Chapter Text
There's no shortage of things to hunt. Dad leaves them coordinates, they find things on the internet and from newspapers. They hunt, kill, and worry about Dad. Nice, simple existence. Sam doesn't talk much—stares broodily out the window, that soul-deep despair and longing for revenge in his eyes, so very familiar. Dad was wearing that same expression last time Dean saw him, had worn it the last twenty-two years.
Dean yawns and scratches his chest as he ambles into the bathroom at four in the morning. Dingy motel; everywhere it smells like mildew and Pine-Sol, creates a scent that makes Dean nauseous. He rubs his hand over his sensitive nose while he relieves his bladder. His sense of smell's weirdly gotten better the last few days, able to pick out certain scents like only Alphas can. In here it smells like perfumed garbage, but outside he can smell the gravel, the grass, eateries a ways away. In the Impala the smell's the best; SamDean, leather, oil, steel and good food, most of the time.
Dean flushes the toilet, and squints at himself speculatively while he's washing his hands. His eyes fall to his chest automatically, where his nipples poke out through his thin undershirt like usual. But, and it might be a trick of light, what's unusual is that his chest looks a little fuller than it did a week ago.
You're just getting fatter, Dean thinks. All that diner food. But he shuts off the faucet and steps back, pulls the bottom of his shirt up to his collarbones.
He presses his fingers into the flesh around his puffy nipple, then smoothes his thumb over the nub, shivers at the sensation. He secures the shirt with his chin and grabs at his chest, pulling the tiny mounds into his palms. There's not even a handful, but they definitely feel more like breasts than just accrued fat.
Sam's cinnamon-scent thickens in his nose suddenly just before he hears, "oh! Sorry."
He lets his shirt go and turns his head to see Sam in the doorway with his face turned away. "I'm sorry," Sam says again. "I thought you were shaving or something."
"At four in the morning?'
"Ah, well, I thought you were, uh." Sam scratches furiously at the back of his neck. Dean can see red pooling at the bottom of his cheeks and washing down his neck. He turns his face back to Dean, eyes landing automatically on his chest before they flick to the floor. "Um, well, sorry. I uh, gotta take a piss."
Dean gives him an assuring smile. "Sure thing—she's all yours," he says lightly, brushing past Sam on his way out. He slips back into his bed with a grateful sigh. Under the privacy of the covers, he slides his hands up under his shirt and squeezes his chest again, wondering. If he's budding up again—for whatever reason—does that mean his milk'll come back? Dean chews that thought over, tells himself to not get hopeful about it. His body's got no reason to start cranking out the dairy again.
Dean curls up onto his side after he has the irrational, but nagging, thought that sleeping on his stomach might impede the regrowth of his chest.
He listens to Sam wash his hands, switch the light off, his soft footfalls back to his own bed.
Dean gets more comfortable on the bed, lightly touching over a nipple. He thinks about the comfort Sam needs, wonders if feeding him and having that closeness would help Sam somehow.
***
Weeks later, Dean can cup handfuls of his chest into his palms, and does so as often as possible, smiles every time. He buys some bras while Sam's passed out in the car. When they get to their motel, Sam conks out on the closest bed and Dean spends five minutes getting back into the practice of hooking a bra behind his back.
He spends another ten minutes staring at himself in the mirror, turning to the side, turning his shoulders in to create a line of cleavage, adjusting and re-adjusting the black cups and straps. He puts on the tightest shirt he has and compulsively smoothes the fabric over his chest. His tits have never been this big. Dean can't help but like the way they look.
Sam can't either, apparently.
His throat bobs when he wakes up later in the day, his eyes widening just a tad when he looks at Dean. Dean offers him Chinese takeout and over the space of the small table, Sam's eyes are on his chest when they're not on fried rice and black-bean chicken. Sam tries to hide the looks under the fringe of his bangs, but Dean catches every one and it makes him feel... hot inside. Like Sam's burning him with the stares. It makes him feel nervous; guts tangled in a butterfly knot. But it feels good, so good Dean feels kind of floaty from Sam's gaze, to finally have those eyes on him after four years, weeks of being flat-chested and uninteresting and now Sam keeps dropping food from his chopsticks because he doesn't want to look at anything else.
