
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/9650714.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester, Castiel/Dean_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester, Castiel, Claire_(Claire_Novak_renamed
      Claire_Winchester_here), Tyson_Brady, Jessica_Moore
  Additional Tags:
      Parent/Child_Incest, Mildly_Dubious_Consent, Dubious_Morality, Angst,
      Emotional_Hurt/Comfort, Bottom_Dean, Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Omega
      Dean_Winchester/Alpha_Sam_Winchester, Omega_Dean, Alpha_Castiel, Alpha
      Castiel/Omega_Dean_Winchester, No_Gender_Swap, Alternate_Universe-_No
      Supernatural, Top_Sam, Feminization, Male_Lactation, Porn_with_Feelings,
      Teen_Angst, Infidelity, Crossdressing, Voyeurism, Jealous_Dean, Jealous
      Sam, Rimming, Anal_Fingering, Other_Additional_Tags_to_Be_Added, Wincest
      -_Freeform, Dean_in_Panties, Objectification, Panty_Kink, Age_Difference,
      Shameless_Smut, Self-Lubrication
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-02-25 Updated: 2017-09-09 Chapters: 2/? Words: 7647
****** A return to love ******
by Joanna_Lee, lejf
Summary
     The story of Sam, a young alpha who falls in love with—and starts
     lusting after—his male omega 'mother' Dean. Dean is torn between
     temptation and guilt: a soul-deep bond to his son and loyalty to
     Sam's father.
     Romance, shameless smut, drama, hurt & comfort, and some angst.
Notes
     If you're familiar with Joanna Lee's work Family Secrets, this story
     is only inspired by it but runs independently of it.
     1) Here, Sammy is the alpha kid and Dean is the omega mom.
     2) The story starts with Sam at 14 and progresses into his adulthood.
     3) Dean is 33 when this begins and Cas is 35.
     4) The story has porn, gratuitous smut, feels, and a love triangle so
     complex it will make your head spin.
     (Dedicated to Sophie Pam)
See the end of the work for more notes
  This work was inspired by
      Family_Secrets by Joanna_Lee
***** Crossing over *****
Chapter Summary
     Sam crosses into a new territory--and with it comes a forbidden
     desire, uncertainty and a flurry of powerful emotions.
Chapter Notes
     The whole thing has been overhauled to give you a fresh, independent
     story, inspired by Family Secrets' premise. We genuinely hope you
     enjoy this rendition. Much love, Joanna and Lejf xx
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Truth is, Sam hadn’t really understood what ‘omega’ and ‘alpha’ or ‘beta’
entailed until he was 14 years old and the teacher up the front of his class
started talking about knots and heats and slick.
He knew his father, Castiel, was an alpha, and that his mother, Dean, was an
omega, but it had never meant anything before. It was just what they were. Like
male or female. Tall or short. Nothing, really, though maybe one was worse than
the other—he’d heard a few people before use omega as a condescending sneer,
but when Sam had asked, his mommy just called them ‘morons’ and said not to put
too much thought into it.
Following discussions with classmates and friends, his head was ringing with
all these words like submissive, pillar of society, fragile petal, snowflake,
coveted gem, protector, protected. At home, all these terms didn’t exist. By
default, his father was the head of the house but it was never underscored in
one particular way or another.
Sam needed to know more. Ever since he presented, perhaps even several months
before that, he’s been feeling a shift, like new blood is being pumped into him
and he’s seeing—and reacting—to the world differently. His senses are stronger
and he can almost feel the surging hormones as they move around in his body. He
feels raw and strange and like he’s harbouring an unbridled physical longing
for something, or someone, that he has no idea what or who it is.
When he presented, and with all these new sensations rushing in, it almost felt
like his alpha was sentient, like it was something alien that had landed in his
soul and whose presence he had to reconcile. In a first, he felt that omegas
and betas were different (they must be, they even smell different, for
starters), but he couldn’t put a finger on exactly how and why.
Sam burrowed away into the seniors’ section of the library, and, before he’d
known it, held a book in his hands that he recited in his head while he watched
his mom slouch around the house in sweatpants and loose shirts.
This is where he is now. He’s at the kitchen table with his school books (plus
one) spread out in front of him. Dean is shovelling mostly-made pasta into his
mouth where he stands barefoot at the stove, wedding ring catching the light.
An omega’s core destiny is marriage, or something to that end, Sam recalls from
one of the book he’s read. It is in their nature; they know it as their right
to be in ownership of an alpha’s steadfast love.
He wonders, vaguely, if that’s true. Something about the thought seems wrong to
him. It might just be the floral language (though Sam’s English is immaculate,
thank you very much, so that can’t be true).
 While an omega is undistinguished and unusable in society, like the handle of
a blade, until joined to its mate; an alpha may be scathing on its lonesome.
Beware of unmated alphas, for their edges are perilous for handling.
That seems incorrect, too. Sam tips his head as he watches his mother, who’s
still cooking. Cheese pours into the pan like a landslide. Sam approves, even
if he usually likes clean salad.
His mother isn’t ‘undistinguished’ and ‘unusable’. In fact, the very thought of
Dean unmated sends a thrill through him, though he’s not sure why. For a moment
he gets swept away by this thought, imagining himself as the alpha of the
house, having snatched Dean first, with his mom his lawfully wedded omega, and
heat pools in his groin. He shakes his head as if willing the thought away, and
glances down at the words again.
