77

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/29289642.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Underage
Category: Multi
Fandom: Supernatural
Relationship: Jack Kline/Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Jack Kline, Castiel
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Alternate Universe - No Powers,
Adoption, Religion, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Sam
Winchester, Omega Dean Winchester, Omega Jack Kline, Beta Castiel
(Supernatural), Pastor Castiel, Sexual Coercion, Grooming, Unreliable
Narrator, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced
Rape/Non-con, Dark Sam Winchester, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat,
Extremely Dubious Consent
Language: English
Series: Part 2 of winkline bingo 2021
Stats: Published: 2021-02-08 Words: 7,087 Chapters: 1/1
 77
by hellhoundsprey

Summary

Father Castiel’s mismatched little family of three earns yet another member. (Jack is 12, Dean
is 14, Sam is 17.)

winkline bingo 2021: 18 adoption/foster care

Notes

Matthew 18:21-32: Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, “Lord, how many times shall I
forgive my brother or sister who sins against me? Up to seven times?”

Jesus answered, “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times.”
“It’s just a game,” he says, and half-shrugs.

Watching Jack’s eyebrows draw tight with distrust sends Sam’s body throbbing in too many
places at once.

Sam adds, carefully, “Dean and I do it all the time,” and Jack’s stomach shifts right
underneath his hand.

(Used to be a thumb sucker, this one; obviously. Maybe still is, judging by how dangerously
close that thumb is to that pinched little mouth right now.)

All secret, Jack asks, “Really?”

and Sam replies, of course, “Really.”

This time, Jack doesn’t stop him from pushing his sleep shirt all the way up to his collar
bones.

“Everyone does it.”

Sam shuffles closer, gets comfortable. Smoothes his hand down that breastbone, circles that
nervous belly.

Jack just says, “Hm,” but Sam doesn’t expect an answer. Already slid his eyes shut and
finally, finally can close his mouth around one of the budding, tiny mounds which Jack is yet
to become aware of, become self-conscious about. Sam hollows his cheeks, and as he sucks
sweet and gentle, Jack huffs and squirms as he gets used to it, but that’s all the fight he puts
up.

Sam lets him hold onto his head, play with his hair.

They doze off, together, like that; entangled.

Dean sucks his lips behind his teeth like he always does when he keeps himself from saying
something. It’s finally getting warmer again. Birds, sun on the pavement. The air smells like
trees, like pollen.

Sam teases, “What?” and of course, Dean tells him,

“Nothing.”

So they keep walking, and Sam keeps his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Glances to Dean,
who has his eyes pointed to where he walks—the gaps in the stone tiles, the tips of his run-
down sneakers.
Sam scoffs, wipes his own smirk away with a swipe of his tongue. “Don’t tell me you’re
jealous.”

Dean insists, “I’m NOT,” and not-so-quietly adds, under his breath, “Asshole,” and Sam’s
smile is back. This time, he keeps it.

Dad’s car is in the driveway by the time they make it home. Sam lets Dean and himself
inside. The house smells like Dad’s infamous mac and cheese, and as always, Sam pulls
Dean’s jacket off for him, carries his backpack after his brother has already hurried closer to
the food.

In the light-flooded living room sits Jack, at the table, and looks up from his homework. At
the sight of Sam, his mouth quirks like a newborn kitten—unsure if it wants to be a smile or a
pout. Unsure of what he’s feeling. Sam can’t smell him clearly enough to be able to tell.

They hear Dad scolding, “Dean,” and, “set the table if you are so impatient,” and Sam joins
them to do his part.

They sit and pray. Then, they eat.

“If it’s not a bother,” says Dad, eventually, “I’d like you to help me with today’s afternoon
service, Sam. Jesse called in sick, and I’m—”

Sam interrupts, “Sure,” and Dad smiles, relieved.

“Thank you,” he says, and means it.

Church is…fascinating.

All these people, huddled close, doing the same things, saying the same words. When
everyone is bowing their heads in prayer, Sam sometimes dares a peek—at their flock, at
Dad. How honest their father is. How he means every word. You can tell those things. Cas is
easy to read.

Sam puts on his best Sunday smile. Mild and polite and he can do this, when he wants, easily.
Holds and shakes hands and after all these years as a semi-constant next to their beloved
pastor, even the elders start to respect him. Sam knows it means a lot to Cas that he is here.
That they’re a team, doing this together.

Jack is a most patient child and, moreover, happy with very little. They pick him up from the
last pew where he’s tucked in with a book. He hurries to fit the bookmark between the pages
and follows close behind. Dad reaches back for Jack to hold onto his hand, and Jack grabs it
immediately. Like there never was a past where this, them, didn’t exist.

Dean quickly plucks his feet from atop the coffee table as they rejoin him inside the house
(the tiny little house, wood and renovations and donations and bees in the backyard;
chickens). He greets with, “Hey,” and Dad asks, “Did you finish your homework yet?” It
prompts Dean to roll his eyes (beautifully, exaggerated, heartbreaking) and he turns off the
outdated TV with a big, fat sigh.
Sam is the snake in this garden, but nobody seems to care.

