Dean wakes up to a gorgeous sight: Sam sitting on the edge of his bed, leaning towards him and caressing his cheek. The blinds are pulled wide open and the bright glow of sunlight is bouncing upon his mom's face and illuminating his dimples and hazel green eyes.
"Good morning, birthday boy," he says in a hushed voice and leans in to peck Dean on the lips and the tip of his nose.
"Morning, sweetheart," Dean mutters, voice groggy and throat dry.
Dean spends a few seconds finding his bearings. Somehow, Sam feels different this morning. There's a softness in Sam's eyes that Dean doesn't witness so often and also a brand of sadness that seems to be buried underneath—he's looking at Dean with longing and a sense of loss, like Dean's going to disappear right in front of his eyes. It's like Dean is getting an intimate glimpse into Sam's soul for a fleeting moment. His emotions flood him and he feels like a voyeur so he glances away.
"'Time is it?"
"11:00. I let you sleep in all morning," Sam says. It's so unlike his mother.
"You alright, mom? Sure you're not possessed or anything?"
"What can I say? I suck at discipline apparently. But hey, it looks like you needed the shut eye. I vacuumed the entire house and you still managed to sleep through it."
"Really?"
"Uh-huh. Ellen and Bobby are already downstairs by the way. They came in early to help me prep. Adam's with them. Your aunt Naomi should be here in a couple of hours tops."
Dean groans, "damn, I just wanna stay in bed."
Juggling school work ahead of a long weekend and fooling around with his mom (getting both of them off three to four times a day for two days in a row) must have contributed to Dean's current state of bone-deep weariness.
"Come on, baby. Let's get you in the shower so we can go downstairs and join the others."
"Only if you're getting in there with me," he says, his hands rubbing up and down Sam's arms.
"All clean and showered already. I've been up since 7, sweetheart," his mom says, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"Then how about I get you dirty again," says Dean huskily, and instead of protesting, Sam belts out a hearty laugh and mutters, "corny." The sound of it fills Dean with a pleasant kind of fuzziness. Sammy needs to be laughing more often, he thinks.
"Spoilsport," Dean huffs, pretend-offended.
"Poor you," Sam says in mock apology and gives Dean a small peck on the lips. He adds, "How about you brush your teeth first, mister? Splash some water on your face, then we can talk about making me dirty again."
"Wait right here," Dean says, throwing off the covers and pushing himself out of the bed. He strides across his room, through the hallway and into the bathroom, moving briskly before Sam changes his mind. "Stay where you are! Don't you dare move," he shouts from where he is standing, holding on to the porcelain sink.
Dean washes his face and brushes his teeth hurriedly. He's back in his room, lightning fast, and he's relieved to see that his mom hasn't run away, or worse, tearing up or having second thoughts or poised to guilt-trip them both. Instead, Sam has made himself comfortable, lying back against the pillows, tangles of hair fanned out, biting his lip, knees butterflied out and the soles of his feet almost touching. He's gazing back at Dean with hooded eyes that are flirting silently albeit embarrassingly.
Effortlessly seductive, he's barefoot and fully clothed, donning a crisp white button down and linen slacks. Temptation has never come in a hotter, more sinful-looking package, Dean thinks.
The sight of him laid out like a prize, relaxed and submissive, the outline of his bulge clear in his pants and the scent of his omega wetness in the air, is doing all sorts of crazy things to Dean's loins. He can feel his dick swelling and tenting his boxer shorts, a drop of precum forming on the tip.
There's also a vulnerability and softness in Sammy's eyes that melts Dean's insides. So he does what any self-respecting alpha in his right mind would do at seeing his omega looking so pliant and obedient, he shrugs out of his shirt, pushes down his shorts, and jumps on the bed naked, molds himself to Sam from head to cock, lowers his mouth to his and starts ruthlessly kissing him like it's going out of fashion.
Dean doesn't know if one can love someone too much, but it feels this way sometimes with Sam—too much and consumingly. They're both hard, and the hitching of their breaths and churning sound of their tongues as they lick each other's lips are all what can be heard in the room.
