#gabriel moore | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bigmouthlass · 10 days

Text

Title: Calling A Professional, part b

Series: Professional, part 1b

Author: BJ

Fandom: Supernatural

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Dean Winchester/You, Dean Winchester/Reader

Synopsis: 'You' are a career-oriented young Omega too preoccupied with school to have a dating life. Your image-oriented family decide enough is enough and give you a screamingly inappropriate present -- a night with a full-service Alpha escort, emphasis on full. And stuff happens.

Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, ABO, Omegaverse, AU, Alpha Dean Winchester, Omega You, Omega Reader, Sam Winchester, Zachariah, Balthazar, Gabriel, Naomi, Castiel, Benny LaFitte, Arthur Ketch, Abbadon, Becky Rosen, Bobby Singer, Charlie Bradbury, Bille the Reaper, First Time, Sex Worker Dean Winchester

AN: Blame the walking talking PWP device that is Dean Winchester. All recognizable intellectual properties are owned by their respective creators and holders of any copyrights or trademarks. This is a not-for-profit work of fan art and protected by Fair Use.

continued from part a

---

The shower is a dingy plastic cubicle shoved next to a toilet in a bathroom that's about than a yard square. The two of your barely fit, and that's if you press against the wall. The water is nice and hot though, soothing sore muscles you don't even remember straining.

Dean runs a soapy washcloth over you, stroking it down your skin slow and gentle. Briefly you wonder if he usually does this with all his clients, and you can't help a hard sting of jealousy at the thought. You reach out and touch a black-and-blue smudge on his ribcage. "What's this?"

"Oh, I uh--" Dean raises your arm and scrubs you from armpit to hip, making you giggle when he hits your tender spot. He grins. "Somebody's ticklish."

You shove at him. "Dick."

"Brat," he retorts. "It's nothing. Ketch got a few hits in before I laid him out. Turn around."

You turn and lean your front against the shower wall. Dean lifts your hair up and scrubs your shoulders, passes the sudsy washcloth down your back. The soap smells herbal and musky, and it pairs well with Dean's dark sweetness. You can feel your heat rebuilding, and you know you're going to want him again soon.

Soon means now, you realize as Dean squats behind you and washes down each of your legs. You squirm at his touch, almost but not quite flaring up to Present your pussy to him. You hear Dean chuckle to himself. His hand, covered with a warm washcloth, comes up to gently stroke between your legs, cleaning up slick and seed as it keeps leaking out of you. You tremble as his warm hand cups your pussy, only just barely touching where you throb. "God your pussy's pretty," Dean says, making you blush. One of his hands touches your ankle. "Can I touch you? Make you come again for me?"

"Uh-huh," you whine. Dean guides your legs apart and shifts your stance to open you up. Your legs tremble as he drags the warm washcloth across your swollen flesh. Hypersensitive from heat and sex, it doesn't take long before you're shaking.

Dean stands and pulls you against him, back-to-front. He pivots, turning you to face the shower spray. The hot water feels divine, pelting and running down your skin. One of Dean's hands squeezes your breasts, playing and pinching the nipples. The other slides down between your legs, his palm rubbing against your clit and making you whine. Dean kisses you as you come again, thrashing against his grip.

"Oh no," he sighs, bringing his hand out from between your legs and showing where his fingers are soaked with fresh slick and blobs of his own come. "I made you all messy again."

---

You wake up late, after sleeping deep and dreamless. Outside is quiet. The only background noises are the rustling of the trees and the mufflered throb of the generator. The uncovered windows let in the autumn sunshine, filtered through orange and yellow leaves. The view through the dirty, undraped windows is of trees-- the cabin must be on the edge of some undeveloped property in the middle of nowhere, maybe part of a defunct farm. Or someone leaving the land alone to provide cover for deer. You can see Dean's car, covered with a dingy dropcloth. You nod-- from a distance it'd look like something covered and forgotten, just another piece of abandoned gear.

Next to you Dean shifts a little in his sleep. He's on his side, curled up, his mouth hanging open as he breathes deep and a little bit snory. He's even drooling on the pillow. You cover a giggle as you snuggle closer, seeking warmth in the cold air of the cabin. One of his arms curls around you and you take a chance and press a few kisses to his chest.

"Your feet are freezing, babygirl," Dean grunts, and rolls you over.

---

You haven't laughed this much in years, you think to yourself later. Dean looks up at you, his lips pressed to your ankle bone. He's spent the last little while doing what he calls intensive researching-- laying you out on the bed, naked to his sight and touch, examining you all over. And being very silly about it, like tracing the pattern of moles on your left hip with his tongue and trying out names for your tits-- "Tweedledee and Tweedledum? Strawberry and Shortcake? Heckle and Jeckle?" He's naked too, totally unselfconsciously, comfortable with himself in a way you envy.

"This little piggy went to market," he says, kissing your big toe.

"Staaaaaahp," you groan. "Not into feet."

Dean grins, kissing your instep. "Flip on over."

You turn onto your belly. Dean kisses up the back of your leg, lingering in the tender spots behind your knees, at the base of your ass. "Uht-oh," he says to himself, kneading into the thick muscle, "your pussy's hungry for me again." He's right, your body's going hot and slick's trickling out of you. You whine and shift your legs apart, but Dean just keeps kissing up your back. You can feel him smiling against your skin. "I could do this all day."

"You bastard," you whine, pressing your ass against him, seeking his cock.

"Hey, I know who my daddy is," Dean says. He turns your head and kisses you, all tongue. His weight settles on your back and his thigh presses between your legs. You push back, trying to get some friction against your clit, but the angle's wrong, you can't reach.

"I got what you need, Alpha's here," Dean says into your ear. "But you have to ask, babygirl."

"Please, Alpha," you say. "Need you."

"Good," Dean says, "good girl. What do you need from me? Do you need my cock?"

"Yes, please," you say. "Please Alpha."

Shifting one of your legs to open you wider, Dean enters you with a long slide and a groan. "Perfect," he sighs. "Perfect for me, Omega. So perfect."

---

It's hot in here now, that Dean's got the woodstove loaded up and working. Outside, rain lashes the cabin, the kind of cold autumn rain that makes you glad for modern conveniences like hot showers and central heating.

"What's this?" you ask, picking out another scar on Dean's torso.

Dean trembles as you kiss over it, an oval of white bisected by a straight line. "Never saw the shooter. Just looked down and realized it was my blood all over." His hands are clamped on the chair's back and sweat's standing out on his skin. You lick, letting the salt sting your tongue.

Trailing kisses up his flank, you find a jagged white line arching along his rib cage. "This?"

"Guy caught me cheating at a poker game. I didn't realize he had a knife. Dad had to stitch it up."

"Shit. Why didn't you go to the hospital?"

Dean gives you a look. "No money, no health insurance, and gambling was illegal in that town. I'd've gotten arrested."

"Sorry," you say, hanging your head. It's humbling, realizing on a gut level just how sheltered you really are. Sure, your parents might've been ambivalent about raising an accidental kid, but they were never unkind and they made sure you were always safe and cared for.

"It's okay babygirl," Dean reassures you, ducking his head to kiss your forehead. "It healed fine."

Your eyes fall to a tattoo high on his left pectoral, right about where the aorta bends down. Your lips trail over the stark black ink-- a pentacle in a circle flanked by wavy black lines that look a little like wings. “Dad,” Dean says. “He found it in a book somewhere, supposed to protect you from ghosts’n’shit.”

You kiss back down and Dean shudders as you come close to his very hard cock. You sit back on your heels and just . . . look at it. All hard and leaking, with a knot and balls and a thicket of tawny brown hair at the base. Dean's skin is fair, delicate, you can see the thick arteries pulsing, feeding blood in from his belly. This has been inside you. Your pussy twitches at the thought. If you concentrate you can feel deep inside your sex in a way you couldn't before-- touched, wet, fucked a little bit sore. You know it's kind of your job to touch him there, make him feel good with your hands and your mouth the way he's made you feel good, but now that you're facing the three-dimensional reality you're coming over shy again.

"You don't have to do anything you're not okay with babygirl," Dean reminds you, reading you like a headline again.

"I'm okay," you tell him. "Just . . . first one of these I've seen in the wild. I mean-- dumb question, but how do you manage with that flopping around-- shut up!" you whack his leg as Dean busts out laughing. Some wicked impulse to wipe that silly grin off his face overrides your shyness and Dean coughs out a curse as you take the crown of his cock in your mouth.

A pulse of precome flows across your tongue and you grimace. Yuck. You pull back and explore the head with your lips, avoiding the leaking slit. The texture of the skin is soft, a little like silk and a little like velvet but it’s mostly its own thing. You press your tongue to a spot where the seam and the head come together and taste-- ick, sour slick and salty blargh. It’s worth it though, for the way the muscles in Dean’s arms and chest pop out as his fists clench the back of the chair. Alpha is submitting to you, as you touch his most tender parts. Dean could bolt up from this chair and knot you in seconds, easily. But he’s not, and he won’t.

You wrap a hand around his knot. Here goes nothing-- you take Dean’s cock between your lips and slide him in. Dean moans, “Oh my God-- you’re doing good babygirl. So good. So fucking good.” Like drinking a thick smoothie, you think to yourself as you apply suction. “Teeth!” Dean warns and you open your jaw a little wider. More fluid dribbles from him but at the back of your mouth the flavor isn’t as terrible. The mass of spongy flesh in your hand pulses and swells in your grip. You squeeze back against the swelling and Dean’s moan makes your bones tremble.

You look up and meet Dean’s eyes. The need in them is overwhelming. Cords stand out in his neck and his jaw’s clenched, lips parted in an effortful snarl. His fangs have dropped, you can see the sharp points. You bob your head and his head drops back. “Fuck,” he heaves, “you’re gonna make me come if you keep doing that.”

You’re not up for swallowing, so you pull back and scrub the flat of your tongue up and down the seam of his cock. “Yeah, use your hand--” Dean pants, “fuck, squeeze my knot. Squeeze it. Fuck, perfect, little tighter.” Dean seizes the hand you’ve been stroking up and down his steel-hard cock, brings it to his mouth and licks your palm. “Keep going babygirl, keep going-- fuck, fuck, I’m so close, God, fuck, Jesus--" all the muscles in his belly pull tight and his knot inflates in your hand. You circle it with both hands and squeeze, as thick seed spurts out of Dean in ropes, landing on your hands, his legs, the floor, your face.