Dean's aware what he's feeling towards Sam, what he wants Sam to feel towards him, is far removed from brotherly. But he doesn't feel the disgust he thinks he should feel. He just feels calm and sure; if something happens, great. If nothing happens, Dean's fine with that too. He's content to be whatever Sam needs.
"So how you doin'?" Dean asks when he's finished off a carton of sweet-and-sour and starts removing the tabs from a carton of sesame-seed.
Sam's expression tightens a little, and Dean hates putting that darkness back in his face, but Sam's lost his mate and doesn't talk that much still; Dean can spare a chick-flick moment or two.
"I'm dealing, I guess," Sam says quietly. His eyes are firmly on his food now. Dean wonders if he thinks he's betraying Jess somehow when he stares at Dean.
"I feel better than I did last week, at least. Probably just... time, you know?"
"Yeah. And killing the son of a bitch who did it," Dean adds. "We'll get the bastard. You just gotta hang in there."
"I know." Sam pinches his chopsticks together to get a pile of rice, and Dean finds his eyes on his long fingers, the clean nails and burnt sienna skin. Sam's got big hands, bigger than Dean's, and Dean's thoughts take a dirty turn as he thinks about how those hands would look on his paler skin, how they'd spread on his tits and cup and squeeze—gentle, because that's how Sam is. Dean can hear his own voice in his head saying it's okay Sammy, don't hold back on me and he shivers.
Sam clears his throat, brings Dean back to reality. "Uh," Sam starts, then gets lost there. He's done with his food and his chopsticks are stuck in a carton, arms now crossed on the table.
"What?" Dean forks his last piece of chicken into his mouth and looks at Sam from under his brows.
Sam's eyes are partially obscured by his bangs. "You, uh." Sam unfolds an arm to scratch the back of his head, then gestures helplessly at Dean. "Are..."
"What?"
"Never mind," Sam mutters, and stands up. Too quick; hits the table's edge with his hips and scrapes the chair across the floor. Dean chews through the clatter.
Sam cleans up his share of cartons and then heads to bed. Dean does the same, after he's smiled to himself and smoothed his shirt down once more.
***
Amazingly, he meets up with Cassie again, who needs their help with a possessed truck, of all things.
They fuck. Have to, almost. It's just as passionate as it had been before, and Dean aches when he thinks about all they could've had if she had just realized he wasn't insane, if she woulda believed him.
And now he'll have to leave her behind, again.
"So," she says when they're tied, her on top with her breasts against his. She thumbs over the swell of them and raises her eyebrows. "Don't tell me you got implants; these feel pretty real."
"I've been workin' out."
Cassie ducks her head on a laugh, then raises up on a hand to view Dean's new additions better. It makes her knot pull at his rim and he hisses quietly.
"Sorry," she says softly, running all five fingers and palm over a breast. She pinches a nipple several times and tilts her head. "You're not..."
Dean shakes his head. "I think they might be gearing up to it though. I've been feeling funny."
"When did they start growing?"
Dean doesn't answer a few seconds.
That seems to tell Cassie everything though, because she sighs and squeezes his flesh soothingly. "Sam."
Dean nods, closing his eyes. Cassie's plump lips press against his own, then she lays her head on his neck. "He looks at you," she says, "when you're not looking."
Dean says, "I know."
***
Dean can't get any sleep.
His chest aches, so he can't sleep how he likes—sprawled out on his stomach, and even when he curls up on his side he's waking up every three hours or so. It's the rain, it's Sam rolling over, it's the couple next door trying to break the bed. It's the damn pulsing, nagging sensation in his chest, like he's got two sore hearts stapled to his ribs and no matter how much he pulls and kneads he can't get the angry throb to stop.
His nipples are stiff peaks of pure sensitivity, and he's taken to just going shirtless to bed because the fall of fabric would have him itching all night otherwise. He keeps the covers up to his neck though, because now that his boobs are a source of resentment he's through with showing them off.
There's not even any milk coming out. Dean'd rather go back to his flat chest than have two utterly useless painful lumps stuck to him.
