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Sam never looks not constipated these days. Well, there have been better and worse days, of course. Today’s a better one, and yet… Dean squints and finishes his whiskey before he pours a new round for the two of them. Sam grimaces once he notices, tries to cover his glass with his hand. He huffs, his current read wedged open between his fingers.
“Dude…”
“Come on.”
A deeper frown on that fivehead.
Dean tops his brother off and makes him join in on the toast. Not even a flinch upon throwing the stuff back in one go, but Sam insists, “No,” with his paw covering his glass. Dean just scoffs and nudges him out of the way. At the ass of night, the bunker rests quietly. Sam softly shakes his head. They both know he can’t win.
Dean puts the bottle down just to pick up his glass, raise it to Sam. Sam reciprocates. Half a smile, finally. Well, Dean will take it. A weak chuckle for Dean’s fluid reach for that bottle. That book now rests face-down on Sam’s thigh. His fingers are still in there.
Dean mumbles, “You never go out anymore,” and his brother laughs more openly, gives him a look while he waits for his glass to fill. Dean does him that favor. Should probably screw the lid back on, but, eh. Not much left anyway.
The brothers clink glasses. Sam’s mouth does that thing, after. His pointer taps the shiny rim of his glass, back on the table.
“Not quite the time for parties, don’t you think?”
“That’s not what I mean,” and, with a tuck to his chin and both forearms shoving further onto the table: “You know what I mean, man.”
If it’s not the mouth, it’s the eyebrows. Jesus.
If someone told Dean ten years ago that his little brother would turn into a 24/7 tongue-tied case…!
Sam rotates his glass between his fingertips, doesn’t look up at Dean when Dean decides, “We need to get you laid. You need to take your mind off this shit. I know it ain’t much, coming from me, but what you’ve got going on recently is not very, y’know…healthy.”
The brothers share a pregnant look over Dean’s whiskey-distributing move on the bottle. Sam’s got that expression going on. Like he’s about to lecture Dean in whichever problematic vocabulary he just used.
“… It’s not…”
“Not what?”
“Nothing.”
“What?”
Sam scoffs, shakes his head. Fastens his grip on his glass, raises it to his mouth.
Dean leans forward. “It’s not what, Sam?”
Sam puts his glass down after he finishes. Shakes his head again, his eyes aglow with the quick succession of drinks in his otherwise empty-again stomach (been some hours since dinner; Dean could use a snack). The corner of his mouth quirks. He looks at his own hand, the glass.
Sam shrugs. “There’s nothing in it, for me. It’s not like I can find what I’m looking for in a bar like you can.”
“Okay?” Dean frowns, his drink still pinched between his fingers on the library table. “Aside from the fact that that’s complete bullshit: what the fuck do you mean?”
“Really? Do you need to know?”
Those eyes are on Dean again, finally. Some spite in there from all that liquid courage shaking Sam loose for once. Dean just tilts his head, raises his eyebrows. Sam scoffs, looks at his other hand, down in his lap.
“Like, not to give you any weird ideas, but, like…come on, we’ve got some good genes going on, even if you obviously weren’t the one with the lion share—”
And then Sam blurts, “Look,” while he turns to face Dean better—that familiar ‘so, get this’ sort of bitchy tone magics a smirk onto Dean’s moderately-heated face, because, ha, got you. Sam’s hand is even in the air between them and everything. (Dean scoots closer to the edge of his chair.) “Look, I know you like to forget about this minor detail, but I’m not like you. Things aren’t as easy for me as for an Alpha. I can’t just—”
“Why not?”
“Dean, are—!” Sam huffs dramatically. His arm slaps onto the table. Dean keeps deadpanning him. “People see me, and they assume I—as for Alphas, they take one look at me and run, and everyone else apparently… I mean, I don’t blame them, I know I’m not exactly what you’d expect from an O, but…” Sam huffs again, falls back into his chair. “It’s just—frustrating.” He pinches his glass. Long day, maybe too long. Dean wanted to tease him a little, not…whatever this is.
And, the even more pressing issue: “Shut UP. You’re kidding me.”
“Like, I mean, you know I tried. And I did, trust me, but I’d rather not put up with sex I don’t really want for people I’m not really into. I just don’t go out with that in mind.”
Dean’s mouth hangs open at this point. “But…you…?”
Sam holds the eye contact like the first one to drop it is getting shot.
Dean half-clears his throat. Well. He won’t be the one on the ground.
“Who the fuck doesn’t like pussy?”
“Well, I guess everyone I’ve ever been with doesn’t?” and, that. What the fuck. Wait a second, hold on.
Dean gasps, “No way,” and Sammy’s always been a smart one. Dean bets Sam can smell it on him as Sam’s head gains color at high speed, as he blinks and warns, “Dean? No. No,” like he has ever, in the history of ever, been able to change Dean’s mind once it’s been set.
Well. Maybe those one or two times.
~
Weather’s been a problem, keeps fucking with Dean’s knee. In the not-so-sexy way. Bad coffee plus hiding a limp from his overprotective hen of a brother equals a rougher tone with the civilian they’re interviewing, equals an irritated side-eye from Sam and this overall gray mood. Still drizzling, outside. Dean glares at the group of teens passing Baby while he sips takeaway coffee from its paper cup and waits for Sam to crack that stubborn nut of a calligraphy artist. They just should have asked Donatello.
On the sidewalk, a lady powerwalks for the shop’s door. Dean rushes to stop her before she can fully step inside. She’s already folding up her umbrella.
“Hey, sorry—we’re kinda busy in here.”
“And you are?”
“Agent Page. Just come back in thirty, we’ll be—”
“I’d rather not, actually, thanks.”
She pushes past Dean with the kind of assertiveness that tells Dean she’s probably gonna leave the business a bad Yelp review over this interaction and, as she stalks over to the counter in her high heels and her fancy coat, her long, brown hair…under all that rain and smog, there’s her scent, finally. Alpha. Of course.
She calls, “Excuse me, Hank?” even though Sam is actively speaking to the guy, both of them leaning over the scripture in question. Sam perks, catches her scent. Dean watches it happen. The whole process.