Dean’s whole body, shining with sweat in the lamplight, heaves as he works to get his wind back. You keep your hands locked around his knot, rhythmically squeezing the way your pussy did. Blobs of come are still dribbling out of him, Alpha seed meant to sire pups. You look up at Dean as he sags in the chair. He’ll make beautiful pups, you think, someday, with the right Omega.

Your Omega instincts growl, and a tiny voice inside says, quiet but very distinct-- Mine.

His cock finally sags and his knot deflates in your hands. Dean’s staring down at you, his pupils blown wide open. His scent’s thick in the air, sizzling apples and leather and smoke and you realize your cunt is fucking running with slick, so swollen the friction of your thighs together feels awesome.

Fast as a pouncing cat, Dean stands and pulls you up off the floor. He sets you on the cabin’s little dining table. Strong hands shove your legs apart. “Show me your pussy Omega,” Dean orders. “Hold it open. Perfect.” He pulls the chair close and sits.

“Dean,” you pant as he blows a puff of wind over your exposed, throbbing clit.

“Gonna eat this pretty pussy ‘till you scream,” he says.

By the time he’s satisfied, you are indeed screaming. A lot.

---

“Hey,” you shake Dean awake. It’s like it always is with heats-- you’re not hungry until you’re starving.

“Go ‘way,” he grunts.

“Dean. Food. Eat.”

Dean’s eyes flutter open, then pop wide as you hold a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon under his nose. “You didn’t have to-- I was gonna cook breakfast when I got up.”

“Hungry now,” you say.

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“Hungry now,” you repeat. He does have a point; without your phone and with no clocks in the cabin, you have no earthly clue what time it is, only that it’s dark and still raining.

Dean sits up and accepts his plate. “Bacon,” he sighs, folding a strip into his mouth.

You point to the pile of yellow curds. “Eggs.” You hand him a cup of milk. “Moo juice.”

You both pretty much inhale the food. “Thanks,” Dean says, handing back his empty plate. “Didn’t realize how hungry I was.”

“Welcome. Now according to the law of equal division of labor--”

“Oh no no no no no,” Dean rebuts. “We’re in Deanland, and in my benevolent dictatorship the one who cooks is the one who cleans.”

“Nuht-uh,” you fire back. “This is my land, as I am a born Michigander, and therefore he who eats is he who cleans while she who cooks ogles he who cleans.” You cross your arms over your chest. “So there.”

Dean thinks for a minute. A tiny and very evil smile curves his lips. “How ‘bout a bet?”

“What kind of bet?” you ask, seeing something wicked dancing behind your Alpha’s eyes.

“You know what mutual masturbation is?”

Hot blood crashes into your cheeks. “The name’s pretty self-explanatory.”

“C’mere,” Dean pats the bed, getting up on his knees. You kneel opposite him and he pulls you close for a kiss, his lips tasting of pepper and bacon. Heat has you trembling, skin hot and sensitive all over. “Hands only,” Dean instructs as he kisses and nibbles down your neck. “First one to come has to do the dishes.”

“You’re on,” you growl and seize his hardening cock.

---

You wake up later with the sun in your eyes, a smug grin stamped on your face. The cabin smells like vinegar and lemons. Yawning, you stretch and see Dean wiping down the kitchen counter. The dishes are washed and stacked neatly on the shelf over the sink. The cabin’s practically sparkling clean, dust wiped away and clutter tidied. There’s even a broom in the corner, and a folded set of fresh sheets for the bed.

Dean spies you and glowers. “Where did you learn to do that twisty thing? I demand to know.”

You grin. “Girl Scouts.”

---

You fuck pretty much constantly for the rest of the day. Heat and rut render you both eager, needy, hungry. All through it your Alpha is attentive, focused, careful about reading your reactions and learning the secrets of your body, then applying the lessons and playing you like some sort of precious instrument.

“Stop,” he orders and your hand drops from where it was stroking your stone-hard clit. Your orgasm’s there, right there, all it’ll take is a little friction to make it happen . . . but Dean isn’t letting you. Says he just wants to play with you, see how hard you can come. You press your chest into the mattress and swivel your hips, showing Alpha your wet and very hungry Omega pussy. Shameless and needy and you don’t care at all. Dignity be damned, you want.

Dean’s tongue licks at your inner lips, purposely avoiding your clit. You bite a knuckle and concentrate on keeping your center still. “Wanna slip right inside you,” Dean murmurs into your cunt, “right when you’re coming. Your pussy fits me so good and you’re so fucking sweet,” he licks like he wants to eat every bit of slick you make.

Dean’s hand on your back shifts your ass further into the air. You scream in bliss that’s more like pain as his mouth attacks your clit. You start to cry when he stops. “Please,” you beg, “Dean, please.”

The fat, velvety head of Dean’s cock slides across your pussy lips, across your clit. You moan at the sensation. “Alpha, please.”

“You’re gonna come?” Dean asks. “Go ahead and come. Come for me babygirl. Let go.”

You throw your head back and howl as your orgasm crashes through you. Dean’s cock shoves into you, fucking into the squeeze. His fingers flicker over your clit as you slam yourself back against him. Dean grabs your hips and fucks with all the power he’s got, until his knot pops and your cunt clamps down, so hard and tight you know you’re going to feel it forever.

“My good girl,” Dean heaves, pulling you up to sit on his lap, his knot lodged inside you. “My perfect girl. God, what’re you doing to me?” he asks between kisses. His lips seize the spot over the mating gland and you whine something that might be yes when he clamps down, his teeth shielded by his lips. Mine, something inside you says. His. Mine. His.

Mine.

---

The next morning, the fever is gone and you ache all over. On the one hand you feel like you could sleep for a week. On the other hand, you feel . . . energized, full of life. Downright fucking perky.

You take your time in the shower. It feels good, washing the heat sweat off. You feel like yourself again.

Almost.

You use a towel to clear the mirror. In the harsh light of the bulb over the sink, it’s hard to believe the woman staring back is you. You drop the towel and look yourself over. Dark suck marks and small arcs of teeth color your skin. They don’t hurt, exactly. Except for the dark, almost black mark on your neck. You touch it, stroke it, press down into it and relish the sting. Dean did that. You dig your fingernails in a little, imagining they’re fangs. Dean marked you, right where Alpha’s claim is supposed to go.

The thought brings you up short. Claiming? Mating? You’d never taken the idea seriously, imagining finding a husband and maybe having a family in some far-off future in which you’re teaching somewhere prestigious and said hypothetical husband being someone safe and solid, a good father for their pups . . .

Mine. His. Mine.

Dean’s up when you come out of the bathroom, dressed and drying your hair as best you can with a towel. He’s barefoot below his jeans and barechested over them, cooking pancakes and singing along to a Bob Seger song playing on a dusty old tape deck set on top of the fridge. You tingle when you see the marks you’d left on him, dark purple stamped into his fair skin. Claw furrows stripe his back, red and scabbed over.

Shyness be damned. Dean jumps when you wind your arms around him from behind. His shoulders bear the faint ghosts of freckles. “You’re Irish aren’t you?” you ask.

“My mom’s maiden name was Campbell,” he tells you. He flips the pancake in the skillet over, nods at the golden brown, and flips it onto a plate already stacked high. “Take a little bit of batter,” he says, almost to himself as he dips a cup measure into a bowl full of thick cream-colored goo, “and we pour into the hot pan.” His arm hooks around your shoulders and pulls you around so you can see. The batter oozes into the skillet and sizzles. Your mouth waters. God you’re starving. “Make sure it doesn’t get too hot. Look for little bubbles coming up by the outer edge, that’s how you tell it’s done on that side.” After a few minutes of watching, Dean slips the spatula under the cooking pancake and flips.

“How can you tell it’s done?” you ask.

“You just kinda have to feel it. Look at the edges and see if they look liquidy. Leave it another minute or so.” Dean looks down at where you’re snuggled against his ribs and smiles. “Can you get the coffee going?”

“Coffee I can do,” you say, spying the dusty drip machine.

A few minutes later you bring plates and silverware and set the table. After he sets down the pancakes, Dean reaches for a long-sleeved shirt and drags it on. He chuckles at your pout. “It’s cold in here sweetheart.”

“What, I can’t ogle?”

“Well, to be fair,” Dean says, “I’ve been staring at your nipples.”

He’s right, they’re poking straight through your bra and T-shirt, standing at attention like little soldiers. You cover yourself, blushing. Then it occurs to you how ridiculous that is, modesty in front of a man who’s literally kissed you where the sun don’t shine.

“Eat, babygirl, before they get cold,” Dean says, loading up his plate and dumping half a bottle of maple syrup over it.

Pancakes, orange juice, coffee by the pitcher. You can feel your body seizing the calories and the vitamins. By the time you’re full you’ve eaten enough to make a lumberjack pause. “Oh man,” you wheeze.

Dean chuckles and you blush again. “Big appetite after a heat’s nothing to be ashamed of. We got an awful lot of exercise the last few days.”

“Yeah.” Fair’s fair; you gather the dirty dishes and stack them in the sink. Dean gets up and grunts something about getting more wood for the stove.

You’re stacking the clean dishes and putting them away when Dean comes back with his arms full. “We need to talk.”

“Mmm? What’s up?” you ask, helping him with the wood. When you’re done you move to wrap him in a hug but Dean turns away. “What’s the matter?”

“Oh I don’t know-- I’m twenty-eight years old and I’m in an off-the-books shack in the middle of nowhere with an eighteen year old girl and a trunkful of guns. What is wrong with this picture?”

After the passionate intimacy of the past few days-- after the small-scale joyousness of the past few weeks-- you’re completely taken aback. “What?”

“I need to get the hell out of your life. Before I fuck it up worse.”

“Hey wait a minute,” you say. “My life was fucked up way before you got here. Maybe ever since my mother passed. All you did was get here when everything went kerblooey.”

“’Kerblooey’?”

“Kerblooey.”

“The point stands,” Dean says. “I’m a high school dropout with ten bucks and my car to my name and I make my living on my knees. I don’t have anything going for me except a knot to stick in people and now I can’t even do that. What the fuck am I even doing here?”

Jesus Christ, the self-hate is so hot it’s smoking. “What in the hell brought this on?”

“I’m a grown-ass man. You’re just a kid.”

“Stop right there,” you say. “I’m a little naïve, I admit that, but I’m not a kid. I quit being a kid when I got out of high school and my father decided he was done with parenting.”

“What?” Not a stupid man, Dean does the math. “You were sixteen for God’s sake.”

