a/n: This is astronomically long, and please be warned, there is next to no smut in this chapter. I posted it in two parts elsewhere, but for Literotica specifically, I'm posting it all in one since Literotica is primarily for 'erotica.' This is literally 13k words of pure plot. Also, a new short series is coming out soon. It might just be one part, not even a series. We'll see.
Thank you for reading! Even if you hate Dean lmao
Jane got the goddamn jump on me.
I've been rendered speechless only a handful of times in my life. This easily makes the cut. I knew she had a key, but Sam said she rarely drops by unannounced. Even rarer, lets herself in. They maintain healthy boundaries. Which means this was premeditated. She's here because she knew I, or
someone,
would be here to confront. She also knows confrontation is necessary, because Sam would rather see his foot hacked off than break the news of our relationship to anyone--least of all her.
Clearing my throat, I stow my hands in my pockets to give them something to do. I was almost tempted to sweep a bow, adding to the lunacy of the situation.
"I--good...morning. What, uh, brings you here, Mrs. Powell?"
She smiles to herself, undaunted by eye-contact. From where she's sitting, we're facing each other. God, she's a tiny thing. It's more obvious up close. It seems like she's taking less than a cubic foot of space on the cushion, like she's sat for tea in a giant's parlor. I've glimpsed photos of Sam's father, and I can confidently say Jane poured every gene she had into the making of her son.
They're...so much alike, it's throwing me off.
"I came to have a conversation with you, and showing up like this seemed the only option. Come, sit."
She gestures broadly to the furniture, implying I'd better pick
somewhere
to plant my ass. I jump to do as she's asked, because she's holding the cards here. If Sam wakes before I can smooth this into something salvageable, I can kiss all that progress goodbye. He might leave the country, at this rate. Sitting on the couch adjacent from her, I hunch forward to lessen my height, bracing my forearms above my knees. Before I can churn out a few words, she rips them straight from my mouth:
"It's good to see you again, Dean."
Oh, shit.
For the life of me, I can't remember a time we've met, and it's written all over my face.
"You don't remember me." She doesn't sound surprised.
"I...can't say I do."
"I was your kindergarten teacher."
...seriously?
I stare at her, wide-eyed and fighting the urge to drop my mouth. To avoid an uncomfortable laugh, I clear my throat. "Small world."
"Mm. You know, it's a little funny." I'd bet my left nut it's not remotely funny. "When you joined my class,
my son
was just starting
high school."
Of all the responses that jump to mind, not a single one is situationally appropriate:
"That
is
funny!"
"Do you keep those pictures on you, or...?"
"I was a devilish little bastard back then, too."
"It's crazy, a
lot
can change in fifteen years. Like, a lot."
Instead, I stick to bare minimum answers, at least until I can flesh out an opening. "...right."
"So, can you tell me what you're doing here?"
"Like, the state...?"
"In my son's apartment."
So, it's not going
great.
She's tough to read. Obviously, she's not happy or excited, but she seems willing to entertain an explanation. There might be nothing I can say that she'd find acceptable, but she's willing to hear it. I almost wish this was
my
apartment so I could offer her a drink, something to bide my time. I'm sure she wouldn't take kindly to my bumbling around the place like her name isn't the one titled on it, not right now. The only option is to be plain and honest.
"Sam was my English teacher last year. I had him in both semesters, two different classes. In January of this year, I..."
...have no idea how to say it. The truth of the matter is crass, and this is his
mom.
In the very, very beginning, it was about sex. I wanted to fuck him and did everything in my power to make it happen. The sex was
so good,
I couldn't let it go. I took advantage of his physical attraction to me every chance I got. It's not exactly a fairytale, and it feels wrong to objectify Sam to his mother's face.
"I...pursued him. For several weeks."
Her fine brows lift over the turquoise rim of her glasses. "Why?"
Cringing, I admit: "I was...attracted to him. I showed up at his house after a game."
It strikes me now. That was Sam's childhood home. Jane's home, the one she lived in with her now-deceased husband. The one she raised her only child in. I showed up on the same porch she used to collect newspapers from, refurbished when it began splintering, watched from a rocker as her toddling son stacked blocks. I fucked her now-grown son what feels like a hundred different times, in a hundred different ways, per room. Rooms she can probably recall every scuff on the floorboards, stains that'll never fully scrub out, tears in the pastel wallpaper, and chips off the molding.
"So, my son engaged in a sexual relationship with you."
Okay, well when she says it like
that--
"Mrs. Powell," I squarely meet her eyes. "At no point did Sam initiate anything with me. In fact, I'm...a pretty big part of why he decided to enroll here. I accepted a scholarship to Fresno after finding out about it--without telling him. To be...closer."
"I see." She says tonelessly. In spite of their similar faces, she's nowhere near as easy to read as Sam. I have no concept of which direction this is going. "I'm not sure if you're hasty and stupid, or indomitable and decisive."
"The second one sounds nicer." I hedge a joke, hoping she'll accept the olive branch. Tragically, her expression stays flat. We're still in interrogation mode.
"What's your relationship with my son?"