‘Gracious, beautiful, soft’ leap out at him. Oh, Sam thinks, and he can’t help
but steal glances at Dean again. His mom’s face is still youthful, soft, and
pretty. His eyes are hazel green and warm, his lashes long, and lips full and
pink like they’re bee-stung. Dean moves to open the window because the
kitchen’s getting stuffy, and when he reaches up to flick the latch,
stretching, all his muscles shifting under his shirt, he blots out the light.
It seems to focus in on him like he’s a prism—spiralling into one stark point
(the line of skin where Dean’s worn the fabric thin and there’s a hole under
the arm) before fanning out like fish spreading from a spearpoint, undulating
under the surface of the sea, scattering all across the floor tiles in a sun-
gleamed spray of incandescence. All the breath escapes Sam’s lungs and his
cheeks flame. Yes, that’s right. Omegas are beautiful.
Oh, Sam thinks again, because suddenly his brain has been wiped blank, zeroing
in on a hole in his mother’s shirt showing his nursing bra and swathes of skin
from the swell of his breast. Sam can’t look away, even when Dean drops his arm
back down and bustles back to the stove, because for the first time it’s
alright to look.
Dean’s an omega—he’s here to be cherished and revered. The realisation sends a
giddy rush through Sam. It’s almost as if, previously, he hasn’t been allowed
to love his mom as much as he deserves because Dean is all about being gruff
and untouchable.
He can scent his mom from across the room, and it makes his stomach tingle,
makes him feel funny between his legs.
At that precise moment, the door opens down the hall and Castiel’s calling,
“I’m home!” through the house with a smile in his voice. The hissing of the pan
must have blocked off the sound of his car pulling up the drive.
“Yeah yeah,” Dean gripes, jokingly. Castiel drops his briefcase at the foot of
the table and ruffles Sam’s hair before stepping up to his wife and wrapping an
arm around his waist.
“You know, I thought I saw something beautiful when I walked in—”
Sam knows Dean’s probably rolling his eyes.
“—cheese,” Cas finishes, and then tries to reach for a piece of pasta. Sam
hears Castiel’s hand get swatted.
“Wash your hands!” Dean barks, and Castiel reluctantly peels himself away with
a look of pretend-hurt.
Sam might be fourteen, but he’s sharp enough to notice that his parents don’t
act like the books and, now that he’s been looking for it, ads and general
societal conventions say they do. He’d asked one of his friends—Jess—about it,
too, and she’d only wondered why he was suddenly curious before confirming his
suspicions.
Omegas aren’t supposed to be crass. They’re not supposed to bark at their
alphas and talk back. It’s a poor influence on children and a home. All those
proverbs about how a hundred alphas make a battalion but a single omega makes a
home… they’re right, Sam realises. He can’t imagine feeling as comfortable and
safe as he is now in a place without Dean in it.
But how can that be, if his mom isn’t acting like an omega should?
Sam sits and wonders, pen absently scribbling across his the page, still
mulling it over when Castiel returns and loops an arm around Dean’s shoulder,
kissing him on the cheek. Dean grumbles. Sam watches from the table. Claire,
his sister, quietly snoozes in her baby chair.
It’s a small, hardly-noticeable gesture: a short series of actions that Sam has
always seen but never processed. Castiel’s eyes drop to Dean’s lips, Dean draws
back just the slightest, Cas leans in, Dean glances up, faces an instant’s
spark of hesitation, then relaxes because it’s Cas and they’re in love and
married and opens up to kiss him fully. Hands slide down to palm the curve of
Dean’s ass as though in reward.
His mother doesn’t like displaying physical affection in view of anybody else.
Inside or outside the house, children or strangers, Dean doesn’t like it. It’s
a well-established rule, but one that bends under Castiel. See? There they are
now, kissing right there at the stove. Dean’s hands are noticeably more still
than Castiel’s, which are roaming up and down Dean’s body with the occasional
grope thrown in. At this point Sam would usually announce, “Gross!” but this
time he just feels kind of sick. His fingernails are biting into the palm of
his free hand.
Sam quietly considers the suspicion that his mom might be more omega-like than
he appears, and then wonders on his own sudden unwellness. By the time his
parents have parted and Castiel has left the kitchen to get changed out of his
work clothes, and Dean’s spooning pasta into bowls while Sam’s books are all
already stacked into a neat pile, he’s still feeling woozy. He can feel his
appetite shrinking. He can’t touch the pasta.
“Mom,” he says, “I’m not hungry.”
“Really?”
“It’s too greasy.”
“I’ve clearly failed to raise you,” Dean deadpans.
Sam is still grimacing at the pasta. Dean notices that his son looks genuinely
miserable, (and Dean’s hungry) so he takes pity. He says, eyes rolling, “Fine,
turnip, hand it over.”
“... Did you just call me a turnip?”
“Hey, you are what you eat, ain’t ya?”
Sam shakes his head but takes the excuse for what it is, climbing the stairs
two by two and huffing when he sees that his mom’s put up all his school,
state, national and international awards on the wall again. So Sam’s skipped a
few years. It’s not a big deal.
He holes up in the stillness of his bedroom and immediately sinks into the
mattress of his bed. His room is a quiet place. Quiet, and organised—nearly
unobtrusive. But his head is noisy. This is… he doesn’t know what this is.