You shrug. “Didn’t matter. I’d been pretty much raising myself since Mother got sick. Point is, you’re not robbing the cradle, Dean.”

“Yes. I am.” Dean pulls aside the collar of his shirt and shows a suck mark over the mating gland. “You think I didn’t notice? Do you even realize what you almost did? That’s a lifetime commitment.”

“I know that. Which is why I didn’t do it. Neither did you.” You tap the bruise on the same spot on your neck.

“You begged me to. First time with an Alpha-- hell, first time period, and I came that close,” he holds his thumb and forefinger an eighth of an inch apart, “to . . .” He clears his throat. “You’ve known me less than a month and you’re acting like you want to Bond. That’s not normal.”

Mine. “Fine-- let’s talk about this. I go through life, I meet plenty of Alphas. Some of whom aren’t knotheads. A few of whom are attractive. Maybe a handful who’re interesting. And none of them were you.” You pause to let that sink in. “I felt it the minute I got your scent. I know you felt it too. We’re a match. Aren’t we?”

Sticking to his guns, Dean says, “We’re not. You’re just imprinting on the first Alpha you got a crush on. It happens. Hell it happens to me on a regular basis.”

That hurts, getting reminded that making people feel special with his body is something Dean is paid to do. You swallow back the pain. “And do you always call your old Army buddies to run interference between your clients and their asshole relatives? Especially when they live like five states away?”

“No,” Dean is forced to admit. “Babygirl--”

“If this is a serious discussion you will use my name Dean Winchester,” you tell him.

“Big talk from somebody who gets off on being told she’s a good girl,” Dean fires back.

Okay, that hurts. “Why are you doing this?” you ask.

“Because,” he uses your full name like it’s a curse, “I won’t be the asshole who destroys your future. I refuse.”

“For Christ’s sake I’m not asking for your hand in marriage, Dean!” Yet.

“I’m confused--” he says, “you’re saying we’re a true match but you don’t want to talk about a lifetime commitment?”

“I’m naïve Dean, not stupid. Just because we’re a match doesn’t mean we’ll make a good couple.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“You’re acting like you don’t even want to try. Because what if we are, huh? What if we’re a match and we wind up being good together? What if for once life’s dropped something good in our laps? You wanna turn your back on that?”

“Because that’s not the way it works, okay? Not ever.”

“So all those things you said-- they were just to get me here and bend me over?” you ask, trying to keep it together.

“Pretty much. Kid.”

You stalk up to Dean. You’re angrier than you can ever remember being, maybe angrier than you’ve ever been in your life. “You’re lying.”

He smirks. “You’re adorable when you’re mad.”

“You’re not worthless,” you tell him, and the smirk dies. “A worthless man would’ve left his father and brother out to dry years ago. A worthless man wouldn’t leave himself open to a kidnapping charge just to get into a cute Omega’s drawers.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Of course not,” you scoff. “That’s a Zachariah move. Y’know, the actual worthless man in this scenario.”

“You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you’re still here and trying to do the right thing even after life’s kicked you in the balls for it A lot.” You shove Dean and he’s taken aback enough he actually pops back a step. “Don’t you walk away because of some half-assed idea that you’re ruining me by being here. That’s not your decision. And fuck your martyr complex anyway!” You shove again, Dean stumbles, and down he goes.

Swearing, you drop to your knees. Blinking dazedly, Dean accepts your help sitting up. “Ow.”

You sit down on the cold floor. “Look me in the face, and tell me I didn’t have anything to do with you quitting your job.”

Dean looks you in the face. He opens his mouth and pulls in a breath to speak. The hammerblow that would’ve broken your heart doesn’t come; Dean closes his mouth and sighs. “It wasn’t . . . entirely you.”

“So which parts were me? The ones about not wanting to do the sex part any more?” At Dean’s look, you add, “That is what full service means, correct?”

“Correct. And yeah. That part.” Resettling himself to sit with you, Dean says, “Almost seven years, I’m up for just about anything. Hell I was picking my own clients, pretty much, after the first six months. And then I meet you and I can’t . . .” he trails off. “Look, for all you know I’m a deadbeat paying child support to half a dozen baby mamas--”

“You’re not, though.”

“No.” He cups your cheek. “I’m not going to convince you how bad an idea this is am I?”

“Nope. I’m a scientist Dean, and you haven’t offered any hard evidence that you’re a bad man. Morally flexible, yeah, but that doesn’t make you bad.”

“You deserve better that ‘not bad,’” Dean says.

“That’s my decision.” Mirroring him, you palm his jaw. “Start small? A date?”

And he smiles. “I know a great Korean place out by East Beltline.”

You kiss him. “For real now, what brought that on?”

“I don’t know,” Dean says. “I was out looking at a blowdown I need to cut up and I just-- it hit me all at once. I’m in the middle of nowhere with no money, on the run, and somebody I love’s counting on me to keep them safe. Again. I’m stuck on repeat.”

“Bullshit. It’s not like we’re fleeing from the goddamned Wehrmacht. This is one asshole with a shitload of money.”

“If there’s one thing life has taught me, it’s the destructive power of assholes with money.”

“Okay,” you say, “in your experienced opinion, what now? I should’ve been back to class-- shit! Today! Prof Visnyak’s gonna fucking kill me!” you moan.

“We can pack up the car and go right now,” Dean says. “Be back in town by dinnertime,” he starts to get to his feet.

You let him help you up but when he turns for the door you say, “Wait. I don’t know--"

Pulling you close, Dean kisses you. “What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know. I mean--” dread, that’s what it is. The thought of going back isn’t comforting. Home doesn’t feel safe any more. It might never feel safe again. Here is safe.

“Babygirl.” Dean tips your head up to look you in the eye. “I’m gonna ask you a question and I want you to answer without thinking about it. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Dean echoes. “Yes or no-- is it safe to go back?”

“No,” you say without thinking about it.

“Then it isn’t safe. We stay here for at while,” Dean concludes.

“How do you know it’s not safe?” you ask.

“Gut feelings aren’t random,” Dean lectures. “They're based on stuff your brain remembers without you being aware of it. Scents, body language, stuff like that. If your instincts are telling you something isn't safe, it probably isn't," he concludes. "I know you got classes and shit, but would it be the end of the world if you stayed gone for another few days?"

You consider, chewing on your lower lip. "I feel like a jerk for even thinking it."

"Would you feel the same way if your broke your leg or got in a car wreck or something?"

"Point taken. I'd just feel better if I knew what the situation was. We're in the dark here."

"That we can fix," Dean says. "I can make a supply run and pick up a burner phone. Do you know Balthazar’s number?" At your nod, Dean says, "Okay, we have a plan. Get your coat."

---

Outside you head for the car, but when you reach for the passenger door Dean says, "Nope."

"I'm not going with you?"

Dean shakes his head. "We gotta do something first."

Your jaw drops when he lifts the trunk's false bottom to show more guns than you've ever seen in person. "Jesus Christ! What're we prepping for, World War III?"

Dean shrugs, looking a little guilty. "Sort of, yeah. They're all legal if that's what you're worried about." He thinks a minute. "Except maybe the grenade launcher. I'm not sure where Dad got that. Still think I'm that great a guy?"

You stick your chin out. "I'll take a calculated risk that you're better than the guy trying to knot the niece that's young enough to be his great-granddaughter."

"Touché," Dean mutters. He reaches into the trunk and pulls out a pistol. "Here. Glock 19, nine millimeter, semi-automatic, fourteen in the magazine and one in the chamber. About thirty ounces loaded." Dean presses a button and the magazine slips out and he opens the top part. A bullet flies out and he plucks it out of the air. "First rule of firearms is--"

"--the gun is always loaded," you say with him. “I don’t approve of guns.”

Dean looks down at you. “I don’t approve of you being unarmed in case we get separated. Your uncle--”

“Quit calling him that.”

“Whatever. Zachariah is a threat we are going to take seriously, and that includes making sure you know how to defend yourself if you have to. You hear me?”

“I hear you,” you grumble. You hold out your hand and Dean slips you the gun.

---

Later you’re waiting back at the cabin, wringing the ache of unaccustomed exercise out of your hands. There’s a sour feeling in the back of your throat, the remnants of adrenaline as Dean coached you through your very first shooting lesson.

“We are called upon by the Lord to accept that the cruelty of the world will cause us pain, and to offer our enemies the gifts of love and understanding,” Father Jim had preached in his sermon . . . God, just this past Sunday.

Fuck that, says the dull black thing on the table.

“Just let him feel like an Alpha and he’ll let you go,” your mother said.

Fuck that.

“Nothing we have is worth killing for--”

Fuck. That.

In your hand the textured black plastic is warm. Welcoming. You stare down at your hand like it doesn’t even belong to you. This hand fired a gun. This hand can kill people.

And you’re confused by how not horrified you are at the thought. “For a total beginner you’re not bad,” Dean had said, examining the makeshift target he’d set up with a log and some sheets of paper from your lab notebook. Watching Dean’s easy confidence with his own, gun, every movement natural as a yawn, you’d felt like a faun trying to walk for the first time by comparison.

Sighing, you get out the little box with the cleaning supplies and start running through the steps Dean showed you to strip and clean the Glock. Again.

He’s been gone for a couple hours and the quiet is getting to you. It’s ridiculous; you’ve been on your own ever since Dad took off for Florida the fall you entered college. You’ve been alone longer than that, the last dehydrated pea rattling around in the tin can that was your mother’s house on Reeds Lake. A house meant for the large family she’d had with her first husband, the half-brothers you’d only met at her funeral. That’s you, the half-considered, the afterthought, the surprise no one wanted in the first place and didn’t think much of once you’d arrived.

You shake your head. That’s not fair. It’s not your parents’ fault they didn’t think your forty-seven year old mother could even get pregnant, much less carry to term, much less deliver a healthy seven pound baby girl. It’s not like you were the red-headed stepchild cooped up in the attic or the foundling left on a church doorstep. You have friends, colleagues, people who respect you. You have your brain, a decent work ethic, a future in a field you enjoy. By any reasonable standard you’re blessed.

And now you have Dean. He just needs to hurry his beautiful ass up and get here.

You hear the Chevy’s engine and your heart starts to beat again. Calling your name, Dean says, “I’m coming in. Safety on.”

You look down at your hands. Shuddering, you put the gun down.

---

“Dear God in Heaven it’s good to hear your voice,” Uncle Balthazar says. “Are you all right? Where are you?”

