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bigmouthlass · 9 days

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Title: Calling A Professional, part a

Series: Professional, part 1a

Author: BJ

Fandom: Supernatural

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Dean Winchester/You, Dean Winchester/Reader, Sam Winchester/Jessica Moore

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, Jessica Moore, Alpha Sam Winchester, Alpha Zachariah, Alpha Balthazar, Alpha Gabriel, Alpha Castiel, Beta Benny LaFitte, Alpha Abbadon, Omega Jessica Moore, Charlie Bradbury, Billie 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.

---

“Are you kidding?”

Your cousin Rebecca shakes her head, flying that damn blonde mane all over the place. Glaring, you wave a breeze past your nose. Rebecca’s between boys again and she’s broadcasting interest signals to every Alpha within smelling range. You check your watch. God dammit, as it is you’re going to have to sacrifice another hour of sleep because this was supposed to be your study hour. You do not have time to do lunch.

Except Rebecca’s speaking on behalf of one of the Family heads, an Alpha you’re supposed to call Uncle Zachariah. You know him mostly as a signature on your tuition checks. He’s not exactly pleased that you’re working on a degree instead of chasing a good Alpha but he’s never objected.

Apparently his patience has limits.

“Look, this service has an impeccable reputation--"

“I do not have time for this.”

“Make time, babyboo.”

You grind your teeth. “Do not call me that.”

“Quit behaving like a child,” Rebecca says. “Daddy made it clear. Maybe it was okay to play it like you’re the cerebral ice princess when you were sixteen but you’re a grown Omega now. People see you -- no Alpha, not dating, working all the time -- and they talk.”

No concern about your well-being or what you actually want, of course. Once again you curse the absurd twist of genetics that caused you -- a surprise pregnancy between a couple of middle-aged Betas divorced from terrible first marriages -- to Present as Omega. Things are expected of you, if you want to achieve your quietly ambitious goal of a scholar’s life without having to assume a mountain of debt.

“You hired a for-God’s-sake prostitute--"

“Escort, babe!”

“Someone receiving financial remuneration for sexual activities is a prostitute,” you say. Because that’s what this is about; you have Alpha friends who’ll happily squire you around formal occasions just for the networking opportunities. It’s making the conservative generation of the Family nervous that a healthy Omega with a legitimate blood tie is running around without making herself available to the right sort of Alphas, and as far as they know you’re still a virgin.

Which is correct. That moment, when an Omega catches a scent from a compatible Alpha, gets all soft and slick and ready for mounting? That’s never happened. Certainly not with the frequency it happens to any of your Omega cousins. Anael seems to fall in love every other month on average. It all strikes you as ridiculous and it’d be nice to tell the Family to go to Hell and let you alone.

You’re more pragmatic than that.

“Look, it’s already set up,” Rebecca reminds you. “There’s really nothing to be worried about. It’s one party. You and the escort get a chance to get to know each other. Then he gets a call the next time you go into heat.”

“This is so humiliating,” you say.

Rebecca reaches across the table. You yearn to throw your glass of water in her face but refrain. She really is trying to be sympathetic. “There’s nothing to be scared of. Daddy told me this agency has Alphas that specialize in first timers. All you have to do is relax.”

“Not helping,” you say.

“Just do it,” she sighs. Because that’s what everything from the Family boils down to. “You don’t have to enjoy it, but just do it. Once it’s over Daddy and Great-Aunt Naomi will find something else to obsess over and you can go back to doing,” she waves a hand, making her bracelets rattle and her rings sparkle, “whatever it is you do.”

“It’s called anthropology,” you grumble as the waiter serves your quiche. Rebecca tips her head and the waiter helps himself to a discrete noseful of her scent.

Disgusting.

---

A week later you’re dressing in your favorite gown and tying your hair up. It’s Great-Aunt Naomi’s birthday party and you’re obliged to show up for a few hours and let yourself be counted amongst the Family’s membership roster.

If that were all, you’d be fine. Take the chance to catch up with the least boring of your relatives. But this is the night the guy your uncle’s paying to deflower you is coming to meet you. And you’re nervous.

You open the portfolio sent by the agency. The contract is a dense block of gobbledygook. Someone’s highlighted the salient points, specifically in case you don’t feel absolutely comfortable and safe you can always terminate the service on the spot. How the hell that’s supposed to work in the middle of a heat cycle, you have no idea. Your heats are short but once you’re riding the tide your brain is good for nothing.

The opposite page has a profile of the specific professional who drew the short straw:

WINCHESTER, Dean M. Six-foot-one, 190 pounds, brown hair, green eyes. Cute enough, going by the snapshot paperclipped to the profile sheet. There’s also a scrap of fabric tucked into a little pouch, a scent article that smells mostly like leather.

He’s also several years older, no higher education, and from his list of interests you anticipate a deep conversation about sports. God damn your designation anyway. If you were a Beta nobody would care if or who shared your bed.

“Bonsoir, cherie.” Uncle Balthazar taps on the powder room door. You’re staying at his condo while he spends most of his time abroad. He’s volunteered to be there when your escort shows up, just in case. “Are you ready darling? I just heard the most awful racket from the garage and Harold tells me that’s your date.”

“Not my date,” you correct. “My hooker.”

Uncle Balthazar winces. “Mind your manners young lady. It’s not the gentleman’s fault Zachariah has no sense of the appropriate.”

“I know,” you say.

Uncle Balthazar gives you an arm as you step into your highest heels. “Darling, hold your head high and shine like the treasure you are and you’ll be fine. I’ll be waiting in the sitting room.”

As he leaves you check the mirror. Everything is in place and from photo distance you look like you belong amongst the Family rich and powerful. With a little luck you’ll be back in time to get a little work done before going to bed.

“There she is!” Uncle Balthazar says as you stride into the sitting room. There’s a man in black tie standing next to him. “You look exquisite, my dear,” Uncle Balthazar brings you near with a light touch on your back and kisses your cheek. “This fascinating gentleman is Dean Winchester.”

“How do you do?” you offer your hand.

Your gigolo takes it and brings it to his lips. “Pleasure to meet you.”

The photograph does not do him justice, is all you can think as his eyes meet yours. They’re green, all right, like spruce needles or forest moss or dark jade but not really like any if those things. They study you with a warmth. Delight, like this isn’t a business transaction and you’re the best surprise he’s ever seen. His hand is warm, and his full pink lips are soft against your skin. The touch sparks, like flint on steel.

“Yes, well,” Uncle Balthazar clears his throat. “I’m going to go pick your aunt up. I’ll see you at the party. Au revoir ma petite.”

“Yeah, um,” Dean blinks like he’s just waking up from a trance. “Come on, my car’s downstairs. Let’s get going.”

“Yeah, of course, right,” you shake yourself, taking Dean’s offered arm. Closer proximity doesn’t help, because now you can catch his scent. He’s sweet, all caramelizing fruits and hardwood smoke and leather. A hazy picture floats through your mind, one with less clothes and more heat and you on all fours arched and wailing as--

“Oh merde,” you say under your breath.

---

The car is an old but impeccably clean black Chevrolet. You know nothing about cars but fall in love with this one immediately because the inside is saturated with Dean’s scent. Warm and sweet and it’s working on your mind and body in ways you were not prepared for.

“Uht-oh, the vultures are circling,” Dean says as he pulls up to the hotel. Sure enough there’s a gaggle of photographers perched behind velvet ropes.

“Lovely. The more pictures they get now the more they’ll ignore me later,” you say.

“Not your first rodeo?”

“Very far from it,” you tell him dryly.

Dean accepts a token from the valet and gets out. Waving aside the kid in uniform going for your door, he opens it himself and hands you out, standing just far enough back to be out of focus as flashbulbs pop around you. You do the little half turn pretending to adjust the strap of your bag, and right on cue Dean steps up with his arm cocked. He sets a leisurely pace, facing forward with a blank expression, letting you draw the eyes.

“Not your first rodeo either?” you ask in a low voice as the photographers focus on the next arrival.

“Nope,” he says, shrugging. “Usually when I take clients to these kinds of parties, I hang out with the bartender, eat my weight in finger sandwiches, and try not to start food fights.”

You cough out a giggle at the mental image of your cousin Castiel launching a pie into Great-Aunt Naomi’s face. “You can do that if you want,” you tell him. “I mean except for the food fight part. I’m used to entertaining myself at these things.”

“Nah,” Dean says. “I want to see if I can hear you laugh some more. You’ve got a great laugh.”

He keeps doing that. Giving you little compliments like statements of the obvious. Like how pretty you look with your hair up. And an impressed, “Awesome!” when you tell him you graduated high school two years early. And when you try to brush off what you study as boring stuff, he looks you in the eye and says, “Anything you want to talk about, I want to listen. I’m interested. I’m fascinated.” He’s either the best damn actor in the world . . . or he’s being completely sincere.

Something else is happening too. Assorted relatives keep orbiting by, insisting you introduce them to Dean. He identifies himself as your date and nothing else. He barely looks at them, even ones like your cousins Toni and Bela and Annmarie, Omegas firing off interest signals like fireworks. He speaks when spoken to, can participate in conversations, but he keeps orienting on you like no one else is real to him.

Or so you imagine because that’s how you feel. The low-level paranoia that makes events like this an unpleasant chore isn’t there. Not when Dean keeps touching your arm or your back. During the dinner part of the party, as your cousins do their thing around your assigned table, Dean keeps holding up morsels of his food for you to try, keeps sneaking bits off your plate. It’s an intimate thing to do and doesn’t feel out of place at all. You wish you were alone, just the two of you.

You stiffen when you hear your name. It’s Zachariah, and the way he’s looking at you makes your skin crawl. “Enjoying the party?”

“Of course,” you say. Just listen and nod in the right places, you remember your mother coaching you as a child. Your Uncle Zachariah likes to think he’s in control. Give him that and he’ll leave you alone.

“Good, that’s good,” he nods. One hand goes on your arm, the other goes on Dean’s, and he leans in close. “Just wanted to make sure you kids were hitting it off,” he says, shaking you in what probably feels like a gesture of affection to him but feels intrusive to you.

“Mr. Adler,” Dean says, and the cold formality of his tone is jarring compared to the easy and pleasant affect he’s had so far. “We’re fine, thank you.”

Uncle Zachariah’s smile curdles a bit. “You’re in good hands,” he tells you, and you unconsciously draw back. His hand cups the back of your neck and the part of you that’s been basking in the warmth of Dean’s attention all evening recoils like a startled snake. “The agency tells me Dean’s the best they have with first timers.”

It’s not like everybody in the Family doesn’t know. Your cousins gossip worse than retirees at their favorite diner on weekday mornings. But to have it tossed back in your face-- you honestly want to throw up.

Abruptly Dean stands. Conversation for ten feet around goes quiet. Brushing back Zachariah he pulls you to your feet. “I think I could use a drink. Don’t you.”

You nod, and when Dean puts an arm across your shoulders you press closer. Dean’s warm, sweet scent chases away the cold chills and the instinct to run and hide. Alpha will protect you, those instincts say, and you’re too freaked out to retort that you can protect yourself, thank you very much.

Dean leads you to a smaller secondary bar tucked in a shadowy corner of the ballroom. “Tequila, straight,” he tells the bartender.

“Make it two,” you say.

“Woah,” Dean says. “No way you’re old enough to drink.”

“I’ve been taking wine with dinner since I was twelve Dean. I could probably outdrink you.”

The bartender serves it up without a word and you both slam it back. The liquor acts like a slap in the face, clearing your head a little.

“This probably isn’t any of my business,” says the Alpha that’s getting paid to pop your cherry, “but does he usually pull that kind of shit with you?”

“What do you mean?”

Dean does a double-take. “You’ve never had an Alpha come on to you like that?”

