Nydaan

《Bunny？Bunny！》约稿，魔王米 x 兔子丁

Sam was seven at the time, only an elementary schooler but old enough to feel himself not fitting in. Old enough to feel other, to feel in his constant switching between schools like someone walking on the sidewalk, peering through the glass of homes he'd never enter. Always on the outside.

Making friends was hard when he had so little time and so little in common with his peers. Eventually, the strange looks and uncomprehending pauses prefacing incredulous questions (you don't have a house? you've been to five other schools? you don't have a mom?) started to wear on him, and Sam learned a lesson his father had already been well on his way to teaching him: lying is easy and quick and it smooths over so many of life's little hitches.

So his standard replies shifted away from Yeah, no house, yeah, I keep moving around to different schools, yeah, my mom's dead to of course I have a house, this is my second school, of course i have a mom. At first, his lies hesitate and stutter, and elementary schoolers aren't really a suspicious bunch, but the gentle follow-up questions of teachers and other parents is enough incentive to propel Sam down the road to expertise. By his eight-and-half-th birthday, Sam can lie as fluidly as a conman, with a smile on his face and wide, innocent eyes.

Lying about having a house is easy: all Sam does is remember back to a house they stayed in once. It was long enough ago that the memory is fading, but his friends only really need the broad strokes. He describes his house the same way, over and over again: yellow sides, brown door, and a big window in the front with three panes that jut outward, meaning the sill inside is more like a bench, a perfect place to sit and watch the outside world.

As far as talking about previous schools, he only ever mentions the last one he went to, lets everyone around him assume that that's the only other place he's ever lived. Those lies become so familiar that Sam sometimes imagines the kid who lives them really exists, somewhere in his head.

But the third one, his mother, is harder to get right. Sam can't remember ever having a mother, and when he assumes that she'd act basically the same as his dad, those sideways glances start right back up again. Okay, so moms don't leave in the middle of the night sometimes and come back a strange kind of happy. Okay, so moms don't disappear for a few weeks to take care of work. Okay, those are dad things. So what are mom things?

Sam figures it out all at once one day, when an almost-friend of his is talking about how his mom took his to the new ice cream shop in town even though his dad didn't want her to. When it's his turn to share a story, he almost forgets all those lessons he's learned about lying, tongue tripping over itself the euphoria of understanding. Finally, finally he gets it: mom things aren't dad things, mom things are Dean things.

So Sam tells a story about how his mom once accidentally packed him a sandwich with moldy bread for lunch (Dean hadn't believed him at first, hadn't believed that Sam knew what mold looked like until he checked the rest of the loaf and found the bluish white fuzz growing underneath it. The look on his face when he realized he'd have to figure out something else for dinner isn't something Sam wants to think about, isn't the funny part of the story), and when everyone laughs at his exaggerated claims of how bad it smelled, Sam feels the comfort of belonging in a way he never has before.

And that's how it goes, in the following months, new school after new school but always the same lies, on and on until the lines in Sam's head start to get kind of blurry. After a certain point, "Mom" is just another name for Dean.

So things go more smoothly at school, and just the same amount of roughly at home, until Sam slips up, one night.

It's late. Not actually Sam's bed time, not yet, but he's on the tail-end of a nasty fever and his body's still a little worn out, so while Dean sits against the headboard, Sam dozes with the top of his head against his brother's hip and Dean's hand tangled in his hair.

He sinks into dreams for a minute, then drags right back out of them with an achy kind of feeling in his chest, limbs and heart heavy like he's been running away from something terrible. He squirms a little, waking up, and Dean pulls his hand away.

Sam makes a noise a of protest that goes entirely ignored, possibly because Dean, with his ears already strained toward the near-silent TV, didn't hear him. Sam sighs. Dean is too far away, sitting up like that. Sam knows it isn't really time yet, but his head kinda hurts and he doesn't wanna have any more of those barely-remembered dreams that were definitely closer to nightmares.

"Mom," Sam says, into the fabric of Dean's pant leg, "can you come lay down?"

Dean turns to stare at him, brow furrowed, and it takes Sam a second to realize what he said. "Sorry!" he squeaks, mortified. "Sorry, Dean, I didn't mean to--um--"

"...it's okay, Sam," Dean says after a minute. He turns off the TV, after a second's consideration, and then, to Sam's surprise, he lifts the covers and scoots down in the bed. His arms wrap around Sam, and Sam's body settles against his automatically, knowing exactly where they're meant to line up. Dean lets Sam pillow his head on his chest, like he's not even going to mention Sam's weird slip-up, like it really is okay.

But it's not okay, suddenly. Suddenly, Sam is swimming in guilt for all those lies he's been telling, and suddenly he needs Dean to tell him whether it's okay, whether it's forgivable, to lie so much for such a stupid reason. For a few minutes, Sam listens to his brother's heartbeat without slipping an inch closer to sleep. Then he takes a deep breath and suddenly the whole story pours out of him, everything, all laid out into his brother's soft sleep-shirt for judgment.