How Sam checks her out. That tiny lift of his brows, the subtle shift in his shoulders that turns him towards her, towards—ah, she notices, now that she’s rummaged through her bag and came up with the pack of papers. They catch onto each other’s scent nearly simultaneously. Dean cradles his stupid coffee in both hands.
With the lady facing the counter, Dean can only tell so much, but the way she disregards the very much available Omega in front of her face in favor of the totally unsexy business she came here for (and the again-subtle sink of Sam’s shoulders, the shift of his legs in his suit pants) tells him enough. More than enough.
“Hank, uhm, just a second—Jake sent me, can you please take a look at these once you’re done here? Thank you.”
The Alpha walks up right next to Sam, basically forces him to take a step back if he doesn’t want her shoulder poking his tit. He leans back. The lady and the artist chat for a second. Long enough for Dean to argue with the figurative angel and devil on his shoulders whether to trip that bitch on her way out or not. He ends up just glaring at her, which she returns with an offended frown. Long legs. Hell, no legs are long enough to make up for all that bullshit.
She snaps, “Would you mind?” until Dean reluctantly makes way, lets her open and exit through the shop door with her stupid umbrella. Dean watches the glass door slowly fall shut behind her, sips his coffee. She reopens her umbrella. A car drives by. Not enough rain, unfortunately, for her to be splashed. Damn shame.
Hank leaves them with a vague clue, insufficient to justify the additional digging it’ll take to get to the root of the issue. Sam sighs heavily enough for the both of them as he folds himself into the Impala’s passenger seat, the rustling, precious papers secure under his suit jacket over his arm. In the driver’s seat, Dean has yet to finish his coffee. The rain dribbles onto the hood of the car.
“What a bitch. Right?”
“Hm. What?” Sam balks. “Who?”
Dean sighs through his nose and lowers his coffee cup hands into his lap. Lets his head fall back, just a bit, to make his body language that much more dramatic. Sam just frowns at him before he catches up.
“Dean…” Dean fishes for the car keys, keeps his cup in his other hand. Sam sounds like he’s massaging his eyes, the bridge of his nose. Yeah, yep, he is.
“Not even fingers? Nothing?”
Sam’s glare hurts more than the lack of that cuff to Dean’s arm. Pure resignation, even though Sam tries to mask that with his annoyance; scents don’t lie, though. Damn. Times are tough, sure, but Dean didn’t know just how tough.
He rumbles, “How are we not constantly running out of batteries?” as he starts the car, lets her roar alive so Sam has an incentive to break out of his sluggishness and pack that punch to Dean’s arm if he wants. Which he does, and Dean sees it coming and doesn’t spill that sad, last sip of coffee. Anger is good. Better than that murky layer of loneliness, at least.
“Just drive.”
“Would, if you’d be so kind as not to break my arm…”
“Ha-ha. Shut up.”
“Wow, someone did run out of batteries…”
Sam is too annoyed to give Dean another reason to continue, so Dean just smirks at him and pulls them onto the road, homewards. He crushes the coffee cup in his palm and stuffs it into his coat pocket to discard outside of the car, later.
~
Dean frowns at his hands. His thumbs, to be precise. The pen he’s holding up to his eyes, held lengthwise between his thumbs.
“There have to be pitchers for catchers like you. There just have to be.”
Sam can’t possibly have heard what Dean muttered into his nonexistent beard but he got enough to warn, “Don’t.” Cas sits a bit straighter, across the table from Dean. Dean’s frown hardens. He continues to rotate the pen. His focus snaps with a frustrated sigh. He keeps the pen clutched, though, after throwing his hands and fully turning towards Sam at the head of the table.
“You CAN’T tell me there is NO market for your type of O’s—”
“Dean—”
“Uhm…”
“—like, there HAS to be, right? People are into feet, goddammit, there has to be—”
“Can you just drop it, man?! Seriously!” Sam looks genuinely upset. Cas silently begins to sit up but Sam shakes his head, pulls him back down by his arm. Mutters, “No, it’s—you’re all right, man, he’s just being stupid,” and Dean pushes the pen harder into his palm and stands up, stomps off. Returns—grabs his drink, the bottle. Okay. Research time.
Shut door, Master Of Puppets on full blast on his headphones; the memory foam mattress welcomes him back while his laptop groans awake from standby. One hand on the touchpad to get him where he wants, Dean sips his drink, puts the damn thing away to type faster. Enter key. Deep breath. Okay. Knots and nuts dot com search bar—do your magic.
‘Big Omega’ sends him into the chubby category, ‘tall Omega’ into a general miscellaneous selection of clips that have nothing to do with anything. Dean frowns. ‘Muscular Omega’. Ah. Okay. Warmer.
Not a huge selection, and, unsurprisingly, mostly girls. An unpolished thumbnail in the midst of curated niche-porn catches Dean’s attention. Amateur-ish, boy and girl, the boy being the thicker out of the two. So, hopefully, exactly the material Dean’s out for. And, yes. Oh, yes indeed.
Wow.
“Wow,” blurts Dean. There is no other word for it. His finger still hovers over the touchpad. Just making out, for now. Their bedroom, maybe. A hobby room. Man, a sex room sounds like a cool idea, actually.
The guy’s tall or maybe the girl’s just tiny, but he squirms in her grip and her cock rides against his leg and she tells him how wet she can tell he already is, asks if he’s ready, if he’s earned it? He nods yes, shy and then laughing a bit because she nuzzles his throat, cups one of his perky little tits that—judging by what Dean last saw on accident because bathroom door locks are apparently too complicated for mister I Know Everything—are even slightly smaller than Sam’s. The couple gets to the point and Dean blinks in fascination. Omegas are no news to him, no siree, but even if the guy doesn’t quite resemble Sam face-wise…if you just squint real hard and just look at his body, the strain of his biceps and the flex of his abs and. Well. Well, yeah, okay—okay.
O-fucking-kay.
