I was a taller girl too, once. (regala_electra) wrote,
I was a taller girl too, once.
regala_electra

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Fic: Ben Has Two Dads (SPN, Sam/Dean, NC-17)

Ben Has Two Dads Uncles
Reg and Stef's truly epic domestic gay daddy story featuring Dean and Sam Winchester
Authors: regala_electra and ignited
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warnings: Language, Sexual Content
(Also please be aware this story contains gay parenting, candy mountains, beards that make Certain People look like Vikings, sick!Dean, snowfights, and extreme domestic looooove)
Spoilers: S3, The Kids Are Alright
Word Count: 11,000
Summary: When Ben turns thirteen and learns that Dean Winchester is his father, he runs away to join his father (and uncle). A tale where boys are boys, Vikings are Vikings, unicorns go to Candy Mountains, Dean and Sam are in big gay love, and Ben becomes a Winchester.
Author's Notes: All of the insanely awesome graphics, which includes postcards, notes, hilarious wallpapers, and super awesome photos were all done by the fabulous miss ignited. We could not have finished this story without the crazy enabling of the usual suspects, y'all know who you are.

For this crackish endeavor, the authors would be quite delighted by feedback.


*



Never mind how it comes to this, ignore how most kids'll run off to the circus, because frankly, the place that a boy called Ben runs off is far cooler than any circus, rodeo, or Candy Mountain.

Yes, it happens when Ben here, full of hormones and questions, more questions than hormones if you can believe that, he has himself one of those teenage rebellions and runs away to someplace even stranger. Better though and the proof is in the pudding. Or pie. Mmm, pie.

The story begins where a chapter in Ben's life had ended, a little incident his mother never wanted to talk about, mostly because of all the weird surrounding it, changelings, and things like that just shouldn't be spoken about. It begins and ends with the kind of lie that happens on instinct, a mother protecting a son from a world she doesn't understand (the lie begins in the heart, turns into a soothing lullaby she sings to herself every night she falls asleep). But she can't lie to her son forever (would that she could but love makes her foolish, loosens the tongue on a lie she'd almost begin to believe in).

Yes, that man, the one who saved you - us - from those monsters, that's your daddy.

Maybe he doesn't take it so well (understatement) and maybe it was a bad decision (overstatement), but that's how this story begins, and really, you can't have a finer escape, unless you're reading Huckleberry Finn, but this isn't that kind of story, no siree, after all, the magic's real here and the ghosts aren't a figment of a boy's overactive imagination.

Young Ben, thirteen years old, headstrong, misplaced in an tween movement overstuffed with electronics, preppy clothes, and crappy emo bands, sneaks out one night with a backpack full of all the things he can't live without (made sure his iPod was full of good music, barely has anything from the late 80s), and he'd hotwired his neighbor's car, a freaking Honda, not the kind of car he'd want to be caught dead in, but it'll do in a pinch, and besides, he's got places to go.

Fathers (and uncles) to find.



*






*



Dean's a dad. Father. Daddy. Daddy-O. Okay, so, he's so not the last one, despite Sam telling him that Dean kept on saying daddy-o for hours last night, which, Sam adds, was kind of amazing, considering how he nearly came to being rushed to the emergency room after all the alcohol he slammed down in a crazy amount of time.

Thing is, Dean could never forget Ben, even though he had to force it away, not his son, and wasn't that lame, a guy getting older and pining for the family he was never gonna have?

So yeah, not unless Sam suddenly sprouted woman-parts and a functioning uterus and god, kill him now for even thinking about that, because in their line of work, you just never knew. Like, you know, Dean never gave much thought about the whole fucking his brother thing (until he did and his thoughts drifted to fuck, it’s wrong, but when have I been right?), but now's the most normal part of his life. So yeah, he's got his son trailing after him and goddamn, he should be able to shake off a hangover by this point, for fuck's sake.

Ben's working on a postcard to his mom, not knowing that Dean's already exchanged pleasantries with Lisa, he kinda forgot that that stubborn streak in her also had been a major turn on in their awesome weekend together, so yeah, that had royally messed up each other's righteous anger at the other, but hey, Ben finally found Dean and he was safe, so things are looking up, right?

No, not fucking right.

He’d put Ben on the phone and the kid’s a natural, unnerving really, a damn near peacemaker. It’s like looking at a distorted funhouse mirror or experiencing a really bad acid trip, seeing Ben (his son for Christ’s sake) calm down his mother, pull off a spin that almost leaves Dean reeling. Actually it totally does, and he’s forced to run off to the bathroom again to leave another offering for the porcelain god.

There are some things that Ben doesn't mention to his mother. Like the fact that Dean tried to bring him back home about ten times before Dean surrendered, defeated by a friggin’ thirteen year old kid.

Hey, he tried, but Ben’s way too talented at pulling friggin' Houdinis, even doing a coupla vanishing acts that Dean or Sam could never manage in even their goddamn prime, and they had Dad teach them all the ways of getting out of handcuffs and ropes and what have you. Yeah, anytime they started heading towards Indiana, Ben here would just take off and Dean’s tired of the chase.

Fuck, if that ain’t a sign he’s getting old, then Dean’s really screwed.

When Dean sobers, it’s time for the Talk, not birds and the bees (which, man, he really hope Lisa already gave Ben that little speech, shit, he’s already thinking of stuff like that, he is so doomed), the serious why the hell would you want to be hunter? talk.

Maybe doing it with a massive hangover makes him choose his words more carefully, Dean doesn’t know, what he does know is that Sam, Sam, who should be having Dean’s back, he freakin’ melts under Ben’s familiar maladjusted glower at being told no and seriously? Doom.

Leave it to Uncle Sam, about as tall as those Uncle Sam guys on stilts, only with less grey hair and no bitchin’ fake beard, to convince Dean to let Ben stay. (Which, thank you Uncle Sammy, because he can’t say no to his brother and his son.)

It's the family business right? It's either that or restore cars, which Ben adds, he's awesome at.

"You're only thirteen, kid," Dean says, but can’t help a sliver of pride crack across his serious face and shit, Ben totally reads it.

"So?"

"Okay," Sam says, looking between Dean and Ben, "I know for a fact that it's not genetically possible, but I'm still going to ask. Did you clone yourself thirteen years ago? Be honest."

"Hey," Ben says, affronted. "I'm an original. Ben Braeden. Just because my old man isn't on the nerd patrol, doesn't mean I'm copying someone else's style."

Sam goes to say something else, but Dean claps Ben on the shoulder, says to him, "Amen. Hey, you hungry? I'm starving."

He’s not, his stomach’s still boiling over, but even playing with his food, it’ll distract him from shackling his son to a life that no one should want. (Except, apparently Dean and now, his kid.)

Fuck.



*



And it's almost as easy as that. Some bumps along the way, but before Ben knows it, he's a hunter-in-training, hitching his future to his dad and his uncle.


