistful of hair in hand, holding the roots so he doesn't pull them as he combs through the mess. Sammy is tender headed, and his eyes used to water when they were younger and Dean wasn't gentle enough. Dean is a good mom, though, and learned how to brush Sammy's locks without hurting him.
"Wait," Sammy says and Dean tenses, afraid he's somehow pulled too hard, somehow hurt his little Sammy. But then Sammy squirms, digging into his pocket for something, and pulls out a leather cord with a glinting charm in the middle.
Sammy offers Dean the necklace with a shy smile and gentle hands. Beaming, Dean drops a big kiss to Sammy's cheek. Sammy's face is ablaze with embarrassment, which Dean has always found amusing and strange, because who gets embarrassed at affection from their mother, but Sammy's smile is bright at Dean's obvious delight.
"It's an amulet," Sammy explains. "It's, um, it's supposed to protect you."
"I love it, Sammy."
He does.
He fumbles with the cord for a moment, trying to get it tied, but Sammy smile and stands.
"Let me?" he asks, sounding oddly breathy as his eyes move over the column of Dean's throat.
Dean nods. Sammy releases a soft breath and moves behind him to tie it. Once he's finished, the amulet slides between Dean's collar bones. It's not a heavy weight, but it's obvious, and Dean's chest tightens underneath it. The fingers at the back of his neck skirt over the collar of his t-shirt, moving along the soft hairs at the base of his neck, before slipping forward, stroking gently over his throat.
"There," Sammy breathes.
Dean turns, smiling, and tilts his head when he sees the blush still staining his Sammy's face. "Thank you, Sammy. Really. This is the best present I've ever gotten." He reaches out to ruffle Sammy's floppy hair. "Besides you, of course."
"Good morning Sammy," their father greets, startling Sammy and drawing Dean's attention. As their gazes meet, John's smile widens. "Happy birthday morning, Mommy."
"Thanks," Dean smiles. In the corner of his eye, he sees Sammy's gaze narrow. "We were just about to have breakfast. Then I was going to walk Sammy to school."
Dean says it as a statement, voice steady even as his heart pounds with his lack of surety. He bites his lip.
John laughs, warm and deep. "You could do that," he says, and Dean's heart begins to sink. Hasn't he proven himself a good mom? Hasn't he - "Or you could drive him."
The keys to the Impala drop from John's fingers, dangling brighter than gold gleaming under the sun. Dean's face breaks into a grin. He feels ridiculous for doubting himself - of course he's a good mommy, he's the best - and even more so for doubting John.
"Awesome," he says, reaching for them. "I'll bring her back safe and sound."
"No, no," John laughs again. "She's yours. I'm giving her to you." When Dean can only respond with a slack face, open mouth and wide eyes, John grins. "Happy birthday, Mommy."
Dean launches himself forward, wrapping his arms around John, body buzzing with disbelief. The Impala is his. No more walking to the grocery store or depending on John to get everything on the list, no more trusting strangers to give Sammy rides or walking him miles to the library, no more waiting for John to get back from a hunt to make a run to get Sammy new school supplies or clothes.
He'll even get to drive Sammy to school, drop him off in the car pool lane like the normal kid Sammy wants so badly to be, the way all the other mom's do.
"Thank you," Dean whispers. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."
John chuckles again. He pulls away from the hug, clapping a hand on Dean's shoulder. His hand doesn't move when he turns his gaze to Sammy.
"Sammy," he asks, grin wavering. "Have you told your Mommy happy birthday yet?"
"He doesn't need to," Dean answers for him. He can't keep the smile from his face as he looks between his family. "This is the best birthday ever."
John offers him a warm look before directing his attention back to Sammy.
Dropping his gaze to the floor, Sammy murmurs, "Happy birthday, Mom."
-
Some days, Sam actually wonders if he's the crazy one: if Dean really is his mother and he's the only one who doesn't see it. (Even though part of him does see it: Dean is his mother in the definition John and Dean have set.)
He has to remind himself that Dean is a man, his older brother, but as his feelings twist, morph and pervert themselves, the reminders become less and less grounding.
Today Sam feels the insanity eating at him.
Thoughts he shouldn't have for his mother or his brother are sliding around his brain, laughing at him, and he can't concentrate on the numbers dancing fuzzy in front of his eyes.