Or maybe he does. It didn’t start with the book, nor with watching his mom.
It started with Dean’s hypnotic scent. It had caught Sam's attention and
ensnared it. The scent started to permeate strongly right after his mom gave
birth to Claire, two years earlier. Sam would sit beside his mother as Claire
nursed from him and bask in the delicate warmth of it. Whiffs of pie, cinnamon,
milk, this thing that he now recognises as pure omega, mixed with leather and
cologne, both of which Dean loved to wear. Sammy would lean into the smell
every time it tickled his senses. He'd put his head on mommy's right arm and
watch Claire suckle on one of his round full breasts - lactating and
deliciously engorged. Dean's soft belly pudge, marred by stretch marks, would
be bare and Sammy’s eyes would follow the dark treasure trail that ran from
Dean's navel down to his groin, his sweats sitting low on his hips, and
revealing a glimpse of his mom’s plain white briefs. Sam remembers reaching
out, one time, and touching around where Claire's lips were stretched. His
touch lingered and he had secretly wished he could put a finger in Claire's
mouth and feel the duct from where the milk is sucked out. He was drunk on the
intimate proximity. It started then.
A sharp spike of heat pools in him, and that’s when he knows for certain. His
emotions crumble all over the place. It’s his rut, again. Before 14, he used to
have hard ons. It wasn’t uncommon. But after, it’s different; it’s like the
sensations are multiplied tenfold and his nerve endings are on fire.
When he starts to get hard, he’s at once shocked and intoxicated, and he’s
breathing hard and fast. He manages to throw open the window and push all his
bedsheets onto the floor; then all bets are off, and he’s clawing at his shirt
and pants to remove them. The cool air sends shivers through his body even
though he’s burning up with the heat of his rut.
Too early, he thinks. It’s happening too early.
His cock is hardening fast, his stomach is quivering with the pulsating shivers
running through his body, and he kneels down on the mattress as it all
overtakes him. This is probably his third or fourth rut since he presented, and
he still can’t get used to the rush of it, the speed in which it hits and
breaks him to little pieces.
People usually present around 18. His must be brought on by something. Sam’s
mind is swimming with possibilities, trying to make sense of his own body, but
it slips quickly out of his grasp when his cock slaps up against his stomach.
His erection is harder than it's even ever been, and his own touch is like fire
on his skin. He moans as he strokes himself, and out of nowhere the thought
hits him: he wants his mom to see him touch himself like this. He wants to look
Dean in the eyes as he pulls on his shaft. He wants his mom to see him finger
his weeping piss slit as he breathes hard and falls apart.
He wants his mom’s smell, right now, he thinks, and like a Pavlovian response,
his dick trickles out more precome. That omega musk will be the death of him,
Sam thinks as he continues to beat off. He’s craving it like a drug. And he
knows like he knows that just a waft of it will bring him to the edge of
climax, maybe even push him over it. He wishes he’d had the time to rummage
inside the laundry and grab one of Dean’s unwashed underwear before his rut
hit. He wants to smell the fabric where Dean’s dick would’ve been, press his
nose to the spot that hid Dean’s most intimate, most private part.
Sam has seen Dean’s collection of underwear when he helped him fold laundry a
few times. His mother has some threadbare pouch briefs, which Sam will admit
made his breath hitch and his heart race a little when he had first seen them
and imagined how the "pouch" would probably cradle Dean’s length, and how his
prick would tent and stretch the thin material when he was aroused.
He wonders if his mom is wearing those briefs right now. He imagines how Dean’s
soft genitals are sitting snugly in those briefs, how they probably jiggle some
when he moves. Then he fantasies about his mom’s junk covered in silk or lace,
his dick barely contained, his omega slick wetting the backside, and Sam's
thick cock starts spurting—ropes of come shooting into the air and across his
abs.
He bites his fist to stop himself from screaming and he pants like he’d just
ran a marathon. When the edge is gone, he flops face forward into the mattress.
Moments later, he begins to come down from the high and regain his senses. Sam
shifts slightly to his side so as not to squish the goods. His body slightly
quivers, and his mind races to understand.
Masturbating to obscene fantasies of his mom? Sam knows he has just crossed a
line, a threshold into the unknown. And yet, part of him feels it’s a natural
born right to want his mom this way. Dean is his, a voice from some far corners
of his mind whispers.
But he’s too tired to piece together this puzzle right now. He’s too tired to
retrace his steps and try to form a picture of his fall into madness. His hand
is still on his spent dick, the soft pulls are slowly milking out the last of
his juices, coaxing out faint dribbles of come and staining the mattress. He’ll
need to wash off the traces of his perversion, Sam thinks, irrationally, as if
when anybody sees it, they’ll know.
After some hazy attempts to make sense of it all, Sam sighs and files away his
musings; decides that tomorrow, he will analyse and investigate. Today, he’ll
surrender to sleep, and his eyes flutter shut.
Chapter End Notes
     I really hope you enjoy this rendition and the changes Lejf and I
     made. We would love to hear from you! xx
***** The Dress *****
Chapter Summary
     Sam makes some interesting revelations about the nature of alphas and
     omegas, and his own mother.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Sam sits along the edges of class, fiddling with his pen while the omega
teacher up front lectures them on giant covalent structures.