Under his breath, Dean murmurs, “Told ya,” and returns to the search results, one hand on his mouth now, covering. Another one; guy on guy, but the O is the one to screw the Alpha up the ass, which is, nope, not what Dean’s here for (and neither is Sam, if Dean read between the lines correctly)… Another one, better. Big and tall, big dick too, writhing on a fucking machine, all that muscle oiled and sweaty, showing off… Jesus, that toy’s pretty big. Dean swallows. An O is an O, huh? Made to take it. Dean catches himself zoning out (or: in) and clicks out of the video, grabs his drink for a quick sip. Hot, down his stomach. His eyes dart to the door. Back to the laptop.
‘Muscular Omega bottom’. ‘Muscular Omega pregnant’. ‘Gym Omega orgasm’.
Well. Dean should have insisted on monetizing their little argument. Because, clearly: Sam was wrong. And Dean was right.
Dean also unzips his jeans to wrap his spat-on hand around his cock, but that has nothing to do with that.
Another mouthful of whiskey and Dean huffs through his nose, feels his nuts tightening under the rough tugs he works himself with. Dean spreads his legs a bit wider, carefully keeps the laptop balanced on his thighs. Tight, thicc bitch getting mounted by young, hung stud feeds a little too well into Dean’s interest in girls with east Asian heritage and, honestly, while he’s already at it… That shit’s not too bad. Not at all, actually.
Dean’s never been a man of convention. Beta, Omega, Alpha—with enough drinks or with the right motivation, a pretty face or a hot body, he’s not gonna let some minor nuisance like biological sex keep him out of a pair of panties. Always was like that, in contrast to Sam, who always kinda gravitated towards…well, normalcy. College and all that crap, and with his partners, too, of course. Jess comes to mind, Sam’s hand so confident on that hip, that night in Palo Alto, as if Dean would steal his precious Alpha… God, Sam. Thorny, difficult Sam. Overcomplicating, always, and even with sex. Especially with sex.
How mortified he’d been, like Dean’s never seen a pair of tits before. Not like there’s much to see—shut up—you shut up. Bathrooms, close quarters. Shared bedrooms, shared beds; that unmistakable, heady musk the morning of that first heat that hit them unprepared (late bloomer, all that stress). Dad, sending Dean out with a humble list of pills for the ache, that cooling salve whose heavy mint aroma still haunts Dean’s nose if he chooses to let himself go there…to Sam, in his arms, because he was still smaller than Dean, back then, fifteen and a bean pole had ten pounds on him, and Dean was still new to being careful not to accidentally put his hands too high or tilt his elbow out too hard, because Sam would be so mortified to be touched he wouldn’t even punch Dean or make a scene, and that was—fucking scary. That shriveled-small kid with the too-big sweaters who’d call Dean ‘gross’ 24/7, inquiring how to kiss a girl (because ‘girls’ was just the safest thing to ask about, at that point) and then yelling at him for explaining in detail. Dean’s hard-on nestled against a lower back because it was warm and good and they were both asleep, and when Dean woke up he’d been so shocked he froze, Sam’s shirt riding high and his boxers riding low and the small, small, small of his back exposed, available, right there…
Dean is lucid enough to fumble for a tissue just before his knot pumps to fullness in his fist, the laptop now off-kilter on only his right knee, but Dean’s not even looking anymore. Tilts his head back into the pillow with his music groaning in his skull and his balls pulsing, keeps his voice to himself and empties in thick, full gushes into the bunched-up tissues, twists them and his hand over the sensitive head over and over until he’s all spent, his other hand still milking his knot, riding the high. Quietly, he whistles, “Holy shit,” and lets go of his knot to pinch his eyes instead, to rub out the itch. He groans, sighs. Melts deeper into the bed. The damn video is still playing. He’ll close the tab in a second. Or two. Hell. What the hell.
~
Jack asks too many questions, Dean drinks too much. Sam keeps being Sam, which is as much of a downer as it is the only safe haven in this chaos. For all of them. It’s not fair.
Not fair how—apparently—anyone can look at the same Sam Dean sees and talks to every single day and not want to…well, with Dean, it’s obviously their whole brother-schtick, but: to coddle the guy. The soft things an Omega makes you wanna do to them, make sure they’re all right, keep them smiling and all that. Dean tries to remember the last time he noticed Sam going into heat, if that’s even a thing for his brother. But, no. Even before the whole disaster with Nick, with Mom…hell, not since after the cage. Not like it’s any of Dean’s business. But that memory, that clear-as-day scent… God, he shouldn’t have brought it up. Now he’s thinking about it again.
Dry and cold; preferable to the rain back home. Dean checks his phone again, drinks too-strong coffee. Sam rustles the newspaper; has to shove his laptop aside a bit to turn the page. People around them have brunch, birthdays. The brothers investigate a certain car battery malfunction that apparently fried some guy so hard his body ejected his liver. Out of his mouth. Yeah.
Today’s hangover sits low in the pit of Dean’s stomach, makes him quiet and sleepy. They’re running the heaters on high in this place, and for once, Dean doesn’t mind a bit how long Sam takes with his reading. Not even case-related, not really; just Sam things. Dean watches his brother pressing his knuckles to his mouth, the steady, quick jumps of his eyes as he reads. He took his jacket off, rolled up his sleeves. A smile tugs at Dean’s mouth. He has some more coffee. The waitress comes over. Again.
“You boys need anything?”
“We’re good, thanks.”
“And what about you, sweetheart?”
The girl beams exclusively at Sam. Sam hadn’t even looked up from the fucking paper—he does, now. Blinks. The girl’s cute—Omega, undeniably. Plump, nice tits. The uniform suits her well. Dean looks on behind his coffee cup.
“Coffee? Sugar? If you’re into tea, we have a nice selection as well…”
“Uh, no, thanks, I—I’m good, actually, thanks.”
She happily continues, “You boys aren’t from around here, are you? I would have remembered you,” and Dean sips because if he sips he can’t grin from ear to ear, but as entertaining as it usually is to see Sammy squirm in his seat, this time, it…it comes with a side of sour today, and that’s not only Dean’s hangover talking.