He knows, logically, Dean won't be able to help him with the problem: John pulled Dean out of school before he even got to Algebra. The knowledge doesn't stop the sick, slithering things in his blood from falling from his lips.
"Dean," he calls, heart pounding. His mouth tingles from forming around the name he hasn't spoken out loud in years. It feels good to say, freeing and forbidden. Fire licks the edge of his belly, heats his blood with the frustration of this disease and hot thoughts that haunt him in the dark. "Can you help me with this, Dean?"
Dean, who has been folding laundry that will only be rumpled once they stuff them back into their duffles, looks up from the flannel shirt he's lain on the bed.
"What?" he asks, blinking.
Sam nearly bites his lip, nearly sucks the words back into his mouth, but they're already floating through the air; he can't undo them. And he shouldn't. He shouldn't let this sick charade, disgusting facade, continue. Maybe all it will take is one push to shatter the little glass globe John has locked his brother into.
"Can you check this problem for me, Dean? I can't find X."
Dean stares at him for several moments, confusion and hurt flickering through his usually shining eyes. Dean attempts to laugh through the obvious ache, asking, "Wha - Sammy, why are you calling me that?"
"What?" Sam questions. His mouth feels dry. "Dean?"
"Yeah," Dean says tensely. "Why - Sammy, come on." He shakes his head, as if the gentle movement will shed the wrongness of the words.
But it's not Sam whose wrong. It's not Dean's name that doesn't belong. Taking a deep breath, Sam gathers his courage, finds strength in his anger, and speaks. "Because that's your name, Dean."
Dean stares at him for several long, tense moments. Sam wonders if maybe he's gone too far too fast: maybe he's startled Dean, pulled him from the fantasy too harshly, set him spinning with nothing to grip for balance.
"Look, Sammy," his brother sighs. "I know your new little friend calls his hippy dippy parents by their first names. And that's fine, if you're a hippy. But in this family, we respect the people who take care of us, okay, and you know that's not - "
"But that's your name," Sam nearly screeches. His frustration is bubbling into adrenaline, pounding through his brain, and he wonders wildly if maybe his head is just going to explode. "You're not - Dean, you're not my parent. You're not my mom. You - Jesus Christ, you have to know that, Dean, you - "
"Stop calling me that!"
They are both breathing hard, chests moving harshly, blood rushing through their ears. Sam stares at Dean, at this person who has loved and cared for him since before he can remember, and for the first time he wonders if either of them really know who he’s looking at.
Dean looks away first, clenching his jaw and his fists as he breathes in heavily through his nose.
“I get it,” Dean murmurs softly. “You don’t want to leave another town, start in another school, and you’re…lashing out. It’s what teenage boys do.”
Fear and sadness, drenched in utter helplessness, race blood dawn red in Sam’s blood.
“You are too,” Sam whispers, terrified that Dean has forgotten, that Dean doesn’t know or understand. Wetness wells hot and horrific in his eyes. “You… Dean, you are too.”
A harshness, a coldness, blankets Dean’s features. Sam has never seen it harden his brother’s face before, but he has seen it lying thick over his father’s features.
“I know exactly what I am, Sammy,” Dean says. His voice is quiet but his tone is firm, tense, so much like his father’s, so much like…like a parent, like a mom whose scolding their child through clenched teeth. Sam drops his watery gaze to his book. “What I don’t know is why you’re acting like this.”
“You’re not my mother.” Sam has to close his eyes, his heart, as he speaks the words. “Dean, you’re not my mother. You’re my brother. You’re – ”
“Haven’t I taken care of you?” Dean snaps.
His hands are clutching the shirt he was folding before, knuckles white. His jaw is trembling. Sam can feel his own spirit splintering as he watches Dean shake. He wants so badly to stand, reach out, wrap Dean in his warmth and lead him gently from the thing John has poisoned him into becoming. He doesn’t move; instead he sits, frozen, as Dean drops the shirt onto the bed and turns towards him.
“I’m the only mother you’ve ever known,” Dean says as he moves to sit beside Sam on the brown, tattered motel couch. His eyes are sad and Sam aches with the knowledge that he planted that sadness there. “I don’t understand why you would say that. Haven’t I always kept you fed, clothed, happy? I thought I had. I thought – I’ve always done my best to make you a good life, Sammy. I’ve always done my best to be the best mom I could be to you.”
