Work Text:
Sam had always had a thing about Dean leaving his stuff everywhere. It started as teens, when motel rooms became even more cramped than before. When Dean was a few, desperate months from graduation and Sam was studying for his PSAT. When the senior girls Dean brought by would giggle at the textbooks littering the kitchenette, and Sam would argue that Dean should find another room. Of course, there was nothing cooler to these girls than Dean Winchester, the smart-mouthed kid who skipped class for weeks at a time, wore leather jackets and could take them back to a motel room, far from parental supervision. Oh, and he was an alpha, to boot. Sam, more often than not, ended up schlepping his backpack and his books to the nearest Denny’s.
When they started traveling together again, there was an adjustment period. Sam woke up a few times right before checkout, rushing to pack all his things and angrily finding Dean’s laundry thrown in with his. Having to remind Dean three, four, five times to throw out his empty drink cups after they went through a drive-through fast food joint, because Sam had nowhere to put his coffee and the Impala -- god rest her soul -- only had two flimsy cup holders.
Then, Dean backed off a little bit, so Sam did too. It took a frustratingly long time, but Dean seemed to remember that he was sharing space with another person again, and left little offerings of room here and there. He’d only take up his half of the night stand between their motel beds, he eventually stopped throwing his fast food wrappers and receipts by Sam’s feet on the passenger side. When Dean was put on bag-packing duty while Sam returned their room keys, Sam started opening his duffel to find only his clothes tucked into his bag. Clean, too. Not folded, of course, but Sam had learned to keep expectations low.
But, for the most part, years of chiding Dean to act like a grown man and keep his mess to himself had paid off.
So Sam was more than a little embarrassed when he found himself pacing their room, hands bunched up in one of Dean’s hoodies, hugging it to his chest like a puppy missing its owner. Dean had left to “catch the game” at the nearest dive, which was code for This hunt took everything out of me and if I have to turn the TV down during Sunday night football so you can sleep, I’m going to smother you with a pillow. Sam had given a thumbs up when Dean asked if he wanted to join, as a courtesy, which was code for I’d rather gouge my eyes out than spend a few hours listening to who you think is making the playoffs, anyway.
And that was true. It was just also true that Sam had felt a heat creeping up on him for days now, pricking sweat on the back of his neck and waking him up in the middle of the night with hot flashes and chills. Sam’s cycles had never been all that brutal to begin with, and growing up on the road meant keeping some OTC meds in his bag anyways. He got by just fine, usually.
Usually. When he hadn’t been tossed against a cement wall repeatedly by some coked-up werewolves, then been smothered in their innards when Dean finally came to the rescue. It had been very briefly amusing, as Dean pestered him to sit on a towel to not ruin the Impala seat the whole way home, but after that it was just disgusting. His entire body stung from the impacts of the day, and he could already feel bruises forming across his chest and perhaps on some ribs, that he’d be ignoring for the time period. Just, truly, a prime example of a bad time for a heat to come on.
He knew Dean was vaguely aware of them when they happened, mostly by the little jabs Dean would make a day or two in when he noticed the change in Sam’s scent. A blend of amber, salt, and cedar growing stronger, the sweeter amber taking precedent and covering up the others. Past girlfriends and roommates had always told Sam the change was subtle, inordinately so -- he’d lived with people in college almost a year before they realized he was an omega -- but Sam supposed that when you grow up in each other’s pockets the way he and Dean did, there was no subtle change.
Like clockwork, Dean would get his smartass comment in, wait for Sam’s acknowledgement, and then not bring it up for the rest of the week. A few months back, Dean had thanked the check-in receptionist for their key, and then requested some extra pillows “for my woozy friend here”. Sam had kicked his shin below the view of the desk, maintaining his polite smile with gritted teeth. He saw Dean’s shit-eating grin in his peripheral vision.
But fuck it, Sam was tired. Dean was out for the night. This heat had come on like a bat out of hell, he’d just showered a metric fuckton of werewolf guts off, and Dean’s stupid clothes were right there.
Sam finally stopped pacing and settled on the edge of his bed, unfurling the hoodie with a sigh and pulling it on. His instincts had gone haywire over the last few hours, and Dean’s stuff - while, mercifully, piled on his own bed -- was radiating home scent and all Sam wanted to do was curl up in a pile of it. He hadn’t nested in a very long time - he’d make small ones as a teenager, bigger ones when he moved in with Jess - but he didn’t consider himself very skilled at it. As Jess had put it, he just wasn’t in touch with his omega side.