She is the only omega teacher in the entire school. Omegas usually aren’t
offered teaching positions, but word has it that her alpha is quite the failure
and so she’s been forced to work to keep their household afloat. Her chemistry
knowledge isn’t actually all that bad. Sam wonders where she could’ve ever
learnt, then decides it’s best not to wonder. He wants to respect his teacher
because, well, she’s teaching him — but there’s no doubt that she could’ve
learnt it all in a legitimate environment.
She’s the only other omega he knows, after all, and she looks nothing like Dean
—his mother is gruff and anything but feminine compared to his teacher with her
makeup on and delicate gestures, wrapped up in white linen.
The boy beside him, Brady, spreads his legs in his chair as she walks by, her
modest snow dress fluttering around her knees. The young alpha adjusts himself
in his pants very deliberately, locking eyes with her and wetting his lips. She
almost, almostwalks by without looking.
Sam writes ‘C60’ in his exercise book a bit irritatedly.
Brady keeps it up the entire lesson through, openly leering, brushing his hand
over the front of his jeans. No one else seems to care because they’re probably
used to it, but considering Sam’s only presented months ago and recently
starting to open his eyes to this sort of thing, it grates on his peripherals,
constantly throbbing in reminder. Brady definitely notices Sam, though, because
at one point when Sam is glancing over, the boy winks.
When the bell goes, Sam’s out of his chair in an instant, bag up and on his
shoulder. “Why would you do that?” he asks, standing over Brady’s desk. “She’s
our teacher.”
Why on earth would he want to seduce a teacher?
And Brady goes, “Say, kid, how’d you get here?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Through hard work and plain-ol’ brains, right?”
“Yeah,” Sam answers dubiously, not quite sure where Brady’s going with this.
“No one would’ve said you could do it, but you did.” Brady leans back, looking
straight at Sam. He raises a finger and traces a circle. “I’m telling you, at
the end of the day, red tape is just tape: it just needs a little snip. What
people say is just what they say. What the body conveys ... that’s a whole
different matter.”
“What’s your point exactly?” Sam asks, narrowing his eyes.
“Give up some hard work, charm, and plain-ol’ brains and you’ll get anything
you want, that’s my point,” Brady says, then leans in to whisper the next
words. “And what I want, Winchester, is a pretty, willing, omega whore.”
Sam stares for a moment longer. Other students are filtering out of the room
around him, and it feels like they’re a current that’s threatening to carry him
away in a mindset of just not caring what Brady’s saying. He’s not sure which
is the bigger threat, though, the movement around him or the absolute stillness
that Brady locks him with.
It’s Brady. It has to be. It hits Sam suddenly, and he sucks in a deep breath.
God, what is Brady even doing? He’s just looking for any hole to fuck. He’s not
at all like Sam. Sam would love an omega. Someone like his mom, and preferably,
just as beautiful. Sam would never just use one and toss it away. He wouldn’t
chase after someone just because they were an omega.
Sam gives Brady an exasperated look and shakes his head. “You’re disgusting,
Brady. You know that?”
“And you don’t know what you’re missing, snowflake.”
Sam turns on his heel and goes without another word, leaving his doubt behind,
laid at the desk like a sleeping, simmering shadow.
***
Sam exists in a bit of a strange position at school. He’s skipped two years and
it’s not like he’s bullied or anything — his classmates aren’t competing with
him because they don’t care enough (it’d be shameful to compete with a 14-year-
old, anyway) — but he’s certainly on the outside of most circles. It’s just not
‘cool’ to be hanging out with the little kid.
He’s respected for being clever, but nothing else, really. Although Jess spares
him time of day, she has her own friends too. Sam can try to convince himself
that she leaves just to stay afloat in the social ladder, but that’s not true.
She genuinely has other friends.
It’s alright. Sam doesn’t mind. If he did, he would go back to his fourteen-
year-old peers and try to fit in there, but at this point it’d take too much
effort to overcome his prodigy status that he doesn’t. Instead he spends his
days out studying, or swimming laps out in the school pool, slicing through the
water as a single arrow-bolt.
The swimming is doing wonders to his body too; his shoulders are widening as he
gains mass, and his arms are becoming visibly sculpted. Only a year ago, he
used to look slouchy and loose, his lanky limbs always getting in the way and
rendering his moves clumsy and awkward.
Gangly no more. With his previously beanpole body slowly bulking up, Sam knows
(at least distantly) that he’ll eventually grow into an impressively brawny
alpha.
Today Sam spends the rest of his day vacillating between his classes, the
library, and Jess. He eats lunch in the cafeteria with Jess and her friends,
sitting on the edge of the bench and chewing shyly — smiling in reply whenever
someone addresses him so he doesn’t have to talk — until he’s done and leaves
for the library. It’s not exam season, so the place is mostly empty.
He’s got a pass for the senior section under the pretense that he’s skipped
several years, not just two.
Third shelf, seventh row down, the books begin the subcategory of omegas. Non-
fiction. Usually Sam prefers words over images, but today he pauses when he
opens a book he’d previously marked and it falls onto his lap as a double-page
spread of ‘Man as omega’.The man is long-limbed and impossibly soft-looking
around the edges where the light melts against his skin.
It’s a double page spread because the omega’s dress trails a satin white line
behind him.
Sam takes a breath, carefully, and traces his finger along the page as though
he can feel the gentle dustiness and glass-woven delicacy of the scene through
the paper.
