Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It's just instinctive. Mom's gone, and Sam cries and cries, always spitting up the formula and scrunching up his face, no matter how many brands Dad buys or different bottles. Dean's just barely getting him to keep enough down to survive. Most of it ends up on his clothes and Sam's onesie. The hungry squalling keeps Dean awake at night, makes him pad over to the crib and climb inside, try to stop Sam's fussing with soft touches and words, funny faces and half-remembered lullabies.

He hates the crying, intrinsically so. Sometimes there's babies crying on the TV and Dean hates that too. It makes him feel shivery and urgent, like he needs to make the sound stop no matter what. And he can only get so far with goofy faces with Sam, can only get so much formula into him, and he feels overwhelmingly like a failure. Mom's gone, and he's supposed to be the one to take care of Sam now since Dad's usually—when he hasn't left—on the couch drinking.

Dean has to be the one to look after Sammy, and each cry is a blaring sign that he's not doing a good job. Dean tries to copy Mom as much as possible, because she was so good and easy with Sam, but nothing seems to work. Sam spits up the formula and wails out his resultant hunger all night.

It's just another torturous night in their new just-for-now house. Dean's in his too-big bed staring up at the ceiling—doesn't have glowy stars like his old room did—listening to Sam scream. He's just started in, and Dean usually waits until the volume lowers before he climbs into the crib, otherwise the shrill noise makes his ears hurt.

Dean rubs at his chest irritably. The past few days he's felt a heaviness there, a tingle like pins and needles. He's hyperaware of the brush of his nightshirt, and how it seems to catch and pull when it didn't before. He'd tell Dad but he doesn't talk to anyone anymore, except Sam. He's not sure why he can't, he wants to, but there's a block in his throat that only moves to let him sing lullabies and whisper, "it's okay Sammy. Don't cry."

The weight and scratch of his shirt on his nipples gets to be too much, and he sits up, sheet falling around him. He starts unbuttoning the shirt with small unpracticed fingers. When he's down to the last buttons, a sudden sharp ache makes him press a palm into his chest to soothe it away. His hand sinks in a little, into the new weird softness. Something warm runs between his fingers.

Panicking, thinking it's blood, Dean lets out a little yell and hits the lamp with his other hand until it turns on. He brings his hand away from his chest even as he feels more trickles fall down his ribs. He looks at his wet hand and relaxes a bit when he sees it's not red. It's white, but watery and thin. Dean smells it tentatively and it doesn't really smell like anything.

He wipes the liquid on his flannel pants and shifts closer to the lamp so the light hits his chest, which is shiny with the liquid, nipples angry red and... leaking.

Stiffly, Dean presses two fingers into the flesh around his nipple and jumps as more liquid sprays out in a small arc that splatters on the covers.

Dean gets out of bed. His open shirt lapels flap as he hurries down the hallway. He knows even without knowing that he can feed this liquid, the milk, to Sam; he's seen people in the park doing it with blankets over themselves, and now it all makes sense. He's finally got something that Sam'll drink.

Sam's still wailing when Dean opens the door to his room. Dean quickly closes it, fighting the urge to cover his ears at Sam's cutting cries now he's closer to the source.

"Sammy," Dean chides as he trots to the crib. "It's okay, Sammy, stop crying."

Though his ears are cringing with Sam's screeching, Dean climbs up the bars of Sam's crib and swings himself over into a free space like he's done a hundred times.

And, like he's also done a hundred times, Dean lifts up Sam by his armpits and pulls him into his lap, strokes over baby-thin chestnut hair.

"Sam—my," Dean says urgently, "stop." Because Sam's red-faced and angry looking, and Dean thinks he might bite if he tries to get him to latch on while he's upset.

"Dun-dun-dun-dundundudda-dun-dun-dun-dundudda," Dean sings the guitar from one of the songs Dad's always listening to. Sam's angry yawn closes a little, and he opens teary eyes to peer up at Dean.

"We all went down to mon-tril, in the lake jin-eva short light," Dean continues, "...we didn't have a time..."

Dean smiles as Sam smiles with all his gums, waving an arm around excitedly. "Oooh, smokey in the water, the fire is a lie, dun-dun-dun-dundudda."

Dean wipes the tears off Sam's face and moves to cradle his now much calmer brother in the crook of his elbow. Sam's waving fist hits his chest as he giggles.

"Second, Sammy." Dean pulls the blanket off the crib's bed, and puts it over his shoulder like he'd seen the people at the park do. Making sure to support Sam's head, Dean moves him up until he feels Sam's cheek against his nipple. "Okay Sammy. Got food for you. Go ahead."