“Like what?” you ask, getting a little irritated.

“Babygirl when an Alpha starts rubbing the back of your neck like that it’s a dominance display.” Dean gently lays his hand in that same place. He applies just a little pressure and oh God, your heart starts slamming in your chest and you can feel slick at the tops of your thighs.

“Stop that,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says and backs off. Part of you cries out, wants to leap into his arms, bare your throat, your body, everything. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Why stop now?”

“You’re smart, you’re beautiful, you work hard and kick ass. Why are you putting up with,” Dean flicks a hand at the party proper, “this shit?”

“You tell me. Why’s an intelligent good-looking guy like yourself turning tricks?”

Dean flinches. The anger in his eyes almost spurs you into a run, but there’s something else lurking at the edges. Shame? Disappointment? “I’m sorry,” you backpedal. “It’s none of my business.”

“There aren’t many jobs for high school dropouts that let a guy gross eighty K a year, and I’ve got a father in assisted living and a brother in law school,” Dean tells you in a flat just-the-facts monotone.

You laugh without much humor. “I’m aiming for a doctorate, the Family pays for my education, and Zachariah controls the money. I’m ineligible for financial aid because my mother was an Adler of the Grand Rapids Adlers and student loans would put me in debt until I turn five hundred.”

The two of you stare at each other for a long moment.

“You wanna go out, get some air?” Dean runs up the Truce flag.

“So bad.”

---

Outside the fall air is cool and smells like peace. You lead the way to the back end of the hotel courtyard, where there’re benches looking across the river.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize again. “I got no high ground to stand on when it comes to how anybody makes money.”

Dean huffs out an unamused little ha. “My dad still thinks I hustle pool and scam credit cards for a living. If he knew I work for an escort service he’d have a heart attack. Then come back to life and shoot me. Then have another heart attack.”

“Aren’t you worried he’ll see you on one of those daytime tabloid shows?”

“Nah. Dad only pays attention to the ABCs. Automobiles, Booze and Cowboys.” Dean pauses, looking across the river at the softly lit rotunda of the museum. “Doing this means Dad can stay in a good place and Sam doesn’t have to hold down a job while he’s at school. Once he graduates, he’ll be able to start helping with Dad’s bills and I can quit and do something else. Or keep doing it and retire young. I dunno.”

“You don’t have to justify yourself to me.”

“I’m not, just thinking out loud I guess.” A breeze blows in from the west and you shiver as it pulls gooseflesh from your bare arms and back. “Oh, here,” Dean says, shucking out of his tuxedo jacket and draping it over you. His arm goes over your shoulders and you let him cuddle you close. It’s easier to see now, the firm layers of muscle on his arm and chest, how small your body is by comparison.

There it is again, that melting feeling deep in your core. A part of you that only comes alive in your heat cycles is awake now, making you want to curl around Alpha the way a cat curls up in a friendly lap. You’d purr if you could roll an R.

You feel Dean’s chest rise as he takes a deep breath. “You’re not used to having someone take care of you, are you?” he asks.

“I can take care of myself,” you say, but it doesn’t have the hard snap it usually does when you point that out.

“Yeah I can see that. That’s not my point. You looked scared to death in there, but you didn’t look around for help. How long have you been dealing with his crap on your own?”

You shudder, and Dean pulls you closer. “I barely know Zachariah. I only see him at events like this and when I have to give him my schedule every semester. He pays for my tuition, so I have to at least be nice to him.”

“Fuck.” Dean’s quicker than he lets on. “I just dropped a damn mess in your lap didn’t I?”

“It’s not your fault. Look,” you say, trying to push past the way being in his arms makes you feel warm and alive and wanting, “if you want to back out, I’ll make sure you still get paid. It’s pretty clear Zachariah didn’t give a damn about me or the Family. He . . . I don’t know what he wants.”

“I got a pretty goddamned good idea. When you get home, check for cameras.”

You shudder again, feeling sick.

“You also might want to talk to a lawyer about your options as far as family money. An independent lawyer. You get me?”

“Yeah.”

“Anyway, Zachariah isn’t the one calling the shots. You are,” Dean says. “Do something for me, would you please?”

“Okay.”

“Close your eyes.”

You do.

“Just breathe with me a minute. There’s nobody else here, just us.” Dean lets the quiet hang. He tips his head to rest on top of yours, taking your scent. His own Alpha scent gets stronger, more complex. More delicious. “Pretend we just met. It’s up to you, where we go from here. If it’s what you want, I’ll take you home right now and you’ll never see me again--"

“No.” You open your eyes and turn your head, meeting Dean’s surprised look. “No I don’t want that.”

“Oh thank God, me neither,” Dean breathes and presses his mouth to yours.

You’ve been kissed before, and mostly it felt gross. This is not that. The only thing you can think is soft. One of his hands cups the back of your neck and you sigh into his mouth at the way you go soft and slick under the touch. The picture in your mind is in sharper focus now, now that you know Dean’s palms are a little rough and how his lips taste. How would-- how will that feel when you’re in heat and every sensation jumps by a factor of ten? “Oh God,” you whimper.

Dean pulls back and smiles. “Dean’s fine, babygirl.”

You swat at his chest, giggling. “No egotism in your family.”

“When you’re as great as I am,” Dean tells you, trying to keep a straight face and not quite making it, “it’s hard to be humble.”

You burst out laughing.

“Oh, share the fun?” Uncle Balthazar, his dark red silk shirt open at the throat and smelling strongly like Aunt Anna’s perfume strolls up.

“Inside joke,” you tell him.

“Already?” He smiles down at you. “Just came over to tell you not to wait up. I got a call from Gabriel. I have to catch a flight to Madrid in a few hours.” He makes a face. “God, I despise Spain this time of year.”

“Did they make the toast already?”

“Yeah. If you want to make a discrete exit now would be the time.” He pecks your cheek, frowns, sniffs. “My goodness. May I suggest a quick dip in the river before you go?”

“Very funny.”

“I’m not entirely joking, ma cherie.” Is he blushing? In the dark it’s hard to tell. Uncle Balthazar turns his attention to Dean. “It goes without saying that if you hurt our darling girl in any way I’ll have your legs broken, yes?”

“Understood,” Dean answers.

“Splendid. I’ll call in a few days. Goodnight sweetheart,” he smiles at you and strolls away, whistling Hall of the Mountain King.

“He’s right,” you say, trying again to behave like you don’t want to climb Dean like a curtain. “We can sneak out through the access alley that comes out by the old post office.”

Dean frowns thoughtfully, one finger waggling as he takes his bearings. “Got it.”

You stand. Dean doesn’t. “Come on, we gotta get before the valets get busy.”

“Gimme a minute,” he says, pushing himself to his feet.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“God,” he says to himself, looking down into your confused face, “you have no fucking idea what you’re doing to me do you?” At your very eloquent ‘huh?’ Dean pulls you tight to him and kisses you. Reflexively you stretch to try and match his height, and Dean groans as your belly drags over the bulge at the front of his pants.

Blushing as your blood turns to lava, you say, “I’m sorry? I didn’t mean to do that.”

“Never,” Dean says, “ever, ever, apologize to me for getting me hot.”

“H-ha-have you been like that all night?” you stutter.

“More or less.” Gently pushing you back to arm’s length, Dean puts his arm across his face and takes several deep breaths. “Okay. I’m okay. Let’s get out of here.”

---

You keep it together up until the elevator to Uncle Balthazar’s condo opens on the foyer. Dean takes his jacket back and puts his face in the fabric, smelling your mingled scents. “I’m never getting this damn thing cleaned again.”

“I will not be your excuse for dirty laundry, Alpha,” you say without thinking.

Dean’s smile widens. “I could get used to hearing that,” he tells you, pulling you close for another kiss.

What was probably intended as an affectionate good night turns into something else, as the simple facts of safety and privacy make themselves known. Dean backs you into a wall as your legs go weak. He bends his knees and you moan as that bulge rubs exactly where you need it. For the first time in your life you wish you were in heat, right now, Presenting, taking Alpha’s knot.

“Put your hands behind my neck-- good girl,” Dean says. Your dress has a slit up the left leg; Dean pushes it up until the slit starts at your hip and reaches through. “Fuck,” he breathes when he feels your slick sliding down your thigh, “you’re dripping for me, aren’t you babygirl?”

“Yes,” you whimper. “Yes Alpha.”

“Tilt your hips up a little-- other way. Let me get at that pussy. Good girl, just like that,” Dean says, and you gasp as he touches you there, gentle pressure through the fabric of your panties. You’ve tried doing that for yourself a few times but it never felt like this, nothing like this.

“Do you like this?” Dean asks. “Does it feel good? You have to tell me babygirl, I can’t read your mind. Be a good girl and tell me.”

“Feels good,” you say through a tight throat. “Feels so good, Alpha.”

“Makes your pussy feel good?” You nod, biting your lip. “Say it babygirl, tell me I’m making your pussy feel good.”

“Making my pussy feel so good,” you whine, being a good girl for Alpha. Just the idea, being a good girl for Alpha, makes you weak, makes you want to fall to the floor and Present right now, let Alpha take you right there next to the umbrella stand and whatnot table. “Please,” you moan, feeling the bliss adding and multiplying and clinging to Dean otherwise you’re going to fly apart. “Please Alpha--”

“Come for me Omega, be a good girl and come in your panties for me.” You choke on a whimpering howl as the coil in your middle snaps and pure pleasure floods every cell in your body. Dean kisses you through it, swallowing all your moans and whines.

“Shhh, quiet babygirl,” Dean says as you beg him for anything, everything, just more. “You need to get a shower and get some sleep and I need to go.”

“No Alpha, please, I need you, I need your knot, please--”

“Shhhh.” He holds you until your body stops shaking, until your legs can hold you up on their own. “It’s okay Omega. I’ll be here when you need me.”

“I need you now,” you beg.

“If I get inside you right now,” Dean tells you, his voice hoarse, “I’ll last for almost ten whole seconds. And to take care of you the way I want to, I’m going to need to be better than ten seconds.” He gulps. “A lot better.”

“No,” you moan as he puts your hands back down at your sides and sinks to his knees. Your panties slither down your shaking legs and you almost fall taking your feet out of them. Your pussy clenches and fresh slick floods out of you as Dean noses you through your dress, and from the look in his eyes it’s causing him physical pain to tear himself away from you.

“It’s okay,” he says, pulling you into a hug and kissing you, deep and desperate. “Be good for me, go in and get some sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

And he’s gone, stuffing your slicked panties into his pocket.

---

The next day you float through your TA hours for Professor Visnyak and writhe through your Issues In Classical Archeology lecture, mind full of Dean and body longing for same. In the cold routine of your life as usual he doesn’t seem real, like you were visited by some fairy prince with a taste for virgin Omegas. You keep catching yourself sniffing at the air, searching for Dean’s sweet, smoky Alpha scent.

Your phone beeps a notification as you grind through a stack of Geology papers written by freshmen with zero interest in the topic, nibbling at a sad excuse for a Caesar salad and wielding a red pen like a Sith lightsaber. Thinking it’s your father confirming he made it to Florida with the rest of the snowbirds you swipe the unlock and damn near drop the phone when you see a selfie of Dean posed next to the open hood of his car. You barely believe it but in casual clothes and sporting some whiskers he’s even more handsome, and you thank God for the foresight that caused you to wear a liner in your panties today and double up on the scent blockers.

hi bbygrl

changing babys oil

whatre u up to?

Giggling, you lay your head on the pile of papers covering the TA’s desk and pose like you’d fainted, red pen clutched in your hand.

Grading.

Barf.

You set your phone down and go back to work, but a moment later it chimes again.

giv all As

less time, students luv u

After a moment’s thought, you type.

