Letting Hearts Heal (24 page)

Dean didn’t know how to ease the burden for him. These days Mason wasn’t more like his old self—he was less. Dean wavered between wanting to hug him and wanting to shake him.

“Mase, it’s getting late. Why don’t you stop for tonight and come watch a movie with me?”

Mason looked up, a dazed expression on his face. “I should….” He looked around as if searching for something.

“You can continue tomorrow.”

“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I can continue tomorrow. God, I’m tired.”

Not for the first time, Dean questioned if Mason really knew what was good for him. Mason wasn’t able to find the right balance, nor was he about to take Dean’s advice on the subject.

They were only ten minutes into the movie when Mason fell asleep. The worries seemed to melt away from his face, making him look younger than he did when he was stubborn and focused, slaving over the stove.

Dean couldn’t resist the urge to trace a finger softly over Mason’s eyebrow. It was endlessly frustrating that someone who was right next to him was also so far away. And wanting to help likely to make everything worse. Everything Dean did for Mason seemed to have the opposite effect. With a sigh, Dean got more comfortable. He had a feeling Mason didn’t sleep well at night, so if a couple of hours on the couch helped, he’d watch over him and made sure no cooking monsters came for him.

M
ASON
DRIFTED
slowly into awareness. It was heavenly not to wake up abruptly from a nightmare. Something was stroking his right eyebrow like Dean had in their stolen teenage moments, and it was the most soothing thing Mason had experienced in years. He kept his eyes closed and hoped that the dream he was having would continue.

After a while he realized that he wasn’t dreaming. He opened his eyes and saw Dean looking at him with the most loving expression he’d ever seen.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I don’t think you did. I thought I was dreaming.”

Dean continued his caress, and Mason couldn’t resist leaning into the touch. Who needed to be able to cook, have their own home, or even an ounce of self-respect when they had someone touching them like they were the most precious thing in the world? If Dean kept it up much longer, Mason would start purring and maybe forget his own name.

“Nice to know that I’m part of your dreams and not your nightmares.”

“How’d you know about the nightmares?”

Dean cupped Mason’s cheek with his large, warm hand. “I know you. You’re not sleeping well.”

Dean was getting too close, and Mason tried to turn his head to avoid his all-knowing gaze. Dean gently held firm.

“You can’t hide from me, Mase. And that could be a good thing if you let it.”

It was like being at war with himself. Mason’s brain wanted to resist Dean, while his heart and body wanted nothing but to surrender completely. “I’m not trying to hide… much.”

Dean chuckled in a way that made Mason feel like a kid who’d accidently said or done something funny. “If you say so.”

Mason turned his head, but that brought him face to face with Dean’s noticeable bulge. He quickly sat up, and Dean laughed at him again. Sitting up meant being face to face with Dean instead. The laughter faded into silence, and before Mason could lean away, Dean had invaded his space and fused their lips together.

Mason surrendered blindly. He wove his hands through Dean’s hair and clung to him like he was salvation personified. Groaning deep in his throat, Mason deepened the kiss. Dean sucking his tongue into his own mouth was heavenly, his taste familiar.

For a few seconds or minutes—Mason lost all sense of time—he managed to forget reality and what he’d so cleverly thought out and stubbornly practiced, even though it had nearly killed him. But then the world started turning again, and Mason remembered who he was and what he was doing. He pulled back. They were both breathing heavily, and Dean had a dazed look in his eyes that matched how Mason felt.

“We shouldn’t.” Mason said in a shaky voice. He could still taste Dean on his lips and dreaded the moment when the taste disappeared.

“I think we should.”

“But you said th—”

“I know what I said. But it’s hell being close to you without being allowed to touch you. When the kitchen freaks you out, all I want to do is hug you. When you talk and I look at your lips, all I want to do is kiss you. When you bend over to grab a pan from the cupboard, all I want to do is fuck you.”