*





*



Hunting’s no life for a kid.

Sam knows this but he also knows Dean and by proxy, he knows Ben. It’s hardwired into their genetics, a sort of thick-headedness that almost sent Dean straight to hell and left Sam nearly embracing the dark side (they both got better, though just barely, and that’s a story for another time). He would have liked to learn that nurture had molded Ben into someone else, but the problem is that one of Ben’s formidable memories is being swapped out with a changeling and then being saved by Dean and then helping to rescue a bunch of a kids, well, in this case, nature v. nurture has to call a draw or –

“Ben,” Sam says, weary, “Please stop kicking the backseat.”

“I called shotgun. Dude, you heard me.”

“Hey, you want shotgun, you gotta take it,” Dean says, one of his insane parenting lessons that Sam questions behind closed doors (uh, not to mention the other things they share behind closed doors, but that kind of quiet time hasn’t been explained yet to Ben and neither Sam or Dean is looking forward to explain that...issue.)

It’s not a picnic, living like this. Doesn’t mean there aren’t many, many things that Sam’s found he adores about his nephew (still strange to think of it that way). Ben’s a great kid, to the point where Sam had to make sure he’s a human kid (years of being on the road do make a person maybe a little more wary than they ought to be, but at least he’s never gotten the hunter’s jitters and he remembers basic hygiene).

As much as Ben clearly loves traveling on the road, ingrained with the same kind of wanderlust as Dean, Dean’s still unwilling to let Ben drive the car (ignore that Dean was making overtures to drive by the time he was eleven). Dean’s set up an impossible set of rules and regulations, which Ben seems happy to comply with for the time being, so sure Dean’s going to let him take a spin (under supervision of course) on Ben’s fourteenth birthday.

Yes, there’s the excitement of fighting things and Ben loves saving people, but there’s times when it doesn’t click, when Sam remembers what it’s like to be a kid and involved in this kind of weird life. Times when Ben doesn’t want to wake up at the crack of dawn, when he doesn’t want to go over lining salt technique with “Uncle Sam” (Sam just loves hearing that mocking voice used by both Ben and Dean, it’s absolutely adorable), or whenever Sam has the gall to suggest that it’s time for Ben to do his homework. How Ben takes to his homework the same way that Dean once took to it, not at all, and Sam has to turn into some kind of evil substitute teacher, because dammit, Sam took the extra time to research home schooling and thanks to some fudging of the facts (blatant lies), Ben’s safely enrolled in a small school district as a home schooled kid.

Dean meanwhile is teaching Ben the valuable lessons of blatant flirting and how to con a waitress (or waiter, Dean explains, don’t be picky) out of a free dessert. Ben, despite how much he complains during Sam’s useful lessons, turns out to have a knack for following orders when he’s in the mood to listen. He’s gifted, snagging several donuts at the latest pit stop, handing two of the messy powdery ones to Dean.

Which is just great. The moment Ben’s out of earshot, Dean says that Sam can lick it all off once they get back to the motel, which is fantastic, really, sitting around in a car half-hard and unable to do anything about it because of the backseat passenger.

Sometimes Sam’s pretty sure that Dean’s just trying to get Sam to explain their situation to Ben, so he won’t have to. Because yeah, that’s Dean, an absolute chickenshit when it comes to the people he loves and any risk of losing them.

Sam leans over in the front seat, raises in eyebrow in reaction to Dean nearly swallowing his last donut whole. Which...doesn’t make Sam think of innocent things anymore. He opens his mouth, hesitates, and then turns to look over at Ben in the backseat. "Everything ready, Ben?"

Always calls Ben by his first name, never any endearments, still feels too odd to that. Dean though, he gets away with it, which is fine, never says 'son', and doesn't ask Ben to call him 'sir'.

"That's my dad," Dean had said once, jaw clenched for a moment, second, before he broke into a smile. "Not me, kid."

Sam had tried to ignore the hurt, deep inside, thinking of the last time he called his father sir.

"Yeah,” Ben starts rustling through his own duffel, a smaller version of the kind that Dean and Sam carry. In another year, he’ll be issued the same size, but you have to crawl before you can walk, reason why he still isn’t allowed to use anything other than a basic sawed-off filled with rock salt until his aim’s perfect at the firing range. “Got the holy water and everything."

"Cleaned the shotgun?" Dean asks, his mouth half full. Sam rolls his eyes.

"Dude, of course. I'm not stupid."

"Yeah, well, some people used to have trouble doin' that kinda thing."

"Some people were forced to pick up the slack when some older brothers decided to go out on a date rather than do their chores," Sam interjects.

"That's not an excuse, Sam."

"Dude, I was twelve."

Dean shrugs. "Can't help it that you were slow on the weapons uptake."

Sam's rubbing his temple, that old headache coming back with a vengeance, when they arrive at the rundown house. As Dean kills the engine, Sam glances up at the rearview mirror, and there, he sees something he hasn’t seen a long time.

Ben’s entranced, clutching his duffel bag a little tighter and for a moment, Sam forgets it’s just a regular old-school style salt-and-burn, or as Dean likes to say, same shit, different day.



*






*



"I can't believe we're hunting ghost crocs. What the fuck is wrong with Florida? Can't we convince people to stop moving there? Disney's not that awesome."

"I think it's more than just Disney that has people going there, Dean," Sam says, kicking the back of Ben's seat, but hey, Ben finally figured out that so long as he was in the car before Sam, there was no way his uncle was gonna try yanking out a kid by the scruff of shirt. Sam’s such a sucker. But Dean didn’t say that, he said that Ben's a growing boy, pretty soon he'll be able to pass for 18, and he needs the space to grow (but not, Dean added, serious, taller than me. That’s not fair.).

Not like Dean's going to make a 18 or 21 license for Ben’s fourteenth birthday or anything. You get that when you're sixteen. Unfortunately Ben takes after Dean in that he looks young for his age, curse of being devastatingly handsome, Dean guesses, something Sammy doesn’t know about. And since Ben doesn’t quite have the cock of the walk strut down, he’s still only passing for about two or three years older than his actual age.

It's early May, and Dean's been annoying Sam nonstop about turning thirty, welcome to my club, and there's been significant looks and they're getting sloppy, once made the mistake of getting adjoining rooms, Ben's always gotten his own room to himself, once you put in enough charms and wards, nobody's gonna bother you, ever and because Dean loves the kid, he makes sure it’s true, even gets up in the middle of the night to check on Ben, no matter how fucked out (or fucked up) he is.

Yeah, he’s a goner, lay down his life for his kid, everything that Sam wants to talk about, getting all cozy and fuckin’ girly about his feelings, which really, Dean would rather just suck off Sam than listen to Sam psychoanalyzing Dean.