“I’m fine and I have no idea,” you answer him. “We’re in a cabin a friend of Dean owns. I don’t know where, it was dark when we drove here and I lost track of the roads. What’s going on? Have you and Uncle Gabriel nailed Zachariah?”

“We had enough to take to Naomi and Michael. She wailed for an hour. It was dismally theatrical.”

“Son of a bitch!” you hear Dean snap from inside the cabin, along with a clang of something heavy.

Uncle Balthazar hesitates. “Not to be indelicate, but, um . . . is everything all right? Mr. Winchester wasn’t . . . inappropriate with you?”

You smile. If you concentrate you can still feel Dean deep inside, warm and wet. “Define inappropriate.”

“Oh good God, never mind, I don’t want to know. In any event, Zachariah’s been relieved of his post and his access to the Family money’s been cut off.

“That’s the good news. The bad news is, Zachariah himself has vanished into the ether. We were trying to avoid it but we had no choice-- the police are looking for him. Chuck’s gone too. Sturley and Kline looks like an anthill after a tank charge.”

You pull in a deep breath. “Have their passports been invalidated?”

“Of course but it’s entirely possible they’ve already fled the country. Castiel and Jack,” Jack Kline, the other half of Sturley and Kline since his grandfather retired, “have been doing a thorough audit of Zachariah’s finances. He’s filched more than enough to live comfortably in some paradise with low inflation and no extradition treaty. Thank God that doesn’t trouble my associates in Dubai. One way or another, Zachariah’s life is over.”

You lean against Dean’s car, bracing yourself for a fainting wave of relief. It doesn’t come.

“Cherie, you need to come home. Your phone has been positively screaming.”

“What about the escort agency?” you ask.

“Well, in exchange for immunity from a breach-of-contract and attempted rape charge, Ms. Rosen and Ms. Diablo have been fully co-operative. Your escort’s friend Mr. LaFitte -- charming fellow, I think I’ll ask if he’s ever considered working in security -- did an excellent job communicating the wisdom of, shall we say, a collaborative attitude. They both apologize for any distress--”

“Fuck them both with barbed wire dicks.”

“Indeed. It’s enough that arrest warrants have been sworn out against Zachariah and Chuck, on the off-chance my people don’t find them first.” Uncle Balthazar sighs. “Which is another reason you need to come home. The police need to talk to you and so does the district attorney--”

“Until you can guarantee Zachariah isn’t coming after me, I’m staying here.”

“Dear heart a restraining order’s already been handed down. If you want I can hire bodyguards. Whatever you need.”

“No,” you say. Because when it comes right down to it . . .

“Ah hah, the honeymoon period. I understand. When your Aunt Anna and I first met, it was nearly a month before we were willing to come up for air.”

“It’s not like that,” you say.

“It’s quite all right darling, you haven’t had a vacation since that dreadful trip to Tokyo your father dragged you on. If it makes you feel better to stay shacked up with your Alpha, I’d say you’re entitled. Oh for God’s sake-- tell me you haven’t Bonded.”

“Uncle Balthazar! Of course not!” you hiss.

“Just asking! Just asking! Please stay safe. And keep in touch.”

You look at the phone in your hand a long time after Uncle Balthazar hangs up. You should be calling Dr. Visnyak and your other professors to tell them you’ll be gone at least a few more days. You should call Penelope to get briefed on your lab project. You should call Ralph and reschedule your study session-- you’d agreed to work on your Cultural Evolution paper together.

So many phone calls. So much time. So many chances for someone to call someone else in exchange for a quick cash influx. Money turns anyone into a potential collaborator with Zachariah. You trust Uncle Balthazar, your Uncle Gabriel, Castiel . . . it’s humbling to realize that’s where the list ends and the names on it were trustworthy for reasons other than any affection for you.

Dean looks up from where he’s bent over the woodstove, feeding chunks of wood into the flames. “What’s the sitch?” he asks as you hand him the phone.

You give him the outline. Dean goes still when you tell him the family lawyer’s been caught acting wrong. “That’s not good. Ketch told me he worked for Sturley and Kline.”

“Yeah. As far as I know he’s the only scary minion Chuck’s got.”

“But you don’t know that for sure.”

“No,” you’re forced to admit.

At your sigh, Dean sits on the cabin's saggy couch. Gently, he pulls you to sit on one of his legs. "What's on your mind, babygirl?"

"Oh I don't know," you say. "I just ran down the list of friends I have, and I don't trust any of them to not rat me out if Zachariah waves a few thousand in cash under their noses. It's depressing."

Dean shrugs. "Money talks."

"I know."

"Try not to take it personally."

"I'm not. I'm just . . . I don't know." You look at Dean. "Tell me about your brother?"

"Sure." Dean pulls out his wallet and shows you a snapshot of a gangly young man beaming in cap and gown. You lay against Dean's chest as he talks. "Four years behind me-- Dad told me he and Mom had almost given up on having kids, then poof! I showed up. Then Mom had a miscarriage and they thought I'd be a solo act. Then Sammy came along. God, he was so little. I remember when Dad carried him into the house, he was like," Dean held his hands apart, "yea big. Now he's taller'n me-- how is that fair?"

You relax more as Dean talks. It's clear from the warmth in his tone-- he cares about Sam, loves him in a primal way that's totally alien to you. Like if Sam needed blood Dean would cut his own throat for him. "How do you do it?" you ask when Dean pauses in the middle of a story involving superglued socks and Nair in a shampoo bottle.

"Do what?" he asks.

"How did you make a living, doing what you did? I mean, you care so much-- how did you keep from . . . ?"

"What, going insane over all my clients?"

"I mean-- no offense, I . . . fuck, I don't know what I mean."

"No it's okay. It's a fair question, I guess." Dean strokes down your arm, plays with a bit of your hair. "In the business, there are rules. There's only so close you can get with someone who's paying you to screw them. And I was okay with that. I’m not great with relationships.” He hesitates. "You know what's the best part about getting in bed with a woman? At least for me it is?"

"No, tell me," you say dryly.

Dean gives you a sour look. "Hey, I'm trying to do this soul-bearing heart-to-heart girly shit here. Cut me some slack."

"Consider it cut babe."

Dean frowns at you, but after a moment's consideration he continues. "Most Omegas-- hell, most women-- you've all been trained to expect bad sex. One of my first regulars, she was an older lady. Widow. She and her husband'd been together since middle school. Four litters of pups, about a dozen kids. And you know she told me her husband never made her come? Not once, in thirty-odd years of marriage.

"It's that moment," Dean says. "When you realize how good it can be. That look-- it’s just beautiful. It's the best feeling ever, knowing I did that. The rest of it-- it's a job like anything else, it's got its upsides and its downsides. Like getting filmed? Not as much fun as you'd think it is. Fucking cameraman damn near burned my nuts on the lights."

"Jesus, I'm dating a porn star?!?" you squeak.

Dean laughs. "Private collections only. I thought about it, but the pay's crap for guys. 'Sides, escort work lets me have flexible hours. I can take time to see Dad anytime I need to."

"What about going to see your brother?"

Dean hesitates. "Sam doesn't like it when I come out to visit him."

"Why?" you ask. "You're fascinating company. You listened to me lecture you on the excavation of Chief Baw Beese’s grave for an hour and didn’t yawn once."

"Sam's got an image to maintain. I fuck that up for him. Besides, he doesn't trust me around his fiancée. I, uh, might've banged his math tutor when he was in sixth grade."

"Dude!"

"Yeah. Not exactly my finest hour. Turns out she was only tutoring him because she wanted a piece of me."

"Still."

"I was sixteen. Everybody's a moron when they're sixteen.”

“I wasn’t.”

Smiling, Dean kisses you. “That’s cuz you’re weird, babygirl.”

You bite his lower lip and make him yelp. His wounded pout is so adorable you just have to kiss it better. Before you know it you’re sitting astride Dean’s lap in a full-bodied makeout session. The feel of him, warm and strong and touching you like you’re something precious. After the stress of this insane day, it’s balm and comfort.

Which is interrupted when your stomach gurgles. Chuckling, Dean lifts the hem of your shirt and kisses your belly. “Don’t be mad, it’s been a long day and we skipped lunch.”

---

The next morning you’re back wrestling with your old friend, Statistics. A raid on the Chevy had produced an honest-to-God tape cassette collection, mostly old-school hard rock and heavy metal. Outside you can hear the irregular rhythm of chopping-- Dean cutting the logs in the woodpile outside down into more manageable pieces.

You catch an arithmetic error that’s just wasted a fucking hour and clonk your head down on the table, cursing in Arabic. “I have no idea what that means but it didn’t sound nice,” Dean says as he comes in, grabbing a mug and heading for the coffee.

“It’s pointless, dogs don’t bend that way.” You accept a fresh cup with a smile of thanks. “I fucking hate Stats.”

“Come on,” Dean says, closing your Stats text, “grab your coat. I wanna show you something.”

Leading the way, Dean crunches through the leaves that’ve drifted into piles between the trees. From the shape you guess you’re in a copse of sugar maples. “Wait-- there’s no trail. What if we get lost?”

“No problem. Check it out,” he hunts around a minute, then breaks out in a grin. “Here.”

You follow with your fingers a set of deep gouges in a tree’s bark, an arrow pointing back the way you’d come. “Sammy got lost out here once,” Dean explains. “I spent the next month carving these. Just in case.”

You move deeper into the woods, the trees getting taller and the leaf litter more sparse. Dean splashes across a small stream and lifts you over it to keep your feet dry. He stops, taking your hand. For a moment you see nothing but the same view of forest floor, then something clicks into place and you see it-- a large wooden cross standing up from a crude altar made of mortared-together stones. “What’s this?”

“I don’t know. Me’n’Sammy found it while we were wandering around.”

Letting go of Dean’s hand you carefully creep in for a closer look. Any undergrowth was cut back at some point, and kept back with a layer of wood chips that’ve since been covered by silt and leaf litter, decomposing into the forest floor. It’s a church setup, you can see split logs arranged as pews, making a short aisle. Reflexively you cross yourself as you proceed to the altar.

“Nondenominational,” you say to yourself, reaching for a notebook you’re not carrying. “No altar rail or place to kneel I can see. You turn to look at Dean, who’s watching you with a smile. “I think this was a setup for little kids. See how low the pews are? An adult would find them uncomfortable-- they’re just the right size for kids.”

“Yeah. Sammy’n’me used to make up stories about this place. Like it was really a place for ritual sacrifice.” He shrugs. “We were bored.”