Dean continues to ravish and plunder his mother's warm and tender mouth until Sam, breathless, pushes Dean away gently, and tells him with a voice that's hoarse with desire that their friends are waiting for them to come down and lend a hand. "'Sides, I need to make the icing for your cake," he adds with a small smile.
"Wait, you wanna leave me like this, rock hard without so much as touching me?" says Dean, pulling back to let Sam catch a breath. "On my birthday of all days? You're heartless, Sammy." Dean says mockingly as he uses a hand to rub one of Sam's voluptuous, warm breasts through his shirt.
"How do you want to get off, baby?" Sam whispers, his pupils dilated from lust, and lips kiss-swollen and red. Dean shivers (and vaguely wonders if there's a catch to Sam's obedience. His blood-deprived brain doesn't linger in this space, however).
Right now, Sam feels less like Dean's mother and more like his loving wife and Dean wants to freeze the moment. Stay together like this and let the rest of the world carry on without them.
"First, these clothes? I want them off."
"Hmm, I think this can be arranged," Sam says, moisture shining on his lips and a playful smile tugging at them. Dean bends down and licks them, can't resist. He plunges his tongue inside, exploring every inch of Sam's mouth. Then he pulls back, and places a trail of kisses along Sam's jaw, nuzzles his neck and bites his earlobe playfully. Unable to stop, he circles back to Sam's impossibly soft, cherry-red lips, kissing them once again, still can't wrap his head around how malleable his mom is.
But hey, Dean's not complaining.
He pulls away from the kiss but keeps his lips ghosting over Sam's. "I wanna fuck you so bad," he says, voice rough.
"You know we can't, De," whispers Sam.
"Come on, Sammy. We both want it," Dean whispers back, lips brushing against Sam as he speaks.
His mom doesn't respond, just locks their lips together again, and holds Dean closer, running his hands through his son's short hair and tugging it. Dean kisses back with the same force.
A kiss, as passionate as it may be, is not exactly consent and Dean doesn't want to send his mom running off, so he curbs his desire once again, and decides to settle for his current winnings.
Sam breaks the kiss for a second, and in a voice so hypnotizing and with a deep flush coloring his cheeks, asks, "You wanna fuck my tits?"
Dean is so maddeningly aroused, it takes his mind a second to realize Sam is actually offering this. His mom is watching his reaction, pretty bottom lip caught tight between his own teeth and the small lip action is porn-like despite Sam's doe-eyed innocence.
Dean doesn't respond in words. He doesn't even bother with the buttons, just tugs on Sam's shirt, and throws it off.
He spends a few seconds too long staring at Sam's pert breasts, saliva gathering behind his teeth at their sight — his nipples are erect, like they're begging for attention, and his areolae are perfectly rosy. Sam starts arching his back and pinching his slutty nips, tugging until they become wet with milk. Dean once spied on him doing the same thing for Castiel, and in a split second, Dean's world keels over, an ugly knot forms in his stomach, and it feels like all his blood is rerouting and rushing there.
Sam does this for his dad too; Castiel has had all his firsts, kissed him and touched him everywhere, still does, and it always feels like Dean's getting the sloppy seconds. Does Sammy writhe in his dad's arm like this too, make eyes at him, and beg with his body just like he's doing with Dean now?
Dean is suddenly trembling with jealousy, pupils narrowing and his eyes clouding over. Sam immediately registers his son's distress.
"Dean," he whispers, worry worming its way into his fast beating heart. Dean withdraws, sitting back on his haunches between Sam's spread thighs, and looks away.
"It's not fair that dad gets to see you like this too," he says and the words flow like acid through Sam's veins. It's the sincerely solemn, dark tone in which Dean says this that flattens him.
Sam doesn't know what to say or how to defend himself against this. He gulps as he remembers all the things that he has been letting Castiel do to him lately to make up for his sinful longing for their son—things that would make Dean loathe him if he knew. A sudden sick surge of fear courses through Sam; what if Dean ever finds out that he now scenes with Cas, how Sam allows his hide to be whooped with a belt like property, how he obediently presents and lets his cunt get fake-raped to atone for a secret sin, how every time Sam submits, he takes his ego and burns it, how he cries and begs to be hit, kicked and pummeled, how he walks around sometimes with welts on his ass and bruises around his private parts, clothes hiding the scarlet marks from view — he does it for Cas, and for his own sanity, but in a way, Sam must admit that he does it for Dean too. Because otherwise, how can he give Dean anything? Without the penance, how can Sam excuse or stomach the transgressions, the cheating? What he does with Castiel isn't redemption but it balances the scales—or so he tells himself.