Sometimes, when the waitress asks him about his two dads, implying couple, Ben nods his head, agrees, says how his dads are pretty awesome. Othertimes he just says, "No, they're just my uncles," smiling innocently up at the waitress, leaves Dean thinking about when he’ll need to start slipping condoms into Ben’s jackets. (Safety first.)

The other part though, the implied gay dads thing, man, Dean isn’t ready for that conversation yet. Barely ready to delve into any of the truly weird ass shit that’s happened over the course of his life.

Especially when Sam says, when they're heading towards the bit of haunted swampland, "Hey remember the evil mermaid?"

Mermaid?” And then Ben has to ask, "Was she hot?"

"Yeah, Dean, was she?” Sam’s fucking smile is bright and goddamn toothy, exact opposite of innocence. “You want to share that?"

Dean just sighs, long and suffering, as he remembers the warm flood of bad, bad thoughts that happened when that bitch whispered in his mind. "Fucking mermaids."



*






*



They’ve settled into comfortable routines, good and bad, the little quirks Ben takes in stride, much to Sam’s surprise. All right, maybe not quirks—spelled out in the never ending battle of wills Dean and Sam over the weirdest kind of things.

Underneath it, nearly boiling over, the big secret, why Dean might wander off sometimes, in pursuit of the fairer sex, but he’s always back in the morning when he makes Ben’s breakfast (go figure, it’s one of things that Dean holds sacred for a growing boy, most important meal of the day, Sammy, he said once).

Sam’s waiting for the other shoe to drop and he isn’t sure what Ben’s reaction will be. If he’ll do a complete runner or if he’ll just go home and try to forget the incestuous part of his family tree. Or maybe he’ll think something just as evil, Sam isn’t sure, tries to force the worry away as he sits across from Ben, trying to get lost in an old book. Sam’s failing.

The window’s too far away and Dean isn’t back yet. Looks like it might rain, and Sam’s not the only one speculating, there’s Ben daydreaming, the way Dean does: cranes his neck, leans back in his chair tap tapping the edge with a pencil—

"Ben!"

Ben sits forward abruptly and groans. "I'm finished. I give up."

"You haven't finished your quiz," Sam says, and really, it'd take Sam to do this, play Bad Evil Uncle Sammy (as Sam has heard behind his back, because Ben for some reason thinks Sam can’t hear Ben if Ben says it real low).

“I can’t believe you’re going all evil tutor on me. It’s Saturday.” Yes, sure, it’s the weekend, but Sam has to get these test scores in before they go off on a long hunt where there will be little time to study the mundane, but that doesn't really matter, 'cause as far as Ben cares, “It's a Saturday and we don't live in Japan or something, so how come I gotta have school on a Saturday?”

“Ben—”

"Where's Dean?" Ben asks, changing the subject.

Sam flinches at the name, memory of last night coming back in too vivid detail. Dean’s hot breath across his skin, flick of his tongue against Sam’s earlobe, what he’d promised him as a surprise later, and great, Sam takes too long to say, "I think he said he needed to buy something earlier. I didn't exactly ask. But he did tell me something to tell you."

"Yeah?"

"Finish your quiz."

"Damn it."

"Ben."

As if on cue, there's a huge rustle of noise at the door, like a slam even, mumbled cursing outside before the door’s unlocked, Dean shoving it open with his shoulder. "Hey! Guess what I got?"

He lifts up a shopping bag, which has the name of sex shop on it, Jesus Christ.

Dean takes notice of Ben just then and immediately shoves the bag behind him, coughs lamely. "Uh. We're goin' out later. Happy Birthday, Sam."

Sam, meanwhile, has almost traveled the length of the motel room, nearly bounds right into Dean, jaw tight, grabbing the bag and holding it behind him, like his bigger stature will hide it further. Hisses to Dean, "I thought I told you we're staying in."

"Dude, you're over the hill now," Dean says, and it's a weird thought, made weirder by the telltale grey that's starting to creep in at Dean's temples—Sam had mentioned it, briefly, got a thrown arm over Dean's face in response, muttering about the kid greying him early. Obviously. Not like it has anything to do with genetics. And that's not something Sam wants to think about, not yet, for himself. "That's cause for celebration. And booze."

“I get to drink?”

They both turn their heads and say, "No," to Ben.

“Ben hasn’t finished the test,” Sam says, bag fumbling in his hands, left to right, it's like he can't hide it, because of the sheer embarrassment and damn it, Dean's practically glowing at Sam's squirming. “So he can’t go to the movies with that girl he likes.”

“Hey!” Ben points a finger at Dean, but there’s a sudden creeping blush of red touching the tips of his ears. “You ratted me and Katie out?”

Dean smirks. Drawls out, “Oh, Sam’s a real perv. He’s known about you and that cute girl on Elmhurst Street ever since we holed up here.”

“Great,” Ben grumps, looking at the half-completed quiz in front of him as though it spilled the beans about him and Katie. Oh, so it’s serious.

Sam scratches the back of his neck, shifts his weight, starts with, “You know Ben—”

“Oh no,” Ben and Dean say in unison but it’s Ben who finishes with, “I don’t want to talk about my feelings. I’ll finish the test, okay?”

And, to the surprise, of Sam, he does, but it isn’t a shock that Ben aces the test. Looks like he really wanted to go out with his friend.



*






*



He misses Ben.

It’s fair though, after all, he might be the father, biological, Sam adds, gently, when Sam catches Dean sneaking out of the motel room early to check on Ben, but it’s Lisa, his mother, the one who raised Ben for most of his life, she’s the one who should have her son.

That Ben had a brief fling with the hunting lifestyle, well, it won’t shock Dean if when it’s time to do the big Talk with Lisa and Ben, that the answer Dean’ll get is that Ben’s ready to get back to normal life for good.

“You’re being an idiot,” Sam says, takes the keys out of Dean’s hand, lingering touch of his fingers to Dean’s wrist before Sam moves away, dropping the keys on the table, letting Dean have a choice. Take the keys all over again and head out, do something stupid or nothing at all, just watch and wait.

Dean’s a goddamn sucker when it comes to his family.



*






*



“Mom kept all my postcards,” Ben tells Dean, staring outside, surveying the darkened parking lot, almost like he’s trying to stare past the rain. The weather’s too bad to let a fourteen year old kid drive, and Dean never said that was gonna be Ben’s birthday present, but now, he’s thinking about letting Ben drive his car, ignore that Dean knows it’s just a desperate way to hold on just a little more, even though Dean can tell things are off.

“So, that’s a good thing right?” No idea what’s the right thing to say, all he’s doing is stabbing his pie to death, the crust nothing more than clumped up crumbs, gone over the edge of the plate, leaving a mess, if Sam were here, he’d be mocking Dean about playing with his food but he isn’t. Ben asked if he could just speak to Dean. Which in Dean’s book means trouble.