“No no, here, come take a look.” You come closer to the altar. “See? No blood. Even with weathering, if anyone killed anything here there’d still be blood caught in between the rocks.”

Dean nods. “Yeah, I gotcha.”

The cross itself is made out of what look like railroad ties notched and nailed together. There are no candle drippings and the altar’s upper surface is a single flat boulder, worn smooth. “This part was built,” you say. “Kids wouldn’t be strong enough to lift this. And the rocks are mortared together, they’re not piled like a caern.”

It’s easy to imagine, now that you know what you’re looking at-- a group of little boys and girls sitting quietly on the log pews, listening in varying degrees of attention as a grownup preaches about salvation and the Good News and the virtues of proper behavior. You can also imagine a pair of bored little boys poking at the altar and scaring themselves silly with tales of monster gods and mad killers. "Is there a Boy or a Girl Scouts' camp around here somewhere?" you ask.

"I don't know," Dean says. "We asked Bobby about the place and he said he didn't know. The cabin belonged to a friend of his-- I never got the straight on how he wound up owning the place. If he ever did. He might've just been squatting."

"Wish I had my toolkit with me," you say, hunkering down to take a closer look at the alter. The base is a slab of poured concrete, eroded and pitted with weathering, dirty with silt and moss. "Yeah, this was built by the grownups," you note to yourself.

“That makes sense,” Dean says, looking around the little clearing as if with fresh eyes. “Yeah. Couple guys and a wheelbarrow could get it done in a day. Bring a bag of ready-mix, there’s water in the stream.”

“Yeah. Have the kids collect the rocks, bring the cross,” you clap your hands, “badda-bing, outdoor church.” One side of the altar is piled high with leaves, caked in mud around the base. “Help me with this.”

Dean helps you clear the dirt down to the altar base. “Here, check this out,” you say, looking at a larger stone slab set into the alter, out of place amongst the fist-sized stones. It’s not mortared into place that you can see. “Could this--” you carefully fit your hands on either side of the big stone. “Hey-- I think this slides out!”

Dean takes the other side of the stone and together you wiggle it free. In the hollow space revealed, you can see a dark shape. “Oh wow,” you say softly, reaching in and gently withdrawing a dark metal box, about six inches square and four deep.

With the reverence it deserves, you undo the latch. Inside, kept dry with a clear cellophane bag, is a stack of yellowed envelopes. They’re letters, addressed:

TO: JESUS

1 GOLDEN STREET

HEAVEN

“Oh my God,” you whisper. All the handwriting is little kid block capitals, rendered in colored pencils and crayons. Some kids ornamented their envelopes with drawings of trees, flowers, stick figure families. At the bottom of the box you find a copy of the Holy Bible, New English translation. You open it to the title page-- printed in 1949. There’s a stamp on the page in red ink; an outline of a leafy tree, with a single branch forming the words Camp Long Lake. “Summer camp!” you realize, turning to Dean. “There must be an old summer camp compound around here somewhere! The counselors built this with the kids!”

“Awesome!” Dean says.

You look at the tiny packet of paper, feeling the same thrill you felt the first time you’d gone into the field and found a tiny shard of ceramic in amongst the red mass of claylike dirt. Who made this? What was their life? What was their story? "God I wish I had a camera," you say.

Reluctantly, you put the letters back in the plastic bag and seal it up. "I wish we could take these back, figure out who wrote them," you tell Dean as you refasten the box lid. "But . . . it feel like we'd be desecrating a church."

"We could always come back later," Dean says.

"That's true. Take some pictures, maybe explore around a little bit more. You and your brother didn't find anything that might be campgrounds? Another clearing, place that look like a tent field . . ."

"Not that I remember," Dean says. "This is about as far out from the cabin as we felt safe going."

You slide the box back into its resting place, and Dean shoves the stone back into the hole. The move makes all his muscles stand out for a heart-stopping moment. His body becomes an expression of perfection, a collection of almost mathematically perfect lines, an ideal expression of a divine creation. And alive, shining from within.

A wave of pure red-tinted lust damn near puts you on your knees. You want, God how you want.

“You okay?” Dean asks.

“Yeah. Let’s go,” you say,

“Okay, okay, jeez.” Dean falls in beside you as you stride back up the aisle and splash across the little stream. Your socks get soaked and you are way past caring. “What’s the emergency?”

“Nothing,” you tell him, taking his hand and jogging between a pair of trees.

“Seriously what’re you--” you drag his head down and kiss him, hard and possessive. He’s off-balance, it’s nothing to slam his back against a tree. Your hand cups the front of his pants, presses, caresses. Dean moans, deep and throaty. His arms go around you, hands going for your buttons.

You slap his hands away. This isn’t about you, no matter how hungry you are. You bite down Dean’s neck, avoiding the mating gland. Under your hand you can feel him getting hard.

Going to your knees, you undo his belt and tug open his jeans. “Oh Jesus,” Dean groans as you pull down his underwear and his cock pops free. It’s as beautiful as the rest of him to your eyes and you suck him down hard as you can. He practically leaps to life in your mouth, going thick and heavy.

You pull off and take him in hand, wetting your palms and wringing him. Dean’s knees buckle and he grabs at the tree to keep from falling. “Oh my God, fuck, Jesus--”

“Wanna make you feel good, Alpha,” you tell him, kissing and licking up his shaft.

“So good, babygirl,” he pants, looking down at you like he can’t quite believe you’re real. “Stick your tongue out, tap it on-- just like that,” he says as you pat the head of his cock on your tongue. You wind your tongue around the tip, doing your best not to grimace at the taste. That look in Dean’s beautiful green eyes, you’d do just about anything for that look.

You take him as deep as you can, doing your best to push past your gag reflex. Drool slips from your mouth and trickles down your chest. You can actually feel him getting harder, getting hotter. His scent mixes with the scent of sex, filling your nose. It’s heady, and it’s got slick soaking into your panties, your body burning for Dean.

Panting and moaning encouragement and instructions, Dean squirms against the tree. You cup his balls in one hand and his quivering knot in the other, squeezing gently. You moan and Dean moans along with you. His hips make tiny involuntary movements, you can see him clawing at the tree.

His balls suddenly draw up into his belly. You pull off just in time to avoid a blast of come. Your squeeze Dean’s popping knot, pulling at Dean’s cock as he spends all over you. His legs give out and he slides down the tree, pants open and a total sticky mess.

Yanking you close, Dean rolls you into the nearest pile of leaves, kissing you like he might die if he stops. He licks at the strings of his come on your face, cleaning you like a cat. “God, babygirl,” he whispers in your ear, “what brought that on?”

“Wanted to make you feel good,” you say, kissing him back. “Wanted to take care of you.”

Dean puts you on your back and pulls your jeans open. “I’m gonna make you come now,” Dean tells you, a hard, determined look in his eyes that makes you whimper. “Do you want my fingers or my mouth, babygirl?”

“I-- I--” your whole body’s tingling, every nerve alight.

“Tell me,” Dean says. He kisses your neck. “How do you want to come? Tell me. Talk to me.”

“Mouth,” you squeak. “Please Dean, put your mouth on me, please.”

“Oh good. Good.” Dean yanks your jeans off, shoves your legs apart and latches onto your pussy. Birds take off at your cry. Sucking at your clit, two fingers curled inside you and rubbing something that makes your body sing, Dean has you falling to pieces in no time at all.

---

It's late the next morning when you finally wake up. The passion hadn't stopped when you got back to the cabin; you're actually sore, and there's new marks on your body where Dean's strength overrode his sense. Smiling you reach across the bed for him, and your arm pats empty sheets.

“Dean? Deee-an?” You haul up out of bed. A search of the cabin takes roughly thirty seconds and the results include a mouse and three spiders but no Dean.

The mouse you shoo. The spiders you catch-and-release. It’s when you’re done putting the last spider outside that you spy it-- a note on the floor. It must’ve fluttered down when you or Dean shut the door.

GONE OUT TO CUT UP THAT BLOWDOWN. BACK BY LUNCH. -D

That must be the source of the chainsaw noise you can hear in the distance. You groan at the thrill of desire at the thought of Dean in lumberjack mode, guiding a chainsaw, swinging an axe, maybe shirtless and sweating in the autumn sunshine. The spirit may be willing but the flesh needs a break.

After a shower and a breakfast, you settle down to your Classical Antiquities paper. The Glock Dean gave you sits on the table. You’ve checked and it’s loaded. You don’t know why you have it out. You don’t really enjoy looking at the damned thing. It makes you uneasy. It feels like borrowing trouble.

But you don’t want to put it away.

You drum your pencil on the table. You wish you’d brought your laptop, or your phone, or, shit, anything with an Internet connection. You spread your notecards over the table and wait for the work to pull you in, absorb you the way it always does.

But the uneasy feeling won’t leave. Every minute goes by, the fine hairs on the back of your neck stand up a little higher. You’ve gotten this vibe before, walking to and from your car late at night or when you’re lecturing in front of a hostile class. The sense of being hunted.

You’ve been working for hours and getting nowhere when you give up. You need to find Dean. Something is wrong.

The sound of an engine strikes you still. It pulls up outside the cabin and stops. Heart in your throat you listen.

“This must be the place,” a man’s voice notes, smooth and polished with an English accent. “We appear to have gotten lucky, if that’s Winchester making that racket.”

“Find him. Take care of him.” Your heart stops. It’s Zachariah.

Zachariah knocks on the door, calling your name. “It’s okay! I’m coming in!” Dammit, the door to the cabin isn’t locked. It swings open and Zachariah sticks his head in.

He looks awful, skin sallow and deep shadows under his hooded eyes. His nose wrinkles at the smells of sex and scent. “Jesus Christ.”

How did he find you? Who was the other man? God damn it, where’s Dean?

Zachariah spies you and he smiles. “Whew! There you are!” You start to shake. How is it you feel brave when you’re around Dean but not here where you need it? “We have been looking all over for you! Why’d you run off? Did that girl Alpha scare you?” He’s come in and coming closer, a dog stalking its prey. “Look, I know, she came on a little strong--”

“A little?” you squeak.

“--but that’s what timid Omegas need, a firm hand.” He takes another sniff. “Dear God, you two’ve been going at it for days haven’t you?”

So what? You feel your back straighten. Some of the trembling eases. You’re not ashamed of being with Dean, in any respect. Not even a little bit.

Zachariah makes that sour, pinched smirk. “That’s okay. Just following your instincts. I bet you feel a whole lot better now you’ve been knotted properly. It’s okay. But now it’s time to come home, sweetheart.” He’s slinking closer. You sidle to the side, trying to keep the table between you.