“See? Dean has them, too.”

Sam squeezes the near-handful of fat for emphasis, for show.

Jack’s eyes are wide in the dark. Spellbound.

“You didn’t know, did you? Because he hides them?”

Jack has his thumb tucked in front of his teeth again. Helpless. Tiny, shy: “Why do you hide
them?”

Dean mumbles, “They’re gross,” and wrinkles his nose for two of Sam’s hands, tugging oh-
so-gently at the dusk-pink points of his nipples. Sam leans in to suck one of them into his
mouth, squeezes the remaining softness with his hand for added effect.

He pulls off with a pop, a smile, eyes on Jack. “See? Told you, didn’t I.”

“Dean’s are bigger…”

“Yeah, cause Dean’s a little older than you, bud. Give it a year. Or two.” Sam’s fingers find
the hem of Jack’s shirt. He pulls. Beckons. “Let’s see them, okay?”

Jack’s scent has not developed far enough to smell Sam’s arousal. Stunted, maybe, with the
malnourishment, with all that other stuff. Sam and Dean watch him wrestling out of his shirt
without a hint of shame (or grace).

Jack huffs, and his cheeks and ears have pinked. He enjoys Sam’s and his nightly nursing and
cuddling sessions enough to start getting excited for them.

“Dean has freckles. All over here.” Sam runs his fingertips over the soft-soft skin on their
little brother’s chest. He switches to the other side. “Here, too.”

Jack makes a puppy noise. He shivers with his goosebumps. His tiny, inflamed-looking
nipples are as hard as they will go.

Sam wants to know what Jack sees when he looks at him. At Dean, in his lap, topless like
Jack and as milky as Jack, Omega-soft with Sam’s spider-hands on both of them. Pulling
them in. Keeping them close.

Sam’s eyes feel heavy in their sockets. Black holes. Bottomless.

“Wanna see how Dean and I play with each other, Jack?”

~
Dean’s a weapon. A curse and a blessing and everything you might have nightmares about.
They had to call the cops on and for him a lot. He’s slowly getting better. Then again, with
these things, you never really know.

Sam thinks about him, sometimes. About how he was before Dad took him in. How he was
before he presented. When he presented.

Things Sam will never see. Never know.

Dean is good at being quiet. Just clenches his mouth all pink and flushed and nose-breathes,
pit-of-stomach whimpers. Sam loves him. He does.

How he’s talked Dad into letting him get birth control, for the acne, of course, Dad, you
know I wouldn’t, ew, gross.

Gross is Dean’s favorite word. Melts off his mouth like a curse, like he truly feels it. Gross,
gross, you’re so gross, Sammy; gross.

He’s too small, still, for this.

Curled toes and Sammy; fingers digging into sheets, into Sam. Sam has a feeling that slick
isn’t quite supposed to be like Dean’s. Can’t imagine it’s normal to feel this way. To smell
this way.

Had been Sam’s first time, back then, too. Special and weird but it was good, he thought.
Backseat of Dad’s car, out on that field. The jacket he couldn’t exactly wear afterwards laid
out underneath and the stars above and it was a mellow summer night, those couple of years
ago. Dean, with his premature little heats that whipped him like a dog, sudden like a shot to
the gut, an explosion of—everything. They drove Sam so mad he didn’t know how to handle
it (himself, them) any other way than—this. Dean and Sam, Sam and Dean.

I’m not like that, says Dean, when anybody asks. Dismissive and cold, a real bitch if he wants
to be. Teeth and murder-eyes. He smells fucked a lot. Dad doesn’t shame him. Would never.

“Jack,” and one hand on the steering wheel, the other dipping between Dean’s thighs, “I
wanna show you something, okay?”

From the backseat, “Yes?” and Dean pretends to be a little pissed, a little bothered by what
Sam ‘makes’ him do, and he blurts,

“Again?”

and Sam laughs as he guides Dad’s old little car safely down the road.

Recent, empty music on the half-broken speakers. Rolled-down windows; hair in Sam’s eyes,
his mouth.

Jack’s so sweet. Blond and easily bruised just like Dean. Big blue eyes. Sam fell for him the
moment Dad brought him home—so similar to how it had been with Dean.
Jack gasps for how Dean kisses him, how he struggles to push his pink little tongue against
Dean’s just as good. The flushed red of his cheeks, candy-breath. Sam can scent him heating
very, very slowly but very, very surely. Sam will be right there.

“You wanna take me out, bud?”

Jack uh-huhs and is barely able to stabilize his hand enough to get the zipper of Sam’s jeans
open, he’s so revved up. When Dean and Sam play around with him like this, Jack is nothing
more than putty in their hands. Eager, too-young. Desperate to not be—abandoned, again.
Sam and Dean, they understand that. They get that.

