To say that moving into the bunker had changed everything was an understatement.
Sam had thought… well he hadn’t really thought. He’d given up dreams of a home long ago. Home was with Dean, riding in Baby, and staying at whatever cheap motel had a spare room. The important thing was Dean.
So Sam hadn’t bothered to do anything. Maybe spread out in the library. Maybe brought a travel mug now he knew he could wash it properly. Okay, and he bought three new flannels he could hang in his wardrobe. There hadn’t seemed any point in doing anything else.
Dean though? Dean had flourished.
Not immediately. It took few weeks, a few hunts of going and then returning the same place. Sam had treated it as barracks, but Dean? Dean was turning it into home.
Once the home switch had been flicked, that was it: Dean became a nester.
Every day he could, Dean went out. And every day he returned with something. And all those somethings were making this place a home.
Soft sheets. A new blender (“C’mon, Sam! I couldn’t find one here, pretty sure they didn’t have them in the fifties! Plus you like smooth soup.”) Patterned plates made of fine china, art for the walls. An apron. With a frill. (If Sam hadn’t had iron control, he would’ve stripped Dean then and there. The thought of his sexy ass framed in nothing but that damn frill. Oh! And a bow above his ass. And the ties hanging down… so fucking inviting). The tablecloth almost made sense. It matched the flower arrangement Dean had combatively returned with. But the place mats with matching napkins? That had been a surprise. And when Sam had expressed this surprised, Dean turned on him in a towering fury.
“What? I – we – why shouldn’t we have nice things? We don’t live in a fucking barn, Sam. Just because we’ve never had them before, you think I don’t know what makes a fucking house a home? That’s some fucked up thinking, Sam. Jesus Christ, what the fuck did I raise?”
While the last wasn’t actually said to him, it was clear that he was the intended recipient. And then Dean had sniffed at him for the rest of the afternoon. It was as infuriating as it was cute.
It was also a turning point for Sam. Well, almost the turning point. That point actually came after Sam made his way to the kitchen, only to find Dean had been happily engaged in making pie. He was dressed in his frilly apron (sadly fully clothed beneath), and was holding one of his matched set mixing bowl. When he noticed Sam, who may or may not have sniggered, he carefully placed he bowl on the bench, before turning to face his brother. His posture was defensive, and he wielded his wooden spoon like a sword.
It was adorable. It was unexpectedly adorable. And what did Sam do? He didn’t gather his pouty brother into his arms, soothing him with gentle words and touches. He didn’t even nod seriously, or apologise, or attempt in any way to defuse the situation.
No. He laughed. Sam Winchester laughed.
He wasn’t laughing at Dean. More… more at the shock, at the incongruous nature of his life. The fact that the omega he’d been in love with since before he knew what love was, was making a nest for them. Was baking pie and buying fucking napkins and place mats, and probably had no idea of what he was doing? Yeah. That was Sam’s life.
Of course Dean didn’t see it that way. It made everything worse. Shame swept through Sam’s body at the hurt that flashed in Dean’s eyes. Of course his brother quickly covered it. He was good at it. But all at once Sam realised it was act. The bluff, gruff exterior was a way for Dean to deal with all the emotional blows that landed on him.
In silence, Sam watched as Dean quietly turned off the oven, placed the dishes in the fridge, folded his apron and left the room.
It was all the worse for the silence.
Hours later, and Dean still hadn’t emerged. Sam was itching to go and bang on his bedroom door. Demand entry and make sure that Dean was alright.
But Sam couldn’t go make sure: Dean quite clearly was not alright.
Sam had fucked up and he fucked up big time. Now he had to fix it.
So instead of scurrying off to Dean’s room so Dean could make him feel better, he needed to think it through. Sitting in the library, Sam slumped into an easychair, and thought about Dean, and reconsidered everything he’d ever known about his brother. Because maybe – just maybe - he wasn’t seeing Dean for what he really was.
There were two things Sam knew about Dean: one was Dean would die to protect him. And the other was Sam had been in love with him before he’d even popped his first knot. Fuck, before he even knew what an omega was, there’d been Dean. Strong, sassy, weirdly obedient to their father…
Yeah, okay. Perhaps try not to think about John Winchester at all. Think about Dean. What he did… what he wanted... The first was easy. He wanted Sam to be safe! Dean had been his protector for as long as he could remember. The one constant in his life. Even when he’d outgrown the need for protecting, Dean still stood in front of him and took the blows.
Why was that? Dean was tough, no doubt about it, but eventually Sam became tougher. Bigger, stronger, faster. Dean had been – and still was - the best hunter Sam knew – and that included Dad. Dean was a lethal killing machine, who could gut a monster, save a damsel (oh ok, Sam. More often than not it was Sam’s ass he was saving), and then fleece the local bikers without blinking an eye.
