#dad!benny

I’ve been here over a hundred times. Holidays, barbecues, stolen weekends. But never like this. Never with dread pooling in the corners. Never with silence pressing so hard against my ribs that I can barely breathe.

“Where is he?” Benny forces out, the desperation beneath it barely contained.

No one answers immediately. The quiet stretches, becoming its own kind of sound, one I feel in my bones. Somewhere in the back of the house, I hear the faint creak of a floorboard, the soft murmur of a voice.

Will appears in the hallway, his eyes tired and red, his face somehow older than it was when we last saw him a few days ago. “He’s in the bedroom,” he says softly. “He’s been asking for you.”

Before the words fully register, Benny is already moving, brushing past his brother, running up the staircase two steps at a time like he’s afraid the moment will disappear if he doesn’t reach it fast enough.

A door closes behind him with a quiet click. The house goes still.

“Did we make it?” I whisper, breath trapped in my chest.

Will nods. “Yeah. I think…I think he’s been holding on for Benny.”

Relief hits me so fast it almost hurts. A shaky exhale slips out of me, but it doesn’t steady me. It just cracks something open. My knees feel weak with the sudden release of fear I’ve been holding since the phone call, since the airport, since Benny went silent beside me on the plane.

Will lays a steady hand between my shoulder blades, grounding me. “Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you sitting before you hit the floor. I’ve had enough with hospitals for one week.”

I don’t protest. I don’t have the bandwidth to. My body just follows, grateful for the direction. We move toward the dining room, our footsteps suddenly too loud against the hardwood, like we’re intruding on a moment so fragile even sound feels unwelcome.

Mrs. Miller sits at the table, staring at a cup of tea that’s long gone cold. Her shoulders are tense, her breath shallow, like she’s been holding herself together with sheer willpower.

I cross the room quietly and lean down to kiss her cheek. “Hi, Mom,” I whisper, using the name she’s always insisted on.

Her eyes lift to mine, red and wet, but when she sees me standing there, when she realizes we made it, something in her face loosens. Not joy, not relief exactly, just a softening, like one small weight has finally shifted off her chest.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she breathes, her hand squeezing mine for a second too long. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Will’s wife, Emily, sits beside her, one hand resting gently on our mother-in-law’s arm. We exchange solemn smiles, the kind people give when words are too clumsy, too sharp, too loud.

Will pulls out a chair for me. I sit, feeling the weight of the room press against my ribs.

For a long moment, no one speaks. The quiet lays heavy on all of us, thick, suffocating, settling into the spaces between our breaths. The house feels like it’s holding itself still, afraid to shift, afraid to break whatever fragile thread is keeping everyone together.

Mrs. Miller keeps her eyes fixed on her cold tea, her fingers trembling just slightly around the mug. Will sits rigid in his chair, staring at the table but seeing something much farther away. Somewhere deeper in the house, the heater kicks on with a dull metallic groan, a reminder that life continues even when it feels like it shouldn’t.

I fold my hands in my lap to keep them from shaking. Every tick of the wall clock seems louder than the last, stretching seconds into something unsteady and sharp.

Finally, Emily lifts her gaze to me, her expression gentle, tentative, like she’s afraid anything louder might shatter the room.

Emily clears her throat gently. “Can I get you some tea? Coffee? Water?”

“A stiff fucking drink,” Will mumbles.

I smile weakly, then shake my head. “No, thank you.”

The refrigerator hums. The clock ticks. Someone shuffles a foot against the hardwood. All tiny sounds, each loud in its own way.

“How was the flight?” she asks softly.

I swallow. “Long. Quiet. Benny didn’t say much.”

The truth is, the silence on the plane had felt endless. He just stared out the window the whole time, jaw tight, leg bouncing, holding himself together by threads I could almost see straining. I kept waiting for him to say something, anything, but every word stayed locked behind his teeth. And all I could do was sit there beside him, pretending to read the same page of a magazine, glancing at him every few minutes, wishing there was something I could say that wouldn’t break him further.

“That’s how he gets,” Will murmurs, leaning back in his chair. “Whenever things go sideways. He shuts down until he’s standing where he needs to be.”

Mrs. Miller gives a faint, humorless smile. “Just like his father.”

I hesitate, then question, “How’s he been?”