Mouth suddenly dry, Mason gulped.

When the silence stretched on, Dean stood up. “It’s okay. I’ll say what you’re dying to say. Good night.”

Mason took a much needed breath. It felt like he was being wooed—that Dean was bringing him red roses and he was just stomping on them.

It wasn’t what Mason had envisioned. He’d thought that cooling things down would be easier, that facing his cooking fears would be easier, and that things would be fixed in no time at all. Reality was a lot more complicated, not to mention filled with temptation. Just thinking about the kiss and the bulge in Dean’s jeans made Mason want to run upstairs and shamelessly throw himself naked onto Dean’s bed.

Knowing that it was probably only pride and stubbornness keeping him going, Mason stood on weary legs and decided to go to bed. Perhaps he could sleep away the mess of his thoughts and feelings.

After a quick round to make sure everything was turned off and locked, he dragged himself up the stairs. Foregoing Dean’s bedroom door, he peeked into Wyatt’s room and smiled as the sliver of light from the hallway revealed boy and toy horse sleeping soundly. The last door was his own—it had long ago stopped being the guest bedroom. For all his stubbornness, Mason couldn’t imagine leaving the ranch again. He just hoped that he’d get to switch rooms.

Sleep came quickly but didn’t last long. He was back downstairs in the beloved and dreaded kitchen before dawn. Maybe this was the day he’d finally conquer it. He laughed without humor. He didn’t even believe his own thoughts.

“Y
OU
NEED
more flour or the dough will stick to the table when you roll it out.”

Fighting the urge to salute Mason, Dean did as told. He didn’t know how he’d been roped into helping Mason and Wyatt make cookies, but he had a hard time saying no. So there he was, covered in flour and up to his elbows in sticky dough.

“Not quite that thin.”

Dean groaned. “Before you said it was too thick.”

Mason chuckled. “It needs to be exactly right or the thin ones will burn while the thick ones will be raw.”

“Mason knows,” Wyatt said, helpfully. “He’s a chief.”

Mason chuckled. “A chef, kiddo. But you’re right. I do know. Daddy should listen.”

Wyatt nodded.

Suppressing something that might have been either a groan or a laugh, Dean rolled out the dough again. Mason and Wyatt were more adorable when they didn’t gang up on him.

A couple of trays into the operation, Wyatt decided it was more fun to play with the cookie cutters on the floor, leaving Dean as Mason’s only victim to order around. Dean only did it because it was amazing to see Mason relaxed in the kitchen.

“Hey, Dean?”

“Now what?” Dean’s reply held no heat, but it did seem as if nothing he did was right.

Mason laughed. “Good job on the reindeer cookies.”

“They’re horse cookies,” Dean grumbled. Wyatt had requested that the antlers be cut off. So they were horses instead of reindeer.

“Right. Sorry.” Mason stopped transferring cookies from a tray to cool. “I’ve just been thinking… we haven’t talked much about what I told you about your dad.”

Dean felt himself tense up and had to force his body to relax. Lowering his voice and making sure Wyatt was occupied with an epic battle between the Santa cookie cutter and the angel one, he shared what was on his mind. “I think I’ve accepted that he was even less of the man than I thought. I see his reasons for doing what he did, but I don’t understand them. Part of me would like to associate his excessive drinking in his later years with a guilty conscience for ruining our lives, but the rational part of me knows he was just weak. Bottom line is that he was a narrow-minded asshole.”

“And you accept that?”

“What choice do I have? Haven’t you accepted that your family was a bunch of assholes?”

Mason sighed. “I suppose. For years there was this sliver of hope inside of me that one day my family or my biological mother might change their minds. But not anymore.”

“Have you talked to your biological mom since?”

Mason shook his head and started filling a tray with horse cookies. “When I told her that I didn’t want to be her little secret, I decided that if she contacted me again I’d hear her out. She never did. She gave me up with too much ease the second time around too.”