They still get up at ass o'clock in the morning, because years of being awake at dawn for PT has never let them sleep late. Dean dozes through two cups of coffee before he showers, gets dressed in the same clothes he wore the day before. He lets Sam drive and falls asleep once they're on the highway, hum and vibration of the Impala as good a lullaby as anything.
Another hunt, then another restless night. After keeping his eyes shut for three hours and not slipping off, Dean makes himself some coffee and starts picking through Dad's journal, lips twitching at some of the funnier notes in the margins, tracing his thumbpad over Dad's neat handwriting and tracing his eyes over the detailed drawings of monsters and weaponry—kind of hand skills neither him or Sam possess.
"What's up?"
Dean looks over to where Sam's standing in all his six five and gangly glory, bedhead hair fanned out like a lion's mane. His eyes aren't looking at Dean's face.
"Uh, nothin'," Dean says, hyper-aware of the shirt draped over his nipples. He's not wearing a bra; they're probably poking out obscenely. "Just checkin' Dad's journal."
"Can't sleep?" Sam asks in a way that says me neither. He drops into the chair across from Dean, folding his arms on the table so his clasped hands are inches away from where Dean's fingers rub the pages nervously.
He wants to talk; Dean can feel those words hanging heavy in the air, ready for Sam to reach up and tug them down.
"You look like you're all in, man."
Dean rubs his face like he can massage the dark shadows under his eyes and the sick shade of his skin away. "I'm all right." He inconspicuously puts his forearm across his chest to hide his nipples, turns a page in Dad's journal.
Sam shifts, sighs. "Look Dean, I was wondering if—"
"You want some coffee?" Dean cuts in, doesn't wait for an answer. He lets the overstuffed journal flop closed and gets up, goes into the kitchenette and starts looking for another mug.
"Uh, yeah, I guess," Sam says, raising his voice, "so, Dean, are—"
"Cream, sugar?" Dean pours the steaming coffee into a chipped cup, Sam's eyes two heavy points on his back. The burning itch in his nipples suddenly intensifies and a stream of coffee spills over the counter when Dean cringes. He swears quietly and puts the pot back, determined to not rub at his chest.
"No, that's all right," Sam's saying when Dean turns around and brings the cup over. He looks deflated. Dean puts the mug in front of him, "oh dark thirty special."
"Thanks." Sam's eyes jerk up, snag on Dean's chest before they waver away and he wraps his hands around the mug.
"Gonna go take a shower," Dean tells him. "Then we'll get somethin' to eat and hit the road."
Soon as those words are out of his mouth Dean books it for the bathroom, chest a pulsing ache. He shuts the door and thunks his head into it, scrabbling at himself. He rips his shirt off and grabs the tiny mounds of flesh that feel like fucking fire ant hills. Squirming, crawling, aching sensation.
"Fuck," Dean gasps. He looks at his chest in the mirror, sees how dark his nipples have gotten the past few weeks. As dark as when he was feeding Sam, but there's no damn milk to show for it. Dean traps one of the sensitive buds between his thumb and index finger and pinches as hard as he can, growling in pain and frustration when nothing comes out. He tries compressing the milk ducts and all that does is aggravate the hornet's nest; so painful that tears blur Dean's vision.
He blinks them away and gives up, gets out of his boxers and gets in the shower. The water—as low-pressure as it is—beats at his chest like a hundred little fists. There's a dial on the showerhead that weakens the stream. After Dean turns the faucet to as cold as he can stand, it's finally bearable.
He washes his hair, face and body with the neat three-in-one stuff he's been using for years, grateful that the smell doesn't overpower his newly hyper-sensitive nose. He rinses, towels off and gets dressed.
He doesn't want to wear a bra but that's really the only option, so he hooks it and puts his layers on over it; undershirt, long-sleeved, button-down and then a jacket like he's throwing dirt on a fire.
"Shower's yours," Dean says to Sam when he's back in the kitchenette, downing some more coffee and thinking about what he wants for breakfast so he doesn't think about the burn under his shirts. "Plenty of hot water for ya."
After Sam's gotten ready, they head to the nearest diner. Sam has his breakfast salad—what the hell—and Dean has his short stack of pancakes, a giant blueberry muffin, and some eggs on the side.