Jack’s hand grips and moves instantly, like a magic trick. He’s a fast learner. Sam huffs, and
he smiles. Feels out of his body, like a god.

They both look at him like he is.

With the three of them together, it’s all about multitasking. Getting Dean out of his jeans,
wiping the forgotten smear of spit from Jack’s chin. Sam is dizzy with power. With all the
trust they put in him. How it’s supposed to be; he knows.

“Wanna take off yours as well?”

Jack looks up from where he’s as mesmerized as he always is at the sight of Dean’s cage. He
offers, “Yes,” of course. Sam tries not to stare too obviously.

Jack’s school trousers; the perfectly white button-down untucked for a first time today. The
kiddy underwear.

One hand on his cock, one fingering Dean, Sam tells Jack, “Come here,” and Jack leans in to
get his kisses, and he sighs like it’s a relief. He doesn’t understand these things yet. The
biology. Why nothing feels as good as Sam.

Jack gasps both in surprise and guilt when Sam tugs his hand away from where he’s
attempting to get himself off in the only way he’s (so far) figured out.

Soft, “No,”

and Jack quips, “Sorry,” and Sam kisses him again for good measure.

The backseat is crammed, even with both doors open. Sam climbs out and tugs Dean after
himself ass-first.

He hears—the grass, whispering. Dean, sighing.

That glimpse of Dean’s heated eyes from over his shoulder. The sweat stains in his pits, the
cheap tee that used to be Sam’s, way back. The wet shine between his cheeks in the half-
shade of where Sam parked them.

Sam works himself, gets one hand on Dean’s hip. Flick of eyes for Jack’s attention and he
hears himself order, “Watch,” and he sounds wrecked already. They’ve never done this before
with someone watching.

Jack just sits there with his little hands grasped in his lap, with his expression derailed into
curiosity and excitement.

Sam thumbs the head of his cock inside Dean’s ass, and Dean makes a cat noise, fat and
happy. Jack doesn’t get upset right away. Good.

Jack’s mouth gapes open all slow and uncontrolled and Sam feels the sweat running from his
hairline, dip into the back of his shirt. Breathless, “You see that, Jack?” and Jack stares up at
him at the sound of his own name, and he nods. “Feels good, doesn’t it, Dean?”

Arm-and-seat-muffled, “Yeah,” tilting at the end for Sam pushing deeper, feeding him so
much at once. And he takes it. He always does.

“Yeah, ’cause this is how O’s and A’s make each other feel good, right?” Jack nods without
understanding, not really. Sam rocks in place with a groan, a shiver down his spine. Mindless,
“Yeah,” for himself, under his breath. “Just like that.”

Dean lets him hump slow and deep. Let’s him show off just how big he is and how ‘easy’
Dean’s body accepts him. Blooms open, wet and smacking and Sam’s thumb is tucked fine
over the stretch of his rim, pink and perfect and clinging to him like a lifeline, begging him to
stop and give him more at the very same time. By the time Dean’s voice begins to rise, Sam’s
nearly ready to blow.

It doesn’t need to be fast or mean. Not today. Not now.

“See that? Almost all the way in.”

“Doesn’t it—?” Jack doesn’t dare finish the sentence. Bug eyes and breathless, with his stiff
little dick standing hard and candy pink in his lap, forgotten, ignored.

Before Sam can come up with a lie, Dean slurs, “So fucking good.”

Sam helps them arranging Dean into Jack’s lap—body contact is important. Jack starts to
look scared once Sam begins to move more recklessly, truly makes every hard-earned ounce
of fat jiggle on Dean’s body. Sam decides that this is okay, though. So close to his release, the
motivation to stop and check in on Jack is non-existent.

Sam pants, “Coming,” and Dean is such a champ, such a trooper—lets him have his way and
drools into Jack’s lap, and Jack doesn’t understand when or how it happens. When everything
escalates and then crashes to a stop and Sam’s Alpha-self slips in a low growl.

Jack lets himself get beckoned close despite it all. Sam says, “Look,” and Jack does, as Sam
wrings his fingers just behind his knot, draws his climax out just that little bit further. Sam
could explain. He doesn’t.

When he pulls out, there is no spill. Not until Sam urges Dean to bear down, and Dean argues
for a beat—ends up doing what he’s told, though. Cringes all over and Sam praises,
“Just like that. Yeah,”

and he pushes his fingers through the oozing mess. Rubs it into Dean’s skin, fingers it back
inside.

Like a secret he shares with Jack: “See? I put that there.”

Jack croaks, “Oh,” as if he understands.

Sam suckles like a pup. Like there is milk to be had.

There might be, at some point. He should be more considerate, maybe not do this every day.
Probably. He probably shouldn’t. Yeah.

Jack sighs sweet above him. His chest rises and falls against Sam’s chin, his nose, his mouth.

Sam pets down those flanks, on his knees in the upstairs bathroom with Jack on the closed
toilet seat, squirming his doe legs around Sam’s ribs, his arms draped around Sam’s
shoulders. He’s all hazy when Sam bothers to look up, to switch to the other side.