And miss making freshmen business majors suffer? Can’t do it.

A second later, Dean replies.

as u were

(devil face)

---

RU on FB?

Yes but I barely use it.

When he asks you text your username. The app on your phone chirps with a notification-- DM Winchester wants to be Friends. Smiling, you accept the request.

would u do something 4 me?

Depends. What?

take a picture every day

doesn’t hav 2B selfie

just whatevr ur doing or looking at right then

hav 2 go out of town a few days

might not B able to text every day

Out of town? Why?

family bizness

10 hr drive to ks

HATE flying

do that 4 me?

Okay. Why? My life’s boring.

The three little I’m thinking bubbles bounce for several minutes before Dean’s answer pops up.

not 2 me

bbygrl

(kiss face)

---

Another thing Dean said to you on the bench that night’s been bouncing around in your head. You’ve always just sort of taken everybody’s word for it that Family money is accessible to you, but only under certain conditions and only if somebody else approves. When you posit the question -- in carefully worded hypotheticals on a Q&A forum run by the university law department -- the answer comes back to consult a specialist in inheritance law to be sure, but since you’re eighteen now and legally an adult, that might not be the case anymore.

You also do some reading on Alpha-typical body language. Because you had to be overreacting, right? Zachariah had just caught you in a strange mood, Omega instincts working like they’re supposed to for the first time in your life and preening under Dean’s focused attention. But the more you read, the colder and more repulsed you feel.

“You’re awfully quiet. Is something the matter?”

Screwing up your nerve, you ask, “Uncle Balthazar, do you know if Mother made arrangements for me in her will?”

“Of course she did dear, she met with Chuck’s people when she first got sick and had everything put in order. You’ll never want for anything, she made sure of that. Why do you ask?”

You hesitate. “Why did Zachariah really pay for Dean to go out with me?”

Uncle Balthazar sighs. “Sweetheart he was worried. We all were. It isn’t normal for a young and healthy Omega like you to show zero interest in Alphas. He thought that once you’d had a complete heat, whatever the problem was would sort itself out.”

“I looked it up. According to the doctor’s guidelines being a virgin isn’t something to be worried about unless an Omega’s almost thirty, not eighteen! And the way Rebecca talked-- I mean, she didn’t come right out and say Zachariah would cut me off if I didn’t do it but she didn’t have to. And as far as making people talk, compared to the crap Uncle Gabriel gets up to, me being a frigid bore isn’t news.”

Uncle Balthazar doesn’t say anything. You sag against the kitchen counter, the strength going out of your legs. God you wish Dean were here, warm and solid and safe. The Omega in you craves Alpha’s protection, and you don’t like it but the rational parts of you agree right now.

“Uncle Balthazar--”

“This isn’t something we should discuss over the phone, cherie. Your Uncle Gabriel and I are flying back to Michigan. We’ll be there tomorrow morning. Can you meet us for breakfast?”

You mentally reshuffle your day. “I think so. At the café?” The café is the tearoom overlooking the river in the hotel owned by the Family. Everybody eats there.

“No, we need somewhere we won’t be paid attention to. That luncheonette in Caledonia Gabe likes, eight AM tomorrow. We’ll see you there.”

You just stand there speechless, the hum of a broken connection ringing in your ear.

---

Later that day you’re bent over a table in the library, grinding through your Introduction to Statistics homework and listening to Mindless Self Indulgence.

Your phone vibrates. It's Dean-- where r u?

Campus library. Stats homework.

Kill me now.

nope.

bad luck to kill someone when ur holding their underwear

(leering face)

You gasp, covering your mouth when you see dirty looks coming from the other students.

DEAN!

A hand taps your shoulder and you almost hop straight to Heaven. Dean's got a hand over his mouth turning red from holding in a huge laugh. You drop your Statistics text and throw your arms around his neck, kissing the laugh right out of his mouth.

Some sarcastic soul starts a round of applause.

"Thank you, thank you, you're a wonderful crowd, try the veal, tip your waiter," Dean says, waving it off. “I come bearing caffeine,” he tells you, plunking a carrying caddy with two big cups and a baggie full of sugar and creamer and flavoring packets on the table.

“Oh bitter fuel of life, come to me,” you sigh, grabbing one of the cups and taking a long sip of the hot black liquid.

“You take it black,” Dean says, like he’s making a mental note.

“Just like my metal,” you cap the line, but not surprisingly Dean doesn’t catch it.

“Quick-- favorite Led Zeppelin song,” Dean says.

“Houses of the Holy,” you say without thinking. “Yours?”

“Ramble On. Can you take a break? Just for a few minutes?”

“Sure, I was about done here anyway,” you say, packing your stuff.

---

“This is where you took your picture day before yesterday isn’t it?” Dean asks as you walk with him across the pedestrian bridge spanning a deep crease in the earth cut when the glaciers retreated. Far below a streamlet of rain runoff flows down into a storm drain. The trees growing on the edges of each slope are in full color, brilliant oranges and yellows and one maple tree that turns purple-red every year. Dean points to it. “I recognize that tree.”

“Mmm-hmm.” You sit on a bench set against the bridge railing. Dean doesn’t sit with you. Instead he goes to his knees in front of you and wraps you in his arms, nose pressed against the side of your neck. You breathe him in and shut your eyes as Alpha’s scent wraps your spirit in warmth. You turn your head and Dean’s right there, meeting your lips in a tender kiss.

“Missed you,” Dean says.

“Me too,” you admit. “A lot.” It’s been two weeks and feels like a million fucking years.

You put your hands on either side of Dean’s face, feeling his afternoon scruff scrape your palms. In daylight he looks even more gorgeous than he did that night, sunshine picking up golden and coppery tones in his hair and bringing out amber tones in his green eyes. But there’re deep shadows under his eyes and his skin is too pale. You’ve spent too much time around people functioning on caffeine and stress to miss the signs. “Are you okay? You look like you haven’t been sleeping.”

“Good guess. I’ve been driving since four this morning. I gotta go home and crash but I wanted to see you first.”

“Aw,” you kiss him again, smiling. “I can spare an hour until my next class if you want to grab a snack or something.”

“I can’t babygirl I’ve gotta get a few hours rack time. I got a job tonight.”

You stiffen. The reminder of just what it is Dean does for a living feels like a faceful of icy water.

Dean’s arms are firm around you and before you can get up enough torque to really struggle he clarifies, “Not that kind of job. It’s a bodyguard gig.”

“Oh.” You hang your head. It’s not like you didn’t know the score, and you’re both adults, and it’s really not appropriate for an Omega to get possessive. You’ve known Dean a grand total of a fortnight and change. You don’t have any special claim on his time. Or his body.

Like hell I don’t, that Omega-voice says, quiet but steely.

“Bodyguard?”

“I spent a few years in the Army. I got good reflexes, I’m a dead shot, and I can do double-duty as arm candy.”

“I’m sorry,” you say meekly. “It’s not really any of my business.”

“Before you ask,” Dean says, “I take the other kind of gigs because the pay is about ten times better and there’s a lot more demand.”

Assuming Dean can’t talk about his job particulars, you change the subject. “Can you meet me tomorrow for, I dunno, lunch or dinner or something?”

“I should be back in town after seven. We could get something to eat, sure.” Dean sits back on his heels, your hands held in his. “Is something wrong babygirl?”

Briefly you explain what you’d found out poking around online. “I tried to talk to Uncle Balthazar about it but he told me he didn’t want to talk about it over the phone.”

Dean swears. “I hate it when you’re right Sammy,” he grumbles.

"What?"

"I mentioned my brother's in law school, right?" You nod. "Last time I talked to him I asked him whether or not you could get locked out of any family trusts after you turned eighteen."

"From what I found, I need to talk to an actual lawyer for a definitive answer," you say.

"That's what he said too, but he pointed something else out." Dean squeezes your hands. "Look, I hope I'm wrong about your uncle. I . . . I could've been overreacting, I really don't like watching Alphas act like that around Omegas. Especially when it's family."

"But," you prompt.

Dean sighs. "Imagine how it looks to anybody who doesn't know you. Grew up rich--"

"Not hardly."

"Let me finish. By the standards of people who make up most of the taxpaying public around here you grew up with a silver spoon up your butt, okay?"

You roll your eyes but concede his point.

"Never been in a serious relationship, never been in a casual relationship," Dean goes on. "From the info Mr. Adler provided, you've barely even dated. Then you go out in public with a," he grimaces a little, you're not sure he knows he's doing it, "professional escort once, and all of a sudden you want access to the family checkbook?"

You feel your face drop in shock. You'd thought your parents raised you as a rational, skeptical, borderline cynical person. Not even close. "To anyone who doesn't know me," you echo Dean's phrasing, "I either look impossibly naive or like a greedy bitch. Emphasis bitch. And you look--"

"--like a knothead asshole taking advantage of an Omega kid with a crush." Dean smiles into your ashamed face. "Don't worry about me babygirl, I can take care of my own reputation. Such as it is. I'm just saying, until you know for sure whether or not your uncle's trying to do something shady--"

"--I probably shouldn't be talking to you about it," you finish. You feel like you need to curl up and cry. The list of friends you can take something like this to doesn't exist; the few who don't have some sort of connection to the Family, you don't feel you know them well enough to confide in. Not something like this.

"Hey," Dean says softly, brushing a hank of hair back off your face, palming your jaw. "Whatever happens, I got your back. Count on that."

"I do," you say, meaning it. "Meet me anyway? I just . . ." you laugh a little helplessly, "I don't care if all we do is fall asleep on the couch watching the Lions lose."

Dean looks down a second, his Adam's apple bobbing on a gulp. When he looks into your eyes again, your mouth goes dry. "Babygirl. The next time I get you in private, we will not be sleeping."

---

You're still flushed from all the thoughts that sentence put in your head as you walk into the Salt Shaker Grill the next morning and find Uncle Balthazar and Uncle Gabriel at the corner table. With them, to your surprise, is your cousin Castiel.

"Darling," Uncle Balthazar says, standing and kissing your cheek. "You look well. Infatuation agrees with you."

"Yeah, you're all pink and glowy," Uncle Gabriel adds with a sardonic little grin. "Who are you and what've you done with our girl?"

"Up yours Uncle Gabe," you say.

"I took the liberty," Uncle Balthazar says, pointing to a plate heavy with bacon and eggs, toast on the side. "You hardly eat enough to keep a mosquito alive."

"Okay kiddo," Uncle Gabriel says after giving you a minute with your breakfast. "Before we tell you why we wanted to talk face-to-face, I need you to be honest with me. Okay?"

"Sure Uncle Gabe," you say.

"What exactly happened, to make you ask Balthy why Zach went and hired an escort for you?"

You explain about the incident at Great-Aunt Naomi's birthday gala. When you tell about how Zachariah touched your neck, Uncle Balthazar interrupts, "Show me how he touched you, love."

You put your hand just under where your neck becomes your skull and squeeze. The Alphas at the table exchange a look. "I thought I was just-- I don't know, maybe the shrimp wasn't agreeing with me? Dean told me Alphas do that as a dominance gesture."

"Yes they do," Uncle Balthazar says. "Pressure, right in those spots," he rubs just behind one ear, "stimulates the pheromone glands. It's a little like rubbing the small of a woman's back."

"That's a foreplay move, kiddo," Uncle Gabriel says. "When Balthazar told me about it, I thought it was Zach just being a dick. He gets like that sometimes when he drinks. The only time you're around Zach is at Family crap like that party. You're never alone with him."

"But it occurred to me," Uncle Balthazar says, more serious than you've ever seen him, "that that's not true."