“Yeah. Yeah, it is. She wants me to stay.”

Ben looks at him then and Dean realizes, this is one of those tests, not the one you ever study for, but the kind that you have to just know the right answer. The right thing is to tell Ben that he should stay with her, that it’s crazy to want Dean’s life, that it fucked Dean up but good and that he loves the kid, but he can’t wish this life for Ben, and doesn’t Ben get that?

Clears his throat and asks, low, “What do you want?”

Because Dean’s learned this: it’s never what he wants. Hell, he wouldn’t still be alive if Sammy wasn’t thickheaded and selfish (and loving) enough to keep him from getting hauled off to hell.

Ben stirs his straw around in his milkshake, edge of it chewed so bad it’s damn near flat up top. Pushes his drink to the side, nearly knocking it over, Ben says, voice cracking, “What’s the deal with you and Uncle Sam?”

Not silent, this moment, there’s the clatter in the diner’s kitchen, voices cut off as door swings shut behind the long counter, crackle of a radio ‘cause the TV’s broken, the noise of the waitress’s poorly chosen shoes, high heels that click-clack on the tiled floor, Dean doesn’t get how someone can manage to walk in those things, but bless women for trying, and yeah, he’s stalling. Totally fucking stalling because he’s been praying that either Ben never noticed or he’d never ask, because god there’s no way to not make himself look fucking sick.

“Me and Sam?” he repeats, like it'll help, keep on stalling, wishes for anything, the ground to swallow him up.

“You and Sam,” Ben clarifies, mimicking Dean’s voice and hell if that ain’t creepy.

Dean leans back, sudden growl of hunger—of nervousness, he's not sure—in his belly despite the pie in front of him. He rubs the back of his neck and says, “Well. Maybe, uh, maybe Sam should explain this—”

“Dude, you’re going the pussy route?”

Ben's eyebrows shoot up, just like Dean's, and man if Dean doesn't understand why Sam gave him shit all the time when they were kids, arguing. The look, all sarcasm and bravado, right smack in front of him.

“Hey! Language. And I’m not, it’s just that it’s complicated, kid. Not something you say within earshot of people, you know?”

“Yeah,” Ben says, swiping Dean’s pie and taking a bite that barely fits in his mouth. Thickly mumbles through the food, “I know.”



*



“Dean, I don’t know what you want me to say.”

It's never been easy to do this when Dean's set on something, pacing back and forth, and it’s the worry lines around Dean's mouth creasing that make Sam stare a little too long. Looks down at the worn out jeans, little holes in the knees, rubs his hands there so he doesn't have to look up. But he does though, and honest to god, Sam wishes he'd get some kind of sign as to how to handle this, how to reassure his brother, to take away the confusion and the lines on his face.

Dean pauses, picks at the lint on his shirt, gesture that outlines the slight curve of his belly, beer gut that in reality is kind of an overall food gut, gotten burned off a bit more, sparring lessons with Ben, but since they’ve been suspended while Ben’s at home, it’s creeping back, flab of flesh that Dean might deny but the evidence is clear. So many things that they’re denying and Sam hates it, how there’s just nothing he can do.

“Sam, just...do what you normally do," Dean says, turning to face his brother. "Say a lot of meaningful stuff that weirds me out and look him in the eyes, give ‘im that look that you do, you know the one. Then say that we’re not hurting anyone and it’s okay and you know, I’ll explain to him that really, I’m not gay, and it’s just you that I’m...oh god. How the hell do I tell my son that I’m fucking his uncle?”

“You did watch South Park with him when we were holed up outside of Cheatham waiting for your knee to right itself," Sam says, offers a shrug, his hands flexing on his kneecaps. There's a twinge in his right leg he doesn't need to dwell on, can't, lets a joke slip to cover the silence. "Which I still think wasn’t appropriate. That movie has a song called Uncle Fucker.”

Dean stares at him, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Dude, for the last time, Uncle Fucker is about fuckin' your uncle not about what, uh, we do. And Jesus, if he's not gonna learn about that kinda stuff from me, then he'll learn it off his buddies anyway. Or you, and I don't think I want my kid being a dork who doesn’t know humor unless it’s brainiac stuff that only nerds get."

Dean soldiers on though, saying, “Yeah, we shoulda put on some lesbian porn for the kid instead.”

“Okay Dean, you will have to drop that some time. That happened six years ago. Now’s a good time to stop bringing it up.”

“Dude, I walked in on you watching porn," Dean says, flashes a grin, all gleeful but it’s fake and overdone. Sam knows these flash moods of Dean. "That was awesome.”

“Avoiding the subject. Is this what you did with Ben before you dropped him back off at Lisa’s?”

Dean scrunches his nose, uneasy posture. For all his poker playing, the guy's easy to read sometimes, like a book, doesn't help that he can look nervous and young at the same time, innocent, sure. Despite the grey hair and the five o’clock shadow that he has now by nature and not on purpose, Sam can see the Dean before, the one Sam, when he was younger, refused to see. But Sam presses on, eyebrows shoot up, staring at Dean pointedly.

“Shut up,” Dean grumbles.

“I wish I could say you wouldn’t lose him if you told the truth. But I’d be lying. Dean, you have to ask yourself if you want to take this risk. Barring my birthday surprise, we’ve been really careful around him, so if he suspects, it’ll only get worse.”

“So what you’re saying is that if we want to keep Ben around, we’ll have to stop fucking.”

No, Dean, what I’m saying is that there’s no way for you to have everything you want and I’m not going to make the ultimate decision for you.”

“Goddamn. You’re a real help, then.”

Sam gets up then, not to kiss Dean, nothing stupid like that, just puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder, quick one, and says with a defeated sigh, “I try.”



*






*



“I suck at this stuff,” Dean announces, shuffling in front of Ben, rubbing the side of his ear, stops because he can feel the telltale indentations of the glasses he’s totally not wearing nowadays.

Ben’s wearing new clothes now, stuff he got from Lisa no doubt, jeans that aren’t worn in the knees and a shirt that hasn’t been tossed in washers and dryers all across the country, faded into a shadow of itself. It’s a Led Zeppelin shirt too, from that last reunion concert they did, the one in England. Which Dean — fuck — as much as Zeppelin rules, he couldn’t think about getting on a plane for freakin’ seven hours or whatever. No way in hell man.

Fuck. Stalling again and Ben’s not saying anything.

“Look, I wish I could be the kind of dad that wasn’t like this. That I could just settle down and tell you all about normal stuff, but my life, it ain’t like that. And I fucked up by letting you tag along but we had some time together and maybe you should, you know, be here. No one asks for this life, Ben, you gotta understand it. It makes you twisted or stupid, or worse, it makes you stop wanting to be normal. Like me. Me and Sam. We’re, yeah, you know what we are.”