Dean is silent for a minute, after Sam finally gets it all out. Nervous, Sam lays completely still (he hates when Dean is mad at him, hates it even more than when Dad is mad at him, because Dad is angry all the time but when Dean's mad Sam know he's right to be) half on top of his brother and terrified that if he moves, Dean won't let him back this close ever again.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean repeats after a minute. Sam blows out a breath, melting in relief. "It's okay. You, um--you can keep calling me that, if you want. I think it's not...it's not fair that you don't have a mom. You deserve one. And I guess I...I try. To be like her. To give you that. So...it's fine. Whenever you want to call me that, it's fine."

Oh. That…isn’t exactly the kind of answer Sam is looking for. It’s not really the question he meant to ask. But if Dean's offering...

He turns, hesitantly, pushing himself up on his elbows to look Dean in the face. "...Mom?"

Dean clears his throat. "Um, yeah? Yeah, Sammy?"

Sam blinks away unexpected wetness in his eyes. "Mom. Thanks."

Dean smiles at him, and it's all soft and happy. Sam lays his head back down as Dean whispers, "No problem, Sammy," and cards a gentle hand through his hair.

Age unspecified but warning for underage.

The last card Sam made was for Mother's Day. He was brand new to the school and didn't want another reason to be singled out, so he went along with it. His teacher and fellow students thought it was weird that his card featured a poorly rendered Chevy Impala and not a single flower or heart, but he just said his mom wasn't into that stuff.

He meant to tear the card up before he got home and forgot. Dean emptied his bag (he'd been in the habit for years, even though there hadn't been another banana incident) and found it.

"Is that our car?" he had asked.

"Yeah."

"It's really good, Sammy."

Sam tried to snatch it out of Dean's hand but Dean just held it out of reach.

"Is this a card?" He opened it up and Sam's heart thudded wildly. He started reading aloud over Sam's protests, "I have to make this stupid card and you're the closest thing to a mom I've got so Happy Mother's Day. Love Sammy."

Sam shut his eyes and prayed the motel carpet would turn into lava or a sinkhole.

He wobbled and fell into Dean's chest when he pulled him into a hug.

"Thank you, Sammy. I love it."

Sam doesn't know why he thinks about that as he stands in the hallway holding the Father's Day card he made in school. A different school, a different year. He hopes they stop making him make cards when he gets out of elementary school.

It was true, what the card had said: Dean was the closest thing to a mom he had ever had.

He just didn't realise Dad saw him that way too.

He knows what sex is. The first time he saw sex was when a couple hadn't bothered to go to their room and decided a car in a motel parking lot was as good a place as any. Dean had to explain sex to him. He never questioned why Dean understood it so well even though he was so young, not much older than Sam is now. Shouldn't it have been Dad giving him the Talk?

Well, it makes sense now.

He heard the noises first. The salt lines were intact and the car was outside but he knew what he was supposed to do: run. He didn't. There's a shotgun in their bedroom. If he could just sneak upstairs...

He did sneak upstairs. He didn't get as far as their room, though.

Dad's door is open.

Dean and Dad are in bed together.

Dean always looked so big to him but he looks so small now. He looks... fragile. Breakable. Maybe it's the way he's contorted - both legs pushed back to his chest, held there by Dad's big hands clasped around the backs of his knees - or maybe it's just how little he looks underneath Dad, who is a big man by any standard, but like this he looks like a beast.

Dean doesn't look like Dean. He looks like a doll. A broken doll, limbs limp and eyes rattling around his skull, mouth open around a gasp, a moan, a scream. Sounds Sam has never heard Dean make are driven out of him by their father, each one still echoing in his mind as the next one escapes Dean's throat.

There's knowing what sex is and there's seeing it so luridly, and Sam can't look away, the horror and fascination of it rooting him to the spot like his feet have been nailed down. He doesn't even know if he's breathing. He doesn't know if this real or a nightmare.

He didn't know it could be like this - two men, well, one man and one boy. Dean told him the basics about love and making babies and husbands and wives. Does this mean Dean is the wife? If Dean is the closest thing Sam has to a mom, then it makes sense that he's also like Dad's wife. Dean's always doing wifely things for Dad. He looks after Sam, he does most of the cleaning and cooking, and he is the one Dad talks to about grown-up stuff. Can a son be a wife? Can a brother be a mom?

Sam feels funny. Dean looks... he looks...

Can a brother be a wife, too?

Dad lets go of one of Dean's legs and cups his face instead, bending down to kiss him. Dean moans into it, eyes closed, hands reaching for Dad's shoulders. It doesn't look like the kisses on TV. Their mouths are open and Dad bites at Dean's bottom lip, which looks like it hurts but Dean makes another sound like maybe it doesn't, or he likes it if it does.

Sam looks down and sees where they are joined together, Dad's hips moving more languidly now, rutting into Dean. He didn't know that was a thing you could do. Boys don't have vaginas but apparently they can do that anyway. Does it feel good? Does Dean feel good? Does he like it? He keeps pushing his hips into Dad's like he's impatient.

"Harder, c'mon, need it," Dean begs, his voice hoarse. Sam's heard it that way before. Is this why? When Dean's voice is all wrecked and he's looking kind of out of it, is it because he was doing this with Dad?