"I saw the incident," Castiel says in his gravely voice, making you look at him in surprise. You vaguely remember seeing Castiel at an adjoining table, deep in conversation with his date and not paying much attention to the party. Castiel's a shy duck, and a bit socially awkward. He works with Zachariah, one of the many spiders keeping the money web snug. "I'm sorry I didn't intervene. By the time I realized what was happening, your escort had already taken control of the situation."

"Zach insists on vetting your class schedule and making out your tuition payments personally, right?" Uncle Gabriel asks.

"Yeah, every semester." You shrug. "I take him my schedule, he pretends to be interested, he makes a big production out of writing the check, and I leave."

"And are you alone with him when you have these meetings?" Uncle Balthazar asks.

"Yeah," you say.

Uncle Balthazar hesitates. "Darling, please know I love you and I would never do anything to hurt you. But we have to know. When Zachariah's alone with you, does he do things like this?" He takes your hand and his thumb rubs the nerve cluster just below your wrist. He puts an arm around you as though to hug you but his fingers press into your waist in a way that makes your breath catch. His hands span your back, one between the shoulderblades and one low on your spine. You can feel him tracing your bra strap as he pulls you close, pressing your breasts into his chest.

"Stop that," you say, pulling back.

"You legit didn't realize those were dominance gestures." It's not a question.

"As I pointed out," Uncle Balthazar says to Uncle Gabriel, "she wouldn't. Most of us learn those tells as we start dating. Or by watching our parents."

"Except your parents were both Betas, and you don't date," Uncle Gabriel concludes. "Puts kind of an unpleasant spin on Zach hiring a sex worker to pop your cherry."

"Oh for God's sake Gabriel," Uncle Balthazar says, "have a little consideration for the child's feelings will you?"

"She's not a child Balthy," Uncle Gabriel says. "Us overlooking that is the whole reason this has gone as far as it has."

You push your plate aside, the appeal of the food gone. "What am I going to do? I have at least six more years until I get my PhD and financial aid is out of the question."

"That will never be a problem,” Uncle Gabriel says. “Even if Zach cuts you off you'll be taken care of. We owe your mother that much. I'm putting that in writing."

"Me too." Uncle Balthazar tips you a wink. "Not all of our money is Family money, cherie."

"Overseeing the Family trusts is part of my job duties," Castiel says. "Your mother set up a trust in your name when she had her will updated, to be held by the Family until you turned eighteen. The process of turning that trust over to you should have begun months ago. When I asked Zachariah, he told me things was on hold until your summer break when you would be free for court dates."

"Except that doesn't make sense," Uncle Gabriel says. "Your birthday was in January. Chuck's a gutless wonder but it's not like him to be inefficient."

A silence falls over the table. You sense a boundary’s about to be crossed, and you ask, "Why didn't you want to talk about this over the phone Uncle Balthazar?"

"Because if what I think is happening is happening," Uncle Balthazar tells you, "it dovetails rather neatly with some suspicions Gabriel and I have had for years."

"We think Zach's been filching the Family fortune," Uncle Gabriel says it, bald and ugly.

"Irregularities have been appearing consistently in the bookkeeping," Castiel says, his usual frown deeper than usual as your mouth drops open in shock. "Someone going to improbable lengths to conceal cash transactions, source and destination."

"The only people who have the access to do that kind of Catch Me Fuck Me with the books are the Old Lady," Gabriel is the only one alive who gets away with calling Great-Aunt Naomi the Old Lady, "Michael," the public face of the Family, "Raphael," the Family politician and a state representative in Lansing, "and Zachariah."

"Naomi has no motive or need. Neither does Michael. Raphael wouldn't be that stupid, not while he's running on an austerity platform, a corruption charge would destroy him politically," Uncle Balthazar says, ticking his points off on his fingers. "Until recently, I would have said Zachariah had no motive or need either."

"You don't know him the way I do, Balthy," Uncle Gabriel says. "Zach's always relied on being the Old Lady's favorite son. I don't like thinking this way, kiddo," he says to you, "but if he's doing what I think he's doing, he's going to start openly courting you to mate and he's worked really fucking hard to make you think you had to stay in his good graces or risk losing everything."

"Oh my God," you say, swallowing hard to keep from throwing up your eggs over. "He can't do that-- he's my fucking uncle--"

"Great-uncle, a few times removed," Castiel corrects. "Legally there would be no barrier."

"Legally shit!"

"Agreed, my love," Uncle Balthazar says. "Zachariah miscalculated when he purchased your new friend's services. Fresh eyes see clear.”

Zachariah? Thinking of you as his? "I'm gonna be sick," you croak and scramble for the ladies room.

---

“It wasn’t your fault Pamela,” Uncle Gabriel’s explaining to a dark-haired woman in an apron. “My niece just got some really crappy news.”

“I’m sorry,” you apologize on your own behalf. “Everything was really good.”

The woman’s stern expression melts. “Oh that’s okay sugar. Do you want me to bring you some ginger ale? It’ll help settle your stomach.”

“Thank you,” you nod.

“So anyway,” Uncle Gabriel says, “what Balth and Cas told me got me thinking. Cas doesn’t have any hard proof Zach’s been skimming, he’s just the likeliest suspect.”

You remember what Dean said and just like that you know something. “It’s Chuck isn’t it? Chuck’s covering for him.”

“Very good,” Uncle Gabriel says, giving you a chilly smile. “And if Chuck is dirty, none of us are safe. He knows where all the bodies are buried.”

“Literally?”

“Best you be able to say for the record that we never answered that question,” Uncle Balthazar tells you, and you hush up. Balthazar’s role in the Family business has never been completely explained to you. “Look, the point is, if Zachariah’s been foolish enough to illegally block your access to your mother’s money, and if we can prove it, it could be the smoking gun we need.”

“We get control of the Family business away from Zach, we get Chuck disbarred and possibly thrown in jail, and we avoid a situation with the IRS and the Feds,” Uncle Gabriel winds it all up. “If the law gets involved we could lose everything.”

“Not everyone in the Family has independent support,” Uncle Balthazar says, “and while I couldn’t give a damn about some of them that list includes you.”

“Okay,” you say, accepting the cool cup of ginger ale from Marybeth. “What do you need me to do?”

“For right now? Act normal,” Uncle Gabriel says. “I know you’re still seeing this Dean guy--”

“Don’t ask me to stop.”

“I wouldn’t kiddo,” Uncle Gabriel says. “Balth tells me you two hit it off. Big time.”

“They certainly smelled very cozy with each other,” Uncle Balthazar says.

“The way Mr. Winchester immediately acted to keep her away from Zachariah,” Castiel observes, “it was not the action of a detached professional. A detached professional would have been more concerned about appeasing his patron than ensuring your comfort.”

“I’m not going to be the one telling you to quit seeing a guy who was ready to throw down for you an hour after meeting you,” Gabriel says. “But for the love of God be careful. If Zachariah starts throwing money around--”

“Dean wouldn’t do that,” you defend your Alpha.

“Not saying he would. I did some digging,” Uncle Gabriel says, “and a quick hundred thousand would solve all sorts of problems for him. Zach can write that kind of check, easy. He probably spends more replacing the towels in the hotel after New Year’s.”

“And if someone got the idea Dean was only seeing you to get access to Family money,” Uncle Balthazar says.

“That’s what he said.” You tell them about the conversation the two of you had earlier.

“Guy’s not a complete dumbass,” Uncle Gabriel notes.

“And he’s completely besotted with her. Anyone with eyes could see it,” Uncle Balthazar says.

“I agree,” Castiel adds.

“When do you see him again?” Uncle Gabriel asks.

“Later today.”

“If he tells you that his boss, or Zach, or Chuck got in touch with him and asked him to do something with you off-contract,” Uncle Gabriel says, “you need to tell me right away. An unscrupulous escort can make a lot of extra money in blackmail too. I’m not saying,” he says, holding up a hand as you open your mouth, “that Dean would. Just the insinuation might be enough to fuck us up.”

“Zachariah,” never again will you think of him as Uncle, “is acting like he’s my Alpha-in-waiting. Is blackmail an option for us?”

“That’s not a discussion you need to be privy to. You neither, Castiel. Let us old men handle the scheming,” Uncle Balthazar says.

The four of your rise and Uncle Gabriel leaves a pile of tens on the table. “Thanks Pamela. Take her easy.”

“Incidentally,” Uncle Balthazar says as he escorts you to your car, “I’ll be staying with your Aunt Anna whilst I’m in town. You young people might need a little privacy.”

“You’re supposed to tell me Dean’s a prostitute and I can’t trust anything he says or does is real,” you say, feeling very tired suddenly.

“Darling, how often do you think a professional takes time out of their day to just take their clients for a walk? Or leave absurd little memes on their social media? Or indulge your ridiculous love for cartoons?” Uncle Balthazar puts his arm around your shoulders, an affectionate, comforting weight. You take in his familiar scents of lilies and sandalwood. “I’m not going to say it’ll be anything lasting, cherie. First loves almost never are. But just because a relationship proves temporary, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t worthwhile.”

“Better to have loved and lost?”

“Good God, no. The only person who can decide what’s an acceptable risk when it comes to your heart is you. Don’t let our cynicism ruin a chance at a little genuine happiness.”

His characteristic smirk reappears. “And do try not to break any of the furniture.”

---

“You can sight-read Latin?”

Dean shrugs, picking a cheese stick out of the basket. “Long story. And wouldn’t you know-- none of the high schools I went to would give me a language credit for it.”

You look up from the pictures you took in lab, of linen and parchment scrids covered with heavy block printing. “How may times did you change schools?”

“Lost count,” Dean says. “When I finally gave up I was like two years behind.”

“Why?” you ask. “You’re a smart guy.”

“That’s an even longer story, babygirl.”

You put your phone down. “I have time. These damn parchments have waited three hundred years. They can wait another couple minutes.”

Dean stares at you, taking a sip of his drink. The two of you are holding down a table in your favorite greasy spoon just off downtown, Harvelle’s Filling Station. It’s open 24 hours and the management doesn’t care if you take a few hours to get some homework done in the relative peace and quiet. The urge to apologize for prying comes but this time you resist.

“Our-- me’n’Sammy, our mom died when I was four and Sam was a baby. House fire.”

“Oh God, I’m sorry,” you say. You reach for Dean but he shifts out of your reach. It hurts, but you leave your hand there, an invitation for Dean to take or leave.

“Dad never got over it. Something up here,” Dean taps his temple, “just broke. He started saying he saw someone in Sammy’s room, that whoever it was was out to get us. Then our grandma died of a stroke and he started drinking.

“Would you believe until I got my discharge the longest I ever lived anywhere was ten months? Dad would move us somewhere, get a job -- legal or otherwise -- we’d start to settle in, but then the nightmares would start up again. He’d disappear a lot, sometimes for weeks.”

“Jesus. Who was taking care of you?”

“We took care of ourselves, pretty much,” Dean says. “But it got bad sometimes. Dad would come home and start screaming at us in Latin, crazy shit about the sixty-six seals and the end of the world. I forged a work permit when I was thirteen and started working. Did a lot of other shit I’m not proud of.” Dean shrugs. “School just wasn’t as important as making sure Sammy was fed and safe. I got caught hustling poker when I was seventeen and the DA gave me a choice-- Army or jail. I picked Army. At least then Sammy got a steady income.”

“Where were you deployed?”

“Afghanistan. Three years into my contract, my Uncle Bobby had a heart attack and I got a hardship discharge to come back and take care of him and Sam. Don’t look at me like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like I’m some three legged puppy or something. Dad’s okay, Sam’s okay, I’m okay. That’s what matters.”

You can’t help it though. It’s too damn easy to picture Dean as an underfed kid fighting tooth and claw to keep everybody’s shit together. Dean comes by his cynicism honestly, you realize, more honestly than you in any case.

“Anyway, it’s not your job to take care of me.”