‘Man as omega,’ a paragraph says in the corner, ‘is a rare event and commodity
of the highest caliber, and should be recognised as such. Little is known of
what results in a male omega, but their scents and fertility are known to far
surpass their more common counterparts. Thus, treat them duly, female in all
but genitalia and fertility.’
The omega himself has his eyes demurely lowered, hands laid across one another
like the pale necks of cranes. His lashes have fanned against his cheeks and
pink lips are curled into a private smile, and the dress swans around him in a
pool of feathers. It reminds Sam of a lily in a lake. An angel.
Sam is struck by the sudden, unshakable knowledge that if the omega in this
photo had been Dean, he’d be even more beautiful.
Sam thinks of Dean’s eyes, green and framed by terribly long lashes, his locks
gold-spun and unkempt, lips, calamine-pink and pouting, and his complexion,
peaches and cream.
Dean in a dress ... Sam’s never witnessed it before. His mom always worn grungy
clothes. Shirts and jeans, nothing special.
Sam’ll need to ask him someday why not — surely it’s not that bad — and
instead, he lets himself imagine for a moment Dean in that dress. Dean would be
caught mid-pose, his hand half-raised to reach for nothing, surprised by the
camera, his lips parted and full and blushing red from biting.
Maybe the dress would have a slit down the side, too, so whenever he wanted, he
would be able to slide a hand over the muscled curve of Dean’s thigh to follow
the swell of his ass, his fingers shifting under the smooth silk and dipping
into the slick heat of Dean. Dean would shy away from it at first, lowering his
eyes, opening that hot wet mouth of his to hint at a reproachful ‘Sam!’,but
then as Sam’s finger would graze his hole that protest would go unsaid, because
Dean’s legs would part and he’d grip the tabletop, rocking back slightly each
time Sam’s fingers passed over his hole in wordless submission. Perhaps he’ll
try to get himself off, but Sam would slap his hand away, and in the end, Dean
would come untouched, just from having his asshole prodded and penetrated with
a finger.
Sam’s fully hard in his jeans at the imagery. He shuts the book tightly,
squeezes his eyes shut, and takes deep breaths. Why is he thinking about his
mom like this?
His phone starts to buzz in his pocket as a perfect distraction to the tumult
in his mind.
There’s a text from Jess asking him to come to the book club after school. Once
upon a time Sam would’ve said yes without a thought, eager to take any sort of
excuse to be near her because he had a massive crush on her. Now, though,
that’s changed. He can’t just have a nice, sweet relationship with Jess.
There’d be talk, there’d be gossip, Jess would compromise her time with other
people, and they’d have to adjust their friendship for something new that might
end up breaking them apart.
But maybe, most importantly, he doesn’t find her quite as gorgeous and kind
anymore.
He says no and immediately feels guilty, fiddling with the hem of his trousers
and trying to avoid looking at the simple cover of the book in his lap. It’s
tempting to open. He wants, for some deep, primal reason, to look at that omega
in his flowing dress again. He chalks it up to the instincts everyone talks
about.
With force, he tears his mind away, back to Jess. He guesses that when people
grow older, it’s just a natural course of events that the potential for
romantic feelings throws a wrench into the gears. Jess …
More like Dean, some part of his mind says.
He puts the book away. Does not look.
But thinks about it for the rest of the day, until school is over and he’s
leaving with his bag slung over his shoulder and a need to clear his head. He
finds his feet carrying him down the sidewalk, parting from the rest of the
crowd of schoolchildren when someone shouts his name.
Brady’s waving at him and making some lewd gestures. Sam scowls and hitches his
bag up higher and starts walking, faster. “Sam, Sam!” Brady shouts. “Guess who
got the bitch?”
It’s a blustery day. The sky is a gargantuan smear dragging across the horizon,
seeming to pick up speed as it comes closer. The clouds are splitting as bits
outrun each other and tumble over their greyness; and the wind goes leaping
across the rippling school-field, ducking and weaving under lamp-posts and
uniforms and skirts that are billowing up like wings, corkscrewing through the
flags outside the school where their halyards whip-slap against metal masts
with echoing ringings. Within it all Brady is holding a banner of fabric and is
waving, empowered by the momentum of everything around him, back and forth and
back and forth in a line like a white calligraphy pen drawing in facsimile
clouds. Sam hears the word bitch swirling around in his head.
Brady must’ve fucked their teacher and then stolen part of her dress as a
trophy.
Sam sees, suddenly, like putting on glasses for the first time.
If Brady can do that … if that is the line of what Sam knows is wrong and
right, and if Sam understands that Brady stands on the other side, then Sam
knows exactly where he is.
He’s doing no wrong. He’s not like Brady.
Sam isn’t hurting anyone. Sam would never hurt Dean, never call him a bitch,
nor parade him like a scrap for dogs to eat.
Sam shakes his head at him, then crosses the road through four lanes of traffic
to leave Brady behind.
***
Sam doesn’t often do things on impulse. He likes to think things over first.
That doesn’t explain why he’s holding a box with a brand new dress folded into
it. It’s white, a little bit bridal, and Sam must’ve been insane to buy it. His
father and Dean had trusted him with money, and this is how he uses it?
He feels kind of like he’s buying the dress to prove a point. As if, when Brady
destroyed one white dress, Sam has had to go buying another to preserve its
purity in his mind.