And when he wasn’t being a selfish teen, all he’d wanted to do was wrap Dean up in cotton wool and protect him from the harsh reality that was their life. But he thought Dean didn’t want that. If Sam even hinted that Dean should take a rest, or take time for himself, or do anything even remotely soft, he had Sam in a headlock and then on a 5-mile training run.
Yeah, there was nothing soft and, for want of a better word, omega about Dean.
For so long Sam had dreamed about it though, looked for any hint that Dean had a soft side. But nothing. Dean never showed it. Heck, even though he had to have noticed Sam was interested him, he never dropped his façade. Dean stood hard and firm, ready to tackle the next monster.
Shit! Sam sat up with a jolt. What if it really was a façade? What if underneath all that gruff machismo there really was a love of… of exactly what Dean had been doing for the last few months. Making a home. Nesting. Creating the place that Sam had always dreamed Dean would want.
And didn’t that make him the blind ass? It was right in front of him. Dean was everything Sam had ever hoped for, and now he was comfortable enough to show it. And Sam had laughed in his face.
Lips firms, and shoulders square, Sam reached for a pen and pad of paper. He had a lot to make up for, and for that he needed a plan.
“Oh, good morning, Dean. I made you coffee.”
Wrapped in his dead man’s robe, Dean froze. Because Sam never made coffee. Well, he put the percolator on, and made it too strong and the way he liked it. But in one of his new floral mugs, there was a freshly made cup of coffee.
It looked creamy, and smelt good. And Dean was immediately wary.
“What’s going on, Sammy?”
And sure, Sam probably wanted something, but that wasn’t going to stop him accepting what was probably a perfectly good cup of coffee.
Sam just dimpled at him, as Dean took the cup. He sipped delicately, then closed his eyes and drank more deeply. It was perfect! A mild roast, creamy, with more than a hint of sweetness.
When he opened his eyes, Sam was still hovering there, smiling. With a suspicious look, Dean moved into the kitchen – and almost dropped his cup. There, on the table, was breakfast. Actual breakfast. Bacon and toast and… and that was about it! Proper breakfast.
Fuck. Sam didn’t trade his fucking soul again, did he???
After establishing that Sam had not traded his soul, Dean decided his brother just felt guilty, and let it go at that. At least, he tried to let it go… but Sam kept on being weird.
It was little things – the way he made it to the dining table before Dean had to call him. He even set the table and used some of the beautiful new plates Dean got (and yeah the were extravagant, but they were on clearance, and they were pretty dammit!). Dean tried to smile. What Sam was doing was nice. But so out of character. Sammy… Sammy never cared about this shit. At least he never showed it. To be fair though, neither had Dean. No point pining after something you never get. But they had something now. It had take a while, a few weeks or months, but they kept on coming back to the bunker.
They kept on coming home.
It had been hard, at first. So he started small. Getting a new mug – one that was bright and pretty and when he saw it he knew it was his and he chose it. Then he found the softest sheets, and they were in a girly pastel green, but they were on sale, and felt so good that he got them. And the throw pillows. And the duvet set. And…
It was the start of something Dean couldn’t stop. And he didn’t even want to. He loved his bright red blender. And mixer… the one in the kitchen worked fine, but this one matched. The apron was stupid and frilly but it was also pretty and actually stopped him burning himself.
It felt… good. To get things because he wanted them. Because they made him happy. At least, it had been good until Sam laughed in face. Not only was Dean humiliated beyond all reason, he didn’t even get to make pie. Fresh pie! Fuck he’d wanted that. Now he’d have to drive out to get some probably stale pie from a diner in town. As Dean hid in his room, he swore he’d only buy stupid stale pies from now on. He’d never buy another stupid throw rug again.
He hadn’t needed to. Sam came back one day, arms piled high with throws and pillows and face clothes, and the softest towels. Dean just wanted to throw them all on the floor and roll on them. Somehow he’d controlled himself, and thanked Sam graciously before running to his room and throwing them all on the bed and rolling on them. They’d felt as good as he’d imagined.
Which wasn’t the point!
He couldn’t get distracted by soft fabrics. Dean had to focus on the fact that Sam was… What was Sam even doing? He was giving Dean gifts. And making him coffee. He even brought those fancy flavoured creamers for Dean to try. And dammit - he loved them!. Then there was the porn magazine left on his bed. A high end glossy thing with very well hung alphas…
Dean hadn’t thanked Sam for that, but he’d enjoyed it anyway.
But now, here they were. A pie on the table between them. Sam was wearing Dean’s second favourite apron (the one with the purple flowers).
“What is that,” Dean asked faintly. Because he must be hallucinating. Sam couldn’t bake for shit.
And yeah. It looked liked cherry pie. It even smelt like cherry pie. But it didn’t explain…
“Why is there a cherry pie in the middle of table.”