“I thought we left the job thing about six exits back,” you say.

“Not what I meant,” Dean says. “I’m an Alpha. Alphas take care of Omegas.”

“If we’re bringing designations into it,” you say, “it’s just as valid to say,” you point your thumb back at yourself, “I’m the Omega, it’s my job to be caring and nurturing to my Alpha.”

A light comes in Dean’s eyes and he smiles. “Your Alpha?”

You replay your last sentence. “Did I say that?”

“Yep.” Now Dean takes your hand, bringing it up to scent your wrist. He meets you halfway across the table for a soft kiss.

“Hey hey hey,” the night shift fry cook says. “Get a room you two. This is a family place.”

“I gotta go,” Dean says, getting into his coat. “I got an appointment BFE then I have to go out of town again.” He pauses. “You’re on cycle meds, right?”

You nod. You have to be, in order to get the necessary time away from school to deal with your heats.

“When do your meds change?”

“Sunday.” Switching from suppressant to contraceptive means a heat within 24 hours.

“Call me the second-- the second, you start getting the shakes. You hear me?”

“Yes Alpha,” you say.

The frission of nerves must show on your face, because Dean smiles and gives you another kiss. “Try not to worry babygirl,” he says softly. “I’ll make it good. I swear, I’ll make it good. Take such good care of you.”

“Yes,” you moan, ever so softly.

---

A couple of days later you’re in the lab wading through a dig site inventory reconcile. Behind the dust mask over your face you wiggle your nose and sniffle like some kind of half-assed rabbit. Every damn time you mask up you get a runny nose.

It’s a relief when your phone purrs with a bass guitar D chord, the custom sound you picked out for Dean’s number. A break would be lovely right now. Going into the other room you unmask and blow your nose.

morning bbygrl

gimme a smile?

You snap a mirror selfie of yourself blowing your nose.

Stupid dust.

Dean replies with a laugh-to-tears face, and you respond with The Finger.

do u know this guy?

A second later your phone flashes a fuzzy pic of a dark-haired square-jawed man wearing a motorcycle jacket.

That’s Mr. Ketch.

PI that works for family law firm, Sturley and Kline.

I think hes tailing me

unless there’s another reason for him 2B in lansing

Maybe? Uncle Raphael lives in Lansing.

Why are YOU in Lansing?

Dean texts back an embarrassed blushy face.

speeding tix

wasn’t paying attn

nailed doing 88 in 70

You reply with an eye roll.

ur fault

comin home 2U

You took a speeding ticket for me?

(Bambi eyes)

break speed limits

crash barricades

slay dragons

wash dishes

don’t do windows

mans gotta draw the line somewhere

---

Sunday is the one day a week you make it a point to leave completely open. After Mass at St. Mary’s By The Freeway, you wrap yourself up in your overcoat and stroll across a couple parking lots to the Filling Station for a late breakfast.

“Hey-hey!” The peace of your divinely mandated day of rest dies bloody as you spy Zachariah leaning against your car. “There’s my favorite niece!” He pulls you into a crushing hug and you almost gag when you get a noseful of stagnant water and wet dead leaves.

“Good morning Uncle Zachariah,” you say warmly even though your lips have gone numb. Now that you know what to look for, Zachariah’s body language screams of overbearing Alpha. Nothing at all like Dean. Dean, dammit, where is he? You need Alpha, like right fucking now please. “Join me for breakfast?”

“Sure. I could eat. Meet me at the hotel?”

You tic your head at the Filling Station. “I usually eat here after church. Their omelets are delicious.” And the owner knows your face.

Zachariah’s smile does that souring thing. “Sure. Good to get out of the comfort zone once in a while.”

Because apparently you’re a closet sadist you order Zachariah an Ash Special with extra peppers, just the sort of thing to give him heartburn the rest of the day. Zachariah sits on the booth bench like it’s covered in something nasty and his nose wrinkles at the stench of cigarette smoke.

“So!” he says, as you attack your omelet and gulp coffee, “big day tomorrow.”

You pause. How did he know your heat’s coming-- your omelet turns to ashes in your mouth. The university requires Alphas and Omegas to give estimates of the days you have to be absent because of ruts and heats. That’s why Zachariah insists on vetting your schedule even though he’s utterly indifferent as to your field of interest. He’s been following your cycle for the past two years, at least.

Swallowing the bite in your mouth, you smile at him, coquettish little Omega. “Yeah. I’m a little nervous, but Dean was so nice at the party.”

“Oh boy,” Zachariah sighs. “Sweetheart, there isn’t an easy way to tell you this so I’m just going to tell you. Out of his ever-present briefcase Zachariah pulls a folder stamped with the Sturley and Kline logo. Your blood runs cold when you see the name printed on the tab-- WINCHESTER, D.M.

“The escort service Dean works for wasn’t totally honest about his background,” Zachariah says as you flip open the folder. “Because Dean’s bonded we assumed he had no criminal record. He doesn’t because it was all sealed as part of a plea bargain-- the prosecution agreed to seal his juvenile record and drop an assault charge on the condition he enlist in the Army.”

This is shocking but not for the reasons Zachariah thinks. Your flip past photocopies of newspaper columns you’ve already read. Based on the biographical information provided by the escort service and the things Dean had told you . . my God, in this exact spot, you’d gone and done a little research. In the process you’d gathered enough background about the Winchesters of Lawrence, Kansas to confirm Dean’s story-- the fire, his mother’s death, his father’s eroding sanity, everything. You know the “assault” charge was Dean breaking some high school senior’s jaw when he caught the bastard beating up his little brother. You also knew his father lived in Kansas instead of Michigan because he was forbidden to leave the state as a condition of his suspended federal prison sentence. John Winchester’s luck with evading the law had finally run out when he was caught with a cache of narcotics and a bunch of bomb fixings and assault weapons. Homeland Security had even gone so far as to put John on a terrorist watch list, never mind he’d been living quietly in an assisted living community in Topeka since his sentencing.

“Wha-- what are you saying? You think Dean might hurt me?” you ask in a tiny voice.

“I think where there’s smoke there’s fire. He spent years living on mail fraud and credit card scams while his crazy father ran around screaming about the end of the world. I know, you’re a tough kid but you’re still so young. I don’t want to take the chance of him claiming you and acting like he can help himself to your money.”

“No, no he wouldn’t do that,” you say, mind racing to write the script a few lines ahead. “Besides, except for pocket money I don’t have anything to my name except my car.”

“I know that but he might not,” Zachariah says, leaning forward into intimate space. “Don’t worry baby. When Chuck called the escort service they terminated the contract and offered us another Alpha.”

“No!” you snap, panicking. “Uncle Zachariah, I can’t go to bed with a total stranger. I can’t, I can’t, please don’t make me--"

“Hey hey hey, shh, that’s enough,” Zachariah soothes, pulling your head forward and kissing your forehead. “If it makes you feel more comfortable we’ll wait until your next heat.”

You nod, sniffling back genuine tears. “Thank you.”

Zachariah settles back into his seat. He takes your hands at the wrists, encircling them like handcuffs. “I know it hurts,” he says, “going through your heats alone. Hopefully this one will be the last one. The escort agency offered to keep this Alpha available for you if you want.”

Just what you always wanted, your very own professional mistress. “And Dean?”

“You’ll never have to see him again. Chuck has Mr. Ketch tailing him. Last report says he’s driving towards St. Louis in that ridiculous land yacht of his.”

You nod, gulping. “Thank you, Uncle Zachariah.”

“Just looking out for my favorite niece,” he says, with that who-loves-ya-babe smirk. He gets up, leaving his food barely touched. “Go home, get some rest. Do you want some company? I could call Rebecca to come stay with you--"

“No thank you Uncle Zachariah.” You paste a weak smile on your face. “I have a paper I need to finish. I wouldn’t be very good company.”

Zachariah doesn’t have a reply to that, and after an uncomfortably close embrace he leaves.

Once he’s safely out of sight you plonk your head on the table and concentrate on keeping your food down. You manage, but it’s close.

“You okay sugar?” Ellen, the Filling Station’s owner and manager asks, coming over with a fresh pour of coffee. “Something wrong with Ash’s cooking? I’ll fire him right now if you want.”

“Not the food. The food’s fine,” you say.

“Who was that guy?” Ellen asks as she tops you off.

“My uncle,” you say. “And after the conversation I just had I may never eat again.”

---

You didn’t tell me you got fired.

The dots dance.

they didnt fire me I quit

“What?” you ask it as you type it.

More dot polka. This time it goes on for a full five minutes. Finally, a text pops up.

do u hav time 4 vid chat?

You look around from your driver’s seat. The parking lot is empty and deserted. A wind sweeps at stray oak leaves with a sound like castanets clacking. Autumn in Michigan can get pretty damn dreary, you think. Right now you don’t mind, it matches your mood.

You call and a moment later Dean’s face fills the screen. He looks tired, but his smile is still like the sun coming up. “Hey babygirl.”

“Hi Dean.”

“What’s wrong? You look like a guest at your own autopsy.”

“Zachariah ambushed me on the way out of church this morning. He told me the escort agency terminated your contract because you lied about having a criminal record.”

Dean’s smile dies. “Babygirl I can explain.”

“Dean.” You hold up your hand. “Please don’t be mad at me.” You explain about what you’d found on the Internet.

“You couldn’t have just asked me?” he says, and you can tell he’s fighting not to lose his temper.

“I did ask you,” you point out. “When I found your Dad’s arrest record, I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.” You take a breath. “Dean, I don’t care. If you were the kind of Alpha Zachariah wants me to think you are, you wouldn’t care enough to be kind to me.

“I’m seducing you, you idiot. I do it for a living!”

“Oh yeah, a cup of coffee and a fingerbang and we might as well be bonded. Take me, I’m yours,” you drawl sarcastically. “Besides, Zachariah probably made it a point to tell you every single last thing about me, up to and including the time I got caught shoplifting candy bars from the party store near my parents’ cottage in Indian River.”

“Three Musketeers?”

“I was a nougat fiend at the time.” You replay your last sentence. “I was kidding but he seriously told you about that?”

“Said your mom had you on a diet that summer.”

Thank God, it looks like you’ve pulled the fangs from Dean’s anger. “What do you mean, you quit?”

Dean sighs. “It’s why I’ve been having to go out of town so much lately. The place Dad lives in isn’t cheap, but they can make sure he stays sober and keeps up with his meds. If I can come up with enough money to buy into his building, Medicare and Social Security will cover the monthly facility fees.” Dean pauses. “I’ve been fighting not to, but Sam finally talked me into selling our grandma’s old house in Lebanon. Between the sale and what I got saved, I have enough. Just barely.”

“Why hang onto the house for so long?” you ask.

“I always planned on moving back to Kansas after Sam finished school,” Dean says. “Sam kept telling me I could do that anyway and we needed the cash more than the memories.”

You nod. Given what you know of Dean, it was the memories that mattered, not the asset.

“Babygirl,” Dean goes on, “I didn’t say anything because it didn’t matter. I don’t want to be with you because of a job, and . . .” he trails off a moment, thinking. “I went in to see Becky and told her I wanted to stop doing full service. She said that wasn’t acceptable, shit got spoken, and I walked.”

"Zachariah said the agency had another Alpha lined up and ready to go," you say. "I told him I wanted to wait until my next cycle."

Dean doesn't say anything. His eyes have gone glacial, and you're suddenly glad he's not in the car with you.

"I bought us some time. Didn't I?" you ask, hating a little how small your voice sounds.

"I'm not angry at you, babygirl," Dean says, reading your face perfectly. "I want you to get what you need to hole up for a few days and go home. Do you still have the folder the agency gave you with the contract in it?"

"Yeah, it's on my desk."