He tiptoes into the house, where, luckily, Dean is in the kitchen and only
shouts a hello. Dean must hear something suspicious in Sam’s returning
greeting, because he goes, “What’s wrong, Sammy?”, kitchenware clattering as he
puts something down. Sam’s heart is in his throat when he scales the stairs to
his room.
“Nothing,” Sam calls back, and rushes in through his doorway and shoves the box
under his bed.
No one’s going to find it. It doesn’t mean anything.
Sam falls back on his bed, and just stares at the ceiling. His skin is sizzling
hot and his breaths are racing. Stowed away or not, the fact that the dress is
here, where Dean is, is bringing his mind back full circle to that picture he
saw in the library earlier today.
He closes his eyes, and lets his mind wander to that conjured up, forbidden
image of Dean - feminine, wet and wanton - and a trill of pleasure runs up
Sam’s spine. His blood rushes south, making his head swim. In the library, he
couldn’t indulge the fantasies, but here, in the privacy and silence of his
room, nothing can stop him.
This time instead of a dress, he imagines his mother in lingerie ... an itsy-
bitsy nightdress, short, delicate and see-through, the hem barely covering his
crotch and grazing across his ass. Every dip and curve in Dean’s body exposed
to Sam.
In Sam’s fantasy, the seduction is accidental. For instance, he’d feel restless
one night and creep down the stairs to their living room, only to find Dean
sitting in his sheer nightie watching TV late into the night. Sam is a visual
creature so he’ll look first and take his fill.
Dean, in this imaginary scenario, would flip the channels, eyes fixed on the
glowing screen, until he settles on a final destination: porn.
This is where the action starts in Sam’s head.
Outside of his head, he starts touching himself. Frustrated by the layers of
clothes, however, and not wanting to end with a chafed penis, he quickly unzips
and slides halfway out of his jeans and boxer briefs. He takes his length in
his hand and start stroking, slowly, finding his rhythm.
In his mind’s eye, Dean is still in drag, sitting on their living room couch,
watching pornography and pleasuring himself. His mother’s thighs would part,
his hands worming their way under his own nightdress. One hand will lightly
fondle his dick, and a calloused palm will cup the weight of a breast. As
Dean’s dick chubs up, he’ll start writhing, stroking his length rapidly and
simultaneously flicking his perky nips.
He’ll pull the nightgown down, exposing his hardened nipples. As he caresses
and grabs and squeezes his pecs, white drops of pearl-colored milk would bead
out and slither across his chest.
Sam, lying on his bed, starts stroking faster too, like he and fantasy Dean are
racing to finish together. In his head, Dean pants, and trembles, then starts
calling Sam’s name softly through cherry sweet lips. At the (imaginary) sound
of his name flirting with his mother’s lips, a thick squirt of cum oozes from
Sam’s penis, and his pace picks up some more.
“Sam,” his mother would whisper, throwing his head back, and moaning with
pleasure. His voice would get louder, “Sam, Sam.” Sam would want to attack that
mouth, descend on it, kiss it ravenously. He’d want to bite his way down Dean’s
exposed body as he calls his name. “Sam!—”
The door to Sam’s room is, apparently, flung open. The fog suddenly clears and
Sam scandalously realises his mom, real flesh-and-blood mom, has just casually
sauntered in through the door.
Dean’s eyes go wide, mouth goes slightly agape, when he sees what he walks in
on, before he remembers to close his mouth and look away. He mutters, “awkward”
in sing-song, but he doesn’t leave, just waits for Sam to get decent.
His mom can be shameless — and not in a sexy way, especially now when Sam has
been caught red handed, lying on his back with his wet-tipped cock jutting up
into the air and pointing to the ceiling.
Heart in throat, Sam starts to fumble around frantically looking for something
to hide under, or cover up with, until his brain shifts gears and belatedly
realises he can just pull up his pants, which he does, with slightly trembling
hands.
Sam then sits up and zips his jeans too, so fast and clumsily that he ends up
bruising his engorged, hard penis, and whimpering like a girl when it gets
caught in the zipper.
“Woah, easy tiger. You’ll hurt the equipment,” Dean says, wincing.
His mother’s voice sounds half-amused, and Sam suspects he might be muffling a
giggle.
This is painful, on so many levels, Sam thinks, his sense of shame flaring up
and coloring his face red, and his penis throbbing — an ugly reminder of what
he was doing, what he was imagining his mom doing, before he was brazenly
walked in on. Sam buries his head in his hands, his fingers tangled in his long
hair, and his chest heaving. He just waits for the moment to pass, or for the
earth to open up and swallow him. Whichever comes first.
The silence is so thick, so Dean cuts into it, with a sheepish attempt at
humor. “In my defense, I knocked, and called your name, like, three times.
Knot-head!”
He takes a seat beside Sam on the bed. Sam starts gulping up the air like
breathing is going out of fashion.
“Are you hurt, you know, down there? Wanna double check?” Dean asks, then, when
Sam doesn’t grace this with any response, his mom takes Led Zeppelin’s advice
and just rambles on. “It happens, you know. You’d be surprised how many people
end up in the ER with zipper-related injuries. It can get pretty nast—”
“Mom, stop, alright?” Sam says, whipping his head up so fast it takes a moment
for his head to settle and the world to come into focus. “Enough, please. What
did you come up here for?”
They’re sitting side by side, their thighs almost touching and Sam can’t stand
it, so he shoots up from the bed, and sits himself on his desk chair instead,
facing away from his mom, and arranging the scattered books and papers on the
desk to keep his gaze and hands occupied.