Flushed and eyes shut, Jack’s breath comes hot and quickened.

He flinches when Sam wedges one hand between them, between Jack’s legs.

“Me too,” he murmurs, and Jack’s eyes pussyfoot open for the muffled noise of a zipper
getting undone. “Wanna see?”

Jack uh-hums and knuckles his eye. Sam stands, runs his hands over Jack’s shoulders, his
flushed neck, his sore, tiny tits. The heater in the bathroom runs constantly. Omegas are
sensitive to that kind of thing, Sam.

“Put it in your mouth?” with the end tilting high, like this is a question. He already nudges his
hips forward, grazes Jack’s chin, his lip in the next swing.

Jack sighs and nods, another, “Uh-huh,” and he drops his mouth open just enough for Sam to
push inside, slide across that tongue. He picks up milking Jack’s chest with his fingers and
Jack moans softly, caught off-guard. Again, he’s drifting off, eyes falling shut. Blissed,
pinked cheeks.

Sam can come on just that.

There are moments when he doubts things.

When he is mad that he didn’t get into that program, that he didn’t apply for the scholarships.
Then again, even if he had done all that, that doesn’t mean it would have worked. So far
away from home. No money for a car, let alone gas, to come see them every blue moon.
Community college is just as good, he thinks. Close, and Dad knows some of the people
working there. Sam can keep living at home for another few years, rent-free. Stash away
more money, maybe keep his little side job at the local tech repair shop. Stay with them; Dad
and Dean and—Jack, now.

Now that Jack is here, he doesn’t doubt himself as often anymore.

He watches him—the vague shape of him cuddled up in Dad’s lap, with Dad watching the
TV and endlessly petting through Jack’s now neatly cut hair, with Jack long dozed off, limp
and warm. The even rhythm of his breath. How small he is, still.

Dad presses a kiss, two, into Jack’s hair. Holds his forehead.

Murmured, “Would you like to go to bed, Jack?” and the child stirs just awake enough to be
upset about someone waking him. Sam smiles, unseen. Invisible. “Okay, buddy—hold on,
okay?”

Dad pushes to a stand with a labored noise. Jack clings to him, arms and legs, and Dad holds
him safe, like you’d do with—like he did when Sam was still… Well, Jack is kinda small for
his age, anyway.

Another smooch, and Jack grumbles too-tired. Tucks his head against Cas’ neck and Cas
rocks him as far as his strength lets him. Dad’s pretty buff for a Beta. “I’ll be right back,” he
says, and Sam nods. “Say goodnight, Jack.”

Muffled, “Goodnight, Jack.”

Sam tells him, “Sweet dreams, buddy,” but doubts he is heard.

“Do it like this. No hands. Yeah.”

Jack looks as confused as he looks excited, and that’s—excellent. Always.

“You got five minutes. If you get done, I’ll let you put it in my mouth and you can go again.
If not,” and Jack’s mouth clamps tight in anticipation, and Sam never misses those things,
ever. “If you don’t,” he says, quiet and gentle, “we’ll try it that other way again, okay?”

Jack mumbles, “Okay,” and Sam sets the timer.

It’s better than Christmas, watching the pup trying to figure it out.

Driving his hips forward over and over, shuffling his knees to find good friction, good
leverage. Telling him, “No,” when he attempts to use his hands to get more resistance behind
the pillow. How he pushes his little tits into Sam’s fingers when Sam tugs at one of them,
once, and the desperate little whine that follows when he lets go of it again immediately.

Whimpered, “Sam, I can’t,” and Sam gets to tell him,

“It’s okay, bud, just keep going. You can do it.”

How sweat builds on that flushed face. How he’s somewhat getting the hang of it eventually,
but a glance to his phone tells Sam what he (ultimately) already knew, and his smile curls a
little deeper. He spurs the Omega on, come on, just a little more, almost out of time, baby.

It’s the first time Jack almost throws a tantrum—out of all the times. All the messes of the
past few weeks, months. Sam manages to calm him down, gets him to lie flat on his back,
suckle his own fingers as his little body ebbs with his teary, choppy sobs.

(The off-color floral wallpaper. The trims Dad and he had repainted together, years ago. Lace
curtains; a stray cross above the door.) Sam reminds, “You knew the rules,” and Jack sobs
again, no heat behind it, but otherwise surrenders. All pent up and ruined already, just from
humping a fucking pillow.

Sam is careful with how often he keeps Dean around for this. Dean, who can be brash and
overwhelming while Jack’s so shy, still needs so much special attention and patience. It will
get better with time, but Sam knows what’s best. What he needs to do, and how, for everyone
to be happy.

Surprised, “Fuck,” and, “you’re so wet,” and Jack flinches, even on the inside, for the heated
whisper of Sam’s voice.