"Look for the sheet with the red border. It's the form saying you officially refuse the agency's services. The instructions will tell you to take a picture of the form with your phone after you sign it and send it straight to Becky. When someone from the agency calls for the follow-up report, tell them you got cold feet when you found out about my record. After that, Zachariah stops being a concerned uncle and starts being a fucking pervert.”

"What about you? Zachariah told me he has Mr. Ketch following you to make sure you stay away from me."

"Don't worry about me honey, I've dealt with guys who’re a lot scarier than him. Give me fifteen minutes and a good rush hour. I’ll lose him on the Indiana turnpike."

You nod. "Dean? I'm scared," you admit. "I never really noticed it before, but Zachariah's always freaked me out a little."

"That's your Omega instincts, babygirl. They knew he was bad before you did."

"But what if he decides to make a move? I mean, directly? I already changed meds this morning, I can’t risk skipping a cycle. Last time I tried I had to go to the hospital.”

"Seizures?"

"Yeah."

"Don't do that. Get home, lock the doors. I’ll be there when I can. Just hang in there. You hear me?”

“But what if he pays somebody to--”

“Another Alpha touches you,” Dean says, his tone so cold you shrink in your seat, “over my dead body.”

---

The next hours feel a little anticlimactic by comparison. You bury yourself in Statistics homework, seeking refuge in the total focus and concentration required. When the elevator buzzer goes off you about drop dead of a heart attack. "Miss?" Harold the parking lot concierge calls over the speaker in the foyer. "There's a lady here to see you. Says she’s from the agency."

The representative from the agency Dean mentioned. "Yeah. Buzz her through."

A minute later the elevator opens and an attractive redheaded woman in a black overcoat and power boots strides in like she owns the world. Dark green eyes light on you and she smiles. "Good evening. I'm Abbadon."

"Hi," you say, your throat suddenly dry. A scent of cinnamon candy and grilling meat is crawling up your nose, sharp and savory. "You're here from the agency, right?"

"Yes darling. Here at your service," she says, in the least servile tone you've ever heard. She tsks, looking at you. "Such a shame, to hide such a beauty," she says.

She's an Alpha. Your brain blanks. Trans-designations -- female Alphas and male Omegas -- are rarer than red diamonds. You've only met one in your whole life, an Omega in high school everybody called Mick. Abbadon pulls a deep breath in through her nose. "You smell like roses, right after a rainstorm," she says, closing her eyes and sighing in pleasure.

"I think there's been a misunderstanding," you say. "I signed the cancellation sheet and sent it to Ms. Rosen a few hours ago. Your services aren't required."

"From that pretty blush," Abbadon says, coming closer and fixing your eyes with hers like a hypnotizing snake, "my services are very much required. Your heat is coming, isn't it sweet?" She closes her eyes and takes another draught of the air. "So sweet."

She strokes your jawline with a finger, turning her wrist up. On reflex, you scent her skin. Abbadon's candy and cooking meat scent is pleasant, but that's all. The memory of Dean’s perfect smoky sweetness makes you want to turn your nose up like an offended cat

"Oh dear," Abbadon says. "It's Winchester isn't it? You've imprinted on him and it makes you think you'll never quicken for another Alpha again." She shakes her head, her expression warm and sympathetic, except for her eyes. Her eyes are cold as lumps of green glass. "That's normal, but it isn't real. We provide company,” and she takes your hand, stroking the soft skin across the back, “and pleasure. Not mates.”

“Unless you’re here to take down my reasons for refusing your service,” you practically squeeze the words out in a stilted run-on of sounds, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“There’s no need to be frightened, Omega,” Abbadon says, still low and smoky. She comes in closer, and you’re horrified to find yourself softening in the core.

“I’m straight,” you croak, “I don’t like girls.”

“When you’re wrapped around my knot, that won’t matter. Designation always wins, Omega.” One hand, then the other, slides up each side of your neck. You grab her wrists but she’s strong, you can’t pull her hands away. Her palms press down against the pheromone glands in your neck and you gasp. The glands are swelling with blood, filling the air with your enticing Omega scent. The pressure sends a trickle of heat down through your body and your legs start to tremble. “Designation always wins,” Abbadon repeats, coming closer and closer.

The elevator door buzzes and slides open. You and Abbadon both jerk like you’ve been shot, and just like that whatever spell she’d been weaving breaks up and floats away.

Castiel comes in calling your name, and just behind him comes a tall, beefy man you don’t know. “What’s going on?” he asks, looking at you with his striking blue eyes.

“It’s all right, I’m from the escort service, Rosen Entertainment?” She smiles at Castiel. “We were just introducing ourselves.”

“I thought she was here to do an exit interview,” you say, willing some strength back into your legs. “I don’t want any servicing.”

Castiel, bless his bumblebee tie tack, deliberately shuffles a little to one side, putting himself fully between you and the woman Alpha. “I believe there’s been a misunderstanding. Consent has been withdrawn.”

Abbadon’s red lips part in a predatory grin. “The Omega’s body is consenting. It’s calling for an Alpha.” She scents, and sighs. “So sweet. You smell it too, don’t you?”

Castiel’s shoulders go stiff. “You’re in rut.”

She what? You sniff the air, trying to sort out competing scents. As you do, your knees do that wobbling thing and you sit on the coffee table.

“Of course. The smell of an Alpha in rut relaxes timid Omegas. They can’t help it. You know that--"

“I do believe,” the beefy man says, his voice soft and round and Southern, “that you’ve been asked to leave. However good this little girl smells she obviously don’t want what you’re sellin.”

He must be a Beta, you realize. Otherwise he’d be reacting to the miasma of scent in the air. He looks over at you and smiles. “Hi there. M’name’s Benjamin LaFitte. Call me Benny. I’m a friend of Dean’s. He said to tell you he’s still got ‘em in his pocket. Said you’d know what that meant.”

Groaning, you hide your red face in your hands.

“Figured it was sumpthin dirty.” Cajun? You think you can hear the French lurking under his sentences.

Abbadon’s not smiling any more. “Sweetheart, this is ridiculous. You need a knot. You don't have be shy about your body and what it wants.”

“I said no,” you say. You see the portfolio with the agency’s original contract and snatch it, flipping it open and showing the red-bordered page with your signature and date at the bottom. “See? Service refused. I do not want this.”

“That only applies to Winchester’s service contract,” Abbadon says as though explaining something dead simple to a stubborn child. “A new arrangement’s been made.”

“Nevertheless,” Castiel says.

All the softness disappears from Abbadon’s body language. “That Omega is mine,” she snarls. “Get out of the way.”

Benny comes up beside Abbadon. “I do believe the lady's said no.”

Snarling, Abbadon throws herself in your direction. Castiel takes the hit, immovable as granite. Benny grabs her by the arms and bodily drags her to the couch across the room. “Stop it with those heels,” he grumbles as Abbadon’s spiked heel rips his pant leg. He puts her down and keeps her there as she tries another lunge. “Uht-uh lady, we’re all gonna sit quiet and behave ourselves. Understand me?”

“Are you all right?�� Castiel asks you.

“Yeah.” You look up at him as your brain starts trying to make the last ten minutes make sense. “What are you doing here? Either of you?”

“I have a monitoring program on the accounting software that tracks the Family’s cash accounts. About an hour ago three large sums were wired out. The destination accounts were Rosen Entertainments, Rebecca Rosen’s personal deposit account, and another deposit account under the name Abbadon Diablo. I found the incident alarming enough to contact Balthazar, and he asked that I come to make sure you were all right.”

“I got a call from Dean this morning askin me to catch a plane to Detroit,” Benny takes his turn. “Said he was havin trouble shaking a tail.”

“Why didn’t he just fly in himself?” Castiel asks.

“The Chief’s scared of planes. Our last tour, the corpsman had to give him a shot to keep him from throwin a hissyfit all the way to Kabul.” Benny shakes his head. “Not afraid of heights but terrified of flying. Who can figure?”

“You guys were in the service together?” you ask.

“Sure were cher. First time I met him was when he dug me out from under a truck.” He slaps one leg. “Put a tourniquet on it. Wasn’t for him, I’d’ve bled out or be walkin with a peg leg right now.”

You ask the small talk questions. Benny answers-- he’s from Metarie, Louisiana, served five years before getting discharged for failing a drug screen, works as a bouncer in a bar in Baton Rouge owned by his wife Andrea.

“And you just hopped on a plane?” you ask.

“Sure did.”

“To come babysit a stranger a thousand miles away.”

“Course,” he shrugs, like it’s something people just do.

“Why? You don’t know me, you don’t know what kind of a shitstorm you’re walking into here.”

Benny looks at you. His eyes are blue too, paler than Castiel’s, clear and striking. “I owe Dean one. A big one.”

Something else occurs to you. “How did you guys even get in? Harold should’ve stopped you at the elevator.”

“Balthazar gave me a spare access card just before he left for Buenos Ares,” Castiel explains.

“I ran into bumblebee here trying to talk the doorman into buzzin him up,” Benny says. “He’ll be all right but he’s gon’ have a sore jaw when he wakes up.”

---

The waves of fury Abbadon’s putting out strangles any further conversation. You keep your seat on the coffee table, curling up more and more as the heat really starts sinking in. Abbadon watches you like you’re the most fascinating thing ever, and every minute goes by her smile gets a little wider. Her rutting scent is calling to you, and to your shame your body is calling back.

“You poor thing,” she says when you hiss through a cramp.

“Quiet,” Benny rumbles. “Like an itty-bitty church mouse.”

Even Castiel can feel it. Red slowly creeps up from under his collar and he starts to shift a little in his seat. You hope that he and Hannah are still an item. He needs someone to be nice to him, you think. It’s not his fault he’s better with bees and butterflies than people.

Finally, finally, the elevator buzzer goes off and you bolt across the room. Dean opens his arms just in time to catch you and pull you into a tight hug. You take a deep breath from his neck. Alpha’s scent, strong and sweet, blowing Abbadon out of your head like a wind blowing away smoke. Every cell in your body trembles. Slick starts to seep between your legs.

“Babygirl,” he breathes between soft kisses. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“I am now,” you say.

“Hola, Chief,” Benny says, shaking Dean’s hand and smiling. “Commet ce vas?”

“Thanks a bunch Benny, I just spent ten minutes talking Harold out of calling the cops.”

“Is he okay?” you ask.

“Yeah, nothing hurt but his pride. What happened?” Dean takes a sniff at the air and freezes. His eyes go dark and his upper lip lifts in a snarl.

“Well, if it isn’t the white trash Adonis,” Abbadon sneers.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Dean asks. Gently, he pushes you behind him.

“Cleaning up your fuck-up, Winchester,” she says. "And earning myself a big fat bonus in the process."

"Good evening," Castiel greets Dean, introducing himself and telling him what he'd told you about the money. "I believe Zachariah specifically requested a female Alpha because he reasoned she would not admit a man."

"Correctly," you mumble. "God I'm an idiot."

"Not your fault," Dean says, pulling you close to kiss your forehead.

As he pulls back you notice his cheekbone is swollen and there's a scrape going up into his hairline. You touch it gently. "What happened? Why didn't you call me? Why didn't you answer your phone?"

"Ketch," Dean says. "Did you know he used to work for the SAS? He got the drop on me just outside Kankakee. Bastard broke my phone."

"Jesus Christ-- are you all right?" you ask, patting Dean over anxiously, looking for more injuries.

He smiles. "It's just bruises, babygirl. I'm fine."

"What'd you do with him?" Benny asks.

"Left him tied up in a Porta-Potty with the door bolted shut. The construction crew'll find him tomorrow morning." You bark out a laugh. You've met Mr. Ketch once, and that was one time too many.

Dean holds a hand in front of Abbadon. "Phone," he orders, snapping his fingers. When she doesn't move, Benny rolls his eyes and digs out her pockets.