Sam let out a shaky breath and rubbed his face against the fabric bunched on his shoulder, taking in the subtle notes of leather and canned coffee and engine oil. Dean’s scent was always faint - alphas didn’t get heats, and Dean didn’t go around scent-marking things. But it was one that Sam grew up with, the one weighted into the sheets of the bed he’d crawl into after a nightmare. With just a few more seconds of turmoil, he got back up and curled up on Dean’s bed. He tugged the nearest laundry pile close to his chest, pushing the rest of the clothes, and some decorative pillows, to the edges of the mattress around him. He slid under the blanket before he could think twice about it, his body sinking in relief as the warmth and calming scent enveloped him. Fuck, he was so tired.
Sam didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep until he woke to the sound of Dean’s key in the door. He shifted, whining about the lights being on before he could even open his eyes.
“You left the lights on, Samuel,” Dean replied.
The door clicked shut. Sam heard Dean freeze in place.
He cracked open an eye, and very immediately remembered that he was bundled up on a pile of clothes on his brother’s bed. Sam flushed and sat up, smoothing down his hair.
“Hey.” Sam tried, fighting off a yawn. “How was th’ bar?”
Dean fixed him with a raised eyebrow, still standing with his jacket draped over his forearm and keys dangling from his fingers. He normally came back in a daze, not aware of the world around him, but clearly Sam had stunned him sober this time. Wonderful.
“How was the bar?” Dean repeated.
Sam nodded. He could at least try for nonchalance.
Dean snorted and finally moved, setting his things down on the couch.
“Bar was good, Sammy. You wanna explain what you’re doin’ there?”
Sam frowned.
“Uh….laundry.”
Dean looked unimpressed, fishing one of his sleep shirts out of the pile.
“Y’know, when people say doing their laundry, they don’t mean it literally. What, are you cuddling in the afterglow?”
Sam’s frown deepened as he shuffled around, out from under the clothes and blankets he’d piled on.
“Very funny.”
“...Weirdo.” Dean continued as he started changing. He sniffed the air loudly. “Smells like a Bath and Bodyworks in here.”
Before Sam could reply, Dean whirled around with his eyes wide and a slight grin on his face. “Oh.”
“Dean.” Sam said, already getting up as his face started to turn red. “Don’t.”
“You’re nesting.” Dean said, sounding equal parts amused and surprised. He chuckled at the arrangement of the clothes again, realization clicking into place. “Is that why you’re wearing my stuff?”
“No.” Sam replied immediately. “…Maybe. I’m tired, Dean.”
Sam shook his head and returned to his corner of the room, making himself as busy as possible with picking up the scattered lore books on his bed. The sooner he could properly go to sleep, the sooner he’d be out of this conversation.
Dean was still chuckling to himself as he finished pulling on his sleep shirt, clearly unwilling to let this one go.
“Didn’t know you were a nester, Sammy.”
“I’m not.” Sam countered flatly. “I don’t, usually.”
“So what’s gotten into you?” Dean asked. Curiosity had just barely overtaken the amused glint in his eyes. They moved to scanning the rumpled crescent of blankets Sam had left on his bed.
Sam exhaled through this nose and shook his head.
“Can we drop it?”
Dean was quiet for a couple seconds, which Sam foolishly took as agreement. In his peripheral vision, he saw Dean take to rearranging his bed, presumably fixing the mess Sam had made of it. Sam flushed, more than a little embarrassed at the role reversal of Dean cleaning up his mess.
Then Dean cleared his throat.
“There.”
Sam looked up. Dean had turned down the covers, cleared off the mess of clean socks and left only a few bigger pieces of clothing piled on the duvet. A pullover, a few worn vintage tees. Dean was looking at him expectantly.
Sam raised an eyebrow.
“Would you just...” Dean sighed, nodding towards the bed. “You’re killing me over there, with the puppy dog eyes.”
Sam frowned. “I’m not doing puppy dog eyes, Dean.”
“Yeah, but you’re--” Dean gestured up and down at Sam. “The whole thing. You’re pacing.”
Sam glanced down at his feet, which were notably planted on the floor, then back up at Dean.
“You were pacing last night.” Dean amended.
“Thought you were asleep,” Sam countered, immediate and maybe a little accusatory.
“Yeah, well, it’s hard to sleep when you’re burning holes in the carpet.” Dean replied. He took a breath. “Look, I’m just saying, you’re on edge. You should... y’know. Do what you need to do.”
Sam’s brow crinkled.
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird!” Dean’s voice rose slightly in pitch, his exasperation bleeding through. “You smell all stressed out, I’m not gonna be able to sleep if you’re trying to tough it out, and we’re both gonna be pissy in the morning."