Lets him lean down and lick into his mouth while Sam slips one finger into him. Eases him
into it. Crooks it, once fully inside, and Jack fidgets with his spit-soaked hand again, and Sam
allows it. “Yeah, fuck, put ’em in your mouth. Suck on them like they’re mine. Good boy,
Jack.”

It’s gotten so much better over the last couple of weeks. The regular nursing helps things
along wonderfully, and the rest, well…

Enough slick, now, that it squelches thick when he pumps his finger. Sam adds another,
wedges it in there despite the too-tight fit but it works, lets him in, lets him do whatever he
wants. Jack just doesn’t know yet what his body really needs. How it needs it.

“Sucking on me right here,” up against Jack’s stuffed mouth, with Sam’s fingers digging in
and up on emphasis. Jack hiccups, tosses his head like a yes-no. His available hand comes up
to grab for Sam’s shirt, winds around Sam’s neck. “You wanna cuddle up, do it like this?
Yeah, c’mere,” and Sam adores him. He does.

Labored puppy-breathing against his neck, his scent gland. His dick is so hard it’s straining
up against his zipper, goosebumps from root of hairs down to his toes. He growls and pumps
his fingers faster, meaner.

“Like that, yeah? You wanna come on my fingers? Think you can do it this time?” His toes
curl for Jack’s frantic nod, the gulp of his spit-heavy breath. “Yeah, fuck. Let me. Let me.”

Jack’s voice rises, so Sam buries him harder against his neck, his shoulder. Snarls,
“Quiet,” and, “Shh,” even though Dad isn’t at home, but there is no sense in starting any rule
sloppily.

Despite it all, Jack yelps when it happens.

Squeezes around Sam in every way he can, all his meager weight and strength catalyzing and
crashing down. Sam draws it out, bangs his fingers in and in and in until Jack sobs into his
shoulder, whimpers for, “No more, no,” and Sam doesn’t pull them out for another while;
can’t. Snapped up so tight and still pulsing, sucking him in and in like it already knows,
already wants.

Sam scissors his fingers wide, screws them strict. Makes the premature Omega shiver and
tremble and toss his pretty little head, and he kisses him long and heated, after, as a thank
you. As a reward.

Once free again, Sam sinks those fingers right into Jack’s own mouth. Stirs them against that
uvula and Jack gags, once and beautiful. He’s sweaty and snotty but when Sam says to suck,
Jack complies, no questions asked.

Sam laps the taste right back out of him.

Secret, beet-red, “I want to kiss Dean there,” and both Dean and him groan at that. Sam has
lost his bearing whose tongue is whose. He helps them move, hands and knees and sheets,
hushed, always.

Dean’s lost little, “Fuck,” and Sam pries him open with both hands blanketing Jack’s, and he
guides him further down and Jack’s smothered now but blissed, smells so sweet and happy
and he moans, delighted, where he kiss-laps into Dean’s already soaked cunt, and it’s so
good. It’s so fucking good.

Sam strokes himself until he can’t take it anymore. Barely has to lift Dean by the hips until he
can push in there, replace Jack’s cute little face. Feels breath against his balls and taint and
dips lower, until Jack’s mouth pillows him just right and he sighs, “Fuck, please,” breathless
and shivering and Jack sucks them into his mouth as good as he can, and Sam’s gonna
fucking lose it.

His knot swells so fast he’s getting light-headed with it.

Hurried, “Don’t stop, don’t stop, Jack,” as he thrusts choppy and aborted into Dean, can’t go
hard nor fast if he wants to keep that mouth on his balls but God he doesn’t have to, he
doesn’t; not tonight.

He finishes so hard he’s nearly blacking out. Rut-like, head to toe, and Sam realizes that, oh,
yeah, about time, probably—and accepts that, but doesn’t think further.

He wakes up the next morning with his cock already so hard it’s leaking all over himself. He
jerks off once, twice. Cold shower, tuck. Breakfast. A distant buzz behind his navel, in his
ear. The scars from where he’s scratched himself stupid, there, in that one spot in the back of
his neck.

“Mrs. Finn? Yeah, it’s me, Sam,” blinker and steer, tunnel vision. “Yeah, uhm, just calling to
let you know that Jack’s not feeling so well today, so. I’m keeping him home, just to be safe.
Yeah,” he says, with a swoop of eyes to the rearview, the two sets of big eyes in the backseat.
“Yeah, you too. Thanks.”

Sam hangs up. After a moment he hears, “But I don’t feel sick,”

and Dean’s, “Shh,” and Sam glances back just quick enough to see Dean elbowing Jack. “I
told you.”

“I’m scared!” Sam doesn’t comment; makes another turn off their usual route. “I wanna go
home!”

“It’s okay,” he hears—Dean, calm and collected and sweet like a true big brother. “Just do
what he says. It’s not scary at all, I promise. He’s not gonna hurt us.”

Sam can’t think. Blood under his fingernails. His scars burn.