But Sam doesn't mention any of this, of course. He doesn't dare. His heart pounds in his throat and he stays tight-lipped, just staring up at his son—the unsaid words like bitter ash inside his mouth. In his mind, he is lost ... reduced to a whimpering mess.
"Do you also whore yourself out to dad like this every night while I sleep alone in my room, forgotten, desperate, dreaming of touching you?" Dean asks, voice tortured, his face pale, his eyes misty and it all feels so damn wrong, Sam thinks, considering how much he's compromised to make Dean happy, at least for a little while.
"Do you touch yourself and talk dirty and make him watch? Huh, mom?"
Sam can't have this. He can't bear to watch Dean bleed for love in his embrace; wetness in his eyes and shoulders hunched in defeat. Not on his birthday, not when he's planning to send his boy away and poor Dean has no clue. Not when his son is so preciously young and in the first flush of love but aching. Not when, in reality, Sam feels like a whored-out wife when he's with Cas, because it's not who he belongs to anymore. So Sam acts on impulse. He sits up a little, pulls Dean to him and roughly flips him over onto his back so Sam's on top. He might be an omega but he's still bigger than his son and he's the more experienced one between them. The element of surprise works in his favor too.
He straddles Dean's hips and his son stares up at him—lips parted, and eyes a little wide and darkening with arousal. Sam rapidly pushes his pants and briefs down in one swift movement and slumps forward awkwardly only for a second to push them down and off his feet. He sits himself back on Dean's crotch, stark naked, hips grinding—his son's hardness sliding sensually between his cheeks.
Sam lets himself fall forward and slots their lips together, kissing Dean frantically.
"It's never been like that," Sam says between kisses. His voice carries a resigned sympathy, his breaths are coming strong and Sam feels like he's now tumbling off the edge of the precipice that he's been scaling for years.
"I need you to see that. I'm begging you," Sam whispers, raining open-mouthed kisses on his son's spit-wet lips between words. Dean is groaning dirtily into his mouth.
They're gloriously naked, burning hot, frotting as they lie on top of each other and as the lights flood the bedroom and the curtains remain wide open—voyeuring, nosey neighbors be damned.
There's some commotion downstairs, echoes of Bobby's gruff voice can be heard, but it all feels too distant to matter; like it's happening in another world that Sam and Dean are not a part of. The universe is now reduced to where their sweaty bodies are touching.
Sam reaches back with a hand and finally does what he's been trying to avoid, seemingly forever. He holds onto Dean's fat cock, and sits on it.
He walks straight into the flames; a human sacrifice to his beloved.
His ass, though wet is not stretched open enough, but Sam takes it, pushes and bears down, welcoming the pain and the impossible relief that comes with putting out. This is where he belongs, he thinks as he tries to fit Dean's dick in him. His son howls like a wounded animal as his mom's tight hole swallows his cock — his eyes squeezed shut, and lips bitten red.
"Don't you dare think that there is anyone, past or present, that I would put in front of you," Sam says, sweating bullets, rolling his head back as he finally gives one last push and sinks all the way down, burying Dean's dick to the hilt in his slick channel.
Sam rakes his hands through the tumble of his unkempt, now damp-with-sweat hair, rides out the sensation of fullness then very gingerly makes himself slump forward onto Dean's chest.
He gasps as even the cautious movement pulls agonizingly at his furled center and sends a jolt of pain to the lowest point of his spine.
Dean is speechless, barely catching his breath and Sam can feel the tremors run through his son's body, connected as they are.
But despite his shock, Dean manages to gently circle his arms around Sam and runs one hand up and down Sam's spine as his mother adjusts to Dean's size and girth, and as Dean himself adapts to the impossible pressure around his teenage alpha cock.