Mrs. Miller’s gaze drifts toward the hallway. “Stronger than we expected. Stubborn as ever.” Her lips tremble. “He insisted on sitting up when he heard Benny was on his way.”

“That sounds right,” Will says softly. “Dad would drag himself out of the grave if he thought one of us needed him.”

Mrs. Miller’s attention turns back to the hallway, but her eyes soften. “He was always at his best when his boys were under the same roof.” She meets my eyes. “Thank you for making sure Benny got here.”

I shake my head quickly. “I didn’t do anything. He was already halfway out the door when we got the call. He barely even packed a bag. Just grabbed his wallet, his keys, and asked when the soonest flight would be.”

“That’s my boy,” Mrs. Miller whispers, swiping at her eyes. “Always running toward the people he loves.”

I swallow, voice thick. “He just…he couldn’t lose any more time.”

Will nods. “None of us can.”

Mrs. Miller looks at me then, not through me, not around me, but at me, seeing something she hadn’t needed to before today.

“Thank you,” she says, voice steady despite the tears. “For loving my son the way he deserves.”

My breath stutters, catching somewhere between my ribs. I’m not sure what to do with the weight of her gratitude. Not tonight. Not with everything trembling on the edge of breaking. I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

Will clears his throat softly. “He’s stronger because you’re here,” he adds. “Even if he won’t say it.”

The words hit something inside me, something raw. Benny had leaned on me in ways he didn’t realize, in ways he would never claim for himself. But hearing it from Will, from his family…it settles differently. Heavier. Realer.

I nod, because speaking might break something open inside me.

Another long stretch of quiet settles, but this one is softer. It’s shared, not suffocating.

I stare at the back hallway, imagining Benny sitting beside his father, talking, holding his hand, memorizing everything about him because he knows the moment is finite.

A selfish part of me aches to be there too, to hold his other hand, to anchor him through the breaking. But I know Benny needs this moment with his dad alone. This goodbye is theirs, not mine, and the only thing I can do is wait. And hope it gives him something to hold onto when the moment is gone.

No one talks. No one moves. We’re all listening, each in our own way, for something. Footsteps, voices, a sign that the world hasn’t shifted permanently in the last ten minutes.

I stare at the place mat in front of me. Just weeks ago, this very table held more food than anyone could possibly eat and glasses of mulled wine. I blink. My vision blurs.

God, it had been so alive here. So loud. So full.

The memory pulls me back without warning.

The Millers’ living room had been buzzing with holiday chaos. Decorations were draped over every available surface. A stack of presents sat under the tree. Laughter echoed off the walls like it was trying to outshine the twinkle lights.

Will cracked open another beer, leaning back with a mischievous glint in his eyes, his arm comfortably draped along the couch behind Emily.

“Did you hear Toy Story 5 is going to focus on sex toys?” he announced.

Emily choked on her drink. “What?!”

Mrs. Miller nearly spat out her own drink, scrambling upright as if speed alone could help her scold her son properly. “William Miller! It’s Christmas, for Christ’s sake.”

I didn’t even flinch. I’d built up an immunity to Miller male nonsense years ago.

Benny laughed. “Really brings a whole new meaning to the names Buzz and Woody, doesn’t it?”

Mr. Miller groaned, rubbing his temples. “It’s a wonder you two never got kicked out of Sunday school.”

“Not for lack of trying,” Benny muttered, lips twitching. I elbowed him gently, trying not to smile.

“That cannot be true,” Mrs. Miller gasped, clutching her metaphorical pearls.

“Which part?” Benny shot back. “Us trying to get kicked out of Sunday school or the fact Will believes everything he reads online?”

Emily nodded toward him. “Honestly, the Sunday school part checks out.”

“Oh, it gets better. I heard they’re finally going to handle Andy’s sex life while at college,” Will added.

Emily groaned dramatically. “Please stop. You’re ruining my childhood.”

I had my hand pressed to my mouth trying not to encourage them.

“Too late,” Benny snorted. Then, cupping his hands around his mouth like a megaphone, he yelled, “Andy’s coming!”

Emily shrieked and launched a throw pillow at him. Mrs. Miller hid her laugh behind her wine glass, shoulders shaking.