“Wanted to check on you. You bolted, like a bullet, to your room. I thought
maybe you had a bad day.”
Like you wouldn’t know, Sam thinks. Bad, weird, eye-opening; all in one.
“I’m fine.”
More silence. “You know, lube is usually your best friend. Trust me, you don’t
want rug bur—”
“MOM!”
“What? You could use some pointers ... if you’re gonna hole up here and play
with yourself, you gotta at least do it right. So let’s try this again. Before
you ever touch—”
“YOU are unbelievable, you know that?”
“It’s been said,” Dean says. “Alright, sasquatch, I’ll leave you to overthink
and wallow in embarrassment — totally unnecessary by the way — and go whip up
dinner. Any special requests?”
“How about leave me alone?”
“One leave alone coming up,” Dean says, pushing up from the bed. “With sauce or
without?”
“Hilarious,” says Sam, deadpanning. He still has his back to his mom.
“Sammy, come on, so you were spanking the monkey, what’s the big deal—wait,
what’s that under your bed?”
Sam is confused at first, then realisation dawns. He tosses over his shoulder,
his neck straining, and there, the box with the dress is gloriously poking out
from under his bed, and Dean is bending over to inspect it.
“Mom, wait, that’s private.”
But Dean doesn’t seem to understand the concept of privacy, so he fishes out
the box nonetheless. Sam dives forward to grab it before Dean pokes inside, but
Dean stubbornly snatches it away and keeps it out of reach. “Give it back,
mom,” Sam huffs.
“Not until you tell me what’s inside.”
“Not happening,” Sam says, crowding his mother who’s standing right on the edge
of his bed.
They start grappling like children.
“Get off,” Dean says.
“No! Come on, give it back.”
In their struggle, they end up falling, landing on top of each other on the bed
with a thud, and to Sam’s horror, the lid on the box slips and it flips open.
The dress falls out.
They both freeze and stare at the piece of fabric for a second. Dean moves
first, throwing his son halfway off and reaching for the dress. “What the—Sam,
I didn’t peg you for a crossdresser,” says Dean, eying the number amusedly.
“Em, it’s not for me,” Sam says carefully, going for the truth instead of
skirting around it. You know, better rip off the bandaid.
“Girlfriend?” Dean asks, looking over his shoulder and raising an eyebrow.
That’s an easy out. Sam could take it; just say he hooked up and it’s a gift to
his sweetheart, but he doesn’t want to. He’s dead curious about Dean’s
reaction. It can’t be too bad, because at the end of the day, Sam is still
Dean’s son.
“No, mom, it’s for … you.”
All humor gets washed off Dean’s face and his features shift, his eyes
darkening.
“You’re joking?” Dean says, sitting up, pushing Sam all the way off and
squaring his shoulders.
“I’m not, actually,” Sam says, standing up, and facing his mom.
“What makes you think I’d ever wear something like this?”
“You—erm, you didn’t even get a chance to look at it.”
“It’s a fucking dress, period. I don’t have to study the damn thing.”
Sam flinches at how harsh his mom’s tone suddenly has become and at the
profanities, which Dean usually reigns in. The mood? It’s a complete 180.
Dean seems to notice how his words land. He gulps and his eyes dart down to
floor. “I’m sorry. Look, can you please return it? I don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Wear those,” Dean says, pointing. He’s avoiding so much as calling it by its
name, as if saying the word “dress” a few times will somehow soil him.
“Why not?”
“It’s—look, you won’t get it.”
“Mom, talk to me, please. Look, I’ll return it if that’s what you want,” Sam
says, although he really, really doesn’t want to. He’s dying to see Dean wear
it actually. “But I need to understand.”
“There’s nothing to understand—”
“Why are you shutting me out?”
“Why are you pushing?”
“Why don’t you just try it on, mom?”
“Hell no! What’s the upside? Why is this even important?”
“Because,” Sam says, hesitating. “Because … other omegas do it. You don’t and I
wanna know how come!”
At the mention of the word omega, Dean’s jaw clenches, his fists curl and any
remaining warmth evaporates from his eyes. He’s looking at Sam like he can not
bear to see him at all.
Sam knows he has crossed some invisible line.
The alpha in him hates the display of anger, wants to lash out and force Dean
to just sit and listen. His rational mind just wants to understand what rattled
his mom, so he pushes. “I mean, you are an omega, mom.”
Suddenly, his mother rushes forward, right into his space, and grabs his arm
and shoves him back. It’s pretty painful, Dean’s fingers sinking into his skin,
eyes boring into his, his gaze steady and their noses almost touching. His
voice is low and dangerous when he says, “Don’t call me that.”
Sam gazes back, eyes flickering, trying to read his mom, at once confused and
feeling challenged. Dean is an omega. That’s a fact. Sam calls him mom,for
God’s sake. He’s a wife, he’s married to an alpha and has not one but two
children so whyis he suddenly denying a fact that he lives with? It bewilders
Sam because Dean has always been more than happy to be his mother, and also
because Dean never lashes out at Sam, particularly without explanation. He can
sense the heat radiating through Dean’s skin and seeping into the fingers
currently wedged painfully into the flesh of his own arm. “Don’t ever,” Dean
repeats.