Dean drops his head into his hands. His neck sags and it looks broken, sick, and his fingers press half-moon shapes into his skin. Sam wonders if he should keep pushing, if he should keep insisting Dean is his brother, his brother, his brother (his) until Dean breaks apart and Sam can rebuild him into the man he knows Dean is supposed to be. They could run, then, slide from John’s clutches, and Sam could take care of his brother until Dean’s fractured soul healed. Maybe Sam could even be the one to heal it.
A quiet sound shatters the tracks of Sam’s mind. Without thinking, he wraps his palm around Dean’s knee and scoots closer.
“Dean,” he says, plaintive, begging, because he doesn’t really know how to be anything else. He doesn’t have the same authority his father does, doesn’t have the magic voice and touch to make people obey; he’s never needed it with Dean before, always getting his way through slanted eyes and pursued lips. “Dean, please…”
Strong hands slide away from Dean’s face, revealing soft tear tracks Sam desperately wants to kiss away. His body moves before his brain can send the signals to stop, but the sound of the door swinging open startles him into inaction.
“I picked up – Sammy?” their father asks from the door. He must see the tears on Dean’s face, because he drops his bag and rushes toward them, kneeling on the floor and taking Dean’s hands in his own.
“Sweetheart,” he says, and Sam bristles.
Another thing that’s changed since Dean turned eighteen, besides the change of ownership in the Impala and the small freedoms he’s been allowed, is that John has taken to referring to Dean as sweetheart, sometimes darling or honey; Sam finds it more disturbing than when John called Dean Mommy too, finds it more enraging and blood boiling.
“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
He looks to Sam, doing a quick check for injuries, because the only times Dean sheds tears is when he thinks one of his precious family has been hurt.
“Nothing,” Dean says quickly. He forces a water smile and rubs his palms over his cheeks. “Nothing, just – I hate it when I can’t help Sammy with his homework. What kind of mom lets their kid fail Algebra, huh?”
“Sammy,” their father says sharply. Dean’s mouth falls open to explain further, draw suspicion from Sam, but Sam has already met his father’s eyes. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Sam repeats. He glares at his father’s and brother’s joined hands, hating that his father would be cruel and callous and sick enough to touch his beautiful son so filthily, hating that his father is allowed to while Sam can only watch and boil. Adrenaline pounding, he continues. “I was just asking Dean – ”
Dean flinches beside him. Sam hates that he has to inflict pain on the one person who he loves, the one person who loves him, but he can’t stand this sick regime any longer. He won’t.
John’s eyes freeze, anger and disappointment flecks of ice in the dark depths. “Do you really think that’s an appropriate way to refer to your mother, Sam?”
A frustrated noise falls from his clenched teeth. “He’s not my mother. He’s my brother, and Dean is his name, and I’m not going to let you fuck with him anymore. I’m not going to fucking call him that.”
Thick fingers curl immediately around his shirt collar, yanking him forward. He pushes his chin forward, defiant as his nostrils flair and his fear races. He has no idea what his father will do to him. Fear clenches and unclenches in his gut before he realizes his father can never hurt him as much as he’s hurt Dean. Rage replaces his apprehension.
“John.” His brother’s gasp draws his eyes. He watches as Dean brings his hand to John’s wrist and removes them from Sam’s shirt. “Calm down, John, he’s only acting out. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”
Fury is still obvious in their father’s face, his voice, when he speaks. “That doesn’t give him the right to disrespect his family.” He looks to Dean. Speaking softer, he adds, “It doesn’t give him the right to hurt you.”
Dean’s expression is earnest as he takes their father’s hands into his. The gesture makes Sam burn brighter.
“I’m fine,” Dean says with a soft smile. “Really.”
Sam can’t watch this any longer. He stands abruptly and ignores the wide-eyed expression his brother shoots him (ignores the ache of ignoring his brother’s ache) and marches towards the door. His father’s voice booms behind him as he bolts.
-
The sight of his son running through the door sends a jolt of frustration, coated heavily in desperation, through John’s bones. He moves to follow him, planning to scream or beat some sense into his youngest, when Dean’s hand around his bicep stills him.
“John,” he says softly.