Sam’s a lamb, of course. Doesn’t outright tell the chick to fuck off (Dean wouldn’t either) but his body language and staling scent should let her know she’s on lost territory here. Maybe she mistakes his gentleness with something personal, that Sam’s just shy or isn’t used to being hit on by a fellow O; she twists her long curls around her finger as she giggles over Sam’s own uncomfortable chuckle, his evasive choice of words in response to her question. When she bumps her hip towards Sam in response to him scooting away with his chair, Dean puts his cup down rather abruptly.
“Do you mind, missy?”
“Oh,” she says. Her eyes widen and her little button nose picks up on Dean’s irritation, Dean’s… “Oh, you’re—you’re his…?”
“Yeah,” says Dean. “So back off.”
Finally, she backs away. Puts her hand to her mouth, her pinkening cheeks. Dean keeps glaring at her while her eyes flicker back and forth between the brothers at the tiny, tiny table in this adorable, kitschy restaurant.
“I didn’t think… Sorry, I didn’t—know. Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that…”
Dean grumbles, “Sure,” and Sam pleads, “Dean,” so Dean just gets his coffee back to his mouth before he goes full Karen on the girl. He watches her hurried pitter-patter away from their table, her slightly panic-y looks back to them. Her hand on her chest, flustered. A deep heat rises into Dean’s guts.
Sam gives Dean the stink eye but doesn’t further object to being rushed to pack up and get going once Dean finishes his current coffee. He doesn’t bother to flag the waitress down, just tosses a bunch of dollars on the table with their used dishes, the balled-up napkins with the dried melted cheese on Dean’s plate, the organic avocado oil from that sad-looking, half-finished egg white omelet on Sam’s. Dean makes a last face at it before he signals Sam to haul ass. Still no rain, outside. Wind’s howling, though.
Sidewalk, car; Sam’s flustered huffing and puffing. Dean sniffles over the rustle of that improperly folded-up newspaper, glares at the stack of books in Sam’s lap because there’s nothing else to look at that doesn’t make him wanna go back inside and get someone fired for sexual harassment.
“So, any hints? They picked up on the story yet, or?”
“Dean.”
“What?”
Sam scoffs. His knees bump together to keep the books from falling while he shrugs back into his jacket. “What was that all about?”
“It worked, didn’t it? You can thank me later.”
Some more digging later, Sam feels inclined to phone Rowena because he’s got, quote: a feeling. Kid’s got a feeling all right. Unfortunately, he turns out to be right. A local coven, small but nasty, and John Doe had the bright idea to cheat on his wifey with another witch. Rowena promises to talk to them, it’s obviously a private matter and they’ve been in town for over a hundred years by now without any kind of incident… Dean isn’t happy, to say the least. But Sam knows how to sweet talk his conscience. Unfortunately.
In the embrace of the Impala’s seats once more, Dean throws the door shut after himself. He slaps the steering wheel before kneading at his face, cupping his elbow. Next to him, Sam gets in, scoffs at the miserable sight—not without obvious delight, of course.
“I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”
“I’m not doing anything, man—you wanna go back in there, gank that sweet old lady? Be my guest…”
“No magic bitch should be allowed to make gingerbread cookies that good, Sam, it’s just not how things SHOULD BE.” Dean glares on as Sam laughs at him. He shakes his head, turns on the radio, starts the car. Mumbles, “I don’t like the influence Mrs. MacLeod has on you, man. We should get that checked out sometime.”
Sam’s laughter fades as he sits back in his seat. That jacket came off once more while they questioned the witch. Sam’s phone looks tiny in his hands. He’s still got it clutched since that call almost twenty minutes ago, fumbled with it while he and Dean talked. Dean focuses on the road, pulls them onto the highway. Getting dark out, now. And he didn’t even get to relieve the world of another nasty wench. Awesome. Just awesome.
Too many miles yet ahead, Sam tries, “Rowena’s not as bad as you make her out to be, you know,” and Dean prides himself that he doesn’t yank the car around and drive them into the next tree for that.
Half into his palm, because he’s been leaning on his hand with his elbow by the window: “Just because you two ate each other out that one time doesn’t mean she’s all sugar and spice, you know.”
A pause.
Dean frowns.
His eyes flick over to his too-quiet brother.
“That one time. Right, Sam?”
Sam’s scoff and his too-quick, “You’re ridiculous,” truthfully makes Dean renegotiate with himself about that whole car crash thing.
“You’re not, like, a unicorn! There’s more folks like you, it’s not like you’re the last hulky O on this planet, and they don’t have trouble getting their bread buttered by other normal people—”
“Cool, ’cause you’re such an expert.”
“I am! I looked that shit up, dude, I ain’t talking out of my ass here!”
Another pause. Dean’s face flares warm. He adjusts his grip on the wheel, forces himself to stare ahead. There’s not even traffic or anything.
Dean grumbles, “So, you two, huh? Great. Great, Sam, awesome.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Oh, it isn’t?”
Sam admits, “Her and I, it’s not serious,” and Dean blows raspberries as his very much fitting response. Sam’s voice firms. “You think I’m lying. You think I’m lying? About crap like this? You know what—?” Sam scoffs, throws his hands. They slap down onto his knees. The next song starts up via tape. “You know, I don’t even know why I’m talking to you about this.”
“Yeah, me neither.”
“You keep bringing this up—”
“Well, you keep banging the witch!”
“Do I need, like—a fucking hall pass from you to hook up or what?! Do you not get how obnoxious you’re being right now? What is wrong with you, man?”
“You tell me you can’t find what you need, but then you keep crawling to that bitch? Seriously, Sam? What the hell!” Sam is quiet for a second. Their anger rises in unison, a vicious cycle. Dean grits his teeth. His stomach hurts. “There has to be—you can’t tell me there’s never been someone who’s ruffled your feathers who isn’t a lying, scheming, fucking supernatural—”
“There were!” Sam barks. “And they’re all DEAD.”
Dean’s frown deepens.
Next to him, Sam huffs, crosses his arms. Turns further to the window, away from Dean. Dean wets his lip without any clue what to say. His fingers tap the steering wheel. The road ahead, the rumble of the engine, the tires.
It’s a moment of just this, of Dean repenting and stewing, and he deserves that.