It's when Dean's pouring ketchup in a red pile beside his eggs that it happens. He feels Sam's eyes on him and looks up, sees the heavy and sad expression on his brother's face. He's looking at Dean's plate with a dazed stare. "Jess liked ketchup on her eggs too," he says softly. He huffs a sad laugh. "She put it on the side just like that and just dipped the eggs in it. I thought it was the grossest thing."
Dean's still got the damn ketchup bottle upended and he's getting the stuff on the table cloth. He sets it back and clears his throat.
"Sammy, I'm..." he lets the sentence hang there, rolling his shoulders. His chest suddenly feels like there's fifty pound weights on it, aching heaviness and a fluttering sensation, like giant wings beating against his ribs. It's familiar; Dean's felt this before—
There's a dropping sensation, then warmth pooling and sliding down his ribs. "I gotta—" Dean slides out of the booth with a hand pressed to his chest. Confusion leads him out of the diner and across the pavement to the safety of the Impala. He shuts the door then slides a hand up under his shirts, feels the wetness leaking up, up, up, under the wire of his bra, which is damp and warm. He pulls his hand out and looks at it, at the watery white droplets sliding down his fingers into his palm. Some kind of strange elation grows in him and he feels more milk leak out in a warm rush.
"Son of a bitch," he exhales, smiling.
He's just sitting there leaking and staring, then he hears the passenger door opening and jumps.
"The hell, Dean?" Sam asks as he gets in, to-go styrofoam containers in his hands. Dean wipes his fingers on his jeans as Sam shuts the door and puts the cartons in the footwell. "Why'd you rush outta there?"
Dean's about to answer, but something spicy that's definitely not the food fills his senses. He looks over at Sam to find his brother looking at him, nostrils and eyes flared wide and red creeping up his cheekbones. "Dean."
"I started again, okay?" Dean snaps, doesn't know why he's defensive but his brother's fucking aroused and the smell of it is wrapping him in smoke and rushing into his lungs, his cock and he doesn't know what to say.
"I can smell it," Sam says, voice thick and deep. His eyelids flutter then he turns his face away, open-mouthed and sucking in air. "God."
Dick pressing into his zipper, Dean starts the car and wordlessly heads back to the motel they'd just checked out of. He waits in the car while Sam buys their room again, milk-soppy layers dark and stuck to his skin. When Sam comes back with the key Dean gets out of the car and crosses to their room door with his arms folded tight over his chest.
Soon as he's back in the room he ignores whatever Sam's saying and locks himself in the bathroom, peels off his upper-half's clothes and slaps some cold water on his hot face before he undoes his soaked bra and tosses it away.
Fuck, there's so much of it—bluish white streams beading from his nipples, then racing down his ribs and stomach. It's just the overflow; Dean feels how heavy his chest is, sees how swollen up he is.
Dean unlocks the door to stick his head out. Sam's sitting on the bed, hands clasped and tapping his thumbs. "I need my duffel, Sam." He's got a clean bra in there, can just use some toilet paper until he gets the chance to get some nursing pads.
Sam must've brought in their stuff because Dean's duffel is by the bed. Sam grabs it and comes to the door, face stroked with red and eyes dark. Dean keeps his chest hidden behind the door while he takes the duffel from Sam. He's about to close the door again when Sam clears his throat, prompting Dean to look up at him.
"What?"
"Do you think... maybe, um. Since..." Sam laughs a little, rakes his nails over the back of his neck. He's got inches on Dean, but he seems to look up at him then beneath his fringe.
"Get talkin'," Dean grunts, shifting uncomfortably. He's glad his chest is hidden by the door because there's twin rushes of warmth going down his stomach, probably getting on the damn floor.
"Just. Maybe we could do it again? Now that your milk's back. Uh, if that's okay. If—"
Dean gets it. "Yeah," he breathes, hit with a dizzying rush at the thought. "Sure, Sammy."
Sam's face brightens, but then falls a second later. "Maybe I shouldn't," he says, eyes flitting between Dean and the wall.
He doesn't need to explain. What Dean smelled in the car, no denying Sam got turned on.
"We can," Dean says, to everything. "I know you need it; I think I started again 'cause you need that comfort and everything. So, lemme know when you're hungry."