Closing his eyes, he takes a moment to let Dean’s gentle voice calm him before turning around. Dean’s face is so free of anger or complaint, colored in adoration and concern, and it eases the flames licking his heart to stone.
“I know,” John sighs. “Let the boy be.” Dean grins at him, the softest ray of sunshine, and his palm finds the smooth skin of Dean’s cheek before he realizes he’s moved closer. Swallowing, John attempts to speak through the sudden stone heavy heat in his throat. “What would this family do without you, Mommy?”
“I have no idea,” Dean answers brightly. He brings his own hand to John’s, pressing his palm against his cheek, before moving away.
John sinks onto the couch, ignoring the lumps in the cushion and the way Dean’s hands seem so sturdy yet so fragile as he picks up John’s bag. Dean is the mother Sam needs, he reminds himself, the gentle strength that tempers the links of their family and keeps them from breaking.
He knows their situation isn’t normal, knows it isn’t what anyone including himself would consider right, but Dean is happy and when Sam isn’t suffering his teenage angst, he’s happy too. That’s more than he thought he would be able to offer his sons after their mother burned to ash.
They’ve had to shed the morals of daylight, embrace what they have to do to survive while ensuring monsters don’t, and this is just another part of keeping them together until they can destroy the thing that tore their world apart.
For years, the dynamic has worked, smooth and simple.
John isn’t sure when that near perfection fractured, but he’s been feeling the cracks in his surface dig deeper, begin to taint his blood and bones.
Since Dean turned eighteen (since before then, really, since each year Dean becomes more like his mother, since each year his heart and face and body become more beautiful, too beautiful to ignore), he’s felt the infection spreading. He’s become excellent at burying unpleasant thoughts and sick coils of emotion though, as excellent as he has at digging up a grave, and he’s been able to ignore the heat simmering in his chest.
“I’ll start on dinner,” Dean says after dropping John’s duffle at his feet.
Before Dean moves away, John catches his wrist.
“John?”
He sounds so young, so soft, the same tone he used the night John explained the new role he would need to play for their family. John’s thumb traces a circle over his pulse. (God, Dean is so soft, softer than Mary was; softer skin, softer heart, softer lips. John closes his eyes.)
“I’m sorry he said that to you, sweetheart,” John says. “You’re the best mother a boy could have.”
Dean smiles, so soft and proud, and even as dark thoughts begin to gnaw at his heart, John can’t help but smile back.
-
Mothers are overprotective; mothers think no girl can compare to their ability to love, cherish and care for their son; mothers worry too much.
Dean knows these things, but it doesn’t stop him from wringing his hands together as Sam finishes combing his hair.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you?” Dean asks. Again. “You said Nellie thought the Impala was cool. She’ll think you’re cool if you get chauffeured in the Impala.”
Sam shoots a gentle glance in his direction. Dean pretends to focus on chopping celery.
“Her name is Ellie. I’ve told you like a hundred times.”
“Well I’m sorry if I’ve been distracted by taking care of this family,” Dean mutters. He realizes he’s being melodramatic, bitchy, but irritation is chafing under his skin. “I haven’t even met this Shelly girl. How do we know she’s not a demon? Or a succubus?” Under his breath, he adds, “Or a succubitch.”
Sam snorts. “Mom,” he sighs. “She’s human. And if she’s not, I have a knife in my boot.”
Scooping up a pile of celery, Dean clicks his tongue before dropping them into the stew pot. “How long has she been driving?” he prods.
“She got her license a month ago.”
“A month,” Dean huffs. He moves to the fridge and grabs an onion. “Maybe you should drive.”
“I don’t have a license.”
“Pfft,” Dean snorts. “I don’t have a license. I drive all the time. You should drive. You have more experience.”
He sets the onion on the chopping block. He doesn’t think he’ll tear up as he sends Sammy on his first date, but if any heat wells in the corner of the eye, he’ll at least have chopping the onion as an excuse.
It hits him with dawning horror that he’s become one of those dreaded helicopter moms, hovering above Sammy’s head, stifling his breath and limbs. Dean has always promised himself he would never become the overbearing mother that drove Sammy to insanity, but apparently he’s morphed into one of the exaggerated television moms. He chops fiercely through the realization.
“Mom.”