Just let him feel like he’s in control and he’ll leave you alone, your mother’s voice lectures from your memory. Let him feel that, let him have that, let him, let him let him--

You glance at the table, at the gun. Zachariah sees it too, and his greasy smirk widens. “Oh honey, that’s not necessary. I’m your family. All I want to do is take care of you.”

Dean’s phrase in Zachariah’s mouth, it makes you sick. It makes you angry. You snatch the gun off the table and point it at Zachariah.

“Woah woah woah, easy girl, easy!” Zachariah says, holding up his hands. “I just want--”

“Get away from me,” you say.

“Calm down. Nobody wants to hurt you. I could never hurt you, baby. I love you. I always have.” You can scent him now, a thick and nauseating stench of stagnation and decay driving out yours and Dean’s mingled smells. “I can provide for you baby, keep you good. You can have anything you want, I’ll treat you like a queen baby, just--”

“I said get away from me!” You lunge for the bathroom. The bathroom door locks; you throw the bolt a half-second before Zachariah slams into it.

Zachariah back off a step. “Come on Omega, this is ridiculous. Open the door. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Right, and you didn’t just send Mr. Ketch after Dean,” you say as the pieces fall together and terror turns your blood to icewater.

“He’s nothing, baby. Just an overpriced whore with a crazy daddy.” Zachariah continues in that vein but you don’t listen. You have to warn Dean. He has no idea Ketch is coming.

The tiny casement window over the toilet is too small for you to get through. Or so it looks; Dean showed you a trick just in case there was a fire. You undo the catches in the window frame and shove out the panes. The opening’s tight but you get through, landing in a painful heap outside.

Checking the safety and making sure your finger’s off the trigger, you take off. Dean.

---

The blowdown Dean showed you is about a half-hour’s walk away from the cabin. Ignoring stealth, you run hell-bent for leather through the dead leaves.

You’re almost there when you hear a gunshot. You stop dead in your tracks, panting for air, a stitch in your side like a knife.

“You know,” Ketch’s cultured voice carries to you and your heart stops, “when you locked me in that stinking toilet, I had plenty of time to imagine this moment--”

Crying Dean’s name you run towards the voice. You plunge through a tangle of weeds and your horrified eyes take in Dean down on one knee, a hand pressed to his side and blood in his fingers. Ketch, his face battered and bruised, looks over at you but his gun stays pointed at Dean’s head.

He smiles. “Ah, our wayward Omega.”

You raise the Glock, finger on the trigger. “Get. Away. From him.”

Ketch tsks. “Little Omega’s grown claws. Fascinating.” Slowly, showing every motion, he uncocks his pistol and takes his finger off the trigger. “See? It’s all right, Miss. I’m not here to hurt you.”

“No. You’re just here to kill my Alpha and take me back to Zachariah,” you snap.

“Your Alpha?” Ketch echoes. He smiles, a tight, unpleasant thing. “I told Zachariah hiring a whore--”

“Don’t call him that!” you cry, raising your gun a little bit higher.

“Really now. You’re a bright girl,” Ketch says. In your peripheral vision you see Dean moving, his face pale and agonal. He’s trying to get to his gun, you realize, you can see the twinkle of chrome on the ground. “You can do so much better.”

“Like Zachariah?” you say.

“An Alpha who will keep you as an Omega should be kept,” Ketch says. “Winchester is beneath you, and, deep down,” he says, creeping up on you and holstering his gun, “you know it.”

“Stay right there,” you order. “I mean it.”

Ketch shows his empty hands. “Just come with me. We’ll take Dean to a hospital and you can go home. No one else needs to get hurt.”

“He’s right.” Your head snaps around and there’s Zachariah, winded and rumpled. The instant of distraction is all Ketch needs; quick like a snake he grabs your wrist and twists the Glock out of your hand.

“Down!” Dean barks and you drop. A shot rings out, and Ketch falls. You hear a few wheezes, and smell a titanic stench of shit and bowels. Then . . . nothing.

Oh my God. You are lying next to a dead man.

At the touch of a hand you scramble away, backing yourself against a tree. You look over and both Ketch and Dean are lying inert on the ground. Inert. Unmoving. Dead.

Shock coats your feelings in glass. No.

Zachariah pulls himself up off the ground, dusts himself off, pulls his blazer straight. “Well. That was unfortunate.” He walks up to you, a satisfied smirk on his face. There’s an edge of madness in his eyes. “Come on now baby,” he coos, bending close. “It’s time to go home.”

You spit in his face and he slaps you so hard your lips split. “You’ve picked up some bad habits,” he notes, that mad edge shining brighter. “That’s okay, you’ll learn better. I’m good at teaching Omegas how to behave. And you will behave for me.”

Your eyes land on your pistol, lying on the ground next to Ketch’s curled fingers. You lunge, grab it, and fire. Zachariah curses as a hunk of bark is ripped from a tree next to him, covering his head, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

“Get on the ground!” you order and he drops to his knees. “Hands behind your head! Don’t fucking move!”

“I’m not! I’m not. See?” he smiles uneasily and puts his hands behind his head. “Not moving.”

A stir of leaves next to you. You glance over and oh thank God and the Virgin Mary-- it’s Dean. He’s alive. White as a ghost and in obvious pain, but alive. You want to drop your gun and cover him with kisses. You can’t. Not with Zachariah right here.

Dean tries to get to his feet. Oh Jesus, his front is drenched with blood from the waist down. He says your name. “Car keys in my pocket. Take Zachariah. Leave me here.”

“Fuck that!”

“I can’t walk and you can’t carry me.”

You point your gun at Zachariah. “You wanna live through this?”

Zachariah chuckles. “You won’t shoot me. You’re not--” He shrieks in a very unAlpha soprano as you put a bullet in the ground between you.

“Carry him. Or I swear by God, Father Son and Holy Ghost I will blow your fucking brains out,” you snarl. Your fangs have dropped and you have to shift your grip on the pistol as your claws slide out. When Zachariah doesn’t move, you snap, “NOW!”

Scrambling to his feet, Zachariah moves to Dean’s side. Pulling Dean’s arm over his shoulders, he slowly straightens to a stand, pulling Dean to his feel. Dean howls in pain, a sound you know will haunt you for the rest of your life.

You look around in confusion. All these fucking trees look the same. “Arrows,” Dean grunts, reading you like a sign again. “Look for the arrows.”

You look up and find one, old scratches deep into the meat of the tree. “This way.” You motion with your gun.

“Aht-ah,” Dean says, and he almost sounds like his uninjured self. He jabs his gun into Zachariah’s ribs. “Do what the lady says pal, or she won’t have to blow your head off.”

---

The slow march back to the cabin is a crazy nightmare of crunching leaves and Dean’s moans of pain. You can’t comfort him either, you don’t dare let Zachariah out of your sight. Underneath the glass coat of shock your Omega instincts are screaming, Alpha is in pain, Alpha is in danger.

Finally you come to the cabin. Zachariah’s car is a big black SUV. You growl at him, “Keys.”

He bares his teeth in a sharktoothed grin. “Ketch has them.”

“Pocket,” Dean wheezes. His knees buckle and he almost drags Zachariah down.

“Dean? Dean! Stay with me Dean! We’re going to get help.” Dean moans, his head rolling this way and that. “ALPHA!” you shriek.

“He’s a dead man,” Zachariah scoffs.

“You’d better hope not,” you growl in a voice you don’t recognize as yours. “Put him in the shotgun seat.”

“H-h-hand-handcuffs,” Dean says. Weakly he pats at the glove compartment. You open it and fish out a set of cuffs. “Cuff him. To the other car.”

“You heard him,” you tell Zachariah, holding up the cuffs. “Do it. Or I’ll shoot out your knees and leave you to bleed to death, do you hear me?”

“This isn’t necessary sweetheart,” Zachariah tries one last time. “We can get clear of this if we tell the same story.”

“What story’s that? The one where you brought your psycho to kill my Alpha and carry me away to your tower for the ravishing?”

“Two psychopaths went crazy, kidnapped you, and killed each other,” Zachariah corrects, “and I arrived just in time to save you. It’s a good story. We can go away, start a new life together. A good life, somewhere warm where--”

“Where the law doesn’t think it’s weird for an Alpha to have an Omega a third his age. Pass. Now,” you tic your gun at the SUV, “hands.”

Once Zachariah’s wrists are cuffed with the chain threaded through the door handle, you creep back towards Dean’s car.

“You’re not going to get away with this,” Zachariah snarls as his face turns red. “I’ll never spend a night in jail. I know people. I have money. You’re mine, Omega. Just a matter of time.”

“I will slit my own throat first.” You mean it.

You slide into Dean’s car. God, the inside stinks like blood. It’s everywhere, so much blood. You have to physically peel your right hand off the Glock; your fingers refuse to let go. Outside Zachariah is yelling and struggling against the handcuffs. You sincerely hope he gouges his wrists open and dies.

What the hell happened to you? asks your father’s eternally detached voice. You slap it away. “Keep it together,” you growl to yourself.

“Doin’ great, babygirl,” Dean whispers. “Take track to road. Turn left. Gas station.”

“Gas station? No we need to get you to a hos-- don’t tell me we’re low on gas.”

“Fine. Won’t tell you.” Dean tries to get his keys from his jeans pocket but can’t quite manage. You have to dig them out. As the Chevy’s engine coughs to life you check the gas gauge. Yep, the needle’s hovering a tick over E. Cursing in Greek, you find the gearstick, put the car in gear, and pull away from the cabin.

You drive as fast as you dare down the rutted trail through the shitwood and weeds. Finally you come on a ribbon of asphalt. Blessed civilization.

Or so you think; it’s another fifteen nerve-shredding minutes until you see a sign that says JOE’S PARTY STORE, GAS BAIT BEER LOTTO. Almost sobbing with relief you pull in front of the tin shack housing the store and cut the engine. “We’re here! Thank God we’re here! Dean?” No response. “Dean!”

He lifts his head from where it’s slumped on the seat and smiles. Then his eyes roll back in his head and he slumps back down again.

The glass coat that’s been keeping your emotions back shatters. Your shrieks bring out a retinue of retired fisherman. They mill around in confusion until one fat fellow wearing a VIET NAM, NHA TRANG baseball cap takes charge. He opens the passenger side door and askes, “Jesus God girlie, what happened?”

“He’s been shot, he’s been shot, he’s dying,” you sob.