“I think I did that too.” Dean wasn’t sure he’d meant to say it out loud, but the damage was done. Mason looked flabbergasted.

“Dean….”

Dean decided he might as well go all out. “It’s true. I didn’t even look for you nine years ago—had no idea where to start. I just sat on my ass, worried, and hoped you’d come back. Then I got angry. And finally I just tried to get over you. And now… it went against my better judgment to cool things, but I did it anyway to make you happy. And are you even happy? I know I’m not.”

Refusing to meet Dean’s gaze, Mason busied himself with the cookies. Wyatt’s cookie cutter battle had taken him out of the kitchen, so Dean wiped his hands on a kitchen towel and went around the counter. “I love you, Mase. I’ll shout it from the rooftops in town or put an ad in the paper—whatever it takes to convince you that I’m not the least bit ashamed of you or of who I am. As soon as I can get you to accept, we’re going on a date. Somewhere public, somewhere romantic, and somewhere I can hold your hand, kiss you, and grope your ass while we’re waiting in line. But this is killing me. You’re cooking. Even now as we talk, you’re cooking. But the thing is that even if you weren’t, you wouldn’t be worth any less to me. You can’t be less than everything—and that’s what you are to me—no matter what you do or don’t do.”

“I….” Mason didn’t look up. “I need some air.”

Dean sighed and debated going after him, but decided to give him a few minutes. Instead, he busied himself with the cookies.

Wyatt came in right after. “Are you finished making the cookies?”

“Not quite, little buddy. Wanna help me again?”

Climbing up on his little stool, Wyatt surveyed the messy counter. “Isn’t Mason helping anymore? Why’s he outside?”

“He just needed some air.”

“Okay.” Using dough Dean had just rolled out, Wyatt used the star shape to make cookies. “Why’s there no pea one so we can make pea cookies?”

Thinking fast, Dean grabbed a glass from the cupboard. “Here you go. Big peas. Maybe Mason knows how to make green frosting.”

Happy as a lark, Wyatt made three full trays of round cookies before going off to play again.

Mason didn’t come back in until Dean was almost finished with the baking. He was pretty proud that he’d only burned one tray. He’d been very careful to roll the dough out just right.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to leave you with all the work.”

Eyeing Mason but unable to read the expression on his face, Dean shrugged. “No big deal. You okay?”

“Yeah. Just….”

“Just what?”

Mason sighed. “I don’t know. I thought I had it all figured out, but what you said made me think. Okay?”

Dean said nothing. He’d give Mason a little more time before his next attack and he’d win him over—simply because he had to.

Chapter 20

“H
EY
, W
YATT
?
You want to help me out in the stables?” Dean figured those magic words would tear Wyatt away from the Lego tower he was building. Mason was holed up in the kitchen with some new recipe.

“Yes.” Wyatt jumped up, nearly knocking his masterpiece over. “Are we gonna feed the horses? Can you lift me up so I can sit on one, huh?”

Dean chuckled. “We can probably swing that.”

It was snowing when they got outside. Wyatt laughed and looked up. He tried to catch the flakes with his tongue. He was such a different boy than the one who’d first arrived at the ranch—the one who said next to nothing, never smiled, and walked around puddles. Dean was pretty sure that if there’d been a puddle in Wyatt’s path now, he’d have jumped in it. And Dean knew that he wouldn’t have cared about dirty clothes. He’d just have thought
that’s my boy.

After visiting with the horses and lifting Wyatt up so he could sit on Java for a couple of minutes, Dean sat down on a bale of hay at the back of the stable and called Wyatt over.

“I just want to talk to you about something.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“What? No, of course not.” Dean picked the boy up, settling him on his knee. “I want to talk to you about Mason.”

“Are you mad at him?”

“No. I’m not mad at anyone, Wyatt. It’s just… you like Mason, don’t you?”

Wyatt nodded eagerly, using his entire body for the project.