Dean feels Sam turn his head, but he doesn't take the nipple in his mouth, and starts squirming. "Sam, c'mon." Dean holds him tighter, but that only makes Sam start whimpering again. Dean ducks his head under the blanket to see, takes an arm out from Sam to tap his chest. "See? Right here."

Sam wiggles, fussing, small bluish-green eyes getting squinty. "Don't cry Sam! I got food for you! Just—put your mouth—"

Dean holds Sam's face and gently pushes it towards his chest. Sam's mouth hits his nipple, but he doesn't open his lips for it. Some milk gets on his forehead. "Please Sammy. This is gonna make you feel better, 'kay? But you gotta put it in your mouth. Tastes good, I promise. Not like that yucky can stuff."

Dean jiggles him, then moves him so Sam's sitting upright on his forearm, face right in front of the food he needs.

Dean inhales. "Please, Sammy? Please, you gotta eat. I got the food. Just suck. Please."

And Sam's mouth finally covers his nipple. Breath hitches in further, then Dean exhales when he feels the soft press of gums around his nipple and a soft tugging sensation.

Dean pulls his head from the blanket, adjusting his hold on Sam and leaning back into the crib bars. "Good Sammy, really good," Dean whispers, and shudders at the sensation—pleasant and warm, a tingling rush from his neck to where Sam's suckling.

Each pull relaxes Dean further, until his eyes are closed and he's smiling a little in utter contentment. It feels like being in a warm bath, with his duckies and other toys, Mom washing his hair and laughing softly.

Dean sniffs, holding Sam tighter to him. A tear drips down his face, which is bad, because Dean's supposed to be a big boy like Dad said. But Dean's never missed Mom so much.

Dean feels Sam's tiny hands knead his flesh and he puts his head back under the blanket to watch his brother drink, utterly fascinated by what his body's able to do now, how it's working and Sam's finally getting the food he needs.

Some milk escapes the clasp of Sam's lips and Dean wipes it away, smiling down at him. "My Sammy," he says softly, leaning down to kiss his head.

"Sam's been real quiet lately," Dad says, in nothing but his black bathrobe and drinking steaming coffee at the tiny dining room table.

Dean sits up straighter in his seat and beams down into his bowl of oatmeal. "Yeah, he's been good." Talking's easier now, now that he's not kept awake at night by Sam's shrieks, now that he's doing a good job taking care of him.

"Relief not to hear that wailing twenty-four seven, though now he won't get down any formula I try and give him. Made an appointment with a doctor."

"You don't gotta do that, Dad," Dean says after a second's hesitation, partly because he's not used to talking much, and because he's not sure he should tell Dad, "Sam's eating."

"How's Sam eating? He won't take a bottle from you or me." Dean looks up from his bowl to take a sip of cranberry juice, then looks at his father, who's looking back at him with his eyebrows raised.

Dean puts both hands on the table and taps his fingers nervously, eyes falling from Dad's eyes to the journal he's been writing in. "I feed Sam," Dean says. "Like Mom did. Yeah. Like people at the park do... sometimes."

Dean sets his eyes back on his oatmeal and scoops some into his mouth, braced for Dad to start yelling.

"Dean—Dean, that doesn't work," Dad stutters out. "You aren't—there's not—there's nothing there for him to eat, Dean."

"Yes there is," Dean says lowly, offended because doesn't Dad think he's capable of taking care of Sam? "My chest leaks."

"What?"

Dean clumsily hops off the chair that's too big for him. "I'll show you," he says, then hurries to Sam's room and picks him and his blanket up. Dad's gotten up to follow him and he's in the hallway when Dean comes out.

"Hold him for a sec." Dean gives Dad Sammy then pulls his t-shirt over his head as fast as he can, hears Dad inhale as he sees his chest, where his nipples are red and swollen and there's soft tiny mounds of flesh around them.

"'kay." Dean takes the blanket and puts it over his shoulder, then takes Sam away from his father's limp hands and situates his brother under the cover. Sam must be starving because he latches on right away. "See!" Dean exclaims excitedly, bouncing a little on his feet as Sam drinks.

"I... can't really see much, Dean." Dad scratches the back of his neck. "Why do you have the blanket over yourself?"

"That's what people at the park do." Dean bites his lip, unsure now. "Isn't that what you're s'posed to do?"

"If you're at a park, champ. If you're at a park." Dad runs a hand through his dark mess of hair and goes back to the table, falls into the chair Dean had been sitting in.

"That's where I sit Daddy," Dean laughs, moving after him slowly as to not jostle his brother from his breakfast.