Mr. Miller shook his head, but he was laughing too, big, booming laughs that filled the room. “God help me,” he said. “This is what I get for teaching you both to speak.”

“We learned from the best, Pops,” Will replies, tilting his beer in his dad’s direction with a crooked grin. “You’re the one who taught us that hands aren’t that only thing that can ‘reach for the sky.’”

“Lord, give me strength,” Mrs. Miller mumbles.

“There’s more than a snake in my boot,” Benny murmurs with a teasing smirk, looking at me. He lays a hand on my knee. “Want me to poison your waterhole later?”

“Not when you ask like that, you pervert,” I laugh, playfully swatting his hand away.

Mr. Miller spread his hands dramatically. “Give me strength. Or earplugs. I’ll take either.”

Benny lets out a low laugh and hooks an arm around my waist, tugging me into his side. Warmth settles over me like a blanket as he pulls me against his chest. I crack up, my laughter spilling out and pressing into him, his own rumbling beneath my cheek.

I remember thinking… This is what joy feels like. Chaotic, ridiculous, loud joy.

I had no idea how quickly it would all change.

The memory shatters when the front door slams so hard the frames on the wall rattle. It feels like the whole house flinches, like even the walls recognize the sound of Benny’s breaking heart.

Mrs. Miller meets my eyes, her expression raw and knowing. She doesn’t have to speak. I already know where he’s gone, and I know he needs me there.

I rise from my seat and slip out the back door, the screen creaking softly behind me before it shuts. The cold Colorado air rushes over me, sharp, bracing, pulling me toward him.

I cross the frost-bitten yard, heading straight for the lake. My boots know the way by heart. We’ve walked this path since we were kids, always ending up in the same spot whenever life felt too big, too loud, too unfair.

Tonight, it feels bigger than ever. Louder than ever. And I won’t let him face it alone.

Benny sits on top of the old picnic table, shoulders hunched, staring across the water. The wind stirs his hair, the same way it did when he was a boy who came here to escape, to think, to just be. He looks like that boy again, lost at the edge of something he can’t control. Seeing him there now, folded into himself, I can almost hear the echo of who he used to be and who he’s terrified of becoming without his father.

I climb onto the table beside him. He doesn’t look at me, but he shifts just enough to let me know he feels me there, feels my presence, even if it can’t reach him yet.

For a long moment, he doesn’t speak. Then his breath rips out of him, sharp and angry.

“The hospital should’ve done more,” he snaps, voice unsteady. “They shouldn’t have just sent him home to die.”

I blink, startled, but only for a second. This grief has claws. “Benny-”

“They gave up,” he spits, running a shaking hand through his hair. “They just sent him home like he’s already gone.”

His voice breaks on the last word.

“No,” I murmur gently. “They sent him home because it’s what he wants.”

“That doesn’t make it right,” he chokes out. His fist curls, knuckles white, pulse hammering beneath his skin. “How do we even know this is it? People survive things all the time. They get better. They prove doctors wrong.”

“Benny…,” I say softly.

He shakes his head hard, rejecting every syllable.

And I know, God, I know, there’s nothing I can say that will make this easier. No truth gentle enough to land without breaking him. He has to reach that place himself, has to make sense of what’s happening before he can even begin to accept it. All I can do is stay beside him while the denial cracks and gives way to something heavier.

“He’s still him,” Benny says finally, voice raw. “Still sharp. Still talking. Still Dad. And that… that might be the hardest part.”

“I know,” I whisper.

“He told me… He said he’s always been proud of me,” Benny whispers, but the last few words wobble, betraying him. He swallows hard, blinking fast. “Of the man I became. Even when I scared the hell out of him.” He clamps his jaw, trying to steady his voice, but it still comes out cracked. “I never once let him down.”

“You didn’t,” I whisper. “You couldn’t.”

Benny drags a hand over his face, like he’s trying to wipe away a feeling that won’t go. His chest rises and falls too quickly, the cold air catching on every inhale. For a moment, he just stares at the ground, like he’s searching for solid footing that isn’t there.

His breath shakes. “I told him I’m not ready,” he continues. “That I don’t know how to do this. How to lose him.”

My heart cracks quietly. “What did he say?”