“Call Jimmy, tell him to shag ass. This man needs a hospital.” He lifts Dean’s shirt and you almost pass out. Blood, blood, how can he be alive with so much blood? It’s everywhere, the whole world is blood. The Vietnam vet whips a handkerchief out of his pocket. “This is gonna hurt mister. I’m sorry.”

Dean screams as the Vietnam vet presses the handkerchiefs to the bullet hole.

“I know,” the Vietnam vet says roughly, “I know son. But we gotta get this bleeding stopped.” He looks over at you. “You his Omega?”

“Close enough,” you say. You’re crying, and you can’t stop.

“Talk to him. Keep him with us.”

You nod and take Dean’s hand. His fingers are like marble, cold and still. He’s sort of awake, he’s trying to open his eyes. You lay your head on his chest, hear his heart beating fast and erratic. “Please, Alpha” you beg him and God and whoever else might be listening. “I can’t lose you. I just found you. Please don’t leave me. Please. Please.”

Mine.

---

“Raise your right hand. Do you swear that the evidence you shall give shall be the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help you God?”

“I do.” Moving a bit stiffly in his off-the-rack suit and tie, Dean sits in the witness box. If he’s at all intimidated by the hate in Zachariah’s gaze it doesn’t show.

“Please state your full name date and place of birth and current occupation for the record,” the bailiff continues in his robotic monotone.”

“Dean Michael Winchester, 24 January 1979, Lawrence, Kansas, auto mechanic.” Dean answers in a monotone to match. A bare titter runs through the courtroom.

“Don’t get cute dude,” Dean’s brother Sam mutters. You seek out his hand; he envelops yours in his huge paw and squeezes, gently.

The past several months have been both the best and worst of your life. Taking a hurried leave of absence from school had not won you many fans; you’re not sure you would even be welcome back next fall. The Family, exactly as Uncle Gabriel had predicted, had organized itself into pro- and anti-Zachariah camps. Although the size of the pro-camp shrinks with the revelation of every new outrage. Your stomach churns when you think of just what Zachariah had spent that embezzled money on. And true to form the coward kept thinking he could squeak by. Despite some outright pleading from his lawyer, Zachariah refused to follow Chuck’s example and cut a deal. “’Not a jury in the world would take the word of a catamite whore over mine,’ is the exact phrase he used I believe,” Uncle Balthazar had reported.

But then there’s Dean.

Bouncing back from death’s door with only a scar and the loss of some intestine to show for it. The two of you have been pretty much inseparable since he got out of the hospital, and every day you fall a little more in love with him. Not that it’s all been sunshine and roses; your Alpha is moody, temperamental, and his need for independence borders on pathological. You’d had to physically drag him to see his “uncle” Bobby and ask about a job. Dean and Bobby had walked out of the manager’s office at Singer Salvage And Repair twenty minutes later, Dean with an armful of fresh dungarees and Bobby telling him, “Eight AM Monday morning and you’d better bring your girl ‘round for Sunday dinner. Idjit.”

You shake yourself out of your reflections. Dean, answering the DA’s questions politely and respectfully, is telling the jury how Zachariah hired him through the escort agency, how you met, how he quit, and how he took you away to keep you safe. He describes cutting the blown-down tree into logs for adding to the cabin’s woodpile when Ketch surprised him. You’ve already had your turn on the stand, and two days of getting broasted by Zachariah’s defense attorney had driven you into a vodka bottle for almost a week.

“I woke up in the U of M Medical Center. The doctors told me later I had to be Life-Flighted out,” Dean concludes. He makes a face. “Thank God I was passed out by then.”

“Thank you Mr. Winchester,” the ADA on the case, a redheaded woman, ‘call me Charlie, everybody does’ says. Retreating to the prosecution’s table, she says, “Your witness,” to the defense.

Zachariah’s defense attorney, a statuesque black woman named Billie, stands in her navy pinstripe and power heels. You shrink a little in your seat. The lady is fucking intimidating.

“Mr. Winchester what was it you said you did for a living before your current employment?”

“I was an independent contractor working for Rosen Entertainment,” Dean answers.

“And what was the nature of your work?”

“Rosen Entertainment provides professional escorts. For dates, formal occasions, photo sessions, stuff like that. Sometimes clients came with special requests, such as personal protection.”

“Special requests, yes. Were those requests ever sexual in nature?”

“Within the confines established by Michigan state law yes,” Dean says without batting an eye.

“You’re awfully frank about it, Mr. Winchester. Most people would at least blush to admit prostitution.”

Dean looks at the judge. “I’m sorry, was that a question?”

“Watch the asides Counselor,” the judge warns.

“How long did you do this . . . work?” Billie asks.

“Almost seven years.”

“Make good money?”

“Enough.”

“But not nearly as much as the money some of your clients left you in their wills.”

Dean’s expression hardened. “I never accepted any of that money. The rules of my contract with Rosen Entertainment forbade it.”

“That didn’t stop you from accepting gifts from grateful clients. Cash, clothes, accessories-- I understand once you got to stay on Grand Cayman for two months.”

“Objection! Where is this line of questioning going?” Charlie snaps.

“Speaks to the credibility of the witness Your Honor,” Billie says.

“Overruled,” the judge tells Charlie. “Proceed.”

“The trip to Cayman wasn’t a vacation; it was a job. Personal gifts aren’t a nono under our contracts but bequests are different,” Dean clarifies. “That money belongs in a family.”

You can see Billie yearning to bring up Dean’s juvenile record but it’s already been ruled inadmissible. She shifts gears. “The average escort’s career lasts less than two years yet you stuck it out for almost seven, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you just happen to meet a young, impressionable Omega with no dating experience and no sexual experience either, and you just happen to decide right then and there to quit.”

“She was a factor in my decision, yes.”

“The fact that she potentially had access to a fortune worth approximately six billion dollars didn’t factor into your thinking?”

“No,” Dean says flatly.

“I find that hard to believe,” Billie says. “I mean, six billion dollars. You could buy a lot of condos for that.”

Dean turns to the judge. “Was that a question? I couldn’t tell.”

“Let me rephrase--” Billie says, “her money did not factor into your decision making at any point?”

“No.”

“Good,” Sam says beside you, “keep it consistent.”

“Now on the afternoon of the date in question, you shot and killed Arthur Ketch, correct?” Billie asks.

“In self-defense.”

“Mr. Adler’s statement to the police says Mr. Ketch was there to arrest you on suspicion of kidnapping, which is within the scope of his duties as a private investigator,” Billie rebuts.

“Well that’s funny-- Ketch’s idea of reading me my rights was a sucker punch to the kidney,” Dean snarks back.

“Tone it down Dean,” Sam says under his breath.

“And I didn’t kidnap anyone,” Dean continues. He nods at you. “She didn’t feel safe at home, and she came with me willingly somewhere her folks didn’t know about.”

“An Omega in heat is incapable of making sound decisions, are they not?” Billie asks.

“Objection Your Honor-- it’s been established no kidnapping took place. The defendant’s grandniece might’ve been in estrus but by the testimony of Castiel Novak and Abbadon Diablo she was not impaired,” Charlie says. “No warrant was ever sworn out for Mr. Winchester’s arrest, and the death of Arthur Ketch was ruled self-defense under Michigan’s Stand Your Ground law.”

“Sustained. Move on.”

“We’ve established she was not impaired by her estrus cycle,” Billie says. “What about you?”

“Me? I don’t know what you mean,” Dean says.

“Let me clarify-- after one meeting, you quit a job at which you’d been making excellent money for several years. Could your judgement have been impaired, to come between a child and the family who loves her?”

“I watched a grown Omega cringe when a relative old enough to be her grandfather with room to spare started making dominance moves on her in public,” Dean says, with that narrow look that speaks of a fraying temper. “Even if I hadn’t been falling in love with her, I would’ve gotten her out of the situation. Nobody should be treated like that by their own family.”

“Please Mr. Winchester,” Billie scoffs, “you expect the jury to believe a high-class prostitute threw his career away just because of love?”

“What-- whores can’t love?” Dean asks caustically, making some of the reporters in the room gasp. “The only reason she’s not wearing her ring is it’s at the jeweler’s getting resized-- my grandmother had tiny fingers.” He smiles at you and you beam back. “I loved her the minute I looked at her and I’m the luckiest sonofabitch alive she thinks I’m worth loving too.”

Zachariah’s shoulders go tight, but he doesn’t say anything, clearly prepped by his lawyer ahead of time to sit still and shut up.

“The point stands,” Billie says. “How far should the jury trust the integrity of someone who earned his living on his knees?”

Dean draws himself up. “Ma’am. My father is a paranoid schizophrenic who can live out his life in a safe place. My brother’s graduating from Stanford Law School eighth in a class of a hundred and twenty--”

“Twenty-six,” Sam corrects softly.

“--I was able to help with the little bit he couldn’t earn with that giant brain of his. He’s graduating debt-free, which means he can afford to be picky about accepting a job, and he and his fiancée can get married now instead of waiting until she finishes med school.

“All of that is possible,” Dean says, with angry dignity, “because I got on my knees and let people pay to fuck me. I quit because it was time to quit. When this is over, I can take my mated wife, and get started on the next phase of my dumb little life.”

Billie looks at Dean a long moment. Dean meets her gaze, square and unashamed. You want to cheer. “Nothing further, Mr. Winchester.”

“The witness is excused. Court is adjourned until tomorrow morning.” The judge whacks down the gavel and you and Sam meet Dean at the exit door.

“How’d I do?” Dean asks Sam.

“Pretty good,” Sam nods. “You got a little emotional but I think it’ll play well with the jury. The important thing is your stories corroborate each others’. Adler doesn’t have a leg to stand on. The jury will crucify him.” There’s a greed in his voice that makes you pull back a little. You’d found Sam to be every bit the sweetheart Dean had described, but there was still that something that made you nervous. You definitely wouldn’t want to be on the wrong end of Sam’s angry dimples.

“Well! that was fun as dental surgery. Who’s for pizza? I know a place off Lake Michigan Drive,” you say brightly.

---

Later that night you leave Sam, Uncle Gabriel, and Uncle Balthazar deep in a discussion over international smuggling laws. Your uncles seem to have found a kindred spirit in Sam, and you smile at the start of what looks like a beautiful friendship.

“Babygirl?” Dean asks as you emerge from the bathroom in your nightie. “C’mere.”

