Chapter Text
Written for this prompt on spnkink-meme.
“This is ridiculous, I’m not doing it.” Dean’s still fussing with his collar, twisting it around his neck. He still can’t believe Sam’s actually persuaded him to go along with this – two weeks playing the dutiful Omega, it’s going to be absolute hell.
“You promised, Dean,” calls Sam from outside the bathroom – Dean locked the door, no way is his brother going to see him all collared-up until the absolute last minute – “and people are dying. This is important.” The tone of his voice is slightly pleading, and dean feels a tiny spark of guilt.
Four people are dead – two Alphas, two Omegas. Killed at the Opus Amore holiday resort, an incredibly expensive ‘luxury retreat’ specifically for Alpha/Omega couples. To Dean, the idea of going undercover, mingling with the type of people who think going to a place like this is actually going to be fun rather than complete torture, it’s… well, he thought of hell already. Can’t get much worse than that.
Taking a deep breath, he swings the door open. Predictably, Sam is standing right outside and has to jump away to avoid being hit in the face.
“Well?” asks Dean, trying to sound nonchalant, “how do I look?” he expects Sam to laugh in his face, seeing his brother wearing a collar like a good little bitch, but instead Sam gives him a slightly strange look and swallows audibly.
“You look fine,” he says eventually, uncharacteristically quiet. “C’mon, let’s go. Don’t wanna be late.”
The Beta girl at the check-in is irritatingly perky. Dean might have tried to chat her up under normal circumstances, but Sam’s hand is resting against the back of his neck – he’s being gentle, but that’s only annoying Dean more. The fact that he can’t just shove his brother away is making his skin itch with irritation.
“Welcome to the Opus Amore resort!” the Beta chirps. “Do you have a reservation?”
While Sam handles the details – obviously Dean isn’t expected to say anything, his Alpha is in charge here (and everywhere else too, a nasty little voice in his brain reminds him) – Dean looks around at their fellow holiday makers with ill-concealed contempt.
An expensively-dressed Alpha woman, furs, diamonds and all, has a pretty-looking boy, who can’t be more than 19, tucked tight against her while she laughs with a barrel-chested Alpha man. His Omega – even younger-looking and rather overwhelmed – has been left on one of the plush couches that line the enormous reception. He keeps glancing over at his Alpha nervously, one leg jittering. On the other side of the room, another Alpha woman is petting her own Omega, a pixieish redhead who looks to be about Sam’s age. She’s staring up at her Alpha with an expression of such adoration that it makes Dean feel slightly nauseous.
So, he thinks to himself. These are the people I’ll be spending the next two weeks with. Fan-fucking tastic.
As much as he hates everything about this place and what it stands for, Dean has to admit that it is, without doubt, the nicest place he has ever stayed in. Each light fixture probably costs enough to keep the Impala in gas for a year, and that’s not even mentioning the place’s weird obsession with fountains.
Yeah, Dean could get used to living in a place like this, as out of place as it makes him feel. But they’re not here for a holiday. Four people are dead, and they have no idea why. Sam’s tentative questions at the check-in were met with a firm brush-off and a cheerful “nothing to worry about, sir!” from the perky Beta (Dean really, really hates her, unfair as he knows he’s being). From what he’s overheard from a few hushed conversations amongst the staff (being seen as completely insignificant is definitely an advantage when eavesdropping), they think it’s drugs.
They’ve gotten absolutely nowhere by the time they get to their room. It takes about half an hour just to walk there, and Dean’s pretty sure they still haven’t arrived when Sam says, “Okay, this is it,” and drops down their bags.
It’s huge. Living room (complete with roaring log fire – fake of course, it’s California), bathroom with a Jacuzzi big enough for eight. The décor is white and gold, not quite ostentatious but certainly a thousand times fancier than it needs to be, in Dean’s opinion. Everything’s gleaming like it gets polished three times a day (and it probably does – God, how are they going to avoid the hordes of staff this place obviously uses?), gold and crystals splashed all over the place.
Dean edges past the fountain (this one has a mermaid in the centre, Jesus Christ) and into the bedroom. The bedroom looks straight out a porno, albeit a classy one. At least it doesn’t have a mirrored ceiling, but there’s still a big problem that he’d briefly considered before the whole ridiculous charade started, before shoving it to the back of his mind.
There’s only one bed. It’s a huge bed, sure, but if there’s one line Dean really didn’t want to cross…
“Dude, there is no way I’m sharing a bed with you – this whole thing is weird enough.” Deep down though, Dean knows it’s stupid to argue. Sam seems to have taken the whole ‘Alpha-in-charge’ thing to heart, steering Dean around even when there’s no one around to be faking it for. For some reason it’s started to become less annoying and more… strangely comforting. Not that he’ll ever say that to Sam, of course.