Benny swallows hard. “He said… He said, ‘Son…you’re not losing me.’” His voice fractures on the last word, barely holding together. “He said that I’ll see him again someday. Maybe not at first. But one day…”

His gaze drops to our joined hands, like the memory is too heavy to look at straight on.

“He was so damn calm,” Benny whispers. “Like he wasn’t the one lying there, like he wasn’t the one…” He cuts himself off, breath shaking. “He told me to push through the pain. To remember the good things. The loud things. The things that make life feel…full.”

He’s quiet for a moment, then adds, voice barely above a breath, “He said, ‘Find the things that breathe life into you, and you’ll find me right beside them. I’ll be there. I’ll always be there.’”

The words hollow him out and hold him together all at once. A tear slips down his cheek, carving a quiet path through everything he’s trying not to show.

He drags in a breath, thin, shaking, like he’s trying to take his father’s words into his lungs just to keep them alive a little longer.

The words settle between us like a heartbeat. Steady. Tender. Devastating.

I reach for his hand, squeezing gently. He squeezes back like he’s drowning and I’m the only solid thing left to hold onto.

“I don’t know how to be anything like him,” Benny whispers, voice breaking. “I don’t know how to fill his shoes. I don’t even know where to start.” He drags a shaky breath. “But he said being like him was never the goal. He said I was supposed to be better. That I already am. And that someday, when I have a kid of my own, I’ll understand.”

A deep ache curls through my chest. We’ve been trying for months, hoping for a miracle, and now, hearing this, I can’t stop the sharp, quiet guilt that rises in me.

He won’t get to see it.

He won’t get to see Benny hold his first child, won’t get to watch him become the father he always believed he would be.

And I hate that we ran out of time before I could give that to him. Before I could give it to Benny.

But this moment is his, not mine, and I swallow the guilt down hard, burying it beneath the weight of what Benny needs right now.

He finally turns toward me, eyes shining with devastation and love. Raw, unguarded. Son and soldier and man all at once.

“I’m not ready for this,” he whispers.

I lift my hand to his cheek, brushing away a tear that immediately replaces itself. “No one ever is,” I murmur. “But you’re not doing this alone.”

He closes his eyes, breath trembling, like he’s standing on the edge of something too deep to measure.

“And Benny… He’s right. He’s not leaving you,” I whisper. “Not really. He’ll always be with you. In the things he taught you. In the way you love. In the man you already are. You carry him. You always have. You always will.”

He leans into me then, like the weight of grief finally pulls him forward instead of under. My forehead presses to his, our breaths warm in the cold night air.

The wind moves across the lake, cold and soft, rustling the trees like a breath from another world.

Somewhere in the dark, grief shifts. Not lighter. Not gentler. Just…shared.

And for now, that’s enough.

Approximately One Year Later

The hospital room is soft and golden from the late-afternoon sun. Machines hum quietly, steady and gentle, a calm rhythm beneath the hush of new life.

Benny sits beside my bed, cradling a tiny, wrapped bundle. Our newborn son. His hands, usually so sure and strong, tremble as he holds the impossibly small weight against his chest. His thumb brushes the baby’s cheek like the slightest touch might break him.

“He’s so…tiny,” Benny whispers, voice thick, reverent. “I didn’t realize they were this small.”

I smile weakly, exhaustion pulling at my bones. “You get used to it. At least, I hope.”

Benny doesn’t look away from the baby. He studies him like he’s memorizing every detail, the soft dark hair, the wrinkled little nose, the soft rise and fall of his chest.

A shaky laugh escapes him. “He’s got your nose,” he murmurs.

“And your mouth,” I tease. “He’s going to charm his way out of everything.”

Benny huffs out a watery laugh, brushing the pad of his thumb across the baby’s lip. “He’s perfect,” he breathes, like he’s afraid saying it too loud will break the spell. “How is he already perfect?”

Emotion swells up, sharp and sudden. Damn hormones.

“I wish Dad could see him,” he whispers. “God, he would’ve loved him.”

His voice cracks on the last word.

I reach out, resting my hand over his. “He does, Benny,” I whisper. “He does.”

Benny closes his eyes for a moment, breathing in slowly, as though trying to pull strength from the tiny bundle in his arms. I watch him hold our son like he’s something holy, something too precious for this world. His thumb traces their baby’s cheek again, slower this time, like he’s memorizing every cell, every breath.