Dean waits for Sam's nod before he closes the door again. He's leaking like a sieve and his dick is pushing at his zipper.
***
It's three in the afternoon when they check out again. Dean drives the three hundred miles to the city with a promising hunt, toilet paper against his sore nipples probably the most irritating thing he's experienced.
It's nine o'clock when they're checked into another motel that smells a little better than the last. It's been a long damn day; eighteen hours without sleep has Dean's eyes burning and heavy.
When they got their duffels in the room and salt lines on the doorways and window sills, Dean flops onto his too-soft bed and stretches out on the covers. The toilet paper wads shift inside his bra. Dean growls softly and rips the buttons on his shirt in his haste to get the damn things out. They're sopping wet and drip all over his shirt and the bed before he shoots them into the trash. Dean relaxes again, listening to the flapping noises of Sam taking off his hoodie, the flick of the lightswitch when he goes into the bathroom.
He hears the sink run, picks up the scrape, taptap, rinse, scrape of Sam shaving. "Gettin' those legs silky smooth Sam?" Dean asks, chuckles to himself.
"Funny," Sam says from the bathroom. He spends a few more minutes in there. Dean opens his eyes when he hears the lightswitch flick down, watches Sam with bleary eyes as he comes over to his bed.
"So..."
Dean blinks several times and gets his head in gear, remembers. "Not too tired?" he asks cursorily, already sitting up.
"No," Sam answers in a low tone. He falls in beside Dean and his scent presses at Dean's senses and makes Dean feel all the more heavy.
Dean doesn't let himself think or pause. Easier to just take his shirt off to begin with but Dean thinks they're in safer territory this way, so he twists his arms behind him and gets his hands under his shirt, pinches the hooks until they come apart. He slides the straps off his shoulders then brings the wet bra out from the cover of his shirt and discards it on the floor.
His fingers move to the buttons but Sam clears his throat and moves closer, his hands overtaking Dean's. "Let me. Lay down."
"Yeah," Dean says, then coughs because his voice is rough. He falls back on the pillow and Sam moves over him, straddles Dean's thighs while his deft fingers move down Dean's shirt, unfastening the buttons in a way that makes Dean want to ask him to slow down.
"'s good," Dean cuts in when Sam's down to the last half, batting his hands away. "You wanna do this on our sides or..." the sentence hangs because Sam, hungry-eyed and flushed, grips the small gape of Dean's unbuttoned shirt and pulls it big and wide.
"Sam," Dean whispers, fighting every urge to cover himself because Sam's seen it all before, Jesus, but it's different this time and there's no denying it. No denying how Dean can smell Sam's cinnamon-scent take a turn for something darker and urgent as he looks down at Dean's revealed chest with parted lips.
"I shoulda done this earlier," Sam says after a few moments, "look how full you are. You must've been in pain all day."
"Been hurtin' for awhile," Dean says. "Why I haven't been getting any sleep."
"I've never seen you this big," Sam breathes, reverent. His hands move to Dean's ribs and spread heat through the slats. His voice, his scent, makes Dean leak—fat drops of milk beading up from his angry-colored nipples, dropping down the mounds of his breasts in thin white creeks.
Sam just looks and Dean's getting more anxious by the second. "You gonna get to it?" he questions, fingers plucking the covers.
"Just let me look at you. You know how much I missed this?" Sam licks his lips and his hands slide up, eyes darting between Dean's face and his chest and requesting permission even as his palms stop just beneath, the swells fitting between the right angles of his index and thumbs.
Dean just tries to breathe under the weight of Sam's hands that seem to sink under his skin and lay on his lungs. "How much I need this?"
"You, you do?" Dean asks.
Sam nods. "All I've been wanting since you showed up. Then... then Jess, and..." Sam exhales. He shifts on top of Dean, gets off his thighs and fits himself between them instead. Dean spreads to accommodate and closes his eyes so he doesn't have to see how intimately they're pressed now that Sam's lying on him. He wants it, this and more, but he also wants to open his mouth and urge Sam to do this on their sides instead, hips apart like they did before Stanford because they've never done it this way—
Sam's breath is like an airy hand brushing over his breast, mouth very close to where Dean's full and aching. Dean reaches for his head and slides his fingers into Sam's thick hair, brings him the last of the way. Sam's warm, soft mouth clasps around his nipple then opens wider to take in the flesh around it and he sucks, hard.
