"Just—" Dean grunts, teeth clenched like he's not spilling sIick all over the floor, leaving a snail-trail behind him as he slumps over the end of the bed. "Get it over with, al'ready." He means it to sound commanding, but his guttural timbre cracks like splintered wood, peetering off into a whimper that'll haunt him to the end of his days.

It was purely functional. Utilitarian, even. The two of you are strapped for cash—are always strapped for cash—and suppresants are a bitch to pay for. The good old American healthcare system. No fuckin' matter; this was at least better than gritting his teeth and bearing it, locking himself in the bathroom and suffering Sammy's sneaky, pitying glances and Dad's lack of looking at all.

You were here, and you offered. Insisted— and at a certain point, Dean knows when to bear the brunt of accepting help, for once. Like, his ass is propped up on the mattress and his scent's gotten its lick in every crevice of this place. He shivers. Fuck, he feels so exposed. Try as he might to keep his chin up and eyes up, he's quivering all over. Every moment you're not inside 'im it hurts like nothing he's ever felt before.

Dean abhorred heats—being an omega, point-blank, but 'specially the heats. Whatta fuckin' joke. It kept him from helping Dad with hunts— kept him from takin' care of Sammy; just left him a useless, sIutty heat gooing up the bathroom tiles til' the hours glued together in his guttered, dumbfuck omega brain.

Right here. Yours for the takin'. He hates the way it makes him gush, makes him dizzy with alphaalphaalphaalpha even if he knows s'not like that and you're just helping him out outta the goodness of your heart, 'cause you couldn't stand him Ieaking all over the place— Jesus, he's gross.