Sam rests his temple against Dean's forehead, and stays like this for a short moment. He doesn't move his head or open his eyes until he feels wetness against his cheeks. He pulls back and meets Dean's eyes and he's surprised to see that the wide orbs are filled with tears. Dean closes his eyes and they pour freely. His baby boy's face is red. His cupid's bow, sinuous lips are pursed and the adoring look in Dean's misty eyes right before they closed and spilled their silent confession of undying love is everything.
Sam puts his mouth to work: licks the salty tears and starts kissing Dean's face—his cheeks, lips, forehead, his freckled nose, and his eyelids. Sam already worships his son; if giving him this is the sacrifice Sam needs to make to prove it, so be it.
Sam feels dizzy, swimming in a whirlwind of need. His dick is hard and is poking Dean just above his navel, his asshole is pulsating around Dean's cock, and he's now trembling with the need to be fucked. He rolls and grinds his hips experimentally and it's bliss just to feel Dean quiver so deeply inside of him. Back in his guts. His motherly instincts kick in, and strangely, suddenly, Sam has this cannibalistic urge to swallow Dean whole inside of his womb; pull his son back inside his body so that they become one again; force his son's flesh and blood, his skin and being to merge with his own. The mental image is macabre, and feral, and possessive, and Sam is blinded with it for a few seconds before he grounds himself, sits up straight and starts riding Dean's dick.
There's no way that the voices they're making are not traveling downstairs but neither of them seem to care at the moment. Let them hear. Let the entire neighborhood witness their erotic depravity and their unconventional, twisted feelings for each other.
Sam stays in charge and works himself up and down on Dean's cock, starts slow then bounces himself fast and animalistic. Sam's dick sticks out of a thatch of dark pubic hair, swaying and bobbing and spitting precum on their skin and on the sheets as his movements become fast and jerky.
Dean holds one of Sam's hand in his, lacing their fingers together, and keeps his eyes locked with Sam's. His other hand is flat on Sam's tit, squeezing and fondling, coaxing wetness out of Sam's engorged nipple as it jiggles under his palm. He is sucking oxygen in gulps, shakes with the effort to meet Sam thrust for thrust. He's suddenly overwhelmed; can't believe that he's making love to Sammy. Dean can literally feel himself stuffing his mother to the brim, spilling precum right against his sweet spot as Sammy expertly sways and dances on his dick — dirty, slutty, whorish. His whore now. Fucking finally.
Sam's hole starts convulsing and his dick spills in ropey spurts. Makes a mess of both of them.
Spent, he tumbles forward into Dean's waiting arms, head swimming and penis hot and pulsating.
Dean buries his face in Sam's neck. It's arched as if in invitation and Dean doesn't fight the blind urge to fasten his mouth around his mom's throat. He can hear his own heart pounding in his chest, languorous ecstasy coursing through his veins as his teeth press and dig into damp skin to bite and bruise, and his lips suck wetly in their wake to make amends.
This will leave a mark. Dean knows. And Sam lets it happen.
His mom lifts his head and tilts it to look Dean squarely in the eyes, his hot breath burning Dean's kiss-bruised lips. There's nothing but love in those eyes and Dean only has to lean in a little to claim his mother's voluptuous mouth.
The kisses that follow are breath-stealing, all slurpy tongues and deep moans. Dean's body jerks with his nearing climax, his toes curling and his back arching in a struggle to stave off his impending orgasm.
Somehow, his omega mom has managed to turn him into a writhing mess when he's the one who's actually doing the fucking.
There's no one, no one, like his Sammy.
Dean's final thrusts are more frantic, out of sync, leaving his knees trembling and weak. There's enough sense in his mind, however, to ask Sam, with his eyes, if he can spill inside and knot. Sam gets it and just slips off Dean's prick, in silent response.
The rough slide almost sends Dean over the edge but he manages to reign himself in. The loss of Sam's tight heat is palpable.
Sam doesn't leave his son's cock unsheathed for long. He quickly turns around on his hands and knees, bends forward and folds himself like a pretzel, ass up and right in Dean's face, then he tosses his hair and swallows Dean's cock all the way down his throat until his nose hits the curls at the base.