“I figured it out a while ago. You guys smile at each other all funny. I never had a brother or a sister, so I wasn’t sure,” Ben hesitates, same way that Dean does, same aversion to making the big speeches, but has to plunge on, full speed ahead, damn the consequences, “But you’d die for Sam, right?”

“Not because of that.”

God, hard to say that, thinks of all the times it’s been questioned and fuck no, it isn’t a matter of, it’s blood, for Dean, it’s ingrained in him, family, and you lay your own life on the line, every time, no matter why or what because fuck, that’s what you’re supposed to do.

“You’d die for me too.”

Numbly nods his head, easy familiar motion, up then down. And even if he’s a coward, he’s still a man and he’s going to look his son straight in the eyes, wait to hear how he’s a monster or disgusting, because that’s what he’s been waiting for.

“Dad, I mean, Dean, I don’t...” Ben frowns, hand through his hair, and huh, that kid does need a haircut, almost got bangs working there. “I want to help people. Like you and Uncle Sam do. And I don’t care what you do together. It’s, I don’t know...”

“What? Because, Ben, it’s not nothing, it’s kinda, look, I don’t even got words for it, and it’s been a long time that we’ve been, yeah. It’s how we are.”

“I’m not going to tell Mom,” Ben announces, quirk of a smile. “Or anyone else. Even if you don’t want me coming along, I won’t say anything. I promise.”

“You think I don’t want you tagging along?”

Dammit, now’s the time to lie. Give him this out. Dean doesn’t say anything, no, that would be sensible, instead he waits for Ben to shoot first.

“I don’t know.”

“Kid, if you’re cool hitching a ride with me and your nerdy uncle, if you’re okay with us being, uh, well, that then goddamn, you’re one hell of a son.”

Ben doesn’t hide his smile at that, and it’s shocking, the way it looks, so open and relieved. “You’re a pretty cool old man even if you’re all twisted.”

“Thanks,” Dean says, and he’s never been as sincere.

If they were the kind of people that would hug, they would, but Ben’s fourteen now, growing into a man and well, that’s not what they do.



*






*



“We’re going to Candy Mountain,” a deep, badly disguised voice says right in Sam’s freaking ear.

Well, shouts it and yes, that totally wakes Sam up from a deep sleep of nothingness, the best kind of not-dreams to have.

Blearily opens his eyes to the blurry world, a world that’s maybe a little blurrier than it used to be when he was younger, but his eyes are still fine and unlike Dean, he isn’t in denial about needing glasses. (Sam’s seen the cheap drug store reading glasses shoved in the back of Dean’s glove compartment, rolled up in a car magazine, as if that’ll stop Sam from ever noticing them.)

“Candy Mountain, Sam!” There’s a body on top of him, and thank god that Sam didn’t wake up with a morning erection, because the body’s smaller than Dean’s, so it’s —

Ben?”

“C’mon get on move on lazyass,” Dean says, swatting Sam’s ass as hard as possible, leaving a stinging that makes Sam gasp a little too loud, “we’re off to find a leopleurodon.”

“A magical leopleurodon,” Ben chimes in, almost jumping on Sam, but thankfully rolls off of Sam, the better to muss up Sam’s bedhead.

“I...you know...” Sam struggles, wriggles out of bed, falling to the floor in an ungainly mess, hard thump to the ground. “You two are insane.”



*



Sam's Brand New Wallpaper, Courtesy of Ben and Dean


*



“Seriously dude, be quiet or I will get a gag,” Dean whispers roughshod in Sam’s ear, sitting on top of Sam, his ass up against Sam’s cock. Oh yeah, Sam’s already so goddamn thick and hard, ready to go all night long, which hey, Dean is totally up for that.

Up for a hell of a lot more, but not up for waking up Ben. It might be three in the goddamn morning and Ben's a heavy sleeper, but no matter how accepting Ben is of his and Sam's lifestyle (which Christ, they're fucking, not making a political statement), no way to explain how noisy Sammy gets when he's being fucked.

Unless Dean really wants to complete the whole "messing up his son's life" process that started the moment he began training Ben to be a hunter.

Sam distracts Dean from his worries, his hand hot and slick on Dean's dick, stroking him hard, too fucking hard, Sammy's too fucking good at distractions.

“Jesus,” Dean grunts into Sam’s mouth.

“Maybe I should tie you up. Shut you up for once.”

Lie, oh Sammy, the lying liar, because they’ve done that before, done plenty of things before. Like, this ain’t the first time they’ve fucked on the floor, Sam’s gonna have some awesome rug burns if they’re not too careful (and besides the volume, they never are), but it’s good to sometimes, pretend, act like they haven’t mapped out each other’s bodies, don’t know how their dicks respond to pressure, to how hard or fast or slow they need it.

Fuck, all that matters is that they need it.

“Maybe you should just suck my cock and I’ll let you yank off to watching me shower.”

Sam doesn’t answer with words, no it’s a hard move, dangerous too, because they’re stuck in adjoining rooms with paper-thin walls and Ben doesn’t sleep with headphones on or earplugs ‘cause, well, now thinking of it, that would be a good idea.

No, here’s a better idea, getting laid, oh right, speaking of that, Dean’s getting knocked flat on his back and Sam’s towering over him, big fucking giant that he is, filled out to a ridiculous size once he left his mid-twenties. One hand pining Dean down on his hip, the other pining Dean’s wrists, together, over his head, and Sam biting along his jaw, then ear, mumbling through sloppy kisses, “Stop talking.”

“Good idea. More fucking, yeah?”

Oh, mouth on his cock, good answer.

Sam’s hair is still all longish and messy, always getting into his face, eyes, has to brush it back, because Dean can’t miss the view. Something almost fucking awe-inspiring for Dean to see his swollen cock going up into that mouth, feels the scrape of teeth even though Sam’s holding back, careful, and goddamn this carpet is fucking uncomfortable as hell, doesn’t know how Sam managed to stay on his back for so long.

Then Sam’s hand starts making its way behind Dean’s balls, back more, and Dean opens his legs up, pulls his right leg up, ignores the loud crack of his knee, damn trick knee. Sam’s finger isn’t slick enough and Dean grunts, grabs the back of Sam’s head, not hard enough, Sam knows the score, leaves Dean’s cock and needing the hot suck of Sam’s mouth, but oh, Dean needs something more.

“Asshat,” Dean grumbles, grabs Sam’s hand by the wrist, sucking three of Sam’s fingers, spitting in his hand for good cause, “Don’t ever try that dry again.”

Messy sloppy kiss, a click of teeth, Sam nipping his way back down, his index finger back at Dean’s hole.

“Okay, okay.”

“And no — shit — no assfucks, ‘cause we’re outta lube.”

“So demanding,” Sam murmurs, noses Dean’s hip, where his skin isn’t as tight as it used to be, hips still narrow but the definition isn’t as sharp, goddamn metabolism slowing down.