It hurts. It feels so good Dean bucks into it with a sharp, "ah!" and keeps gasping even when Sam lets his breast go, milk dribbling from his lips and chin as he sputters like he used to when he was young and pulled in too much at once.
Dean starts moving his hands through his hair soothingly but Sam barely pauses to get his breath before he's latching on again and pulling those feelsgoodfeelsbad pins and needles and ache out through Dean's breast in hard, long sucks that fill his mouth too quick for his throat to work. Dean can't tell him to slow down though because his lips are dizzy and his eyes won't move. He's got his chest arched as much as his back will bend, hands fisted in the back of Sam's hair and pushing him down.
The heavy ache lessens, the burning stops and leaves only bliss. The pleasure now is not the same that it used to be, it's not just like scratching an itch. Now the pulls of Sam's mouth send aches down Dean's body, centering in his crotch, makes his cock start stiffening. "Sam," Dean mutters, eyes shut. He's in a haze, caught in that disorienting web of pleasure—hasn't felt it in years, and now the strands are wound tighter than ever. No hope of getting them untangled.
Sam sucks his nipple softer. Dean feels his hand creep over his ribs and spread over his right tit, covers it completely then squeezes until milk gushes against his palm. Dean shakes with it, his thighs moving in around Sam's hips and soundless vowels shaping his mouth.
Sam lets his breast go and Dean opens his eyes to meet his. Sam leans up a little, bringing both his hands up onto Dean's wet tits, the left a little smaller than the right now. Dean's pale under the spread of Sam's fingers on the softest parts of him. "God, Dean," Sam breathes and it rustles against Dean's eardrums. "You know how nice these are?" Sam rubs him gently, squeezes lightly. Dean can feel how hard he is, cock bulging the confines of his jeans, pressed right into Dean's own stiff dick. Dean can smell the spicy scent of aroused Alpha everywhere, easily overwhelming the lighter notes of Dean's own pheromones.
"Not even that big," Dean replies through the pervasive fog.
"Bigger than ever," Sam says in a tone that prompts a tepid laugh out of Dean. Sam smiles beatifically, "they're perfect. Always been."
Dean just hums in response, eyelids fluttering. He wants Sam to start in on the other side but he's not sure how to ask that. Sam's fingers trail over his chest, wet and white with milk. Sam licks his lips then captures Dean's nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. Dean sucks in a big breath when Sam rolls the leaking tips gently. He can't stop himself from lifting his hips with the swell of sensation.
"That feel good?" Sam whispers, looks down at him so intensely Dean falters under that stare and can't answer. Sam pinches his nipples and Dean's hips jump and meet Sam's. Crashes their cocks together through their jeans and Sam, fuck, ruts down into him and whatever moral ledge Dean had been toeing crumbles from underneath him.
"Yes," he hisses, to everything. His hands go from Sam's hair to his nape and he pulls until Sam gets the message and ducks his head once more, gives Dean's right nipple a wide lick before he sucks it into his mouth and it's the prickly rush all over again, and pleasure that falls through his chest and wraps around his ribs.
Dean jerks his hips into Sam's and suddenly can't stand to be contained under him anymore. He slings a leg over Sam's hips and uses the leverage to roll them over, then sits up until Sam can't follow anymore and his mouth pops off and milk torrents down Dean's ribs. "Sam," he says uselessly, while his brother's hands start tearing off his shirt, the last buttons snapping and pinging away. Sam looks hungry and desperate and determined.
When Dean's shirt is off Sam puts his hands under his armpits and brings him down, catches his nipple and the little hill of his breast and engulfs it all, makes Dean's eyes and hips roll.
Dean lets Sam suck for a few moments, almost gets irrevocably lost in it before he realizes he wants and needs more. "You wanna," he starts, slow with heavy lips, "you wanna?"