Sam murmurs, “Listen,” from behind his hand. His clothes shift as he rakes through his hair. “Listen, man, I get it. Of course I don’t trust her, not an inch. But it’s convenient, we work out physically, and that’s all. That’s all there is to it.” Dean shakes his head. Sam might watch him do it. “What am I supposed to do? The things I want take more communication than what a random drunken pick-up can offer, and the way we live, I can’t settle down with anyone either, so—tell me, any bright ideas? ’Cause I’ve accepted my life as it is, I’m not asking too many questions when I don’t have to. I just don’t get to have that luxury. That’s fine by me. And I don’t ask you to understand—you, out of all people.” A draught of air; softer: “How could you ever…?” The sentence hangs unfinished. Sam leaves it that way.
“I just think it’s stupid.”
Sam scoffs.
“Like—come on, a hole is a hole, what is there not to…?”
“Wow.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Unfortunately, I do, yeah.”
Sam turns to Dean as he crosses his arms and probably blesses Dean with his usual condescending look. A helpless laugh bubbles in Dean’s chest. He doesn’t let it out. Sam scoffs again. Dean can taste his brother’s smile. It pulls him along.
“I don’t know. You tell me. Am I that intimidating to you guys?”
“I mean…” Dean chuckles and smacks his lips instead of finishing that sentence. Yeah, no. Not going there. “I checked, though. It’s not like there isn’t a market for guys like you.”
“‘Checked’?”
“The internet, Sam. It’s a beautiful place.”
“Ew.” Another moment of consideration. “Ew.”
“Maybe if you send some fan mail their way… I mean, there must be forums for this kind of stuff, right? Like, fetish forums?”
“So ‘guys like me’ are a fetish?”
“That’s not what I—Sammy, come on.” A helpless flicker of eyes to Sam—who’s still smiling, thank god. Dean shakes his head, shifts his grip on the steering wheel. Yeah, those videos. “I guess what I meant to say is…there’s hope. Even for an ugly duckling like yourself, little brother.”
“Thanks.”
“You just gotta believe.”
Sam laughs. “I’m good, really. But thanks.”
Dean jokes, “Yeah, plastic doesn’t have standards, does it?” but the ensuing quiet sends his own mouth shut, sends his eyebrows high on his forehead. Oh.
Oh.
Eventually, by the time Dean’s mind is already deep in the gutter, Sam mumbles, “I guess not, no,” and shrugs halfheartedly, and in Dean’s peripheral, his brother kneads his open palm, his fingers.
The car suddenly feels that much smaller.
Half a mile. A mile.
“…Awkward.”
“You brought it up, man.”
“Yeah, but you were supposed to…!” Dean gestures. He wipes his mouth, his chin.
“Double standards much?”
“Ha-ha.”
“Okay, I’ll…do both of our sanity a favor and call the lab, see if they found anything…”
“Smooth.”
With a snort, Sam twists in his seat to reach into Baby’s back. “Go ask your internet forums if you want to talk about inflatable knots that badly.”
The next comment is on Dean’s tongue already, but he does the smart thing for once and lets Sam boot his laptop in peace.
Inflatable, huh?
Well. It makes sense. Would make sense for Sam to… Ah, goddammit.
~
The booze hits hard. The fact that Sam and Rowena disappeared (together) over half an hour ago and are suspiciously quiet (in Sam’s room, together) hits harder.
For all it’s worth, Cas lends Dean his company. Drinks with him, but Jimmy’s Beta scent has nowhere enough of a reach to make a dent in Dean’s mood. It’s not the first time, won’t be the last time. And yet…
“I am sure they are all right.”
“Oh, I bet.”
Dean snorts, throws back his drink. Ignores Cas’ puppy dog eyes. Yeah, Dean gets it… Especially since that topic came up between them, since Dean learned about the difficulties Sam apparently faces, but… A witch? Rowena fucking MacLeod? Come on… Times can’t be that desperate.
Dean can’t hear that door creeping open, but he can scent every embarrassing detail that wafts up the hallway along with Sam. Dean shakes his head, refills his glass—again. Cas left a while ago. Dean can’t blame him.
“So,” Dean says, out loud, into the otherwise deafening silence of the salon. “Hate to say ‘I told you so’…”
Sam finishes his walk of shame to the table. He showered; it doesn’t help. Dean wrinkles his nose while he fills two glasses.
“Queen Elinor bailed on you or something? She got better things to do?”
“Where’s Cas?”
“Left. Why, you wanna jump him, next?”
“Dude…”
“Drink.”
Dean nudges Sam’s glass towards Sam. It earns him a frown, a drag of that hand over that tired face. Fresh clothes that smell like bunker-dust and home, not like that wench. Dean’s stomach turns at the thought of the laundry. If Sam tossed it into the washing machine already or if it waits for more of Dean’s socks. Dean drinks first, not without him curtly clinking his glass against Sam’s. Sam follows his example.
Dean puts his glass down maybe a little too hard.
“I thought you didn’t like casual stuff.”
“Do you really wanna talk about this right now?”
“You know, maybe I do.”
Sam sighs, flops back into his chair; rubs his face again. His drink stays in his right hand on the chair’s armrest.
“You’ve got a problem with that? Cougar swallowed your tongue?”
“Dude, I don’t wanna fight.”
“You think I do?”
“So what is this, then?”
Dean just—glares at his brother. Enough weight in there to let Sam know exactly what he’s thinking, and his scent gives the remaining hints away. Sam crumbles, sighs more. He’s still… God. Dean’s grip around his glass fastens. Both elbows on the table and Dean’s still feeling weak.
“Look, I’m old enough to… I can look out for myself. I don’t need you to worry about how much and if I’m getting any, man, we have ACTUAL problems to worry about…”
“It pisses me off, s’all. That you gotta resort to fucking witches, man! If I…!”
He stops himself. Sam just stares at him, waiting. Dean falters. God. God, this is…stupid.
A pause. In which Sam could just as well pretend he didn’t hear, could drop it. Or get angry, go back to bed. That last one sounds reasonable. But, no: he stays. Maybe that’s worse. Dean cringes, drinks, highly aware of Sam watching him with a mix of pity and…something else. That little something that’s always there between the two of them, that lingers and smolders and sometimes is the only reason to push and make it through. Sam huffs through his nose. One corner of his mouth draws up.