“Well someone has to—”

Words get lost, Dean has to bite down on the soft part of his palm, keep from getting noisy as Sam pushes a wet finger into him, careful, careful, that’s how Sam starts off, testing to see how Dean wants it this time. (It’s different other times, that’s a lie too, only one way Dean wants it.)

“Are you going to turn around?”

Squeezes his eyes shut, Sam’s forcing Dean’s leg into an awkward angle, Dean pushing his hips into the air, clenching tight around Sam’s finger, feels Sam pushing in another, hell no. “Jesus, you’re pushy tonight.”

“Shh,” Sam removes his fingers and before Dean can asks what gives, there, oh yes, his mouth licking the underside of Dean’s shaft, along that vein, knows the way all too well, could probably do it blindfolded.

Come to think of it, Sam totally has done it blindfolded.

Then, oh, then and there, and all over again, Sam’s mouth, the heat of him, hot and perfect, lick here and there, just sucking the head of Dean’s cock, over and over again. Fingers back at Dean’s hole, pressing in, promising more later, another time, because that’s the thing, no urgency, a promise, there will be time for it. Fuck if that isn’t what gets Dean’s rocks off, fucking into Sam’s mouth, one hand clutching at Sam’s hair, still as thick and messy as ever, Dean biting so hard into the palm of his hand he’s gonna have teethmarks that he won’t explain in the morning.

Sam pulls his fingers out, climbing Dean, his cock’s so fucking hard, easy to just set him off. Dean thinks about seeing Sam splatter all over him, with a little bit of humping, but that’ll lead to burns, burns that won’t be helped with a long car ride promised for tomorrow, after breakfast (most important meal of the day, and it’s family time to boot).

“If Ben wasn’t in the next room...” Sam trails off, letting Dean suck the taste of his come off Sam’s tongue.

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Bet you’d get off if there were strangers. Listening to us and wanting to burst in and stop us. That’s your thing isn’t it?”

Referencing a specific time, oh Dean knows he’s being a bastard, that near miss back in some backwater town in Alabama, never even got the name of the place, hightailed it outta there right quick, seeing how the pack of good ol’ boys that caught sight of Sam getting fucked up against the hood of the Impala weren’t given to congratulating Dean for figuring out a way to fuck Sam without fucking up his baby’s paintjob. Oh, yeah, they made it out of there, Dean’s hard-on nearly dying and Sam still hard as fuck. It had taken some creative driving to haul ass and get Sam off at the same time.

“Stop—”

Talking, yeah, that’s the problem and Dean thinks about telling Sam to bend over, on his hands and knees, open up Sam’s ass, spreading those asscheeks apart and sliding his tongue down the crack, yeah. Doing that to Sammy, but Sam’s never fucking quiet when Dean does that, hard deep moan gets pulled out of him, involuntary, so Dean has to be inventive. No, not inventive, restrictive, wedging his fingers into Sam’s mouth, letting Sam suck them while he begins stroking Sam’s cock, hard and slow, the slow being what’ll drive Sam crazy.

Sam’s doing a good job at sucking Dean’s fingers and if they had more time, hell, if they didn’t have to be careful, he’d get hard all over again, damn the lube and figure something else out, maybe just rub up all over Sam, god yes, anything, but first things first, he needs to get Sam to come, spurt up all over his torso, chest, see how far it flies, ‘cause sometimes Sam can be mighty fucking impressive when it comes to uh, coming.

There are words that are trying to sneak around Dean’s fingers, so he doesn’t release them from Sam’s mouth.

Sam’s got his eyes closed so goddamn tight, even in the murky darkness, Dean can make out the crows feet, laugh lines, things that make Dean remember that despite everything, they made it over the hill, past thirty. Dean’ll be damned (and he’s been damned already, knows the feel of it) if he doesn’t make sure they both make it past forty, fifty too, hell, goddamn it, however long Sam wants to keep on going, Dean’ll be there, because that’s what he’s gonna do now.

And as Sam comes and shit, almost sprays to his goddamn neck, corded hard as Sam snaps his head back, almost biting down on the tips of Dean’s fingers, lots of saliva in his mouth, he’ll have to spit it out, worry about that later, Dean knows he’s lying to himself. That isn’t just Sammy that he’s living for now and even as he thinks that, in that moment, the quiet of it, they listen for any noises next room but Ben must’ve decided tonight’s the night to rest up but good.

All they can hear are Ben’s snores, the monstrous loud noise that is, clear as goddamn anything.

“Thank Christ,” Dean breathes out, letting go so something twisting inside, thanking someone he doesn’t even fucking believe in, lumbering towards the bathroom.

Sam’s quiet as he follows, no point in wasting water, yeah right, that’s the excuse, and it’s barely fucking lukewarm, but still, Dean takes over the prime spot in front of the spray, leaving Sam in the lurch. Hey, one of the privileges of being the older brother, he gets first dibs on showering whenever he pleases.

“You know, we should just start screwing around in the shower,” Sam says when they maneuver around so Sam can wash his precious hair with the brand name shampoo that he still fucking buys, after all this time.

“All the goddamn time? You want me to get bored or something?” Dean exits the shower, happy to take the last big towel as it’ll lead to an awesome Sam-patented pout as he has to go dry off his giant self with those fucking tea towels or whatever.

“Dude, I don’t think you could ever get bored by sex,” Sam says, soft enough that Dean can barely pick it up over the sound of water.

Okay, true, but sometimes all a guy needs is a fuck on a bed or floor, or up against a wall.



*



The next day, Ben’s quiet and Sam waits for Dean to catch up with the rest of them (the them being him and Ben).

Finally, Dean stops rambling about why Die Hard is one of the best Christmas movies ever made, stopping to cram hash browns in his mouth, saying through the food, because Dean’s all class like that,“Something wrong?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Dean looks at Sam, panicked look of I’m dying here and Sam just scratches the side of his face, lets that stand for an answer. The panic doesn’t leave Dean, instead his eyes widen even more and he turns to Ben, who is still not looking at Dean. Says, “So you uh—”

“Yep,” Ben says, cutting his pancake stack in half, even split in the middle.

“Oh.”

“Look, I know you and Uncle Sam are different.” Twist to his mouth that causes Sam to do a double-take, way it’s all Dean, wry and cynical, years beyond his age. God, did they do that to him, make him like this already? Is that what they’re doing to him right now?

“It doesn’t mean you should, ah, hear it,” Sam says, safe way of opening the floodgates.

“No.” Ben’s face brightens suddenly. “So maybe I could skip homework and tests and all that crap for like, a month? Cuz of the trauma?”

“Dude, you’re trying to scam yourself out of an education because you heard us bumping uglies?”

Sam’s not sure but there may be a tear in Dean’s eye. Only Dean would be proud of his son being a total scammer.