“I will, mom ... if you don’t talk to me,” Sam says, and it really did sound
less rude in his head. But it’s a last ditch effort to get his mom to explain.
Something’s broken here, and Sam needs answers.
“Do it and watch me kick your ass to the curb,” Dean retorts, all-venom, his
glare impossibly cold and piercing and it’s like he’s a different man. Sam has
never seen his mother’s eyes this dead and still before, not when he’s looking
at him. There’s usually nothing but love. Even if Dean is rough around the
edges, his eyes are usually tender and adoring.
Sam’s eyes, despite himself, start welling up with tears.
This seems to do the trick.
Because, like a man snapping out of a waking nightmare, Dean’s gaze drifts, his
face softens, regaining some of its earlier composure and its lost warmth, his
fingers uncurl and release their vice-like grip on his son’s arm. As he orients
himself to the world again, he backs away from Sam.
Dean suddenly looks like a man torn apart. His eyes flicker to Sam’s upper arm,
to where he was holding him, and he winces at how the skin is red and slightly
bruised. Sam himself looks a little pale, and it’s his fault, Dean thinks.
“I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean what I said—”
“Just get out, please,” Sam whispers, and it’s his turn to frost over because
he’s suddenly infuriated by the unreasonableness of his mother. He’d bought
Dean a gift, and Dean had grabbed him and threatened him over it, provided no
explanation, and is suddenly turning on his toe and trying to sweep the whole
incident under the rug by reverting back to his ‘doting mother’ state.
“Sammy,” Dean whispers back, pleading.
“It’s Sam,” he says, not meeting his eyes. If he looks into Dean’s eyes he’ll
either cave or have another outburst.
Dean’s hands come up to card his fingers through his short hair, grabbing two
fistfuls, like he wants to pull his hair out. Then his hands falls back down
and he nods. “Look, I’d explain my issues with this, the whole, erm, dressing
like a woman thing. But I don’t wanna drag anybody through the muck with me. I
realise I’m not exactly normal.”
Sam stays silent.
“So now you’re boarded up?”
Sam continues to stare past Dean.
“Yeah. Alright,” Dean says, gulping audibly. “I guess I better come back later
then.”
“Don’t bother,” Sam finally says. “And no dinner for me. So don’t worry about
that either.” He locks his eyes to his mom’s in an effort to communicate how
dead serious he is.
“Sam, don’t do this,” Dean implores, a little choked up.
Sam just tilts his head a fraction, and stares back.
“Look, if you don’t wanna share a meal, it’s fine. I’ll make dinner, and—and
maybe leave the house for a bit, take a walk around the neighborhood while you
eat,” Dean says, in a small voice. “You won’t see me. Is that better? Will you
eat dinner now?”
Sam doesn’t respond. Instead, he shakes his head, flips around and sits himself
at his desk, giving his back to his mom.
Dean waits for a minute, standing in the middle of the room, then, feeling
rejected, his shoulders sag and he pads out, closing the door behind him.
The first line Sam’s pen draws rips a hole in the paper. How had it gone so
wrong? His head is all tangled up with fury and frustration towards the
irrationality of Dean ... and of himself, a little. Why had he gone and bought
the dress? Why did Dean just have to see it? But most of all, why wouldn’t Dean
explain himself? Sam hadn’t had the faintest idea that the dress would draw
such a violent reaction from Dean, so why did Dean have to get so up in arms at
an innocent gesture?
He also can’t believe Dean goes demanding not to be called an omega and then
immediately becomes plaintive, falling back into his attitude of a mother by
talking about cooking, forgiveness, going out of his way by leaving the house
to give Sam space.
It’s laden with hypocrisy.
Sam’s insulted by it, as well as the breaking of that unspoken promise between
mother and son that a mother will always be supportive and understanding of
what he does, or gently corrective, while a father will be the disciplinary
figure.
Eventually the anger all trickles away into nonsensical scribbles of ink and
he’s left feeling defeated by the rift that he’s opened up between him and his
mom. He doesn’t want it to be like this. He hadn’t meant it.
For a moment, Sam almost detests that dress just as much as Dean does. 
Chapter End Notes
     Hope you enjoyed this one. Updates should be more regular from here
     on!
     Lejf and I would love to hear your thoughts! xx
     Love,
     Jo
End Notes
     This story breaks off from the inspiration-fic Family Secrets early
     on. Only the baseline remains the same.
     My girl @Lejf is now co-authoring this with me, and because writing a
     whole new fic nearly from scratch is very time intensive, Sophie had
     to pull out. She's still rooting for us from the sidelines.
     I'm definitely still writing Family Secrets (my baby # 1). Thank you
     so much for investing in this and for taking the time to leave your
     thoughts and musings.
     Love,
     Joanna xx
      -----------------------
     Hey, all. I'm aware that there's a difficulty in omega Dean & omega
     Sam fans co-existing when preferences run strong and you're allowed
     to let fly over the internet. But we'd like to ask you to keep
     comments civil re:omega Sam, considering some people are just giving
     this a shot regardless of their overruling preference to omega Sam,
     as per the original. We'd appreciate it if you tried not to alienate
     each other.
     Those of you who step in (especially as anons) with only insults to
     make, especially to another commenter, will be deleted.
     You can have preferences. Of course you can "prefer omega Dean" or
     "prefer omega Sam". But flagrant disrespect with clear intent to
     demean will be deleted right off the bat.
     Best, Lejf.
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