“How drunk are you?”
Dean peeks at his glass, makes a face. “Not drunk enough.”
~
They keep talking, sitting close. About this and that, and it’s probably all the hormones in Sam, but Dean doesn’t wanna think about that. Not that there is much space to think about anything other than what currently bubbles from Sam’s tipsy, post-nut-stupid mouth. Dean distributes the last of the bottle between the two of them. He’ll get up for another one in just another minute.
“…and that’s when her roommate barged in. With a fucking tray of freshly baked cookies.”
Dean laughs. Sam laughs, too.
“Ouch. Wow.”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“But, hey: knots and cookies. Win-win.”
“They did taste great.”
Sam chuckles over the obvious spread of the memory, his eyes warm and swimming, directed at the table without necessarily seeing it. Not aware of Dean right by Sam’s side. Dean’s drunk-numb face gleams hot. Getting Sam to talk about Jess, about college—if all it takes is some Alpha dick to shake Sammy loose, then, hell. Hell, they’re drunk, though. Good-drunk, though. Feels good. Sam, glowing. Happy. Relaxed, for once.
Dean should…say something. Especially with how Sam keeps licking his lip and how his eyes swim in those bittersweet memories and how pointedly he avoids touching Dean in any way—but keeps looking at Dean like that. It’s been a long week. Sam just got laid by a goddamn witch. They both should just go sleep it off.
Maybe Dean’s been silently brooding for too long, because Sam asks (with that smile, still): “How drunk are you?”
“Getting there.”
Sam snickers. Dean bumps their elbows together. Sam grins. “What?”
“Relax, man. You’re gonna pull a muscle.”
“I’m perfectly fine.”
“No. No, you’re not.”
Dean leans in just-so and waits for Sam’s reaction—who doesn’t pull away, no, just flinches and frowns a little, and then he…barely, if at all, seeps closer, too. That smile again. Like this is more of Dean’s bullshit (and it is).
Sam flatly exhales through his nose. God, he smells…
“You gonna tell me how I feel?”
Dean can’t reply. Can’t joke, let alone be serious. Sam holds his gaze. Last time they played chicken like this, Dean got punched in the face. They both laughed, after. Before Stanford, before…everything. Back then. Way back.
Maybe Sam remembers, too.
Dean stops himself in the last second and puts his mouth to Sam’s throat instead.
Sam’s throat jumps against Dean’s lips; a jolt through all of Sam, head to toe, and part of Dean is shocked as well but he leans in closer, still, and instead of punching Dean or shoving him off, Sam’s hand grabs Dean by the collar of his shirt, twists the fabric. Dean continues to suck and bite over Rowena’s marks, over unmarred skin, until Sam is stiff as a board in his arms. By the time Dean manages to pull away, they both breathe heavy.
Dean’s turn to ask, “Too drunk?”
Sam makes a face, tucks it against Dean’s shoulder to hide.
“No?”
Mumbled, “No. … Uhm, maybe.”
Sam flinches for that hand to his back. Dean feels that heavy exhale into his shoulder, feels his own pulse hammering against Sam’s sweaty temple where they’re pressed skin to skin. It doesn’t help. Dean licks his lip, that taste. Skin and something else, something deeper, sweeter. Dean’s hand swoops higher, finds the back of Sam’s neck under all that hair. The hammer of his pulse laces with his fear, his…
Dean stares down Sam’s wide-wide back, through the back of the chair. Nothing matters but the scent in his nose, the body heat against his front.
“… Just drunk enough, right?”
Sam doesn’t reply. Can’t, maybe. Dean shouldn’t…
“Come on,” he says, now tucked against Sam’s ear. “Sammy, you gotta… I gotta know. Not just me. You get a free pass. You get whatever you fucking want, no judgement. Goddammit, I need to know you’re getting it good.”
Sam mumbles, “You don’t have to,” like that one morning when they were kids, when he wriggled himself into Dean’s crotch with Dean’s precome smearing against his bare skin through Dean’s boxers, and Dean hadn’t said anything but Sam had said that and they almost… Hell, maybe they should have. Dean swears he can taste that scent on the back of his mouth now, feels its call all over again. Sam, needing him. Craving what they both know Dean can give him. Would give him. Will give him.
Goddammit.
Sam’s eyes glaze more as Dean shimmies his hand between those clutched-tight thighs, licks his lip.
Dean offers, “I could just watch.”
Sam splutters his laugh.
“Wasn’t enough with her, right? You need more. I can tell. I can smell it, Sam.”
“‘Just watch’, huh?”
“Could help, too. If you wanted that.”
“Man, you’re so wasted…”
“So are you.”
Dean shrugs, pins Sam with his glare. Sam’s hand is still clutched around Dean’s working hand.
“What better excuse do you want, huh?”
~
Downside of a bunker is that you can’t exactly air it out; upside is that Sam’s room still smells like pussy and that it gets him flustered that much harder. Dean shoves the door closed behind them so roughly that Sam’s jacket falls off its hanger. Dean shrugs the thing off as he follows Sam, pulls his belt from his own jeans. Sam hadn’t even put one on.
“This is so stupid,” huffs Sam right under his thin, stumbling breath. Dean can taste his heartbeat even prior to closing his mouth over the crook of that neck once more, Sam’s back turned, all of him shifting and tensing as he—God, lifts his shirt, pulls that off… Dean’s a simple man and his hands are about as shamelessly drunk as his brain and his dick are, and Sam’s gasp for getting his tits grabbed from behind goes straight to Dean’s nuts. Sam manages, “I can’t—believe this; you…w-we…!” but loses track for good once Dean’s teeth dig into the spot he’s been sucking on, when Dean growls low against all that skin, the cute squish of Sam’s barely-there tits in both of his working, greedy hands. Dean’s memory heats with those images from way back, the flash of a dark brown nipple in motel bathrooms, mirrors, the cruel blue of an early morning. Right here, in his hands, between his fingers. Sam’s hot-hot hands layer over Dean’s, feel him feeling him up—Sam makes a noise before they both fall forward, onto that oh-so-neatly made bed.