He pulls into the parking lot, gets to the reception, somehow. “Two queens,” mumbled and
feverish and the Beta gives him a look but he pays in cash and tips right away, so he walks
out with the keys and gets his brothers.

The room is familiar and yet not. Clean and boring, nothing special, and he’s out of his jacket
and shoes before he’s even locked the door right.

“Off with the clothes. All of it,” he tells them, and Jack looks shocked and frozen enough that
it bleeds onto Dean, who gives Sam a look—like a ‘seriously?’ and Sam’s shift of scent is
enough if a warning that he snaps out of it. Thank God.

Ushered, “C’mon,” and Jack is crying by the time Sam comes up to them, takes over
undressing him so Dean can start stripping himself.

Sam promises, “It’s okay, Jack,” but Jack won’t stop sobbing. “It’s only a game, okay? Did I
ever do something you didn’t like? I didn’t.” Sweat collects along his hairline. His cock is so
swollen it’s going numb.

He doesn’t feel like kissing but it’s the only way he can think of to soothe Jack. Kneads at his
tits maybe a tint too hard but those nipples rush hard for the attention, and Jack warms, if
only a little, and that’s good enough. Will have to do, today.

“Dean,” says Sam, turning. Begging.

Warning, “I-I’m not wet yet,” but that’s not entirely true, and they both know it.

Sam simply yanks him close with an arm around his waist, down on his knees now so he can
get his mouth on one of his tits, shoves two of his fingers right up Dean’s ass. Hears Dean
gasp, feels his chest expanding, how his hands flail and settle for support on Sam’s head, his
shoulders, and he growls low around the soft pink mound in his mouth, the spongy little nub
of Dean’s nipple stiffening for him right away.

He holds them close, both Omegas. Switches his mouth back and forth between them, has
both of them clinging to him in no time whatsoever. He’s shaking. Desperate.

Again, “Dean,” eyes closed and nuzzling into one soft, wet breast—three fingers, four. Jack’s
heavy, tear-free breath, Dean’s pressed little hmmm from behind his teeth, lifted to the top of
his toes.

Sam moves them to the nearby bed. Pushes Dean down on all fours, lifts his ass up high,
plunges his fingers right back inside. Spits, loud, and he blind-reaches for Jack who still
stands nearby, frozen in fear once more.

“Gotta help me out here, okay?” and Jack nods, desperate to appease; doesn’t know he’s wet
himself, but Sam can smell it, more so than ever when he’s—like this. “Spit on my hand,
c’mon. Gotta make it nice and wet, okay?”

Jack leans in, purses his mouth; Dean moans, reaches back to hold himself further open,
trembles for the relentlessly rocking push of Sam’s hand that loosens him up so it can force
deeper, more. Sam angles his thumb in and grabs Jack by his scruff, doesn’t have to tell him
to keep going, more, c’mon.

As he forces past the widest point of his hand, Dean yelps a heartbreak noise that makes Jack
jolt underneath Sam’s palm. Sam pinches the pup tight and assures, “It’s okay,” and, “I gotta
do this or he’ll get hurt,” and Jack’s eyes fill with tears again, and the scent in the room is all
fucked up.

Sam twists his hand to push further and Dean sobs, once and broken, and he stops himself
mid-scramble, whimpers, “Sammy,” and Sam shushes, blind, his free hand from Jack to
Dean, soothing down the spasming small of his back, his ass, the back of his thigh. Feels
Dean’s damp hand grasping around his wrist, holding on for comfort, and Sam blinks like
this is a dream. It is, in a way.

Enough slick to drown in once he’s extracted his hand. Bloodless and numb and he stumbles
to his feet right away, hand on his cock, pulsing and suffocating. The push-in is fever-hot,
everything.

He’s not human when it’s like this. Is something else, someone else. He has no say in it.

Both hands on those hips and he’s as deep as he can go but forces forward, like he could
climb inside, like Dean is capable of holding him like that. It’s an endless itch, then. He can’t
move fast enough, hard enough.

Slap of skin and slick and he thinks to say, “Get on the bed,” and he thinks Jack does. He
blankets Dean, still fucking, still making him sing with how hungry he slams inside, but his
knot is coming on already, thank God.
Nearly prone atop of Dean when it happens, when it catches and Dean yelps once, and Sam
rocks it home, savors the building pressure until it’s fully expanded with nowhere to go, and
his hips tug once, twice, before he’s coming.

It’s endless, like this. Caught and blinding and he’s one raw nerve, one spasming muscle and
he chokes, and it hurts, and he doesn’t ever want it to stop.

Muffled noise below him and he slurs, “Oh, shit,” and lifts himself so Dean can breathe, and
he hauls for air instantly, and he sobs and Sam tells him, “Sorry,” but doesn’t stop to rock his
hips back and forth, still tied, still coming down.

Sam presses a kiss behind Dean’s ear. Hums, “Jack,” and the kid appears, his little hand, and
Sam kisses that, too. “Lay down. Let me see you.”