Sam hums around his tit, and God doesn't that feel good. His hands slide down Dean's ribs and waist, then come around to the front to start unbuckling his belt. Dean feels him swish his tongue over his nipple and it sends zigzagging twinges through Dean's body. "God," Dean says. "Lemme—"
Reluctantly he sits up, his sopping tit stretching from Sam's lips till it comes free with a dirty pop. Dean's hands bat Sam's away so he can pull his belt from its loops. Dean scoots back and starts in on Sam's with sure hands and fingers that don't shake.
Sam's cock, when Dean wraps his fingers around it and coaxes it through his zipper, is thick and hot with blood. Outside of porn, it's the biggest dick he's ever seen. Dean stares and strokes and feels like a damn dripping tap with how much he's leaking; milk from his tits, precome from his dick and slick from his ass, just wet all over for Sam.
Sam's quiet while Dean moves his hand up and down his dick, skin-on-skin and their rushing breath filling the air. When Dean sees Sam's hands start fisting on the bed, he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet and picks through credit cards and little slices of paper with girls' numbers on them, plucks out a condom.
Sam sees it and opens his mouth to pant, "God Dean, wanna fuck you," thrusting up into Dean's fist.
Dean shudders, then moves off Sam a few moments to get out of his jeans, flushing hot when his cock is freed and Sam's looking at him, eyes bouncing from his face, chest and to his waving dick when Dean gets in his lap again.
Just when Dean's about to tear open the condom wrapper, Sam sits up and frames his ribs with his hands, tugs him close and captures a nipple in the vacuum of his mouth.
"Suh—am!" Dean jolts in his lap. His hands pet dumbly at Sam's shoulders before they again find his thick dark hair and clutch it.
"God, Sammy..." While Sam suckles out his milk and pours need back into him, Dean gets the wrapper off the condom, reaches between them, past the jut of his own erection.
Sam lets his tit go and rests his forehead on Dean's chest. His fingers flit over Dean's like he wants to do it himself, but Dean's got this; brings the latex over Sam's cock in a single motion.
"Don't knot," Dean tells him when the condom's on, kind meant for Betas and Omegas. Alphas have a different kind that's tighter around the base so it doesn't ride up or split when their knot pops.
"Won't," Sam says, looking up. "Here." He grabs Dean's hips and pulls them in, lifts him up just enough that Dean feels Sam's cock bump behind his balls and he tenses with a cut-off grunt.
Sam stops, holding him there.
"What?" he questions while Dean's trying to relax again. "You need...?" The hot points of his fingers move from Dean's hip to his asscheek and burrow into the crevice.
Dean shakes his head. "No, 's all right. Just can't believe we're doin' this."
Sam's quiet entirely too long, just breathing on Dean's skin. Dean huffs, "I meant that I never thought this would happen, not that I don't want it to. Sam."
The point of Sam's nose nudges Dean's nipple. Milk seeps and Sam licks it from his ribs. "Not a one time thing right?"
"Not if you don't want it to be," Dean whispers, shifting in Sam's grip—needs him inside where he's soaked and aching. Sam presses kisses wet with milk up over Dean's breast, then tilts his head up and Dean meets him and their lips slide with hungry noises from them both.
Dean tilts his head, licks inside Sam's mouth that tastes like Dean's milk and toothpaste and Alpha. Sam's hands squeeze his hips, pressing them down. His cockhead runs from just behind Dean's balls to further back, and at the first feel of Sam's dick pressing at him Dean groans and shoves down, takes too much at once and grimaces Sam's tongue right out of his mouth.
Sam's lips go to his neck and suck at his throat soothingly. He brushes his hands up and down Dean's flanks as Dean works down, down, down through the sting and exquisite feeling, the cramps in his calves because he's curling his toes so hard.
"God you're big," Dean breathes when there's just more and more of Sam to take and Dean's already filled to the brim. It helps when Sam gobbles up one of his tits though; his long sucks make Dean weak and loose. The sting in his ass evaporates under the blanket of warmth, then suddenly there's no more cock for Dean to get inside him. He pants and just sits there impaled. If it wasn't for the nagging ache in his cock, he could pass out and float away on clouds nine, ten and eleven.
"'kay?" Sam asks, voice the roughest Dean's ever heard it, lips shaping words over Dean's ribs. There's milk, dried trails and droplets both, all over his face, fringe wet with it and sweat. Dean's tits are likewise messy, but far less swollen now—went from grapefruits to grapes.