Sam’s skin and the muscle below dent between Dean’s teeth; Sam’s back bows with the effort it takes to keep both of them up. Sam’s tits barely quiver in Dean’s hands. Zipper, shove; a tug on Dean’s shirt. Dean dislodges from that now-slobbery skin, licks his chops while he strips, thoughtless. The next thing he knows is that he surfaces from inside his shirt—and Sam is naked. As in: all the way, right in front of Dean, on all fucking fours. Dean blinks, cups both hands around that tiny, shivering waist. Fuck, maybe he is too drunk…
Dean bites his tongue as Sam’s arm shoots out to their left to get at his nightstand.
Despite better judgement, Dean blurts, “Fuck,” at the sight—and size—of that toy, his hands still on his naked brother, his silent-in-his-nervousness, lean and long and fever-hot brother. Who wrestles said toy underneath himself, shoulder and face pressed into the bed so he can… Jesus. Dean can’t look away. Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.
Dean might babble more curses but his cock throbs so hard so fast in the suddenly way-too-confining stretch of his briefs that everything but said throb and the push of that lifeless, boring-ass toy into the soft-soft center of his Omega little brother doesn’t fucking matter. A bomb could go off next to them and Dean wouldn’t be able to look away—Jesus, Sam is…! Dean’s seen him naked, sure, but never whilst holding himself open while inserting a fake cock into his ass.
Sam makes a small noise upon Dean babbling a mindless, “Baby,” and Dean swears he feels him blushing head to toe, all the way into the tips of his fingers. Lost in the moment, the familiar situation of a slick, presenting ass in front of him, Dean’s hands slide lower to help spread those cheeks, allowing the toy to push deeper to where it’s hot and wet, more than welcoming. Sam grunts into the sheets, his free hand on Dean’s, now, grasping—holding, caught between shoving Dean off and keeping him where he is.
Dean’s thumbs smear into the center, dig to pull the skin. He swallows a groan, keeps his crotch from bumping the base of the toy, Sam’s hand. God, Sam’s—open, still, after that damn witch, and as disgusting as the thought is, it fucking delights him, too… Sam, getting what he needs. That pretty hole all stretched, like it should be, soft and warm and it’d be so easy to just sink inside…like that toy does. Sam doesn’t need to play games, it seems—his knuckles strain as he pumps the dildo into himself, his voice a strangled little thing, his oh-so-familiar low, threatening grunts. Dean forgets about his thumbs, overwhelmed by his instincts taking over. His hips roll forward and even though the impact between his dick and Sam’s fist, the base of the toy, is anything but gentle, there is only forward, now. Dean groans. Yes; God.
Sam doesn’t get much of a chance to insist on keeping control of the toy. Moans all surprised when Dean jams it in to the base, pulls back with a twist, repeats—before he just hammers it in, and in, hard and fast where he knows O’s love it, where it makes them splutter and go incoherent, and Sam’s not any different. That steel grip on Dean’s wrist goes weaker and weaker while that ass tilts higher and higher, and it’s so fucking easy to just see this as what it is: a mindless, drunk fuck. Dean’s brain kicks him, though, together with the familiarity of that voice, that scent. Sam’s turned his cheek into the sheet, eyes shut tight, his hair everywhere—Dean grunts, blinks. Fuck, he’s hard. He’s got Sammy ass-up and moaning, ruts his own, still-covered cock against the too-firm side of those glutes, and…hell, this is happening.
Dean shoves his briefs down and kneels further onto the bed, needs every ounce of balance he can get—keeps going with that toy but with his other hand now on his cock instead of Sam’s hips, the leverage lacks (at least until Sam catches up, fucks himself back). A hot groan and then that damp palm uncurls from Dean’s wrist to wrap itself just-below the crown of Dean’s positively dripping cock. An even hotter groan, then, from Dean himself. His eyes slam shut. A blind rut into the circle of that hand. It’s so easy. It’s all so—way too fucking easy.
Dean’s next noise is so embarrassing even his drunk brain registers it, but there is only so much Dean can do with Sam whipping himself around, getting his mouth on—oh, God.
“Fuck, yeah, please—!”
Dean gasps, grabs a fistful of all that hair, then another. He might be the one humping forward, in, but Sam swallows him just as eagerly on his own end. Dean’s head falls back and he hears his own groan, the slick, hurried squelch of the toy in Sam’s ass… Sam, right, this is Sammy, Sammy’s throat gagging and struggling around Dean’s cock, that tongue long and flat on the underside, allowing Dean to shove in, take and take and take… Sam heaves again but makes no effort to push off, to escape Dean’s imperative grip on his skull. No, he… God, this? This is what he wants?
Dean growls, “Sam,” and Sam attempts to make a noise in return, but all that comes out is a strangled, sloppy something. Dean humps that pliant face quick and deep, feels his balls swing against Sam’s stubbly chin on every stroke.
It all happens so fast from there on.