Dad doesn't even correct his use of "daddy." Dean comes up to him and shifts on his feet, trying to tell if Dad's upset at him.

Dad rubs his eyebrows and sighs gustily, gesturing a hand in Dean's direction. "When'd this start up?"

"A week ago," Dean whispers. He feels the sudden urge to carry Sam back to his crib and spend the rest of the day there. He doesn't want to talk anymore.

But Dad turns in his seat and makes a 'come here' gesture. Dean drags his feet over, eyes fastened to the floor.

"Okay," Dad says, picking the blanket off Dean's shoulder. "God, you can't really be—"

The blanket falls to the floor, bringing cold air and Dad's shocked expression with it.

"Jesus."

Sam lets Dean's nipple go, milk falling down in his wake, to fuss softly and wave his plump arms around like he knows he's the object of attention. Dean switches him to the other side.

"Jesus," Dad swears again, wiping a hand down his morning stubble as Sam starts suckling Dean's right nipple.

Dean looks down at Sam instead of looking at his father, letting the tumble of his blond hair hide his face. He wants the blanket back. Showing Dad this feels weird, like this should be kept between him and Sammy only. Dean wants to hide himself and Sammy away from the world.

It's Dean that ends up going to the doctor, and Dad gruffs out a vague explanation as to why Dean doesn't respond to any of the questions, why he's not talking.

The doctor's cold, gloved hands poke around his chest, express some milk from him while Dean wants to scream that's Sammy's food stop wasting it! but he just lies back on the thin tissue paper and stares at the textured ceiling.

"Well, a blood test would confirm it, but I think it's pretty obvious Dean here is an Omega," Mr. Hartford says to Dad, stripping off his gloves.

"He's not even five," Dad says. He sounds mad but looks distant, slumped in the chair and staring through an anatomy poster of the respiratory system.

Dean wonders what Omega means. The doctor's left his shirt up; Dean pulls it back down.

"Lactation requires a hefty dose of the hormone prolactin, which is usually only present in such amounts during pregnancy. Dean's body has been triggered by an outside source. You mentioned a younger child?"

Sammy, Dean mouths. He wants to go home.

"A baby." John nods, rubs his brow again. "Yeah."

"There you go," Mr. Hartford says. "This is actually quite common in young Omegas, Mr. Winchester. Their physiology is—"

Dean, who had started listening attentively when the term Omega was mentioned again, jumps when Dad slaps a hand on the armrest, "Dean's not an Omega," he hisses, "he's not—he's just a boy. Just a boy."

"What's an Omega?" Dean wonders aloud, breaking his silence for the first time, because being an Omega is starting to sound neat, like Dean's some kind of superhero, superhuman like the Hulk. Something special. "Are they the older boys at the park?"

"Dean—"

"Who at the park?" The doctor asks both of them.

Dad sighs and slumps further. "Where Dean got the idea to feed Sammy, I guess. You know, the people breastfeeding with the blankets and everything."

Dr. Hartford gives Dean, who's sat up now, a smile and a nod. "Yes Dean, you're like the older boys at the park."

Dean nods. "What else can I do?"

"Well—"

Dad clears his throat and gets up. "You can come with me, because apparently nursing at four is normal and this has all been a big waste of time."

"Mr. Winchester—"

"C'mon Dean." Dad lifts Dean off the table with a loud rustle of tissue paper. Dean twists in his arms to look at Dr. Hartford. "I can still feed Sammy, right?" he asks, loud, because that's the most important question, it's the only thing he's really worried about, cares about.

"I suppose that's up to your father," the doctor says, cutting a glare at Dad. "Though I recommend Dean be allowed to follow his instincts."

Dad mutters under his breath. Dean turns to face him, waiting. "Sammy," Dean says. "I'm looking out for Sammy."

Dad sighs, papery, hand on his back pushing Dean's face into his neck. Dean inhales his peppery scent and wraps his arms around him. "There anything we need if he wants to keep this up?" Dad asks over Dean's tiny shoulder.

"Make sure he keeps up on his own nutritional needs," Dr. Hartford says, voice much lighter than before. "He is like any other breastfeeding Omega; you might want to buy him a nursing bra to deal with leak-through, a pump when he gets a little older."

Dean wrinkles his nose at the mention of a bra, which he knows only girls wear for the bumps on their chests. Dean doesn't have any bumps like that.

"When will it stop?" Dad asks after a long quiet moment in which he shifts on his feet and hikes Dean up a little.

"As long as there's a demand," Dr. Hartford says, "there will be a supply."

"I'm hungry, Dean," Sam says from the passenger seat, and in his peripheral Dean sees him lick his lips, sees his eyes dart down to Dean's chest.