He looks at me then, just a flicker, a glance, but it’s enough. I see it in his eyes. The question he’s afraid to say out loud. The hope. The ache. The name.

A small smile curves at my lips. “Benny,” I whisper, “you don’t have to ask.”

His brows pull together. “What do you mean?”

“I know what you want to say.” My voice stays steady, even as my chest tightens. “And it’s okay. More than okay.”

His breath catches, eyes widening just slightly.

“I want it too,” I say softly. “I can’t think of anyone more deserving.”

For a moment, he can’t speak. His throat works around emotion too big for words as he looks down at our son again, like the world has tilted gently back into place.

“You’re sure?” he whispers.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Benny lets out a shaky exhale, the kind that sounds like grief and relief and love all wrapped together. He holds our son a little closer. He presses his lips to the baby’s forehead, closing his eyes as though offering a silent promise.

That’s when there’s a soft knock on the door. It’s tentative, hopeful. Too gentle to belong to anyone in a rush. For a second, I assume it’s another nurse, another doctor, one of the dozens of people who’ve been flitting in and out all day to check vitals, adjust monitors, explain things in hushed voices.

But the knock comes again, quieter this time.

We both look up.

“Come in,” I say.

The door cracks open, and Will steps into the room, his grin stretching from ear to ear. “Well?” he asks, voice rough with barely contained excitement. “Are you going to let us meet the newest Miller or what?”

Benny shifts slightly in his chair, angling the tiny bundle toward them. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Come meet our son.”

Mrs. Miller drifts forward slowly, like she’s approaching something sacred. Her eyes never leave the baby, not once.

Will stops beside the bed, his grin already wobbling at the edges with emotion he’s trying, and failing, to hide. Emily stands just behind him, one hand on his arm, eyes shining as they flick from me to the tiny bundle in Benny’s arms.

Mrs. Miller drifts closer, almost hovering at Benny’s shoulder. Her hands tremble, clasped together like she’s holding herself still. She’s watching her son and grandchild the way someone watches a miracle. Carefully, reverently, afraid to breathe too loudly and somehow break it. She leans in a fraction, the tears in her eyes bright and unashamed.

Will clears his throat, attempting to cut the tension, or maybe his own emotions, with humor. “If this kid’s named Benny Jr., I’m out,” he declares. “It’s bad enough he’s a spitting image of you.”

Emily elbows him so hard in the ribs he jerks sideways with a wince.

Benny snorts, his mouth twitching. “Please. The world can barely handle one of me.”

Mrs. Miller lets out a watery laugh, lifting shaking fingers to her lips. Will grins again, relieved to have drawn breath and laughter back into the room, even in the smallest dose.

Benny draws a slow breath, steadying the weight of the moment. He looks down at our son, then at me. I nod, giving him an encouraging smile.

“I want you to meet…” His voice falters, thickens. He clears his throat gently, swiping at the corner of his eye with the back of his hand. “I want you to meet Robert.”

Mrs. Miller’s breath catches violently, like she’s been struck in the chest. Will blinks hard, his smile softening as recognition settles in.

Benny’s voice drops to a whisper, reverent. “Robert Thomas Miller.”

Silence falls, not empty, but full. Full of memory, of grief, of love. Full of everything Benny’s father ever was and everything this tiny baby could one day be.

Mrs. Miller presses her fingers to her lips, tears spilling freely. “Oh, sweetheart,” she breathes. “Your father… he would have…” Her voice breaks, and she leans forward, touching the baby’s tiny head with trembling fingers. “He would’ve loved him more than anything.”

Benny blinks fast, eyes fixed on his son. “I know,” he whispers. “That’s why… That’s why he gets his name. Dad deserves to be here. With us. With him.”

Will places a hand on Benny’s shoulder, squeezing once, firm, steady, brotherly. “Dad would be proud as hell,” he says, voice thick with emotion he doesn’t bother to hide.

“Thanks, man.”

I wipe at my eyes. “You ready to be Uncle Willy?”

Will winces. “Can we not call me that?”

Benny doesn’t miss a beat. “Fine. We’ll go with Little Willy.”

Emily chokes on a laugh. I fold over, laughing so hard it hurts.