“It’s pretty gross,” Ben says, “I just heard these noises, and I mean, you guys are old.”

Sad to say, but that’s it right there, the moment where Ben’s a full Winchester, cocky, arrogant, and willing to ignore the fucked up mess right in front of him in favor of getting his way.



*






*



By the end of the second week, Dean’s cutting down his dosage and he looks over to the other bed, Ben propped up, face still sweaty, nasty bit of demonic plague they caught clearing out some vicious hellbeasts outside of Big Spring. Plague, which, yeah, sounds worse than it is, and man, it’s totally horrible, getting rashes all over and hot and cold flashes, which, what the hell is up with that, but you know, when you have Sammy by your side, playing Florence Nightingale, you can survive anything.

Goddamn, Dean hates being sick.

“Florence Nightingale to the rescue,” Dean grunts the moment the cold compress to his forehead gets slapped on.

Sam’s ignoring him, busy stirring up that foul mixture in the stone bowl. “On your stomach, Dean, it’s time.”

Time to change Dean’s dressings and Dean bitches the whole time because there’s nothing else he can fucking do.

Sure, there's jokes he makes, like when Ben's in the bathroom, ‘cause he’s able to shower on his lonesome where Dean can barely stand up without getting dizzy. Those get him through the day. Tells Sam how maybe he should show Dean a little respect and give him an awesomely naughty sponge bath, because dude, this is one time that Dean would love to be taken advantage of. Don't tell me you haven't thought about it.

“Goddamn, it’s not fair that critter spewed over just me and Ben. Left you in the fucking clear,” Dean mumbles against his pillow which even smells like the goddamn medicine.

"Good thing Uncle Sam isn't Typhoid Mary and hiding it really good."

Sam stops smearing the nasty poultice onto Dean's back. It's tense, like that wait before a crack of lightning down the road when a storm kicks up. "Have you been studying?"

"What?” Ben twists under his blanket, uncomfortable and not just because it's a cheap blanket. "So? There's nothing to watch on TV during the day and my laptop's busted and I'm not allowed to go onto yours after I showed Dean those old youtube clips. I had to do something. I read my history book."

Dean says, "Dude, you totally earned an extra cookie. If we were allowed cookies."

"Dean, you're both sick. I'm not feeding you junk food. You'll thank me when you realize you don't have a pot belly anymore."

"What? I don't have a...dude, I'm not fat."

Sam prods Dean's stomach, and okay, maybe his body ain't what it used to be, but goddamit, he's not fat.

“That’s not fucking funny, Sammy.”

“Ben, what do you think?”

All the while, Sam’s still freaking poking him. Poke-poke-poke. Sam’s a goddamn sadist, knows Dean’s still too zonked out to do anything but lamely try to swipe at Sam’s fingers of fury.

“Sorry Dean,” Ben says, face still in a pallor of sickness, eyes too goddamn sincere, like he’s just so freakin’ sorry, “You’re like that Pillsbury, uh, something.”

“Pillsbury Boy,” Sam adds. “Only less ticklish.”

“I will end you,” Dean swears, ruins it by sneezing and nearly passing out.



*






*



Crossing the border is more difficult that Dean would ever admit, but Sam, oh Sam can admit it, it’s freaking difficult even with a little grace gained after years of struggling against the police and the FBI.

(They still don’t like that Dean and Sam aren’t holed up in some prison, but after one good battle, where Dean and Sam kinda averted the End of Days in front of a few key players for the government, they sometimes turn a blind eye. That doesn’t mean Dean hasn’t gotten tossed into jail a couple of times, just means that he isn’t considered a psychotic serial killer these days.)

Still, they manage it, and Dean’s quizzing Ben about border patrol and where the biggest gaps are in the giant eyesore that is the unfinished border fence, things that they might need to know.

“Look at Sammy here. He’s the Boy King of Random Facts and proud of it.”

Sam should’ve never told Dean what the demon Pride once announced to him, dammit. “Yes, Ben, Grizzly Adams is right, it’s good to know as much as possible. And despite what Old Man Winchester might tell you, your head won’t explode if you manage to have more than one thought cross it every hour on the hour.”

“Hey!” Dean protests, strokes his beard, still unused to it being there, then punches Sam in the arm, a friendly one, so it only hurts some. “I’m not freakin’ old. And I look good with a beard, right, Ben?”

Ben scrutinizes Dean’s beard for a long time, waits until the sun hits in full on and then he says, smothering down the smile trying to escape, “Yeah! You look like a Viking.”

Sam can’t help it, keeps on laughing till they get to where they’re going, Dean scowling the entire way, which does make him look a lot like a surly Viking in a beaten up leather jacket.



*






*



Dean's scowling in the mirror, shaving cream all over his lower face, using Sam's razor, Dean's having disappeared in the middle of the friggin' night.

(Sam claims that they’ll probably find it in Ben's bag. ‘Cause Ben's 14 now, and sure, he doesn't have any facial hair, that'll be coming soon, high time in a kid’s life where he starts to grow out his own beard to look older).

"Viking," Dean says, mouth twisting into a weird spastic thing, crooked oval or worse, laugh lines clear even under the beard. He thrusts the razor under running water, clearing off the reddish (dammit) stubble.

"It is kinda funny."

"Yeah, not so much, Sammy," Dean says, half of his face covered in shaving cream, annoyed that Ben and Sam managed to give him a hard time and it bothered him. Also, he now knows he has grey hairs in his beard, over his chin too, so he couldn't even pretend they weren't there, and isn't that a kick in the ass?

The grey hair on his head, well, that he can fucking ignore for all he cares, hey, he's not bald, so he'd doin' better than most, but still, a little grey in the goddamn beard and it’s like his freakin’ world changed. He kept on getting women bein' all respectful towards him.

They saw him with Ben and immediately figured dad and all that crap that included, looking down at his hand and seeing a ring and Sam wasn’t helping at all. Not when he freaking glommed onto Dean at one point and they got that oh, it’s an unconventional family look.

Sam’s lucky that Dean’s getting laid on a regular basis, because he’s such a goddamn cockblock.

Only one good thing came out of having a beard, finding out that Sam didn’t mind it one bit. No, Dean’s got a few excellent memories to keep. One of his favorites: Sam letting the stubble scrape against his cheek, dragging his mouth up, leaving a trail of kisses, soft and wet, and oh, those sucking noises and groans as he licked Dean’s neck, and more.



*






*



It’s midmorning, Saturday, and they’re dropping Ben off in a strange winter wonderland, one of those fluke snowstorms that leave the world pretty and glistening white, the kind of gentle winter that makes a person want to indulge in some Christmas spirit. Sam can almost smell chesnuts roasting on an open fire and believe that there are carolers just around the corner; all those kinds of silly things.