No doubt what kind of hungry Sam is then.

"Now?" Dean complains, but he's already looking for somewhere to pull in. Knowing Sam, there won't be any time to make it home, because Sam's gotten pushier and pushier as he's grown up.

"Nick took my lunch money again," Sam admits.

Dean growls and slams his hand on the steering wheel. "Didn't I tell you Sam? You gotta kick his ass or he's just not gonna get the memo."

"I'll get suspended."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Then you get suspended, what's the big deal? We'll be bugging out when Dad gets back anyway."

"I don't wanna miss school," Sam says sullenly, twirling his soccer ball between his hands.

Oh yeah, Sam and school. Sam his weirdo little brother whose eyes damn near start twinkling at the mention of homework and projects over Winter break. It's not normal. Dean's dropped out, but it was no big loss. No reason for Dean to even try with all the days he missed to begin with taking care of Sam when he was younger. Pretentious teachers (and students) in middle school just drove Dean up the wall and high school was only good for girls.

But Sam buys into all that. Insists on getting on the soccer team of every new school he starts and nagging Dean into driving him to and back from practice.

"Dean," Sam says impatiently, scraping his cleats over the footwell.

"Yeah yeah, I'm looking for a place to pull over. Watch the upholstery."

Sam takes a hand off the ball to point. "The park's right around there you know."

Dean scoffs, and gives a disbelieving look to his brother, who smirks knowingly. "Don't start in with your shit, you know we don't do that in public."

Sam shrugs. "Lots of other Omegas do. I don't get why you're so weird about it. It's normal."

Dean turns his eyes back to the road, resisting the urge to tell Sam where he can shove his "normal."

Fortunately, there's a sideroad up ahead. The shadowy dirt path leads to a lake no one goes to on account of the water being similar to sewage, which Sam and Dean had found out the hard way.

Dean turns into it, and when they're out of sight of the main road, lets the Impala come to a stop and kills the engine. Sam and him get out.

Dean looks around just in case, and upon seeing no one except his brother coming around the car, he shrugs out of Dad's jacket and puts it on the roof of the Impala. He leans back against the car and pushes his shirt up with one hand and uses the other to pull out the pad insert in his bra, and just tucks it inside the other cup for want of somewhere to put it.

"Got it," Sam says, in front of him now. He pushes Dean's shirt higher with one hand and puts his fingers inside Dean's bra to push out the flap, fingers cool and making Dean's nipples stiffen.

Dean's hands fall away to let Sam work. Sam takes his fingers out and pulls up the flap, revealing the swollen pink of Dean's nipple to the cool air.

Sam pauses a moment, looks long enough to make Dean feel uncomfortable, but then he's ducking his head in and swallowing up the nipple and most of the meager flesh around it. The sudden hot of Sam's mouth replacing the cold of the air makes goosebumps prickle on Dean's arms, makes his nipples tighten even more.

Sam's an expert from fourteen years of experience, knows just how to suck and compress the ducts with his lips to get a lot out all at once. Dean feels the tingling rush of his milk letting down, and then watches Sam's cheeks expand with the rush of it into his mouth.

Sam grunts softly, and swallows quick but some spurts out past the seal, white contrasting with his tawny skin.

Dean feels a little embarrassed, but Sam just moves in closer, pressing him back into the car. The flow of milk steadies out soon enough to Sam's soft suckles, and Dean sighs in contentment, petting a hand through Sam's dark hair. At fourteen, Sam's just the right height to nurse, mouth coming up just a little above Dean's nipples, so standing's the preferred position now—Dean used to feed him sitting down.

Dean relaxes and closes his eyes, thinking they'll probably have to start laying down if Sam ends up taller.

There's no real words to describe how feeding Sam feels. Dean thinks it might be better than orgasms, but it's a whole different kind of pleasure, one that makes him feel sleepy and proud of himself for being able to take care of his brother this way. Everything feels right in the world, all Dean's problems taken away in the gentle pulls of Sam's mouth.

"'s good Dean," Sam whispers when he pulls off momentarily, licking milk stained lips.

Dean hums and fists his fingers in Sam's hair to pull him back in, wanting the feeling back. His nipple's again enveloped in soft warm heat, and Dean hopes Sam doesn't hear the quiet moan that leaves his lips. It just feels so good, like having an itch scratched.

Dean doesn't realize he's sliding down the car until Sam pulls back and grabs him. "Dean!"

"Wha—" Dean opens his eyes, and immediately rights himself when he realizes what happened.

"That one's all done," Sam says, tongue sweeping across the milk on his chin.