Sam’s face, which had been so hopeful, wavered. Dean felt a like a dick, but kept his eyes sharp and accusatory. Whatever the fuck was going on? He was going to find out now. It was killing him, it was-
“You’re not dying are you, Sam?”
Dean had never been happier to see a bitchface.
“What? Why would you think that? Isn’t it obvious, Dean?”
Dean’s blank face was answer enough. Swearing under his breath, Sam undid his apron and folded it neatly (Dean approved) before striding round the table, grabbing Dean’s shoulders and shaking him gently. Kind of gently.
“I’m trying to court you, you asshole!”
Dean prided himself on his observation skills. As a hunter, it was often the only thing that kept him alive. But this? This fucking blindsided him. He’d never even noticed. Maybe because it was something he’d wanted so much, he convinced himself that all those little signs were just in his head. Embarrassing as it was, the way Sam’s face lit up when he admitted it made it all worth it.
The way he crushed Dean in his arms, pulling him against that broad and warm chest wasn’t too bad either. And though he couldn’t explain how they got there, finding himself pushed backwards into his pile of throw rugs and pillows, jeans and boxers promptly removed, was okay as well.
“Oh fuck, Sam! Your mouth!”
Better than okay in fact. It was down right heavenly.
Looking down through his lowered lashes, Dean bit back a moan. Tangling his fingers in Sam’s long hair, Dean urged him forward. The stubborn bitch didn’t move of course. He just gripped Dean’s thighs hard enough to leave bruises and did this thing with his tongue and Dean’s cock head and-
Sam looked so good on his knees, choking on Dean’s cock. Okay, wishful thinking. Even though he was an omega, Dean considered himself rather well endowed, but Sam was having no problem swallowing him whole. In fact he looked comfortable. His big hands covered Dean’s thighs, but Dean could feel them slipping around his hips until those big, strong hands cupped his ass and pulled him forward. And oh yeah did Sam choke – but so did Dean – it felt so good when his cock hit the back of Sam’s throat and then he swallowed and fuck but it felt so good!
Wriggling his hips, Dean tried to get a little deeper, get a little more, he was almost there, but with an obscene pop Sam pulled off.
Dean could have cried.
“Sammy! How could I just waoah!”
Dean’s complaints were stalled as Sam pushed him backwards. Since he was on the bed no harm done. The only change was his legs were now up around his ears and-
“Holy mother of Batman!”
-Sam’s mouth was now around one of his balls and Dean keened as Sam sucked on into his mouth. Somewhere along the line he’d let go of one of Dean’s ass cheeks, the hand now rolling Dean’s other ball in his hand. Pelvis thrusting uselessly, Dean could only lie back and moan as Sam lathed his balls with his hot, wet tongue.
He wanted more though. He wanted that clever mouth right over his-
Oh god! It was like Sam was a fucking mind reader. His lips had drifted lower, his hand returning to Dean’s hips, as he kissed Dean’s puffy rim. Fuck. Dean’s hip thrust as he tried to get away. He was so fucking horny there was no way he wasn’t slicking all over Sam’s face.
Sam didn’t have a problem though. He hummed against Dean’s hole, hands holding Dean steady as he attempted to push himself closer. Sam was apparently feeling generous, as he laid a sloppy kiss right over Dean’s quivering hole before plunging his tongue straight in.
Dean was the equivalent of a one pump chump, as he gave a strangled moan and came like a fucking geyser.
When Dean bothered to open his eyes again, he was all cleaned up and snug in Sam’s arms, pulled up against his hard chest.
Sam’s hard cock was also pressed against his ass. Despite his exhaustion, Dean was a gentleman who always took care of his partner. He wriggled against Sam’s cock, which jerked with interested intent, before Sam put a hand on his hip, holding him in place.
“Dean? Wha… what are you doing?”
“Think I can’t feel that, Sammy? There’s two in this bed, but there’s only been one orgasm. I gotta fix that so-wha?”
Sam rolled him over, fitting his hips snuggly against Dean’s, caging Dean in with his ginormous body. Dean hoped he wasn’t blushing. Sam felt fucking awesome on top of him.
“I’m all good, Dean.”
Ohhhhhh. It wasn’t an alpha voice (Dean woulda shivved his brother for that) but it was firm. It made him all tingly.
“C’mon, Sam! I can feel it.” And Dean pressed his hips up as far as he could, rubbing delicately against Sam’s very in proportion cock. “It’ll just take a minute and I’ll-”
“No.” Sam was firm again. “I said I’m okay. When we do this, and we will, Dean, I want you to take your time and worship me.”
Dean opened his mouth a few times, but no words came out. Where the fuck did Sammy come up with this stuff? Still, he hoped the way he pressed back against Sam expressed how totally on board he was with that. And if the way Sam’s cock twitched against his ass was any indication, they were speaking the same language.
They'd have that conversation in the not too distant future...