Dean’s carrying Ben’s bags, insisted on it, lamely said it’s the best way to keep Lisa from smacking him for being two days late, but that was the snowmen’s fault, after all.

“This is it, kid,” Dean says. “We’ll pick you up after New Year’s.”

“Just in time for Dean’s thirty-fifth birthday,” Sam adds, thinks of all the days he’ll have to plan for the special occasion. “You’re ready for it, right?”

Ben smirks, nods at Sam. “Mom’s gonna help me pick out the best birthday present ever.”

“Something sparkly?”

“I’m thinking about it,” Ben says, rings the doorbell. “Maybe some mixed tapes of Dean’s favorite music. Covered in glitter.”

“Don’t forget Dean’s top ten list of the greatest artists and bands ever. Manilow, Spice Girls, REO, Duran Duran, Ace of Base, Erasure, Mariah Carey, Celine Dion, Michael Bolton—”

“Okay, besides the fact that I’m standing right next to you two chuckleheads, you do know I could make you two listen to that crap over and over again. And Ben, if you ever want to drive the car, you’re not going to fall in line with my evil brother and his plot to piss me off.”

“Is that an order, Dean?” Ben says, tosses back Dean’s smile on a much younger face. Sam has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

“No,” Dean says, clearly spooked by the thought of having to listening to any of those musical stylings, “it’s just common freaking sense.”

“Respect your elders,” Sam says, solemnly. “It’s what his grey hair reminds me to do, every day.”

“You’re so lucky my hands are full or you’d be face first in the snow.”

Sam can’t help it, whatever’s rising in him, the elation, lets it fly loose, tackling Dean to the ground, Ben’s bags knocked to a heap in front of the door.

Struggling, now soaked, snow all over, and just as Dean gets Sam turned about in the snow, his face pushed into a snow drift, Sam pushes his arms down, lifting his head up to shout, “Don’t forget Dean’s favorite song, Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go!”

Oh yes, this really is the most wonderful time of the year.



*





*



“At least there are no party hats here or freaking balloons,” Dean says, sliding into the booth, happily taking the menu from the waitress. Thirty-five goddamn years old. Never thought he’d make it past thirty. Opens up the menu and nearly groans in delight. “Oh god, steak. I love you guys. I don’t need any presents. Seriously. There’s pie, too, right? There’s gotta be pie.”

“There’s always pie,” Sam huffs. Pushes back his hair, in his eyes again, and Dean catches a couple of strands of silver glinting in the light, hmm, he’s gotta make sure to bring that up the next time Sam’s smug about Dean’s hair going...less brown. Then evil crosses Sam's face, lights it up someone might say, but Dean doesn't, 'cause that would be too damn much. “And there’s no way we’re not making sure you get what’s coming to you. You deserve it.”

“We worked real hard on it, Dean,” Ben tells him, has to be nudged by Sam to pay attention, too occupied in checking out the high school chicks huddled at a table across the way. Dean does a quick look himself, not for the girls, hell, he is getting old, to have that thought crossing his mind. He picks up right quick that the blonde with the streaks of purple-and-red framing her sweet heart-shaped face is giving Ben the eye.

Like father like son. Good to know the legend’s being carried on.

“Ben,” Dean says, casting his eyes down before any of the girls see him staring 'cause that's just quality perv, scanning the rest of the menu, “I’m sure you did, but...oh man, they do the whole onion all fried up. Heart attack freakin' heaven.”

“What did I tell you,” Sam says, in a booming voice, “The old guy will probably forget what kind of music he likes and think the mix tape is the best gift ever.”

Ben nods, eyes still fixed on the girls, and okay, Dean's gonna have to tell him to lay off doing that, he's gotta have some mystery to his game. “Yeah, yeah, totally.”

“Ben?”

Damn, and Sam’s mocking Dean for having a one-track mind and maybe getting a little distracted?

“Give it up, Sammy, he’s zeroing in on a chick. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Yeah,” Sam murmurs, hand sliding under the table, out of sight of Ben — fucking hell, they’re gonna do this in public? Well, Dean ain’t opposed to the idea — clutching Dean’s thigh and nowhere close to his knee. “I clearly don’t.”

“You better watch out there,” Dean says, tries to keep it as an undertone, real damn lucky that Ben's too busy giving the eye to see what Sam’s doing to Dean.

Sam nods, mouth pressing in a thin line, his hand going back up to the table, being decent and no, that’s not what Dean meant at all. And for all the goddamn risks, the freaking madness, raising his kid as they haul ass across the country, fighting a fight that ain’t ever gonna end, and still here, with Sam, at this point, well just fuck it, here’s what Dean’s saying and he’s gotta show it, because that’s the only way to get someone to believe. See it, you better fucking bet you’ll believe it.

Grabs Sam by the back of his neck, a kiss that isn’t brutal, but it’s in close company, pushing his tongue into Sam’s mouth and pulling back with a wet smack.

“Oh,” Sam says and welcome to getting the fucking clue.

“God you guys are gross,” Ben mutters, but not in the way that Dean’s always feared it was gonna be. “Uh, I’ll be right back, I have to be, um, over there.”

“She plays soccer,” Dean’s quick to point out, and off of Sam’s look, he says, “Hey, she has a tattoo of a soccer ball. C’mon.”

“Thanks Da, uh, Dean,” Ben says, quick to correct his near-miss.

“Hey,” Dean says, leaning over to fist-bump with Ben, “You’re a freakin’ Winchester. Own it, kid.”

As Ben heads off, Dean realizes he’s got a goofy-ass smile on his face, wipes it off when he puts his own hand on Sam’s thigh, okay, over his crotch, because, hey, why the hell not? “Man, we’re freakin’ parents.”

“Just caught up to that part, huh?”

“We’re crazy,” Dean says. “Out of our fucking minds.”

“We’re lucky that Ben likes hanging out with his crazy dad and evil uncle,” Sam agrees. Doesn’t do much else, trying not to make that face he does when he’s getting hard and antsy, moments away from finding someplace more private for a quick fuck.

“Hell, Sammy, I’m lucky that you’re still sticking around,” and before Sam says something mushy, Dean adds, nipping at Sam’s jaw, “Dumbass.”

“Nice one. You looking to get thrown out of here on your birthday?”

“Nah. I wouldn’t want to embarrass Ben. See?” Dean brings both his hands up, gesturing to himself, because yeah, this totally proves it, this right here, thinking of someone else for a change, “We’re awesome parents.”

Although Dean doesn’t think he can submit him and Sam for Father of the Year. That’s okay though. Sam’s a shoo-in for Mother of the Year.



*





*



And they lived in big gay love happily ever after.



*





*


the end



Check out the fanmix for this story here
(tracklisting by onelittlesleep, additional graphics by ignited)
Tags: ben has 2 dads 'verse, crackfic, fic, spn fic, wincest
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