"All right. We'll save the other one for when you go to bed." Dean does the flap up again. His breast, smaller now with the milk drained out, kind of swims in the fabric, but it's better when he puts the nursing insert back in.

He's about to pull his shirt down when Sam abruptly says, "they're really nice."

Sam's staring at his chest with a blank expression, open-mouthed, looking like he's gone into a fucking vegetative state.

Dean shifts his weight uncomfortably, not sure what to say. "What, my boobs?" he asks, going for light-hearted.

Sam answers by raising his eyebrows, eyes still glued to Dean's chest, wide like he can see through the bra. Dean chuckles nervously and lets his shirt drop. "This ain't a damn peep show Sammy," he jokes.

Sam lowers his eyes, blushing right through his bronze skin.

Dean grabs Dad's jacket and throws it over himself.

Sam opens his mouth to say something but Dean bowls over him, "hey, any cute girls at your school?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "I don't care about girls, Dean."

Dean balks, tugging Sam under his arm to lead him back to his side of the car. "Don't care about girls! Sammy you're breaking my heart here!"

Sam shoots up like a veritable weed at sixteen going on seventeen, until Dean has to tilt his face to look him in the eye, tug his shoulders down when they hug. Sam changes so quick Dean finds himself wondering where that tiny baby-faced twelve year old went, looking for traces of him in the angles of his brother's I-cut-diamonds-with-these cheekbones face.

When Sam pops his knot, it's not a surprise to Dean. Though Dean's big for one, no Omega gets as freaking gigantic as Sam's shaping out to be as he finally grows into his paws.

Dad claps Sam on the shoulder—possibly the last good gesture he gives him before they start head-butting—and says proud of you, son, like Sam's had to work for being an Alpha instead of winding up one by pure chance.

Dean didn't get an I'm proud of you. At fourteen Dean got uncomfortable looks and avoidance, suppressant pills slid under his door.

But Dean's happy for Sam anyway. Smells Sam's changed scent as soon as he enters the motel and starts in with knot knot jokes even as his insides tremble at the smell of virile unmated Alpha.

That night Dean's wary about parting his shirt for Sam, because now things are fundamentally different and they both know it. He's already fighting down stiffies just smelling his brother's pheromones, let alone having him so close, having his mouth on him.

Dean decides on their sides facing each other is probably best, hips so far apart you could drive the Impala through them, blankets carefully covering.

Dean unbuttons his shirt slow-fingered, not looking at Sam, whose weight is dipping the edge of the bed. Dad's snoring in the other bed ten feet away, back turned towards them.

Dean can sense Sam's impatience like static on his skin, can feel his lion-eyes on him, and he wants to call it off. Not like Sam needs to drink from him anymore, been a long time since, and Dean doesn't give a fuck about societal expectations that say siblings, especially Alpha ones, should be breastfed as long as possible.

His shirt's undone anyway. Dean reaches in to take out the nursing pad just as Sam grabs his wrist in his too-big hand and says, "just take it off."

"No," Dean says, voice stirring the quiet, the dark of the motel. It's not the first time Sam's requested it, and it's not the first time Dean's told him no.

"C'mon Dean, it's easier."

Easier for you to look at my tits, Dean thinks. No, he can't take his bra off, bare himself in that way, especially not tonight. He shakes his head emphatically as he undoes the flap, nursing pad sitting on the nightstand. "I make the rules here. You're lucky I'm still letting you do this. Lay down."

Sam sighs in the pissy way he does, but lays down. On his back. Jesus, does he think Dean's gonna hover over him like a cow?

"On your side," Dean grits, getting into that position himself. "Get the lead out Sam, I'm dripping everywhere."

With another woe-is-me sigh, Sam turns onto his side and scootches in. Dean holds his breast steady only for Sam's hand to replace it, long warm fingers curling around the curve, meager flesh dwarfed by his palm.

Sam latches on with a forceful suck, pulling Dean's skin between his teeth.

Dean hisses, three parts pleasure and one part pain. He feels the rushing of milk through the ducts, and then Sam's pulling off and coughing, white milk flowing down his chin and the sheets.

"Christ, don't suck so hard Sam—"

Sam catches Dean's nipple again before he can even stop coughing, like a man desperate. He pulls hard again, like a damn Hoover, like he's trying to suck out Dean's lungs, ridge of his teeth dug hard into the areola.

"Sam!" Dean whisper-yells, arching back to try and pull away from the painful suction. Sam makes a sound in his throat, hand leaving Dean's breast to slide down the line of Dean's body—his ribs, his side. The grip of his mouth gentles, softens into suckles.