Sammy stands behind him. Dean turns and surveys his outfit: jeans Dean pressed earlier (and briefly thought about spilling ink over, opting not to only because he didn’t think a stain would stop Sammy from his date), a dark green button down and a soft leather jacket.
Despite himself, pride blooms in his chest. “You look very handsome,” he says.
Sammy flushes and ducks his head. “Thanks, Mom,” he murmurs. “You look – I mean, you always look. Beautiful.”
Rolling his eyes, Dean reaches out and ruffles his hair. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere with me young man. It certainly won’t get this Kelly on my good side.”
“Ellie,” Sammy stresses again, but there is a small smile on his lips. “Look, Mom, if you’re really – if you’re really that worried, I can cancel.”
Dean is that worried, but he also doesn’t want Sammy to miss out on his first date. It’s a big step for a boy, after all.
“No, don’t cancel. I’m just being one of those Mom’s. Y’know, like…like…” Mouth dropping open, Dean brings a hand to his face. “Oh God, I’m the mom from Everybody Loves Raymond.”
Sammy laughs. “No, Mom, you’re not.”
Dean shakes his head. “No, no, I am. Do you know how many times I’ve already criticized Deli in my head? If you two got married, I would bring you food every day, even if she cooked. I would come over every day.”
“Mom,” Sammy says, still laughing, but his expression is earnest and pillow soft. “Deli – Ellie and I aren’t going to get married, okay, we’re just going to a movie. And even…even if I get married, I wouldn’t…” He looks down. “I’d want you to come over every day. I wouldn’t even want a girl who thought her cooking was as good as yours. I’d – I mean, I’d move you in our house. You’d still be the most important person in my life.”
Dean is stunned into silence, unable to speak or move. His Sammy is still staring at the ground when his limbs unfreeze.
“Sammy,” he says, then moves to gather his boy into his arms. It’s a little stranger now that Sammy is a good two inches taller than him, but Sammy’s added height and bulk do comfort some of the fears Dean’s always had about Sammy’s safety. He knows Sammy can take care of himself (he’d just much, much rather he not have to) but now other people can see it as well. “You big teddy bear.”
“Mom,” Sammy whines, but he returns the hug just as fiercely. He buries his nose into Dean’s hair and takes a deep breath. Dean would think Sammy was inhaling his scent instead of oxygen with the way Sammy pulls him closer, but he understands his Sammy is nervous about his big night. “M’serious, you know. You’re – you’re the most important thing in the world to me. I love you, Mommy.”
When Dean pulls away, his worries haven’t eased, but his chest is bursting from Sammy’s words. Things have been tense between the entire family since Sammy’s incident. It seems that Sammy’s overcome whatever issue was making him lash out, and Dean couldn’t be more thrilled to hear Sammy call him Mommy again.
The doorbell rings. Sammy looks nervously towards the entryway.
“Go on,” Dean says, nudging him. He turns the stove to simmer and slides his apron over his neck. He’s going to head into the bedroom, wait until Deli (which is his favorite not-the-girls-name to use) and Sammy have left to finish the stew, but Sammy steps in front of him.
“Do you want to meet her?” he asks, voice tense and body posture uneasy.
Dean raises a quizzical brow. He never ‘meets’ anyone, never introduces himself or speaks to others, and never interacts with anyone who John and Sammy know. John explained how Dean could never let anyone outside the family know that he served as the Mommy they so desperately needed; no one but family would understand.
“It was just…” Sammy trails off. “I just never get to talk about you or show you off to anyone. No one knows I have the most beautiful, most awesome mom ever.”
Dean smiles. He hears those words from John, but not as often from Sammy. He leans forward to kiss Sammy’s cheek. Sammy’s eyes close as he does, nostrils flaring and mouth dropping open. Dean pulls away quickly. For some reason, he feels embarrassed.
“Have fun with Deli.”
Dean waits in the bathroom, cleaning the mirror, until he hears the door close. He counts to five before rushing to the small window that shows the parking lot.
Sammy and Deli are walking to her a car: a green Volkswagen with fake eyelashes fashioned to the headlights. That’s probably a safety hazard, Dean thinks darkly. Then Deli glances towards their front door, and Dean can see the dark green of her black lined eyes. A gust of wind blows her wheat hued hair, plastering a strand to her pink lips, and she laughs.