Mrs. Miller gasps, swatting lightly at both of them. “Boys! Not in front of the baby!”

Will lifts his hands in surrender. “Hey, he started it! It’s his kid he’s corrupting.”

Benny grins unapologetically. “And I’ll keep starting it. It’s my job as your little brother.”

Mrs. Miller shakes her head, but she’s smiling, tearful and exasperated and impossibly full of love.

Benny looks down at Little Robert – Little Bo - again. The pride on his face is quiet but so pure it almost hurts to witness.

“Dad told me once,” Benny murmurs, “that one day I’d look down and find him.”

He looks at our son and smiles, soft and full and broken open in the most beautiful way.

“And I did.”

Mrs. Miller presses a hand to her mouth, tears spilling freely. Will’s shoulders drop on a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Emily leans into him, her arm sliding around his waist.

And Benny… He looks lighter than he has in months. Not healed. Not whole. But grounded, tethered to something new, something hopeful.

I reach for his free hand, threading our fingers together. He squeezes back, firm and warm and sure.

“Pleaseeeeeeee papa!”

Dean sighed, shaking his head and gently kissing Mason’s head. “Not tonight sweetheart, maybe tomorrow. It’s late and you need to get to sleep.”

“But daddy-!”

“No but’s chief, you listen to your papa,” Benny winked at the boy the second Dean’s back was turned and he settled, rolling onto his side and closing his eyes.

“Alright, daddy, goodnight…”

Dean raised an eyebrow, but didn’t question his luck, taking Benny’s hand and walking with him out of the dark room. “You’re a miracle worker…”

Benny chuckled, gently kissing his temple. “I’m no such thing. Why don’t you go lay down, I’ll be in in a little while.”

Dean nodded, pecking his husband’s lips before slipping off to their room. Benny heard his soft snores not five minutes later and slipped back into Mason’s room, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Still up brotha’?”

Mason rolled to face him, beaming. “Uh-huh! Can you finish telling me the story now?”

Benny chuckled, gently brushing the boy’s hair back. “Of course, where was I?”

“Crushed roses!”

Benny nodded, stroking his beard. “Right, so I really wanted to impress him, so I got him a dozen roses… But I had to get them back to my house before I was going to pick him up later, and I drove there on my bike. Those poor things we’re crushed to bits, only a couple survived.”

Mason giggled, nodding happily along. “You weren’t a very good date were you?”

Benny shook his head, grinning from ear to ear, “s’pose I wasn’t. I’ve learned… So, after I manage to salvage the last couple roses that survived the journey, I go upstairs to get changed. ‘Cept I guess some plans got crossed, cause papa showed up, and you know him, he just let himself in. So I was walkin’ back downstairs ready to go get him, roses in hand, and he scares the life out of me jus’ standin’ at the bottom of the stairs talkin’ to gram.”

Mason giggled, clapping happily. “An’ what happened then?”

Benny snorted, rubbing a hand down his face, “I fell down the stairs. Landed flat on my butt right in front of him.”

Mason cackled, eyes lighting up with glee at the prospect of his dad’s humiliation. “And what did papa do?”

Benny hummed, gently pushing him back on the bed and covering him back up. “Settle down kiddo, or you really will have to wait till tomorrow… Papa… Well, he laughed, and offered me a hand up. Which I took, then I remembered the roses. And these poor things, crushed to death, but I still offer them to him… And he decides he’s gonna keep them, press ‘em in a book so no one’d be able to tell how much I’d ruined the poor things.”

Mason smiled, cocking his head to the side. “That was nice of him…”

Benny nodded, smiling fondly. “He’s a nice man… The rest of the night didn’t go much better, our reservations got messed up so I took him to Friendly’s in our fancy suits… Then I spilled my drink on him…”

Mason giggled, “and he agreed to go out with you again?!”

“You understand my confusion. As first dates go our’s was a bit of a train wreck.”

Mason beamed, “and how did you ask him to marry you?”

Benny blushed, biting his lip. “Well actually, he asked me… He… bought me some roses, the most beat up ones they had in the shop, he had to ask special. Then the little s- Then he threw them down the stairs at me…”

He chuckled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck, “I was confused as heck till he slid down after them… but he was smart enough to have a sled… so when I offered him a hand up, he held out the ring… Just like I did with those stupid roses.”