"Are you there yet? The feeds are still dark," a woman's voice answers.

"Hi Becky," Dean says. "Feel like explaining why you sent fucking Abbadon to service a virgin Omega who'd already red-sheeted us?"

"Dean! Hi!" Rebecca Rosen, the proprietor and manager of Rosen Entertainments chirps. "Now you gotta know I can't disclose the terms of a contact to third parties--"

"I'm not a third party!" you snap. Now that Dean's here and it's really sinking in what almost happened, what might have happened if Castiel and Benny hadn't shown up, you're pissed. "I put it in fucking writing I didn't want any of your Alphas!"

"Y-you did?" Ms. Rosen stutters. "Oh my God-- I am so sorry, our e-mail servers are being exchanged, I never got--"

"Red sheets go to your phone. Which is working," Dean says. "You wanna try again? Boss?" When Rosen doesn't answer, Dean growls, "Answer me, or the next call I make is to Detective Mills in Lansing."

"You wouldn't," Ms. Rosen says.

"Wanna bet? How much is Adler paying you?"

Castiel reads off some figures. Some astronomical figures. Figures far above and beyond anything you could imagine anyone spending on one thing, and for someone used to hanging around your idle rich cousins that’s saying something. "Le je vous Salue Marie," Benny whispers.

"What did he want you to do to me?" you ask Abbadon, clenching your hands together to hide the shaking.

"Oh, stop acting like a frigid little prude," Abbadon sneers. "All I was hired to do was help you through your heat. Knot you like you're supposed to be knotted."

"He said maybe the problem was you liked girls but were too shy to tell him so," Ms. Rosen says.

"He told you to take her to the cottage, didn't he?" Dean says. A wave of scent pushes out of him and you curl in on yourself. Alpha is angry, Alpha is in a rage. The pointed tips of claws sprout from the tiny ridges under his nail beds, and you can see his canid teeth have dropped and twisted into full fangs. The skin over the pheromone glands in your neck twitch. That's where Alpha will put his mark and claim you, and the thought makes slick pulse out of you.

"Mr. Winchester," Castiel says, putting a hand on his arm. His own Alpha scent of honey and wildflowers has thickened, but bears none of that sense of threat.

"Don't get in my way Cas. There's not a jury in the world that would convict me if I tore this bitch's fucking head off right now."

"That might be true Chief but is that really what the situation calls for right now?" Benny asks. "The bitch ain't really the core problem here if I'm reading things right."

"No," Castiel agrees. "Ms. Rosen, by accepting Zachariah's money you've made yourself and your business an accessory before the fact to an attempted rape. I've examined the," you can hear him put it in quotation marks, "'red sheet' and found it in order. A forensic examination of your phone will prove it was received and all instructions were followed."

"The red sheet only voided the contract between us and Mr. Adler that named Dean as the service provider--"

"You're not that stupid Becky," Dean cuts her off. "Zachariah hired you to provide a rutting knothead, and paid extra to take her to a place where he could film it happening."

"What?!?" you cry.

"The cottage is a house Becky owns just outside Rockford. It's wired for video and sound. We take clients there that want to star in their very own pornos," Dean explains.

You grope out with one hand. Benny, bless his silly golfer's cap, grabs the nearest wastepaper basket and holds it under you as you vomit.

"An associate of mine will be contacting you shortly. I strongly suggest you call your lawyer and go on record that he will have your full cooperation," Castiel says, and if he wasn't acting the dominant Alpha before he is now. "If you choose not to," his raspy voice deepens and he seems to grow a foot in front of you, "I swear by the Lord God I will break you."

Dean knows a dramatic cue when he hears it and disconnects.

“There. That should buy us some time,” Castiel says.

“What d’you mean, jellybean?” Benny asks.

“He was bluffing,” you explain, wiping your mouth and grimacing at the aftertaste of bile. “He’s an accountant, not a lawyer. He doesn’t have associates.”

“Not exactly,” Castiel admits. “Balthazar’s flight is scheduled to land at Ford International in twenty minutes. I’m sure one of his associates can secure Ms. Rosen’s cooperation.”

Dean stares at Castiel for a long moment. "You're all right, Cas," he says.

“Splendid,” Abbadon says. She stands and plucks her phone out of Dean’s hand. “As my contract has been cancelled I believe I’ll--”

“Aht-uh, I don’t think so,” Dean says, shoving her back down on the couch. “You’re not stupid Abbs, you know Becky’s gonna throw you off the cliff to save her own ass the second the cops start talking deal. I’d take some time and think seriously about your options.”

“This’s nice place to get some thinkin’ done,” Benny points out. “Quiet. There food in the kitchen cher?” You nod. Benny takes off his coat, and you gasp when you see a gun tucked into a shoulder holster. He follows your eyeline and smiles. “Your man’s prob’ly packin too. I bet my boots that’s what he was doin in Kansas.”

“One of the things,” Dean says. He reaches around his back and pulls out a chromed pistol.

“You brought a gun here?” you hiss.

“Let’s hope nobody’s stupid enough to make me use it,” Dean says, putting it back where he got it.

A wave of heat rolls through you, bringing hot blood under your skin and a fine film of fever sweat. Your pussy trembles, clenches, throbs. “Alpha,” you whine under your breath.

“Hey.” Dean pulls you close and cuddles you against his chest. “Just breathe, babygirl.”

“I think we can handle things here Chief,” Benny says. “You need to get your girl somewhere safe.”

“Benny is right,” Castiel says. His face is red but, God bless him, he’s composed otherwise. “I’m not confident Zachariah will react rationally when he learns his scheme failed.”

“Yeah me neither. Can you walk?” Dean asks you. “I need you to go pack. Just the essentials-- your toothbrush and enough clothes for a few days. Make it quick.”

You nod and head for your room. Picking out some jeans and T-shirts takes maybe five minutes. Talking yourself out of taking every piece of frilly underwear you own is harder. Packing up the work you need to get done before you go back to class-- the thought is almost surreal after everything that’s happened, what’s still happening. Is normal even a thing any more?

You emerge from your room with a backpack, a stuffed duffel bag, and a hardshell suitcase on wheels.

“That’ll work,” Dean’s saying to Benny. “Andrea’s threatening to carve my knot off again isn’t she?”

“Just cuz she loves you don’t mean she don’t want to kick your ass Dean,” Benny says.

“Tell her I love her too.” Dean looks you over and takes your duffel from you. He smiles into your frightened face. “It’s okay, babygirl. I’m just taking you somewhere safe. I know a place.”

“Where?” Castiel asks.

Dean gives him a look. “You don’t need to know.”

Castiel’s stance softens. “You’re right. Of course.”

“Your job,” Dean says, “is to do whatever you gotta do to nail her uncle. My job is to keep my Omega safe.”

“What’s my job?” you ask.

Abbadon laughs. “Get on your belly and take a big fat knot, Omega,” she says. “Your body’s crying for it, I can tell. You were born to be on your knees, sweet.”

“Shut your mouth,” Dean growls.

“Or what?” Abbadon taunts. “She smells so delicious. You can’t wait to get her alone and fuck her. You never could own up to just being a shitty mutt sticking his knot--"

“That’s enough,” Benny cuts her off. “Can I borrow your tie, Mr. Castiel?”

Castiel pulls off his tie and holds Abbadon by the arms as Benny gags her with it.

“Benny, I--” Dean starts.

“Go on now. We can handle things here,” Benny says. He smiles at you. “Sure was a pleasure to meet you, miss. Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing now. Me’n the bumblebee got it covered.”

---

You sit in the shotgun seat of Dean’s Chevy, trembling as your fever intensifies. You have no real idea where you are. Absent a stop at a Thrifty Acres to get some groceries, Dean’s been driving on side roads and two-lane blacktop with flat-footed confidence, constantly checking his mirrors and sometimes telling you to duck down out of sight. You’re trying to keep yourself still, not break his concentration. It’s hard. Slick is oozing from you in a steady trickle, so much you can feel it’s soaked through your jeans. Dean’s reacting to it, you can tell. He’s all but squirming in his seat. His scent’s turning darker, more intense. You keep thinking of how it felt, when Dean made you come just by touching you through your panties, when you were a good girl for him. You can feel your heartbeat between your legs, making everything swollen and sensitive and ready for Alpha, for Dean--

Finally, after a long crawl down a rutted track through some second-growth tangles of tamarack plants and tree saplings, you spy the dark outline of a house. Dean pulls the car next to it and kills the engine. “Here we are,” he says into the silence.

“Where?” you ask.

“Friend of my Uncle Bobby owned this place,” he says. “It’s got propane and a generator for the lights and a well and septic for water. We can hole up here until everything blows over.” He reaches past you and punches open the glove compartment. “I’m gonna go in first and make sure it’s empty. You know how to use a gun?” At your headshake, he pulls out a revolver. “Pull the hammer back,” he demonstrates, “and squeeze. I’ll be right back.”

After five minutes that feel like fifty fucking years, you hear a clack and a chug as a machine starts up. A dim yellow light flicks on inside the cabin. Dean comes back out, tucking his gun into the small of his back. “We’re clear,” he confirms and you sigh in relief, putting down the revolver. “Help me with the bags.”

Inside, the cabin is a one-room shack with a tiny part sectioned off in what you assume is the bathroom. The walls are knotty pine paneling and you can smell decades of old cigarette smoke. A woodstove slouches in one corner and there’s a galley kitchen against one wall. The cabin’s only furnishings are a bed, a saggy couch, and a little café table with a couple of chairs. Dean plugs something in and the refrigerator starts to hum. “Put the groceries away. I’ll get the rest of our things.”

A cramp seizes you as you finish putting the food away and you grind your teeth, bracing yourself on the counter. By now, at home, you’d be in bed full of muscle relaxants and painkillers, riding your heat out like a little boat in a choppy sea. “Keep it together bitch,” you mutter to yourself, straightening. Doing your absolute best to ignore the disgusting sensation of slick-saturated fabric between your legs.

Dean comes in and slings his duffel bag onto the couch. "The only other people who know about this place," he says, brushing by you without looking at you, turning on the kitchen faucet and nodding at the clear stream of water that results, "are my brother and Bobby. We should be safe here for at least a few days."

"That's good," you say. What's happening here? Why isn't he touching you? Your body is sobbing for him, you can feel it. Another cramp twists your insides and you suck in a breath. Oh, that's bad-- the room is filling with scent, yours and Dean's, mixing together into something that's squeezing your chest in a steel fist.

Dean turns around and braces himself against the kitchen counter. His eyes dart to the corner, where the bed waits, neatly made with a gray blanket. Your eyes dart below his belt and yes, even through his jeans you can see he's hard. He sighs, "God, babygirl, I am so sorry."

"What?" you ask, totally dumbfounded.

"This wasn't what I had planned at all," he says. "You deserve so much better than a dirty bachelor shack in the middle of nowhere for your first time--"

"Jesus Christ Dean, you think I give a shit about a little dust and mouse turds?" you cut him off. "Just how fucking shallow do you think I am?" You curl your arms around yourself, shaking.

"I don't," Dean says. "I don't think that at all. God, you're gorgeous and you're smart and you smell so fucking sweet." He gulps. "I've never-- you won't believe me, but nobody's ever gotten under my skin like this before. What the fuck are you even doing with a bum like me?"

"I thought," you gulp, "I thought you wanted to take care of me."

Dean's eyes darken and a fine tremor makes his body quiver. Slowly, he pushes himself upright. One step, two steps, and he's looming over you. He reaches out and slides his hand up your jawline, turning your head up and your eyes to his. This is happening, this is really happening, and you feel the knowledge like a punch straight between your legs. A tiny sound peeps out of you.