They’re both still so small, so they fit on the bed next to each other, like sardines in a tin.
Jack squished next to Dean with his pale little face that Sam forgoes for the swell of his
premature tits, those darling tiny things that taste like home and milk and baby. Sam lap-
sucks on them until poor Jack is squirming his legs together, until Sam’s nearly sane again.

He pushes himself up on one elbow. Purrs, here, nuzzling, and pushes two fingers if his left
hand between Jack’s legs and into his snug little hole. That drenched, pink little heaven. Sam
sighs, hungry, dreamy, and Dean squirms for him dragging his hips back in an attempt to pull
free.

It works, eventually.

Helpless, “Sammy,” for the immediate, new push-in. The quickly building thrusts.

“Right here,” promises Sam, one hand tucked under Dean’s belly. “Right here, baby.”

He’s promised it to himself. He can wait. He will wait. He’s pushing enough as is.

Sam’s the first to know it’s gonna happen. Even before Dean. When they sit at the dinner
table and all heads are ducked in prayer and Dad is talking but Sam scents it, then, and his
stomach tenses. Too soon. So soon.

Says, “Jack,” in bed that night, reverent and tender and Jack just hums, “Yes?” and lets Sam
kiss him long and dirty, and his eyes are glazed over when they part, and Sam can’t believe it.
He can’t.

Forehead to forehead and he lays between those legs, easy, warm. Nudges his hips so his
cock drifts against Jack’s, dwarfs it entirely.

Sam whispers, “I’ll put it in, alright?” and Jack’s eyes go wide for a moment, and he nods in
the next. Heats, immediately, ready. God. Maybe tomorrow. The day after tomorrow.

Two fingers, three. Four.

Low, “So wet. Can you tell?”

Nervous, “Uh-huh,” and Sam scent-marks him, nuzzles that chin, that cheek. Hears, “Feels
good,” and beams, proud.

“Yeah. Yeah, doesn’t it?”

Jack complains, “Sam, I’m real hot somehow,” and he tosses his heavy head and is so soft, so
limp in Sam’s hands, under Sam’s mouth. Lets Sam bend and pin his legs and pouts and
wonders, quietly, “Is that normal?” and Sam kisses him deep again as he presses the too-fat
tip of his cock against Jack’s puffy hole.

“Oh,” says Jack, like he just realized what they are about to do. Again, “Oh,” and he
swallows the next noise, and Sam stares right into those eyes as he begins to sink into Jack’s
cunt, pops him wide and wet and Jack’s cherry-mouth drops open, fascinated, lost.

Sam kisses it. Sucks that bottom lip into his mouth after doing the same with Jack’s tongue.
Jack’s wound his arms around Sam’s neck when Sam wasn’t paying attention.

“Feel good?” around a smile, like a giggle, and Jack just nods, mouth still open and wet and
Sam swallows his next moan right down his throat as he pushes his cock deeper, inch by
inch, right into the clench of slick, untouched Omega pussy.

Jack blabbers, “S’big,” and Sam shushes him, gives him another inch. He grants the kid a bit
of breathing space before he begins to move—careful rocking motions that Sam can feel are
pulling Jack inside-out. But that scent remains untainted, unchanged. Sweetens further, if
anything, as it mixes with Sam’s precome, his pheromones.

Jack huffs with Sam bringing more and more of his weight down. Starts to breathe hard for
real, and Sam gives him three of his fingers to nurse on when that gets too loud. Has him
puffing out of his nose with his pretty eyes drifted shut, baby-sweat and ruffled hair. Sam
can’t tear his eyes away from the tight suck of those lips around his fingers, perfectly parallel
to what he feels gripping slick-hot around his cock. His hair falls into his eyes. He can’t care.

He pulls out just before he comes. Finishes, trembling and on his knees, towering over Jack
and spilling all over that quivering little belly in perfect silence. Holds his breath until there’s
lighting behind his squeezing eyes and he hauls a breath, stumbling and wild, bad he finds
Jack peering up at him with wonder, after.

Sam’s room; the quiet backside of the house, overlooking the garden. Dad’s office, first. We
can sand down the floors if you want, I think it would do the room good.

Sam lays back down, kisses his brother. Pulls him close and they’re gross between their
stomachs, sticky and wet but Jack doesn’t complain at all.

Tells Sam, “That felt really nice,” around a smile, and Sam nuzzles up to him.

~
Jack’s first heat finally hits half a week later. Unsteady and mean like Sam knows those first
few times usually are for Omegas. Sam doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He checks them into that motel again after dropping Dean off at school, and Jack is crying
again, but it’s different this time.

Hot and drenched and he sobs that it hurts, Sam, my belly really hurts, but he rocks back onto
the entire length of Sam’s cock like it’s still not enough. Sobs, wild, and Sam loses count on
how often he has him shaking apart.

Even only half-conscious he whimpers, “Don’t stop, please, please,” and Sam has a long
shower once the Omega passes out around noon. Sam nurses on him until he stirs awake. He
fucks him again. It’s so easy.