"Good," Dean answers. He rocks his hips a little, feels Sam's cock in places he's never felt anything before. "At least it fuckin' fits, Jesus Christ. You trip on this thing when you walk around in the buff?"
Sam snorts a laugh, then hums and reaches a hand between them to wrap it around Dean's cock. He squeezes. "Uh," Dean grunts, wraps his arms around Sam's broad shoulders and holds him tight as he drags his hips up, sweat trickling down his spine.
"Dean," Sam moans when Dean seats himself again. He pulls Dean's nipple between his lips once more, soft sucks and swishes of tongue that make Dean gasp and rise up quicker, come down harder. He's tired, they're both tired—Dean can't bounce on Sam's cock like he wants and Sam can't throw Dean down on the bed like he probably wants but it's good, fuck, Sam groaning around Dean's nipple, rocking his ribs with the vibration, Sam's hand slipsliding on Dean's sweaty back, his cock spearing Dean wide and punching like a fist—in, out, in, out.
Dean pants with the creak of bedsprings, spreads his knees out wider. Milk from the nipple not held in Sam's mouth is running down his ribs and stomach, seeps into his pubic hair and gets his dick slick for the furious pull of Sam's hand.
Dean swerves his hips until he's found the perfect angle for Sam's cock to slide over his sweet spot on every lift and drop, groans, "fuck, Sammy," as the throbbing heat in his groin intensifies. "Sam, please."
"Got you," Sam says after he's let Dean's tit go, excess milk spilling from his lips and dripping down. He clamps his free arm around Dean's waist, leans back a little, then jolts his hips up. Throws Dean off his rhythm to the point where there's no hope of trying to find it again, so he lets the snaps of Sam's hips take over, beat of his cock so deep inside it could keep Dean's heart going.
"So fucking wet," Sam hoarses, lips phantom-white with dried milk hanging apart as he looks at Dean, feverish and shocked. Dean is—milk down his torso, dick seeping pre-come and his slick is all over his thighs and Sam's jeans—just soaking everywhere, Sam's arm slipping on Dean's sweat-heavy skin over and over again as he tries to hold onto him. "Dean, Dean, God, wanna tie you so bad, fuck—"
Makes Dean think of being mated, of his belly getting full and his tits getting fuller to feed their baby, dizzying fantasies that've never been unboxed before and he cries out and comes, lurching in Sam's hold as his dick spits in Sam's pretty fingers and his ass contracts around every inch of Sam's cock.
Sam chokes on a series of sob-like moans and Dean's world tilts as he's tipped over onto his back. He misses Sam's cock instantly when it pulls out, but seeing Sam rip the condom off and jerk his cock till it splashes hot come over Dean's stomach is almost as good.
When Sam's cock isn't spurting anymore he falls down on Dean and rubs his dick in the mess splattered around Dean's navel. "Mm," Sam groans, sounding about as happy as an Alpha can be.
Dean lets him indulge for a few moments, before Sam's weight starts to crush his ribs. "All right, get off me. You're squishin' the goods."
Sam tips over onto his back beside Dean and breathes.
Dean cracks open an eye to look down his body. Milk's every fuckin' where, mixed with Sam's come around his happy trail, clumping his pubic hairs together. The insides of his thighs are tacky with slick and the rest of his skin is shiny with sweat. He looks over at Sam, whose monster cock has gone soft, stuck through his fly like a flesh-snake. Sam's got Dean's slick on his jeans, Dean's come on his shirt, Dean's milk on his shirt, his neck, face and hair.
Makes Sam smell good; covered in Dean's scent, like a mate. Dean breathes that goodscent, clears his throat, "I'm gonna need like, forty showers."
"Forty hours of shut-eye," Sam murmurs, apparently already starting in on the first. They're both facing the wrong way on the bed and the covers are too far away to grab, but Dean closes his eyes. The first hooks of sleep sink in quick.
He's just holding on enough, however, to catch Sam doing the girliest post-sex move ever—he reaches over and finds Dean's hand, swallows it in a tight grip. "Thank you, Dean," he whispers.
Dean rolls his eyes behind their lids, but says, "sure thing, Sammy."
fin