Everyone has assured him that an omega's first heat is always mild—a sweet taste of the pleasure to come as the body makes that final transition from childhood to adulthood. Adam wonders if there might be something wrong with him, because what he's experiencing at the moment could never be described as "mild." Not unless "mild" is synonymous with "unrelenting, agonizing torment."
His skin burns under his brothers' merciless hands as they slowly work him over, mapping out and claiming their territory (as if the fact of their possession is something new). Adam's curses and demands died out long ago, forgotten in the wake of wet kisses and the endless litany of filth in his ears. No matter how he squirms or whimpers or whines, they will not be swayed.
They are alphas. They will give their omega bitch what he needs when they feel he needs it and not a moment before.
"Dean," he sobs when a thick, calloused thumb presses into the slick mess of his dripping hole.
"Sam," he sobs when teeth bite viciously down on one oversensitive nipple.
"Hush, baby brother. We've got you."
And then Dean is finally pushing in, splitting Adam relentlessly open on his cock, and he's so huge, so impossibly huge that it hurts, but he wants it more than anything else in the world. Wants Dean's cock and Sam's—both of them, always. Wants them to knot him, to fill him with their come until he's fucking drowning in it. Wants to do it all over again under the moon, in their fur.
"To whom do you belong?"
"You," Adam moans. "Alphas. My alphas."
And he doesn't want that to change. Not ever.
There is definitely something wrong with him.