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Maybe next time, Dean had said.
It’s always ‘next time’. Never: yes. Never: yeah, of course, Sammy.
You think he’ll let me come along this time? Maybe next time.
Can we stay for at least a couple of months? Not this time, no—I’m sorry, you know I am.
They always say it’s about keeping Sam safe, but ‘Sam’ is a fifteen-year-old with a sawed-off shotgun by the nightstand. A pound of sea salt on the floor. A hex-bag under his pillow and ten more strewn around the falling-apart cabin he’s not supposed to leave until we’re back, which can mean three days like they promised or a week like that one time Dad got hurt bad and they had to lay low longer than expected. It’s been a few months, but Sam is not over that one time.
Sam had been heating water on the stove at first until he got too wary of the firewood supply to keep it going entirely. It’s not that cold. About to turn spring into summer, these days. The wilderness is coming alive outside the dust-covered windows of this place. Survival is more important than comfort.
Sam soaks: oats, cold. He’ll be running out of pre-boiled safe water tomorrow, will have to make more. Day three. They might be back tomorrow. Tonight. Maybe.
Sam reads until his eyes betray him. Wrapped in a blanket, in bed, and he doesn’t know any better than this—maybe he’d envy this life if it wasn’t his. If he was another boring kid with a boring family, nine-to-five, underwhelming birthday parties, white picket fence, babysitting.
He’s not supposed to stay up this late, but neither Dad nor Dean will even know.
~
The creak of the front door startles Sam awake but he stays—still, under his mountain of blankets. Eyes wide, listening, scenting—
It always hurts about as much as it soothes.
Dean whispers, “You asleep?” over closing the door, fumbling with his clothes. That particular fall of his boots on the wooden floor. Sam stirs. Can’t not move. His heart stumbles into a different kind of race. Adrenaline to…well, that other thing.
The spring mattress creaks ugly under Dean’s knee. Dean’s hands.
Sam croaks, “Where’s…?”
“In town. For supplies.” Dean kisses him on the mouth between sentences. He is cold like he hiked the whole way up here. He shoulders his over-shirt off, though. “An hour,” he prompts, and Sam can’t take his hand off his brother’s chest—the real, alive swell of it. The kick of that same beat Sam carries below all those ribs.
Dean swoops in for more kisses, and this time, he stays.
Sam pulls him in. Under.
“You miss me?”
Sam grumbles.
Dean laughs. Gets the sheets pulled over his back, his head. “Fuck, I’m in a bad way.”
Sam notes, “Yeah.” Grabs what Dean digs into his hip with his hand instead, kneads it firm and draws a growl from his brother. Sam swallows, lets him between his legs. They fit. Always have.
“Started up around—Jesus, slow,” and he says that but he churns harder into Sam’s hand at the same time, and Sam feels his own body reacting to that rut, fast. Whiplash-fast, conditioned. He’s easy like that. Dean asks, “Yeah?” like there’s still a question. Like Sam might still tell him no.
Small, “Yeah,” half into the pillow, because Sam is already flipping himself around, stomach-down. He hisses for the drag of Dean’s icy hands under his shirt, his lower back, his hips—Dean says sorry and tugs Sam’s short down, and he’s sorry for that too but he doesn’t apologize for that as much anymore. Dean unzips and the scent bulldozes right to Sam’s brain, makes his hips cant up and out, eager to present. Dean says it’s normal to get that wet, no, there’s nothing wrong with you, aren’t you the nerd, shouldn’t you know this kinda crap? (Sam doesn’t, at least not with most of the important stuff.)
Again, “Okay?” and Sam only nods this time, clamps his lips between his teeth, grabs the nearby grimy pillow to have something to dig his nails into, and—yeah, oh. Jesus. “Fuck,” from above, airy and strangled at the same time, and it’s been a while, sure, but Dean’s always somehow bigger on a rut, and Sam’s always somehow tighter on Dean’s rut. Like part of them wants to sabotage it. That tiny voice nagging about you know you shouldn’t, you idiots.
It’s just a tiny one, though, and outweighed so, so easily.
Sam’s turn to groan. The last few inches need convincing, at first, when it’s like this. Rushed and forced but it works either way of course and Dean tells him sorry again but holds Sam firm by the hips, pulses him back and forth in baby-increments. Sam grunts through his nose, reaches back to—spread, hold himself open. Make it work. Dean didn’t even get to pop the button on his fly.
Again, closer, “Fuck,” and then, “Sammy,” and Sam can’t speak. Doesn’t want to.
Dean’s weight blankets him. Dean’s heat and scent and all the dirt and muck from the hunt, and caught under the blanket, it’s all amplified. Smacks Sam over the head and leaves him starstruck, overwhelmed with pheromones of Dean’s rut, the relief of having his brother back and safe and alive—the crazy-strained stretch of Dean, impaling him, filling him to the brim. It’s always—Sam thinks it might be normal, for it to be intense like that, at first. No matter how often this…happens. Them.