Dean relaxes, sighing in relief. He puts a hand in Sam's dumb long hair and shuts his eyes, tries to just enjoy the closeness with his brother, breathe shallowly so he doesn't get too much of Sam's scent in his lungs. Dean waits and dreads for arousal to pool low but it never does, it's the same as it's always been—pride and satisfaction and warmth. Dean tilts his chin to kiss Sam's hair and dozes off while Sam's still drinking.

"Son of a bitch," Dean mutters the next morning, open-mouthed in the mirror. Around the pink corona of his right nipple is a splotchy red-purple mark.

From Sam's mouth.

That hard sucking—Sam left a hickey on him. Dean buttons up his shirt and doesn't look at his brother the whole day.

Sam really does break Dean's heart two years later. Him and Dad have their last fight and they're determined to go out with a bang—yelling and screaming and shoving. Dean for once doesn't bother to get in the fray that is Sam's and Dad's wills taking up arms and going to war.

Dean's waiting outside, drinking a beer, listening to things get thrown and broken inside the house Dad had rented out. Dean knows from observing bar fights just how two Alphas can become completely unshackled and lose themselves; he reasons that the yelling's a good sign. As long as they're not snarling and growling they're not about to go for each other's throats.

Something thumps against the door, making Dean start. "Sammy, you walk out that door, don't you even think of coming back!" he hears Dad scream.

The door opens, and Sam spills out, duffel bag over his shoulder. He slams the door and a second later Dean hears glass hit and splinter against it.

Sam looks at him, chest heaving, face sweaty and red in the porch light. Dean looks back, everything unspoken in the air between them.

Dean finishes his beer and crinkles the can up, throws it. He fishes his keys out of his pocket. "Free ride to the bus stop?"

There are no long goodbyes. Dean doesn't try to convince Sam to stay and Sam doesn't try to get Dean to come with him.

When the lights of the bus start coming up the street, Sam turns to Dean. In the dark, Dean thinks his eyes might be watering. He knows his own are. Sam hugs him, draws Dean up into his chest, hard enough to lift Dean up on his toes.

Sam's warm in the cold night, warm and skinny. Dean clutches his hoodie and hopes he puts on the freshman fifteen and more, hopes he'll grow a beard and not wash his hair, hopes he'll stay awake with Red Bull and Funyuns while he studies with dark circles under his eyes.

"Bye Dean," Sam whispers, hot breath, and lips, when they kiss Dean's temple.

Dean starts leaking, where his chest is pressed tight to Sam's. Behind Sam, the bus doors open.

Dean pulls back and clears his throat, gets out his wallet. "Don't waste it on Mr. Pibb," he says, taking out all the money inside. For a brief moment he considers handing over his forged credit cards as well, but Sam doesn't need the reminder of the life he's leaving behind.

Sam takes the money, then looks from the bus back to Dean.

"It's okay Sammy," Dean says, "you go. Go get it."

Sam nods, stilted. He darts forward and leaves a last kiss on Dean's cheekbone, smoothes his hands from Dean's shoulders down his chest. Dean shivers, but keeps the smile on his face; nursing Sam is gonna be gone with Sam, and that suddenly seems the worst part of all.

Sam nods again, and then turns. Dean watches him get on the bus and pay the fare, watches him take a seat under harsh fluorescents. Dean blinks tears away so he can watch Sam's profile. Sam looks so young but yet so mature in the stubborn jut of his chin, in the intelligent slant of his eyes when he looks out the window at Dean.

Dean chuckles wetly, lifts a hand to spread his fingers in a wave. They don't break eye contact until the bus rolls away.

Dean watches the taillights, breathes in deep. A tear spills hot on his cold cheek.

Then he gets back in the Impala, and drives home.

Dad's drinking on the couch, watching the TV, which is muted. Dean steps around the broken glass near the door, throws his keys on the table.

Were this any other time, Dean would've joined his dad on the couch and tried to comfort him, but not tonight. Because Dean's secretly brimming with anger inside, because Dad's managed to drive Sam away, has Dean's Sammy running away and he's not coming back—

Sammy'll come back, Dean thinks on his way to the fridge, hoping Dad hasn't drank all the beer yet. Eventually.

There's half a sixer left in the fridge. Dean grabs two bottles and heads to Sam's room. They haven't really had a chance to settle into the house but Sam's room is drenched in his scent because he spends, spent so much time in here, studying or with his head in a book. It's also where he filled out his college applications, hid his acceptance letters.

Dean sets the bottles on the nightstand and begins taking off his clothes. Dad's jacket is wrestled roughly from his shoulders; he wishes leather ripped easier. He shoulders off his button down and pulls his henley over his head, amulet dropping cold on his naked skin.