“But you do it with Dean…”

“Yeah, cause Dean’s taking meds that keep him from having a baby,” and Jack looks nearly
—furious for that. Out of his right mind with hormones, clearly, but Sam stays persistent in
that one, no matter how tempting the thought.

He’s thought back and forth of how they could trick Cas into getting a prescription for Jack,
too. But he’s not prone to acne, doesn’t have any other complications. Can’t have it all. That’s
okay.

In the late afternoon, as they dress after another shower, Jack groans and bends over, arms
tight around his middle.

Sam can’t even ask before Jack’s already whimpered, “It hurts real bad,” and when the
cramps don’t let up until nighttime, Dad decides that they’ll rush him into the ER.

The doc tells them, “The scan didn’t show any complications,” and both Dad’s and Sam’s
relief is immediate. The doc flips through the scans, scratches at his chin. “Could have to do
with the castration. Imbalanced hormones.” Dad nods, pale. Sam just stares and listens.
“Male O’s don’t require testes in terms of reproduction, of course, but removing them is, uh
—let’s say it’s not a very modern way to deal with things.”

Sam can’t speak. Gladly, Dad is present enough to inquire, “What can we do?” and Sam
looks at him, and he loves him. Loves that he’s here for them, that he takes care of them.
Whatever there is.

“Well,” the doc says, and flings the scans into a fresh manila folder. “You’ll have to schedule
him with our gyn-OB to make sure, but—if you wanna go unobtrusive, most birth control
brands double as hormone balancers, so that might be worth checking out,” and Sam blinks,
empty, and can’t tell if God loves him or if this is another test.

Jack babbles sweet, school slacks around his ankles, holding himself open with the hand not
bracing him against the wall.
He shuts up with a deep sigh once Sam finally gets to push inside, fills him too soon too fast
but Sam feels the waves of goosebumps racing up Jack’s back, and he anchors in, and Jack
can will himself lax enough that Sam can drive in almost as far as he can with Dean.

Sam looks down between them to see his cock pumping slick and fat into Jack’s scrawny
little body—how flushed he is, how ready and hungry with just a few teases of his tits earlier
in the car. It’s the pills, Sam’s pretty damn sure, and who is he to complain?

Gasped, “No,” and, “I’m sore,” but all that prompts is Sam putting his other hand on Jack’s
other tit as well. He can pump his hips and pluck at Jack’s chest simultaneously, easy, and
Jack trembles like Sam’s laser-focused on his g-spot instead of simply lazily opening him up
on his cock.

Whimpers. Jack’s little hands clasp around Sam’s, urge him to stop, go easy. More muffled
noises when Sam doesn’t; when he leans in to kiss-suck at Jack’s neck, his scent gland.

Desperate, then, tear-heavy, “I-I’m, you’re making me come,” and Sam’s mouth curls mean.

When it was just Dean and him, they fooled around a lot, sure. But with Jack in the picture,
the possibilities multiply.

Jack, asking for it with as much as a swoop of his shy eyes. Dean, marvelling at every second
of attention.

Sam doesn’t make them miss school, no. Insists on homework and chores getting done. He’s
a good son, after all. A good big brother.

“If you get this done by five, you guys can sleep in my room tonight, all right?”

They’re cuddlers, both of them. Part Omega, part child, part past. They never stood a chance.

Held tight and easy suggestions, whispers in the dark. Sam’s night light turns one wall of his
room into a starry sky. Every single gift Cas got him, he still owns. Still treasures.

Nuzzled up between their chests, close. Warm and sweet and Sam drifts, easy. One of them is
tending to his balls, one hand teases the wet-again tip of his cock. He kicks off his sleep
pants, finally. Pulls Dean on top.

Sam always has them stripping bare before climbing into his bed. He gave up the bigger
room, his first room, when Dad had asked, kindly; you will get another brother, Sam, they
will need a little more space. One hand running along the long line of Dean’s shuddering
back, the other holds his cock upright so he can drive his hips up, nudge easy inside. Dean
huffs like it’s a surprise, still. Both hands on those hips, pulling him down, and Jack pushes
himself up so he can kiss Dean’s mouth, can squeeze his steady-scented hand over-around
one tit and knead it carefully. Sam tells them, “Yeah,” and, “keep going,” and they do. Of
course.
He tends to both of them. Switches back and forth, rolls over or makes them sit on him.
Doing this nearly every night for the past couple of weeks has him in a semi rut. Hard and
constantly inside of one of them, constantly scenting them, scenting himself on them. He’s
different. He likes it.

“Can you taste me in there?” and Jack’s moan is muffled by Dean’s ass, and Dean’s eyes are
glassy and fixed to where Sam’s pounding into the kid. His locked little Omega cock dribbles
generously over Jack’s soft chest. Sam watches it blurting with emphasis as soon as Dean can
scent Sam starting to come, hears Dean gasp.

Sam kisses him while he unloads deep inside their little brother.
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