Dean picks up, though, clearly: the look on Sam’s tear-streaked, scarlet face when he gets yanked off, how dread melts right back into whatever that look is that he’s always had exclusively for Dean as Dean shoves him onto his back, into the sheets. Sweaty and flushed and his arm awkwardly in the way because he’s still—goddamn, still screws himself with that toy, and Dean’s had about enough of that. He grunts as he lets himself fall forward, wrenches that thing out of Sam’s grip, pulls it out to toss it somewhere decisively-not-here. Sam pants, caught below him. His eyebrow ticks and his mouth hangs open, speechless, swollen from use… Dean’s knee shoves forward to get Sam’s leg out of the way some more, and Sam might understand what he’s trying to do then, because his still-wet eyes go that much bigger, and then he says—nothing, no ‘no’ or ‘wait’ or ‘we shouldn’t’, and then Dean’s eyes fall shut with a moan as he bulls forward, in. He slips a couple of times before they figure it out; Sam’s hand somehow on Dean’s back, fanned wide and holding, pulling Dean in—a groaned gasp, squeezed-shut eyes, and then Dean kisses his brother like he meant to do back at the table, and it’s right. Just right. Clawing at each other, buried—oh, Sam takes him all the way, lets Dean slide balls-deep and moans for it, his tight little hips flinching, trying to lift, to meet…! Dean groans into that wet, too-familiar mouth. Humps down and down until those legs lift on their own around his sides, until he’s got ankles locked over his ass and two arms slung around him, desperate, shocked little grunts and moans straight into his ear. No thoughts required. Just—breed. Breed that Omega. Plow their cute little hole, feel it squelch and throb around you…
Reality slams into Dean with a particularly hard thrust that makes both Sam and Sam’s bed groan. Sam must be aware because he babbles, “Don’t stop, fuck, please don’t stop now,” and Dean doesn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t; gets up on his hands though to be able to kiss, lick at that mouth, chin. Rowena’s marks and Dean’s hasty attempts of covering them, and Dean gets to work on those once more. Sam moans like he loves it. Dean gives him long, hard thrusts that make even someone with a body fat percentage as low as Sam’s jiggle with the impact. Somewhere around Dean tasting the blood he’s sucking to the surface of Sam’s skin and his hand cupping possessively over one of those tight, tiny breasts, Sam begins to mumble, “Please, please,” and doesn’t stop. Dean groans, stays right where he is—goes a little harder, can’t help it, eyes and jaw squeezed shut and then he feels it. Feels all of that softness drawing tight around him, both rims wringing at him and Sam sobs, scrambles—goes rigid, jolts with the shocks while Dean slams into him, makes it good. Makes it last.
Sam tosses silently, jerks and milks and his nails will leave tracks on Dean’s back. Dean kisses that sweaty, marred neck, the underside of that jaw; that throbbing pulse point. He can’t think. That familiar pressure begins to build, spurred on by Sam’s escalating scent—so much better than Dean could have imagined had he allowed himself such a thing. He bites Sam again, gets his cheek nuzzled, gets Sam’s choked-off nasal grunts huffed directly into his too-hot ear.
“Sam… Should I—I can pull out, if, i-if…”
Sam’s reply is to tighten the cross of his ankles over Dean’s ever-moving ass, and that’s that.
“Fuck,” and, “Fuck, Sammy, I…!”
Without anything to hold him back, Dean’s body moves on autopilot. Knotting has long lost its novelty, usually is simply a hassle if you are looking for something fast and uncomplicated—but it’s not even a choice now, wasn’t from the moment Sam let Dean lean close and put his teeth on him. Dean sinks said teeth back into that throat with a growl and now, Sam moans—gets loud, tries but fails to stay quiet, stay rational. The base of Dean’s cock begins to fatten significantly and quickly, tugs on Sam’s increasingly tightening sphincter on every full, thick thrust. Sam comes again with a yelp, shudders deep inside and clenches so hard Dean has to resort to violence to keep slopping his knot in and out of him—until even that is no longer an option.
Dean slams his knot home and Sam sobs his name, and Dean’s eyes are shut and his mouth works Sam’s throat like it owns it, like it won’t matter that anyone within a ten-mile radius will know what they have done. Sam’s cock pulses between their bodies, gives up more and more as he shudders and shudders, every orgasm lacing into the next with just a soft roll of Dean’s hips, the two of them connected so deeply, bound, tied…! Dean’s nuts pulse so hard his taint aches. With a deep, pained growl, Dean gives it up inside his little brother. Trembles and rocks, can’t hold still even if it hurts. Sam is back to incoherence. Not that Dean would pick up any kind of language right now.
With his climax ebbing off slowly but surely, just the throb of his cock where it keeps emptying his load, buried firm in all that slick, silken heat…Dean blinks, huffs. Sighs, half into a shoulder and half into the sheets. Laundry detergent; Sam. Sam’s skin, sweat, blood, shampoo. Sammy’s stupid hair—in Dean’s eyes, his nose. Dean’s eyes slide shut again. Sam holds him, still, with arms and legs, until the latter slide off, too exhausted to hold on.
They roll over, somehow. Sam splutters for the pull on their tie as Dean maneuvers them into some good old spooning on sheer, stupid habit. Sam settles as Dean pets and coddles him, pulls his knees high to mold himself against his little brother—whom he is still filling with his come, Jesus. Dean huffs, presses his nose into the back of that neck. Just breathes, one arm under his head, the other curled tight around Sam’s middle—Sam. Sam, right. This is…Sam. Not just someone.
Too weak to move, they have no other choice but to wait out the tie. Which is fine until the booze and orgasms subside. Sam is quiet, up against Dean’s front. Dean feels that heart hammering.
After what feels like ages: “You good?”
“…Yeah.” Sam shifts. Is careful not to jostle the tie. “…You?”
“Pretty much.”
Maybe Sam feels Dean smile. Maybe he just wanted to scratch his stomach, found and held Dean’s hand by accident. Must be. Yeah.
Dean sighs, pushes his face deeper into the pillows, into Sam’s hair. Just another minute. He’ll pull out, then, clean up… Sleep sounds great. A nap. What time even is it? What year?
“So. Thanks, I guess.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“… This is awkward.”
“Yeah, and you’re not helping, Bigfoot.”
Sam huffs his chuckle, rubs Dean’s arm. Which is still too weak to lift, by the way.
Dean grunts, “See? Told you.”
Sam scoffs. “Told me what?”
“You’re not the problem. Obviously. You work just fine.”
“Wow. Thanks.”
“I’m trying to be nice…”
“You stink at that.”
Dean squeezes Sam’s naked hip before he wrestles the loosened blanket from underneath them to cover them instead. His knot shows no signs of going down anytime soon. So, eh. A bed is a bed.
Dean decides, “You just have bad taste in A’s, s’all. You keep picking the useless ones. There’s decent guys out there… You don’t have to die a sad virgin.”
Sam chuckles. Rubs Dean’s wrist under the blanket, laces their fingers together over his stomach. Holds Dean’s hand tight, tighter than he should have to. Dean squeezes back, kisses a shoulder in blind habit. Dean yawns again. Oh, boy, future Dean will have to deal with this mess. Dean doesn’t envy the guy.
“Yeah,” says Sam, quiet, “I guess you’re right.”
“Told you.”