Sam chewed on that for a second. He’d never really considered that Dean could pick up on any nuances in his scent besides just heat and not heat. Frankly, he was irritated that Dean had even that knowledge. But he supposed it made sense - some alphas were especially attuned to those things, especially with omegas they’d spent a long time with. If Dean had been able to parse that out before, he’d done Sam the favor of not mentioning it until now, which was an admittedly large favor to his dignity.
Sam sighed, all his defenses crumpling in slow-mo as he let the breath out.
“Sorry.” He muttered. “It’s been a long day.”
“Long two days.” Dean agreed. “Ten hour drive, you got the brunt of that uh - werewolf-splosion today.” He chuckled, visibly remembering the aftermath of the ganking. “You had to shower like three times to get all the guts out of your hair--” He tilted his head to the side, watching as Sam’s shoulders started to shake a bit. “Hey, you good?”
Sam nodded, taking another deep breath and closing the distance between them. He leaned forward to tip his head down onto Dean’s shoulder, not even hugging, just seeking out the grounding first.
Dean tossed an arm over his back and tugged him the rest of the way in, nudging Sam into an actual hug now. Sam could hear Dean sniffle next to his ear-- not crying, moreso adjusting like one would to allergies -- and he flushed, remembering that he probably smelled like a sickly sweet Christmas candle this close up. He pulled back slightly, only for Dean to muss his hair and tuck his head back where it was.
“Easy.” Dean said softly.
“I know.” Sam replied quietly, blinking furiously at the tears that had started to prick at his eyes. He knew it was so stupid, such a silly thing to be emotional about. But a flood of hormones and a good beating from a monster will do that to you.
Dean gave him a firm pat on the back at the same time he rubbed his chin against Sam’s neck, stubble briefly scratching against his skin in a way that made Sam frown. He was about to say something when Dean pulled back, looking ever so slightly uncertain, and he realized.
Dean just scent-marked him. Quickly, lightly, in a spot a mother might mark her pups if she’d be gone for a long while. Sam couldn’t remember the last time he’d had any kind of scent-mark, let alone..that. Maybe when he was a baby. Maybe once or twice when they were kids. His surprise flickered against an instant, instinctual relief as he felt more tension leave his body.
“...Jerk.” He said softly.
“Bitch.” Dean cracked a smile, clearly relieved himself that he hadn’t crossed a line. He nudged Sam toward the bed. “C’mon.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.” Sam grumbled, even as he lied down and set to unabashedly rearranging the bedding and clothing until it was just right. Once he was finished, he looked back up at Dean, his eyes wide. It was juvenile, and a little embarrassing, but he’d had a day.
“Okay.” Dean shook his head. “Those are puppy dog eyes.”
Sam’s expression gave way to a small, triumphant smile. “Hurry up then.”
Dean rolled his eyes, nodding. “Yeah, yeah. Scoot over.” He reached over to turn out the lamp as he got in.
Sam acquiesced, just barely, leaving Dean just enough space to lie down beside him. A combination of exhaustion and the low, instinctual hum telling him he was finally safe and with pack had him rolling over on his side, shimmying down to tuck his head against Dean’s chest. He felt Dean chuckle in surprise before resting a hand on his hair and pulling him even more snug.
Sam indulgently took a deep breath, smiling softly at the familiar burnt coffee and leather flooding his nostrils. Sam felt Dean shift and something stubbly brush once more against his head. Another scent mark.
“Dean.” He said flatly. “Cool it. We’re interviewing witnesses tomorrow.”
“What?” Dean asked innocently. “It’ll fade.”
“Not by tomorrow.” Sam replied around a yawn. “‘S embarrassing.”
“To smell like your brother?” Dean asked, and Sam could hear the stupid grin in his voice.
Sam sleepily moved to pull away, but Dean was just slightly faster, catching his shoulder in one more brief little scent-mark. The coffee, leather, and motor oil was almost overwhelming now, like too many sprays of a bad cologne in a department store.
“I’m gonna kill you.” Sam muttered, shoving a pillow at his stomach.
Dean laughed, but let up. “Goodnight, Sammy.”
Sam didn’t dignify him with a response at first. He set to shifting this way and that for a few minutes, feeling just nearly calm enough to finally get some real rest, but something was still off. He sighed heavily, glancing back over at Dean, before reluctantly scooting back to where he was. He tucked his head back against Dean’s chest, nuzzling him lightly out of instinct alone.
Dean snickered. “Clingy little brother says what?”
“I’m gonna kill you with a gun.” Sam said seriously, his voice muffled by Dean’s shirt.
Dean chuckled some more, before resting a hand on Sam’s back and lightly tracing circles there.
“Alright, pup.”
Sam froze, face flushing once more before he kneed Dean’s leg.
“With a gun, Dean.”
Dean yawned and ruffled his hair again.
“Whatever you say. Get some sleep, Sam.”