Next he kicks his boots off and rolls his jeans down his legs. He's not wearing any underwear, and that's just as well.

He sits on Sam's bed, reaches a hand back to undo his bra, pinches where the hooks are joined until they snap apart. He pulls the straps off his shoulders and just lets the bra land on the floor.

The nursing pads are covered in milk, and Dean's still leaking. Coming into Sam's room has made it worse, but Dean needs this. He climbs under Sam's covers and sighs as he turns his face into Sam's pillow. The scent is concentrated here, spicy and warm. Dean inhales greedily, his tears drying up as the comforting smell fills his senses.

Dean sniffs, turning over. He's getting his milk all over Sam's sheets, making his bed smell more like SamDean than Sam. It smells right, too right—Dean feels himself start to get hard, start to get wet, but doesn't have the energy or desire to touch himself. He grabs a bottle of beer and starts sucking it down.

When he falls asleep, bundled up deep in his brother's bed, he dreams about Sam's voice.

Dean's bra doesn't fit anymore. None of them do, even the smallest one.

His breasts have shrunk so much he doesn't even have breasts anymore. At first Dean thought it was from losing weight, but when his milk stopped too he knew it was because his body saw no need to make milk anymore—Sammy and his mouth are gone. Dean's body isn't gonna waste making something for someone who isn't there.

It's weird, to not wear a bra. Dean's been wearing one so long, since he was in single digits, that he feels naked and bare even with his clothes covering his chest. But he doesn't need to wear one anymore, has gone completely flat-chested, like a Beta or Alpha male. Most Omega males have breasts their whole lives because they feed their siblings, then their babies, which they usually have as early and as often as possible.

So Dean's titless at twenty-five, and he knows what people think. They could assume he's an only child, but twenty-five's long past due for his first kid, so he should be plump with milk right about now. It's not anything that'll get him lynched, but he does get looks from people, mostly other Omegas who feel sorry for him and the occasional Alpha who wants to "help" him out. Betas, as usual, mind their own damn business, probably assume he's a Beta himself, like they assume about everyone else because of their weak senses.

Dean likes Betas. There's no questions and prods about his flat chest. Dean ventures into sex with another Omega only to be pressured to start having babies because "it's weird you're so dry and flat."

Dean stays away from Alphas of both genders. Some of them are exemplary cases, like Sam and—obliquely—Dad, but most are too controlled by their knots to even have a decent conversation with.

Then Dean meets Cassie, and falls in love with her. She's got the same stubborn personality Sam does, passionate and independent, and, not as important—but still important—knows how to knot an Omega so good he sees God.

She's so perfect that Dean considers settling down with her, giving up the life and having a few kids, but when he tells her about the life, she cuts him out so quick her number is "unavailable" when Dean calls an hour later after she's kicked him out.

So Dean goes back to Dad. Dad's not the greatest, and Dean's past considering him a superhero, but at least he's always there. Physically at least. Dad's usually checked out nowadays, and all he seems to want to even consider talking about is the hunt he's been on for the past twenty-one years. The hunt Dean privately thinks is pointless. Revenge won't change a damn thing, and Dad's obsession with it is what drove Sam away.

Dean thinks about Sam all day—wonders what he's doing, what he looks like now, who he's friends with, if he has someone special. Dean hopes he's happy.

Sam doesn't call him anymore. That had been the thing early on; Sam had called, texted, and sent emails and even the occasional letter, but that had waned off within a year.

Dean didn't ask why, and he doesn't try reaching out for Sam now, even though he hasn't heard his voice in two years. Sam's got his own new life, doesn't need Dean from his past one to keep clinging like an old chain.

So Dean hunts, sometimes with Dad but now mostly on his own. Dad wants to go by himself more and more, and Dean knows it's because those hunts are the ones that have something to do with Mom's killer.

Then Dad doesn't come back.

Dean waits three weeks, before he gives it up and makes the drive to Stanford. Sam's the only person who can help him, the person who needs to know. Dean hates himself already for dragging Sam back into the mess, but he's not gonna lose the last person in his life, and he knows Sam cares enough about Dad to at least help Dean look for him.

Dean can smell her as soon as he breaks in. There's Sam's scent, different but very much the same, and then there's the lighter smell of roses tangled with it.

Dean feels his heart wobble between crippling despair and proud happiness, because Sam has a mate. An Omega female from what Dean can scent.

And that's confirmed later, after Sam thinks he's a burglar and they tumble around on the floor. Sam wraps an arm around her shoulders and says, "this is Jessica, my mate."