That must've been Dean's cue. His mouth slants over yours. The relief that sweeps over you makes you melt against him, clinging to keep your balance. Dean's hands are everywhere, strong and confident, pressing you against him. You moan when you feel him, hard and seeking through both your jeans.

"Gonna take care of you," Dean growls against your mouth. He touches your leg, feels the heavy cotton damp with your slick. "Your pussy's hungry for me, isn't it babygirl? I've been smelling it all fucking night. Got me hard soon as I got out of that elevator."

"Really?" you pant.

Dean nods. His hand curves around your shoulder and slides down. Your entire body shakes as his hand fits itself to your breast, learning the weight and the curve. His thumb finds your nipple and swishes back and forth over it, making it painfully hard inside your bra. Your head drops back and he kisses down your neck. More slick runs out of your pussy, hot and thick and slippery.

"Can I take this off?" Dean asks, pulling your shirt out from where it's tucked into your jeans. He kisses across your collarbones as you moan out a yes, raising your arms as he pulls if off over your head. Bare hands on your waist, feeling him skin-to-skin, your mind reels.

You're at the bed, Dean half-dragging you because your legs have quit working. The two of you topple over in a great squeak of stiff bedsprings and a puff of dust. You giggle at Dean's cuss, taking the opportunity to put some kisses of your own under his jaw, down his neck. His heart's hammering fast as yours, and the texture of his skin against your lips is a mystery you could spend the rest of your life exploring.

Groaning as you press down against him-- against his cock, you correct yourself, his Alpha cock, Dean sits up and shrugs out of his jacket and plaid button-down, shoving them to land on the floor somewhere. "Take my clothes off," he tells you as he pulls you to straddle his lap. You pull his T-shirt up and off. You undo his belt and the top button of his jeans. Dean lets out a sigh of relief as his trapped erection springs free, stretching out his underwear. Your bra clasp pops open with a twist of his fingers and you sling it off as your tits swing free. "Beautiful," he moans, tipping you back and covering your chest with kisses.

"Dean," you whine as he pulls a nipple into his mouth and sucks. The sensation goes straight to your pussy, which for God's sake is starting to burn.

"Told you," he says, his mouth full of your nipple and his fingers gently pulling the other one, "I needed time to take care of you. Nice," he says, suckling you long and strong and making you cry out, "and slow. Make you howl for me, babygirl. Unzip your pants for me."

You do as you're told like a good girl, and Dean rewards you by shoving his hand down your panties. He groans when he finds a puddle of slick. Your cunt clenches, more slick runs over his fingers. It was good when it was just pressure through your panties; skin to flesh, a rough palm rubbing over your clit and fingers gently threading through your soft inner lips, and you're almost weeping with need.

"Feel that?" Dean asks. "Your pussy's trying to lock around my hand, babygirl. You're so slick, I'm gonna just slide right in, right all the way in. Get in you so fucking deep, you'll feel me for days."

"Please Alpha," you beg, arching to rub yourself over his hand.

"Uht-uh," he grunts. The fingers that've been stroking you right where you open slip through and slide inside, finding tight and soft. They move, wiggling deeper, touching secret places you've never even touched yourself. "Gonna feel so good to make you come on my cock," he says, "feel your pussy lock my knot up nice and tight." His other hand takes yours and puts it over his tented underwear. Your palm curves around him and Dean moans. "That's it, babygirl. Feel how fucking hard I am?"

"Yes Alpha." Your hand reaches further into his open jeans and you cup his knot in your hand, feel it pulsing and swelling a little with each throb.

Gently, you squeeze and Dean groans your name. "Just like that babygirl. Not too hard-- wait, stop a second."

"No, please, I need you, I need your knot--"

Dean pulls your hand out of his pants and his hand out from between your legs. His fingers are running with your slick. Like he's got a palmful of syrup, Dean licks his hand clean. He presses a finger to your lips and you take a timid lick. It's . . . weird, salty and weird. Not bad, but weird.

"So good. Later," Dean says, kissing more of your taste into your mouth, "I'm gonna put you up on that table, and spread you out, and eat you out until you scream. I promise. Lay back."

You arch to lay back down Dean's legs. A laugh coughs out of you as he fusses with your jeans, helping you straighten and raise your legs high so he can pull them off. Your panties go with them, leaving you bare to Alpha's eyes. Under his burning gaze, you suddenly want to curl up and hide. You're barely rounded anywhere, skinny rather than slender, your bush spraying everywhere because it's never occurred to you that it might need trimming, much less shaving. Not like the lushly curved, voluptuous, beautiful Omegas he's probably popped his knot into on a regular basis.

"Hey hey hey," Dean says as you cover your tits with one arm and your pussy with the other hand. "Don't do that."

"I just--" you snap your hand back over yourself as Dean tries to pull it away from your bush, "look at me."

"I am," Dean says. "Be a good girl for me. Let me see you. Come on. Babygirl," he says, settling a hand low on your belly, rubbing down and making you shudder as you feel it deep inside your core, right at the source of all the burning, "you will never have to worry about disappointing me. Not ever. You hear me?" He leans over you, filling your vision with his face, with his eyes.

You seize his face and pull him down for a kiss. How easy it is, to wrap your legs around him. Dean unconsciously grinds against you. Frustrated little grunts pop from him as his clothes keep him from sinking into you. The glands in your neck start to ache, as your body puts out more and more scent. Alpha is here, right here, he’s rutting, he’s in rut, you need him, now, oh God now, before your body catches fire and burns away.

Grunting, growling, Dean pins your torso flat to the creaky mattress. “Let me go Omega, just for a second. Gotta get my pants off. Hold still, just for a second.”

You let your legs relax. Dean pushes himself up off you and reaches down under his waistband to free his trapped cock. Your first thought, as you get your first look at a cock, an Alpha cock, standing up from Dean’s groin like an iron bar and equipped with a pulsing mass of knot at the base, is disbelief. Dean’s fingers are long and thick and felt huge inside you. His cock is . . . to your inexperienced eyes it looks like a fucking baseball bat.

Dean busts out with a laugh and you flush, mortified. “I said that out loud didn’t I?”

“Just call me Miggy Cabrerra,” Dean teases, shoving his jeans down and peeling them off. You shift to roll over and Present properly. Dean stops you with a hand on your hip. “No babygirl. I need to watch your face.” You curl yourself upwards a bit to see what he’s doing-- putting his hand under your pussy and cupping his palm. The answer comes when he takes the slick that’s gathered and spreads it down his cock. The sight makes your cunt throb so hard it hurts. You drag a hand through your pussy and Dean jumps as you smear your slick down his shaft. His cock is a length of warm stone in your hand, the skin soft and fine, the softest skin you’ve ever touched. Dean shudders as you gather more slick and use both hands on him. “Good girl,” he says through a strangled throat, “getting me so fucking hard for you. Lay back.” He puts his hands on your thighs and pushes them as far apart as they’ll go. “God, perfect, spread yourself out nice and wide for me. Sit up a little.” A pillow slides under your back. “Now what did I say about reading minds, babygirl?”

It takes you a second. “That you can’t.”

“Yahtzee. If I do something that hurts or that you don’t like, you have to tell me. I promise, I will not be mad no matter how far gone we are. Tell me to stop and I will. Understand me?”

“Yes Alpha,” you say.

“Good girl. Being such a good girl for me,” Dean says, the words making you shudder. He smiles and tips your face up to look him on the eye. “You like being my good girl don’t you?”

You bite your lip and nod.

“Hold still. Keep being good for me, hold still.” You gasp as his fat, wet cockhead slides across your pounding clit. It slips down, a blunt mass seeking where your body unfolds. Dean says your name and points to his eyes. “Watch me. Right here.”

You fight to keep your head up and your eyes open, as Dean’s cock lodges between the innermost of your pussy lips. Between, and through. You pull a breath in through lungs that won’t inflate. He’s . . . big, thick, massive, heavy-- your brain runs out of adjectives. Your Omega instincts howl in completion.

Dean moans as you clamp down on him. “Oh my God. So fucking tight.” He holds himself still, puts a hand on your belly to hold you still. “You gotta relax, babygirl, relax, let me in, can you do that for me? Come on, you can do it. Let me make you feel good--” and your pussy unclenches and Dean slides straight in, all the way to the knot.

Oh.

So this is what all the fuss is about, is your first thought. Alpha’s cock filling you to the limit and his knot pressing against where your pussy will lock him in place. It . . . you ache, down there, where the nerves are going crazy processing new sensory input. Dean’s weight lays down against your belly. For a moment you can’t breathe and you squirm under him in a panic. Then he shifts and puts his forearms on either side of you, bracing himself and taking his weight off you. Never breaking eye contact, Dean’s hips roll. Sliding, friction, deep inside where you’re most tender--

Dean sighs, “Squeezing me so tight, Omega. Tightest little pussy. How does it feel, feeling me deep like this?”

“Full,” is the only word that comes to mind. “Feel so full.”

Dean smiles, brilliant but bracketed with tension. You breathe in his scent and it’s heavy and dark. You slide your knees up and your legs fall open wider. Dean shifts back, slipping away and he thrusts, filling you back up full and no, this is what all the fuss is about, this, this.

--mate knot breed mate knot breed mate mate MATE--

Groaning, Dean keeps moving inside you. Hot and alive. You’ve used knotting toys before, all Omegas do. Dean feels nothing like that. “C-c-can I go a little faster? Babygirl you feel so fucking good on my cock.”

You nod, gulping. Your eyes drift closed, going inside yourself, concentrating on the ache and the bliss deep within.

"Eyes open babygirl."

Your eyes fly open and you moan. Balancing himself on one arm, Dean brings his free hand to your face. "Suck on my fingers. Get 'em nice and wet for me. Good girl," he says as you lick down each of his first two fingers, take them both in your mouth and suck them. "You're gonna come on my cock, babygirl," he tells you. "Squeeze my knot so fucking tight. Lock me right the fuck up."

You cry out as his wet fingers find your clit, arching underneath him. Your bodies find a beat and you wind your arms and legs around Dean, kissing his lips, his face, his throat. You suck a bruise at a warm spot in his throat and Dean cries out your name. Your fangs drop and you only realize at the last second what you're about to do and duck your head, taking your mouth away from where Dean's mating gland throbs.

Dean's movements are getting shorter, the thrusting harder. You meet him as best you can, pulling him to you, wanting him to melt into your skin, become part of you. You cry his name as the pleasure just rises, and rises, and critical mass oh God--

You go rigid as you come, harder than you ever have in your life, your pussy squeezing around Dean and the muscles along the lips spasming. Dean cries out as his knot pops free of them, once, twice. His hips stutter and you feel him . . . inside you, painting your insides with his seed. His knot swells and your pussy clamps down, locking him in place as he comes. The Omega within you screams in completion. Dean's cock shifts and his knot pulls as his orgasm wrings him dry, the sensation making you whimper through another mini-orgasm as your body squeezes to keep him in place.

You lose a few minutes. When you come back to yourself, Dean's laying full on top of you. His hips stutter and jerk every few seconds, his cock twitching as he leaves little dribbles of seed. Weakly, he wraps an arm around you and rolls you both over, arranging you to lay draped overtop him. He strokes down your back, cards his fingers through your hair, brushes away tears that've leaked from your eyes. You don't remember starting to cry. His chest heaves under your ear and his heart is beating like it's about to burst.

"Dean--"

"Shh," Dean says, and you shush up. You kiss what skin you can reach, just to feel his skin against your face. It's so nice, not like what you'd imagined. Little aftershocks make your cunt flex around Dean, pulling little helpless noises out of him. Content, that's what you are, the burning under your skin mellowed to a pleasant heat. You want more. Later. Now is for laying in Alpha's arms.

---

continued in part b

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