Dean thinks she looks almost like Mary.
-
Greek mythology has always interested Sam. He vaguely reads over the myth of Oedipus, face burning and stomach rolling as he thought of his own father and mother, but when he is sixteen his English class reads the play out loud. He isn’t assigned a speaking part. He’s thankful.
Mrs. Wright is discussing the concept of the Oedipus complex. The rest of the students make scrunched faces and disgusted groans. Sam stares hard at his textbook.
“Now, is it a complex if it’s just your own mom, or do your friends moms count? Because I would like to Oedipus Daniel’s mom.”
“Mr. Callahan!” their teacher scolds.
Grinning, Caleb turns towards Sam. “Hey, dude, I’ve never seen your mom. Is she hot? Can I Oedipus her?”
Caleb is yanked from his seat by Mrs. Wright’s bright red acrylic nails. Sam clenches his jaw.
-
When Dean picks him up from school, Sam is still blushing. He can’t help but play Caleb’s questions over in his mind.
“Hey Sammy,” Dean greets as Sam slides into the front seat. “Good day at school? What’d you learn?”
You’re beautiful, Sam doesn’t say. I want you. I would claw the eyes out of anyone who touched you.
“Not much,” Sam answers.
-
That night, Sam leans against the tiled shower wall and searches for patterns in the dingy shower curtains. All he finds is Dean’s face.
He thinks about Caleb, his pale, skinny fingers, unworthy, on Dean’s body. He supposes the only sliver of a silver lining in the fucked up, un-functional dynamic of his family is that Dean has never ventured beyond he or John.
Dean has never been kissed. Never been touched. Never fucked or been fucked.
Sam tries not to think about how untouched, how pure and precious, his beautiful brother is, because it makes his fingers itch.
The three girls Sam has lost himself in have been pretty and kind, have had strange senses of humor that make him laugh inappropriately loud at inappropriate times.
None of them have had Dean’s eyes, though. Even with mascara they haven’t had the length or fanning span of his lashes. None of them have Dean’s lips. Even with lipstick or gloss, their mouths haven’t been as pink or plush or pouty. None of them have had Dean’s freckles, or strong jaw, or soothing voice, or gentleness. None of them have been as beautiful.
It’s a realization that has come to him before, but Sam feels just as jarred by the knowledge that he will never love someone the way he loves Dean as he did the first time.
There isn’t another soul strong enough to endure what Dean has endured for him. There isn’t another soul selfless or sweet enough to climb into the husk of a ghost and play house to protect him.
Sam tries not to think about Dean as he strokes his fingers down the length of his cock. But he’s tired, so damn tired, and he’s starting to think he must be as crazy as the rest of his family, and really, what does it matter if he thinks of Dean’s skin while he jerks himself off in the motel room they’ve paid for with a stolen credit card?
He squeezes his eyes and breathes in deeply. The wafting scent of fast food makes him want to gag, makes his stomach grumble for Dean’s cooking, and the thought of Dean preening in his green apron over the dinner he’s prepared for his Sammy gets him harder than it should. His head hits the shower tile as he strokes himself, thumbs the head of his cock, cups his balls in his other hand.
His mind conjures Dean in the shower with him. He thinks of when he was younger, when Dean would help him in the bath because that’s what Mommy’s did; he thinks he could probably coax Dean into the bath with him again, even though he’s all grown up now. Dean would probably tease him, but in the end Dean would climb behind him, run strong fingers through his hair, lather his chest and arms and legs.
Sam could guide his soapy hand around his cock, could say please, Mommy, please, need you, could get Dean to jerk him slow and rough and perfect.
It’s so wrong – it’s so fucking wrong, oh Jesus Christ, it’s so wrong – but Sam feels so sure he could pull it off. He can see it, damn, he can fucking smell Dean’s skin, and he pushes his hips into the next pull of his fist.
“Dean,” he pants, increasing the pressure of his hold on his cock until it’s nearly painful. “Fuck, f-fuck – Mom.”
He comes over his fist. He breathes heavily for a few moments, coming down from his eye, until his eyes fly wide open.
Did he – oh God – did he say –
He leans forward so he can bang the back of his head on the shower. The dull sting spreads through the base of his skull. It hurts, but not enough to cleanse the sickness from his stomach.