Sam's balls are heavy and his knees are stretched wide apart, still straddling Dean's torso in a modified 69.
His mother's softening cock is very lightly, almost torturously brushing Dean's abs, leaving a wet trail where it slips and slides.
Dean wants to will his head to move so he can dip his tongue inside his mom's asshole — sloppy wet, gaping in invitation, and winking enticingly—he really wants to. But his cock warmed inside Sam's mouth can't handle the maddening stimulation and his nostrils are catching the lingering scent of Sam's arousal. Sam squeezes his balls very lightly and Dean finally gives up and shoots his spunk inside Sammy's slutty orifice while whimpering like the dying.
Sam dutifully swallows his new alpha's semen.
Only a couple of seconds later, Sam's hole shudders and squirts beautifully—the explosion of slick soiling the back of Sam's thighs and spraying Dean's chest and his flushed cheeks, even catching in the sweep of Dean's long eyelashes. It's easily the prettiest sight Dean has ever set his eyes upon; it's like Sammy is peeing from his ass, except that omega slick is thick, sugar-sweet, its whiff like perfume to Dean's alpha senses.
Sam sighs and giggles around the flesh in his mouth; the quake of his laugh tickling Dean's length and sending a flutter to his now-mushy insides.
Sam finally lets Dean's over-sensitive dick slip from his mouth, covered in the slobber and cum that Sam didn't swallow down or spit out. He presses an impossibly soft kiss to the center of Dean's twitching head, right on the sensitive slit.
Dean's whole body spasms, his penis still tingling and the afterglow of arousal sinking into his bones.
Sam just stays in his position, shoulders sagging, fingers splayed on the sheets, too tired to sit up or lift his head, still straddling Dean, with his ass presented.
His son, the overachiever, decides he still wants more and slots his lips over Sam's wanton hole and starts slurping his abundant slick—shifting between lapping out Sam's release, still coming in tiny globs, and stabbing his tongue inside, past Sam's loose rim, to coax out more.
Sam claws at the bed sheets and tries to crawl away, shifting his weight and moving off Dean in an attempt to escape the plundering of his basest part; over-stimulation making his flesh prickle and his toes curl. But the heat of Dean's mouth doggedly follows, as if his son's fiery lips are tethered to his easy, fucked-out hole. Entitled to own and prey on his man-pussy, even turn it inside out.
When Dean's done french kissing his hole, the two lovers shift their positions and lie side by side, facing each other. The ease in which their mouths find each other repeatedly, lips melding like magnets, is a testament to how effortlessly they fit together.
The lush curve of Dean's lips tastes like Sam's slick, and Sam's mouth is slippery with the remains of Dean's ejaculate, and it's dirty, wrong, perfect.
The two continue to lick the insides of each other mouths insatiably, hands roaming over sweat-slick bodies like they haven't just fucked each other sore.
Sam is the first to break away from the liplock, however, breathing deeply and heavily before he can manage to utter a single word. "I don't care who else touches me, De," and it's the tail end of their earlier conversation, picks right where they left off, "this," he says hoarsely, taking one of Dean's hands and placing it flat against his chest, over his heart. "This belongs to you."
Dean looks at where his hand is resting underneath Sam's. Then his eyes flick to the mark he'd left earlier with his teeth, high on Sam's neck; angry red, slowly dilating, obscene, like a brand. He slowly leans in and puts his lips to the soft fleshy part right beside where their hands are overlapping and intertwined. He touches his mouth feathers-soft to Sam's skin and just lets it sit there.
It feels like a birthright to have Sammy like this, to give the man helpless orgasms, to penetrate his tender depths and make him swoon, lay claim to his heart and the most secret parts of his body and own the gushing fountain of delight between his legs.
Sam hugs Dean with his free arm, and Dean is content to keep his face smushed against his mother's beautiful chest, his breath coming warm against Sam's collarbone. He wants to stay like this until the Earth is upright again and he can get his sweeping emotions under control. His world is starting to swing open on a road that even Dean—as many times as he'd wished for this—doesn't know where it leads to. So yeah, he needs a moment.
Sam kisses his forehead and whispers, "How about that shower now, De?" Dean hums contentedly against his chest, and smiles wide.