Mason cackled, wiping tears from his eyes. “Papa’s funny!!”

Benny chuckled, gently fixing the blankets. “That he is. Alright, you got the rest of your story. To bed with you.”

Mason nodded, hugging him tight, “night-night Daddy. I love you.”

“I love you too, chief,” Benny murmured, kissing his head and walking out, only to be met with Dean’s crossed arms.

“Traitor.”

Benny smiled sheepishly, lightly kissing his shoulder. “Come on cher, he just wanted me to finish the story…”

Dean snorted, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and dragging him to bed. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Benny smiled, flopping down on the bed, “I love you too…”

Dean snorted, tossing a small wrapped package at him before sitting down next to him.

“What’d you do this for?” Benny asked, slowly unwrapping the package. “Thought we didn’t do this anymore.”

Dean shrugged, watching the look of shock spread across his husbands face as he realized what he was holding - two pressed roses, in a gold frame.

“You didn’t…”

“Daddy daddy! Play with me!!!”

Benny laughed, shaking his head fondly and scooping his son into his arms.

“Have anything in mind, kiddo?”

“Pirates!” Mason cheered and Benny’s heart sank to his stomach.

“W-why don’t you play with papa, kiddo?” He asked slowly, casting a hopeful look at Dean who was worrying his lip a couple of yards away.

“No, you!”

Benny closed his eyes, nodding slowly. “Yeah alright… But not for too long alright?”

Mason pouted, nodding slightly. “Fine… Just a little bit… But you gotta wear the hat!”

Benny groaned, letting Mason down when he tried wriggling free to run inside.

“You alright, Bear?” Dean asked softly, pulling him forward and lightly stroking his hips. “I’m sure I can distract ‘im if you want out.”

Benny shook his head, smiling softly and kissing his head. “Nah thanks, I can deal for a little while.”

“Daddy! You gots to play with me!”

Benny sighed, squeezing Dean tighter for a moment before forcing a smile and turning to his son. “Course kiddo, got the hat?”

Mason beamed, lifting his arms and happily plopping the too-small pirate hat on top of Benny’s head when he was picked him up. “Uh-huh!”

Benny chuckled softly, setting him down and taking the foam sword that was thrust in his hand. “What’s the plan h-”

“Daddyyy!!!! You gotta talk like a pirate!!”

Benny raised an eyebrow, thinking for a moment. “Yarr, what treasure be we lookin’ for today, matey?”

Mason giggled, bouncing happily while Dean laughed softly in the background, sitting in the grass to watch them.

A few hours later, after many sword fights and “treasure” hunts (Dean involved himself enough to cut out some circles from construction paper and hide them around the yard) Benny collapsed onto his back in the grass, grunting softly when Mason jumped on top of him.

“That was fun! Can we play some more tomorrow?!”

Benny smiled, ruffling his hair. “Course, kiddo. Why don’t you head in with papa and wash up.”

Mason nodded happily, scampering off and grabbing Dean’s hand as they walked inside.

Benny stayed sprawled out on the grass, watching the sun slowly sink below the rolling hills in the distance. He stayed out long enough for Dean to come back out and check on him, rolling his head back when he heard his husband’s soft footfalls. “You alright, Bear? Too much?”

Benny shook his head, smiling softly and holding his arms out. “Feel good actually… I was tryin’ to think back, yanno? But it’s not the same, I don’t hear tha screamin’, jus Mas laighin’.”

Dean smiled, sinking down next to him and laying his head on his chest. “I’m glad… I was worried it’d be the other way ‘round.”

“Me too,” Benny admitted, lightly stroking his hair and looking up at the night sky. “Squirt watching his show?”

Dean nodded, laughing softly. “Yeah, he didn’t even notice me leaving… Think you wore him out.”

Benny laughed, slowly standing and offering Dean a hand, “he sure as hell wore me out, we got anythin’ to do tonight once he’s down?”

Dean shook his head, pulling himself up and lacing his fingers with Benny’s, “just sleep, you wanna go drag him away from the TV or should I?”

“Oh I wouldn’t take the honor from yah, have fun.”

Dean rolled his eyes, lightly swatting his shoulder, “I hate you…”