How long have they been doing this?

"You want it hard?" Dad says, sounding- amused? Is it funny?

"Dad," Dean whines.

"Greedy little boy," Dad teases, but he braces himself on his elbows planted beside Dean's head and Dean wraps his legs around his waist and that's what Dean meant by harder, that sudden brutal driving of Dad's hips into him, the smack of their flesh together, Dean crying out and digging his nails into Dad's biceps.

"That hard enough for you, baby boy?"

"Yes, God, yes, so good, fuck!" Dean cries out, head thrown back as his body is jostled up the bed.

They still haven't noticed him. He still hasn't moved an inch. He still isn't quite breathing.

His hand clenches the card and it crumples in his fist.

They're fucking. That's what it is. He thinks it's different to sex but he doesn't know how. Sam knows he isn't supposed to use that word but he thinks maybe Dad isn't supposed to be fucking Dean. Dad is fucking Dean and Dean is enjoying it. It looks kind of scary to Sam. Dad's dick is huge but it disappears all the way into Dean's body like a magic trick, like it shouldn't fit but it does, and Sam can't quite see Dean's asshole but he knows that's where it's going, and that's weird, isn't it? That can't feel good? But Dean looks like it feels good because he keeps begging for it, moaning, writhing, and his own dick is hard too and that means it feels good, doesn't it?

Sam's dick is hard. It's been doing that sometimes lately. Would Dean let him--

"C'mon baby, come for me, come on Daddy's cock, don't even need me to touch you, do you? Just need it like this, just need me filling you up," Dad grunts, pounding harder into Dean, who visibly tenses up all over, eyes wide like he's shocked, eyebrows screwed up and mouth hanging open.

"Daddy, please, gonna come!" Dean wails.

Sam doesn't know what that means, but then Dean is practically screaming and there's white stuff shooting out of his dick and over his chest and tummy, and he figures that's what it means.

"Fuck," Dad groans, slamming in harder. "So fucking tight when you come."

"God, fill me up, please," Dean whimpers.

"You want Daddy to knock you up?"

Dean nods frantically. "Wanna give you a baby."

He can't do that. Boys can't do that. Sam has no reason to feel jealous.

"Gonna put a fucking baby in you," Dad grunts, and then he goes still, a sound almost like a roar rumbling in his chest while Dean chants yes yes yes.

They still haven't noticed him.

Idk how this became breeding kink but I don't know how it started out as mommy!Dean either but it all felt right and very father's day appropriate.

Dj plays out each scene in his head, tries to imagine what his namesake did to make their Sam smile like that. Practices in the mirror. Finds a dead man staring back. The dead man tells him, “It’ll never be enough.”

One day his Dad leaves on a short trip and Dj decides to dig a little deeper in the chest. He inspects the faded leather jacket that sits atop the pile of junk. It smells of gunpowder and whiskey. Under the jacket is a soft flannel, worn and fraying at the seams. It looks just like any of his father’s other flannels, but when he unfolds it at least 50 polaroids spill out. Curious, Dj picks one up. He expects to find yet another moment between two brothers frozen in time.

Instead he finds only one young boy. His face is cut off at the mouth so Dj can’t tell who it is, but he knows those aren’t his Dad’s lips. The boy’s neck is bared and his skin is naked save for a dark necklace. His arms are held behind his back and there’s one very clear bite mark bruising his collarbone. Dj’s not sheltered, he knows what this is. He swallows and flips the picture over. Dated 10.06.95. Definitely not his Dad then.

Dj picks up another one. It’s the same boy sat on his knees. All bare skin save for that necklace still, with his hands covering his crotch. There’s another hand in the photo, a much older hand, gripping the boy’s jaw. His face above the nose is cutoff again, but his lips are parted and wet. Dj can guess what happened.

He picks up a third. The boy looks younger, but he has some clothes on in this one. Small blue shorts that hug his limp body. He’s on a motel bed sprawled on his stomach, asleep by the looks of it.

Something hot and tight crawls up Dj’s chest. He picks up a new one from a different area in the pile. Same boy, older again. His eyes are green, Dj learns. Green and teary and so big. Those lips Dj is coming to recognize stretch over a hard cock, spit dripping from the corners. That gruff hand is back and holding tight in the boy’s hair. It’s a closeup but he’s in the backseat of a car, Dj can tell. It almost looks like…

Dj scrambles to pick up another photo. The boy is bent over the side of a car, back arched obscenely. His lower half is cutoff past the hand gripping his hip but Dj sees it. Sees the silver rims and mirror attached to an Impala he’d recognize anywhere. He flips the polaroid and finds another date. 11.07.96.

It was Dean. He’s the boy in the photos.

And the mystery hand.. Dj moves back to the chest and rifles through the family photos he had seen countless times, looking for one very specific man. As soon as he sees it he snatches the photo and brings it back to the polaroids with the mystery hand to compare.

There’s no doubt. It’s the same hand. Ring and all.

These photos are all of his young uncle Dean and his grandfather.

And his Dad had kept them.