You go to where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. It’s a bigger bed than it was at Uncle Balthazar’s condo, despite your new apartment being the upstairs of a not-very-big house in a not-very-nice neighborhood. Between you and Dean there’re enough personal touches to make it feel like a home and not just a place you happen to inhabit. The first real home you’ve ever had.

“Look what came back from the jewelers today,” Dean says, pulling a gray velvet clamshell from his pocket.

You giggle. “Should we do the bended knee thing again?”

“Absolutely,” Dean says. He slides off the bed and lands softly on one knee. “You’re the light of my life, the twinkle in my eye, the boner in my pants--”

“Such a way with words,” you tell him dryly.

Dean smiles up at you, taking your hands. “You remember what I told you, about how beautiful a woman’s face gets when she’s having really good sex?”

You nod. Months of life with Dean has mellowed the sting of pure possessive jealousy when you think of his former profession. Mostly.

“I knew I was done for,” Dean says, “when I realized I never wanted to see that look on any face but yours. That’s what I meant when I said I wanted to take care of you. If you’ll let me, I want to spend the rest of my life taking care of you.” Using your full name, Dean opens the clamshell to reveal an antique gold ring set with a single blazing sapphire. “Will you marry me, and claim me as yours?”

“Mmm . . . yeah sure, why not?” The happy tears betray you, and Dean’s smile beams just as bright as it did when he first popped the question.

At Cedar Point of all possible places.

He slips the ring on your finger and you thank him with a passionate kiss. Dean shifts to sit back on his heels and sticks his head up under your nightie. “Hey now, I can smell a hungry little pussy.”

You giggle as he sniffles and kisses all around your lower belly, your thighs, your hips. You shift your legs apart and Dean zeros in between them. His mouth wanders over your bush, kissing your outer lips, tongue tickling the crease between your pussy and your leg. “Deeee-ean,” you whine.

“Don’t break my concentration, I’m hunting here.” He kisses right over your throbbing clit, making your breath catch. “Mmm. I think I’ve cornered her. Let’s see.” Parting your outer lips with his nose, Dean licks up a tongueful of your trickling slick. “I have the trail! You’re mine, pussy.”

“Dean!” you whack at the lump of his head under your nightie. “Your brother is like, right next door!”

“Then you’ll have to be quiet, won’t you?” Dean says around a mouthful of your softest flesh. “I caught this pussy fair and square. And now,” he suckles at your clit and you choke back a scream, “I’m gonna eat it all up!”

---

The jury deliberations take an afternoon.

“Will the defendant please rise,” the judge instructs, and Zachariah, still in his silk power suit and radiating Alpha-like authority, stands. Even after everything, he still thinks he’s going to get away with it, you realize. It hasn’t sunk in, that actions have consequences and not everything can be papered over with money.

You shudder, remembering big pictures of tiny bodies. Dean feels it and puts an arm around you. Alpha is here, and you know for a fact he’d die to keep you safe. Having six and a half feet of Sam on your other side, and Uncle Balthazar and Uncle Gabriel sitting close by; those help too.

“Has the jury reached a verdict?”

“Yes we have Your Honor,” the jury forewoman answers.

“On the first count of the indictment, attempted murder in the first degree, how does the jury find?”

“We the jury, find the defendant, guilty.”

A great release of air goes through the courtroom. Your body goes cool, numb, tingly. A release of tension you didn’t even realize you were holding.

“On the second count of the indictment, attempted sexual assault in the first degree, how does the jury find?”

“We the jury, find the defendant, guilty.”

“Breathe, babygirl,” Dean says in your ear and you suck in a breath. Spots clear from your vision. Dean kisses your head and lets you lean close.

It takes almost five minutes to read out the rest of the charges-- embezzlement, hiring of a hitman, wire fraud. Guilty on all charges. Zachariah stands firm through the recitation, a look coming over his face that actively terrifies you.

“Thank you Madam Forewoman. The jury is excused,” the judge says.

“I know you” Zachariah says, loud and clear. “ I know each and every one of you.” The men and women in the jury box pause, but only for a second as the bailiff starts herding them through the exit door. “You’re dead! You’re all dead!” his voice rises as the last juror files out.

“Counselor, control your client,” the judge orders Billie, who looks utterly taken aback at Zachariah’s outburst. Whatever she says gets through; Zachariah pulls his jacket straight, adjusts his tie, and goes back to standing at attention. “Defendant’s bail is hereby revoked and he will be remanded to the custody of the Michigan Department of Corrections--”

“Jail?” Zachariah laughs, in what sounds like genuine amusement. “I’m not going to jail!”

“--to await sentencing. Sentencing hearing to be scheduled at a later date.” She brings the gavel down with a final bang and motions to the bailiffs. “Take the defendant into custody.”

“I know you too!” Zachariah yells, lunging away from the bailiffs. “YOU’RE DEAD BITCH! YOU’RE ALL DEAD!!!” His head whips around and he spies you. A grotesque parody of a smile twists his face. “You’ll never know what you gave up baby. You’ll never know.” The bailiffs finally get ahold of his massive arms and pin him to the defense table. They twist his wrists behind his back and you hear the ratchet of handcuffs. “YOU’LL NEVER KNOW!” Zachariah shrieks as they drag him away amongst the pandemonium. Flashbulbs pop everywhere and you can hear reporters barking and snarling.

“Sam,” Dean says.

“Yeah,” Sam replies, and starts elbowing his way through the crowd. Guiding you, giving you cover under his arms, Dean follows.

“Awfully handy, having a brother who doubles as a battering ram,” Uncle Balthazar notes, falling in behind with Uncle Gabriel. He puts a hand on your back. “Are you all right darling?”

“Let’s just get out of here. You look up at Dean, drinking in his eyes like a dying man drinks cool water. “Take me home.”

---

“Gimme those feet,” Dean tells you, and you slip off your shoes and put them in his lap. You moan as he gently rubs away the aches.

“It was a beautiful ceremony wasn’t it?” you ask.

Dean shrugs. “I’d rather cut to the chase,” he says. Your eyes meet and you both break down in chuckles. Tradition dictates a claiming bite be left unbandaged and open to the air; yours is still throbbing. Exchanging vows before Father Jim had been quiet joy. The exquisite pain and transcendent bliss of Dean’s fangs in your neck had been heaven. Dean’s cry as you’d sunken your fangs into his mating gland . . . you’d almost come on the spot.

At Sam’s wedding, you and Dean had shown up with your brand new rings and your brand new claiming bites. You’d felt the joy in your own body, when the priest had declared them married, mated, and bonded forever. Sam Winchester, juris doctorate, and his lovely wife Jessica, med student and future doctor. Happiness makes them beautiful, your Winchesters.

Dean hits an especially sore spot and you moan. “Death to him -- because it was definitely a man -- who made heels mandatory formal wear.”

“But they do fucking mind-blowing things to your legs,” Dean says, his hands massaging your sore calves. He picks up one of your legs. “But oh,” he sings against your toes, “they love to watch her strut.”

You cuff him playfully. It’s funny, after childhoods with no place for play, you and Dean can’t seem to get enough. “Enough with your schmaltz.”

“Yes ma’am,” Dean says, and the two of you sit quiet for a while. You’re frowning at nothing when Dean asks, “Something on your mind, babygirl?”

“I’m just-- I dunno, contemplating what’s next, I guess.”

“What’re your thoughts?”

“I mean-- I want to go back to school--"

“Then do it. Money isn’t a problem.”

“Yeah I know that.” The bequest from your mother’s estate isn’t huge, but it’s enough to ensure you can complete any degree you want. On Dean’s absolute insistence, that money is untouchable under a prenuptial agreement-- you and only you will ever have access and should you split up--

Mine, your Omega instincts say, looking at the scabbed gashes on your husband’s neck.

“So what’s the problem?” Dean sits up straighter on the hotel room sofa. “Talk to me, babygirl.”

“I nuked a lot of the professional relationships I need when I took that leave of absence. Professor Visnyak came this close to telling me I’ll never work in this field again.”

“Fuck her,” is Dean’s judgement.

“No thank you.”

“Is there some law or commandment says you have to go to that school?” Dean asks.

“It’s got one of the best Anthropology programs in the country.”

“One of,” Dean echoes. “Nothing says you can’t go somewhere else.” Your brow furrows as the idea sits with you. “I mean-- MSU’s right there, U of M. University of Chicago’s a good school. Shit, you could go anywhere.”

“Not without you.”

Dean shrugs. “Nice thing about being a mechanic-- the skills travel. I could get a job pretty much anywhere.”

You know that’s not true though. Plenty of places won’t hire someone who made a living in sex work.

“Besides,” Dean says, “you’re gonna start doing fieldwork soon, right? We’ll be apart then.”

“I know.” That’s one of the reasons you and Dean decided to marry now. Dean your husband gets access Dean your boyfriend doesn’t. A practical, sensible decision that’s completely separate from being true mates and needing each other the way you need food and water.

“I don’t want to move,” you say. “I mean, travel? Sure. I want to walk the Silk Road--”

“Ancient truck stops,” Dean says, smiling. “Awesome.”

“I know you wanted to move back to Kansas--”

“I can manage Dad’s affairs just about anywhere.” A shadow settles over Dean. Hus father had not taken the revelation of just how Dean made his living well. You’re not exactly eager to see the asshole again, but you know Dean loves him and you know the rejection hurts. To a cold part of you it’s fascinating; until you met Dean you’ve never known the kind of love that leaves a person open to agony like that. And Dean does it so naturally, you don’t know if he can love any other way. Nothing about Dean Winchester is half-assed, especially not love.

“Even California-- I mean, it’s nice out here. Except for watching my husband get hit on by every Omega and Beta in town, including and especially the guys.”

“Is that why you practically tore my clothes off when we got back to the hotel the other day?” Dean asks, smiling. “I love it when you get all possessive.”

You kick him, not too hard. “So fine, I’m greedy.”

“You’re so mean,” Dean sighs, “and I am so okay with that. C’mere.”

You go into Dean’s arms and snuggle into his chest. “Grand Rapids is my home,” you say. “I don’t want to leave it.”

“Then we won’t.” Dean kisses the top of your head. “I got a job, you got school. We’ve got a home together.”

“Dean. Alpha.” You kiss him, just basking in his taste and his scent and his everything. “Where you are, that’s home.”

Mine. His. Mine.

---

AN2: I don't know why, but the plot bunnies bit me hard on this one. The bulk of it was written in about three days-- yeah I know, it shows. If you recognize who the 'Adlers' are supposed to be expys of, or the landmarks described herein, pat yourself on the back for being a true Michigander.

7 notes · View notes