Dean’s mouth slurs along Sam’s hairline at the back of his neck. Drag of lips and then of hips, a deep push that reminds both of them of the limits of Sam’s still half-asleep body, and Dean makes a noise like it’s him who hurts. He says it does, in a way, when it’s like this. When it aches and burns and nothing will make it better except for—this.
Sam is overcome with goosebumps for the first few drags that tug at him head-to-toe. Which always seem to carve him out inside, make space, break him open. Despite his slick, it’s rough. Dean mouths over the back of his neck in apology. Half-digs his teeth in and that’s nice, that’s good. Makes Sam’s body softer, makes it give in. Makes it easier.
Sam sprawls his limbs wider. Socked toes into the mattress for support; something. The Alpha on top of him pancakes him into the bed, no questions asked, no escape. Sam isn’t proud that he—that he doesn’t hate it like he probably should with it being the fucking two-thousands.
Things are always a little off for him about Dean.
Dean is done pussyfooting around. Consistent grinding now and he redistributes his weight, gets his knees and one elbow underneath himself and Sam unfs, gets shushed. Eyes closed, just—breathing, feeling, scenting. God, Dean didn’t even take off his boots, did he?
Dean doesn’t grab Sam’s hand this time. But it’s only been three days apart, this time.
Sam swallows; his tongue swells. Like a rash, spreading—from the inside, crawling up his stomach. Dean makes more noises when he’s rut-brained like this. Soft and indulging, sighs and moans, and Sam doesn’t want to breathe so he can listen better, can soak it all up.
Doesn’t take long for Dean to build up to a decent smack. Embarrassingly wet, and he teases Sam about everything and anything but not that, not ever. He sounds like he’s about to blow already. He might be.
“Tell me you’re safe,” Dean croaks, and it—Jesus, Sam doesn’t—he should be, and the blankets are askew at this point with Dean pushing himself up like he does, riding Sam’s ass hurried and hard now, holding him down with nothing but his cock up his ass, the heavy drop of his hips.
Sam babbles something along the lines of yeah and Dean groans, and the pop of his knot follows immediate suit like Sam’s got any say over it, and that thought is—oh, God, it’s happening fast, it’s—
Sam yelps more in shock for the bite to his scruff than his brother’s efforts to get his knot caught in him, tie them for real. They don’t—even in Dean’s most urgent ruts, they rarely ever—
Dean’s weight is back, full-throttle. A suffocating power on Sam’s back and he couldn’t buck his Alpha sibling off if he tried, now—Dean wraps his arms around Sam’s middle from below, keeps him stuck, enveloped entirely. Those jaws are still clamped into Sam’s muscles and Dean growls low, tense, and Sam can’t even whimper. Just a weak, broken-off something, his hands useless by his shoulders, palms facing down, bunching up the sheets, while his brother’s knot throbs to its full size inside of his ass. No going back.
Dean’s bite tightens as his orgasm hits, but he wrenches himself off after just a beat. Regains a lick of control.
An open-mouthed groan into Sam’s hair.
Sam is trembling. Cramping.
“Dean—!”
Dean laps across the bite before he digs his teeth in anew. Makes it better. Makes it—manageable.
Sam splutters. His hips tilt without involving conscious thought. Invite Dean in, let him—God, they hadn’t, in a while. Without a full knot, sure, but it’s—so different, stuck together. The heavy throb of Dean’s knot, the pulse through the entire length of his cock—Sam can feel it. All of it.
Every gush of Dean’s come, filling him. Plugged up deep.
Sam whimpers. Flinches, whole-body, and Dean holds him down but he can’t help it—works himself on the fat tie of Dean’s knot and the press of every curve and vein of his shaft, and—he’s no Alpha, his own dick humping the sheets barely even registers but, God, his insides feel—it’s everything. Perfect.
Sam’s hips stutter hard as he comes. Pinned between the bed and Dean with not much room to work with but Dean feels it, he does. Growls different, says it again: says, “Sammy,” and Sam whines, long and choked-off. Is barely back inside his body when another one hits him back-to-back, nearly takes him out. His head throbs. He can’t feel his mouth.
Dean can hold himself perfectly still. Like any predator. Waiting it out.
“Sore?” he asks, testing the tie. It’s been…it feels like minutes, at least.
Sam huffs. Wrinkles his nose. “Mh…”
“Can I?”
“Go ahead, yeah.”
No immediate spill. Sam flushes with how he kinda—misses that. But he’s growing too much these days. Taller than Dean, almost. Won’t work like that anymore. Oh, now.
Sam clenches up, mortified. Dean thumbs it back in, keeps his thumb settled over the swollen-feeling heat of Sam’s hole. He leans over to rummage through the mess on the nightstand, the obligatory box of tissues, half-gone. Sam lets him do the clean-up. Clenches-unclenches his fingers in the sheets, notices the heat of the moment fading. The cold settling into the soaked, unprotected back of his shirt.
Dean pats Sam’s right buttock. Sam watches the balled-up tissue bouncing off the lamp before dropping to the floor. Dean sniffles. Kneads at him.
“You wanna wash up?”