Jessica's beautiful, of course. Sam didn't settle. Dean thinks she even looks a little like him, and he doesn't know if that's coincidence or what, doesn't know what to think.

"Nice shirt," Dean says, looking at her impressive rack and feeling inadequate. "I like the Smurfs."

Jessica gives him a look that's part disdain and part the pity all Omegas give at seeing his flat chest.

When Dean's convinced Sam that his cause is important enough to look into, and yes you'll be able to go to your interview Sammy, Sam's sitting beside him in the car.

It's surreal, after four years of not seeing Sam, and three of not hearing him, he's got his brother right beside him. Sam hasn't changed much—gotten even taller, put a little weight on but remains rangy, and has grown bangs across his forehead. The last rounded lines he'd had at eighteen have taken on the same sleekness as the rest of his face.

Sam's voice has deepened just a little too, but otherwise Sam hasn't changed as much as Dean expected.

Dean wonders how much Sam thinks he's changed. Does he look too different from four years ago? Dean's really only changed his haircut; he had longer, blonder hair when Sam left on the bus, and now it's economically short and spiked. Has his face changed? How much older does he look? Does Sam notice the start of laugh-lines around his eyes? Does Sam notice how flat Dean is?

And he must, because his eyes don't wander down there and linger like they had when he was a teenager—primitive part of Sam's big brain perking up at perky breasts no matter who they were attached to.

But now that doesn't happen anymore. Dean doesn't know what to think and when he does, his thoughts are wrongwrongwrong and he tightens his fists on the steering wheel and inhales Sam's mated, taken scent to remind himself that he's a good brother.

Dean doesn't have a mate. Dean stares sullenly at the road, Sam dozing next to him. Twenty-six and mateless, childless, breastless. It's fucking unheard of. As if Dean wasn't enough of a freak.

Sam probably feels sorry for him, probably shoots pitying glances when Dean's not looking, just like every other person does.

The woman in white finally goes home and Sam's got an interview in ten hours, says Dean, Dad, they're just gonna have to wait.

Dean drops Sam off at his apartment building. "You know, we made a helluva team back there," Dean entreats from the car as Sam's walking.

Sam turns. "Yeah," he says softly. He looks so grown up standing there, even with his shoulders all hunched in. Dean watches, wants to yell out damn it, stop slouching Sam! even as his eyes indulge in the drop of Sam's shoulders, in the length of his legs.

Dean sticks his eyes back on the road and hits the gas. In his mind's eye, he can see Sam meeting Jess—because she'd obviously stay up waiting for him, she's just that kinda girl—near the doorway, and tilting down to give her a long missed-you kiss. And Jess would have something made for him, or maybe more realistically for college students, made sure his Chinese takeout stayed warm.

And later, Sam'd be tired, but he's just that kinda guy, so Sam would hold her and kiss her and fuck her while Dean sat in a bar fifty miles away and listened to Dad's voicemail for the hundredth time.

Dean blinks and brings the dashboard back into focus. Unease suddenly puts a cold brick in his gut. Same feeling he got the night Mom died, which had made him unable to sleep, which had made him run out into the hallway as soon as he heard Dad's yells.

Dean spins the wheel, pulls back up to the apartment and gets out of the car.

He trots up to the door and takes his gun out of his waistband with cold, shaking fingers.

A foot away from the building he can hear Sam shouting.

No no no no. Dean puts his weight on his back leg and kicks the door in with his front, bursts into the building. Immediately he can smell smoke. "Oh God," Dean gasps, follows Sam's screaming up the stairs, takes them two at a time.

There's orange reflected on the wall in the hallway from a room, so much like twenty years ago Dean feels sick. He runs into the room and a blast of heat draws the cool air from outside right out of him.

He runs to his brother—thank God, alive—and grabs him tight and starts pulling him out. Sam's yelling at the ceiling "Jess, Jess, no!" over and over and Dean knows what he's gonna see before he does but it doesn't stop the horror when he looks up and sees a pretty nightgown and blood and blonde hair and Jessica's shocked open mouth.

Sam fights him all the way down the stairs and out the door, making horrible roaring sobs, an Alpha's despair at losing his mate and Dean feels the pain of their bond breaking like a bunch of rubber bands snapping at his skin.

Sam talks to the police with a wet face, looking all of six years old again. After they're done with their questions Dean finds him loading a shotgun by the Impala. Sam's not crying anymore—his jaw's clenched and he looks half a second away from doing something stupid with the shotgun. But he looks at Dean and sighs, throws the gun in the trunk then slams it shut. "We got work to do."

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."