“Not like we haven’t shared a bed before,” says Sam cheerfully, flopping down on the bed. They haven’t shared a bed since they were preteens, but Dean decides not to mention that. “Wow this feels incredible. Lie down, dude.” It isn’t an order, but it feels like one, so Dean very firmly walks two paces away and sits on the floor, pulling his revolver out to clean. Sam rolls over on his side and looks at him. Dean very carefully doesn’t meet his eyes.
“Look, I know this is hard for you,” says Sam, now using the with-deepest-sympathy voice he usually reserves for interviewing traumatised witnesses.
“Bullshit,” snaps Dean, still not looking up. He knows that if he does Sam will have that ridiculous hurt puppy face on. “It’s not like I haven’t played this part before. It’s fine.” The last part is a lie (although Dean keeps furiously telling himself that it isn’t, everything’s fine, totally fine, he can deal), but it’s true that he has done this before. With his suppressants, he can usually pass as a Beta, but it doesn’t always work. There’s always someone who can see right through him, and the difference in the way he’s treated is something he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to. Still, it comes in handy sometimes. If people (or monsters) think you’re harmless, it’s that much easier to get the drop on them, no matter how humiliating it might be.
Dean doesn’t know which is worse, the times when he’s been alone, when Alphas have realised what he really is and tried their luck (“aw what’s wrong, Pretty, don’t wanna play with us?”) or when Sam’s been with him and he’s been ignored completely, assumed to just be tagging along, poor little Omega who can’t be left alone without his Alpha to look after him.
Sam’s still looking at him, but he clearly senses that Dean isn’t going to budge, so he sighs and pulls out the program they got from check-in.
“There’s a formal dinner tonight,” he says, “after drinks and canapés.” He pauses, suddenly hesitant. “We should go, it’s be a good opportunity to-“
“No fuckin’ way, Sam,” growls Dean. “I’m not spending any more time with these dicks than I absolutely have to.”
“I thought it was fine.” Sam’s back to sympathetic, and Dean tosses his revolver down. He can’t concentrate anyway.
“It is fine!” Dean finally looks up at Sam (yep, he was right, puppy eyes in full effect). “I just don’t wanna-“ he pauses, grinding his teeth. “You know what? We’ll go. We’ll go to this formal dinner with a bunch of rich assholes and their pathetic little fucktoys, and you can have a great time pretending to be another rich asshole and won’t it be fuckin’ fantastic. Can’t wait.” With that, he pushes himself up and storms off to the bathroom. He’s crying now, but it’s fine. It’s just tears, not like he’s sobbing or anything like that. He’s off his suppressants, after all. He probably just isn’t used to the change in hormones. He’s fine.
Dean doesn’t grumble at all on the way down to dinner. In fact, he’s as silent as possible. Sam keeps shooting him worried looks, but he hasn’t removed his hand from the small of Dean’s back.
The Omega girl and her female Alpha, the ones Dean saw at the reception, are already in the ‘drawing room’, which Dean would guess doubles as a ballroom if he didn’t already know that the ballroom is actually located in a separate building, across from the golf course, shooting range and stables.
The Omega girl smiles at him as he and Sam settle onto one of the couches. Dean wishes that the tiny bit of recognition didn’t make him feel even worse – a reminder that no one here gives a shit about him except the people who’re worthless too. He manages a tight smile back at her before Sam pulls him in tight against his side.
“Bit much, don’t you think?” he hisses, low enough that only Sam can hear.
“Just be grateful I haven’t got you sitting on my lap,” Sam hisses back, and Dean feels a bit like he’s been slapped in the face. Sam’s been incredibly nice throughout this whole thing – disconcertingly so, but this is a stark reminder that, while they’re sitting out here, Sam could do whatever he wanted to Dean, and Dean wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about it without blowing their cover. He stiffens a little, grinding his teeth.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it,” says Sam, and then starts stroking his hair, which isn’t what Dean wanted at all, except that it actually feels, well, really nice, and he finds himself leaning into the touch a little, closing his eyes. It’s probably only about five seconds before he realises what he’s doing and snaps his eyes open again, cursing himself.
He can’t help but feel like the entire Universe has dumped a massive injustice on him – why does he have to be like this, and more importantly, why is it that because of his biology, something he had no say in whatsoever, he’s suddenly seen as less important, weaker, something to be coddled and petted and taken care of? He’s seen things, hell, he’s killed things, that would make most of the Alphas in this room piss themselves. But when they look at him (if they even bother) all they see is a pretty, sweet Omega, leaning obediently into his Alpha’s side.
Dean feels oddly sleepy during the ensuing small talk. Nuzzling absently into Sam’s neck, he muses that it’s probably for the best that Sam does all the talking here. He’s used to the High Life – or at least used to faking it – what with going to College and everything. He’s aware he’s being mean, and overly simplistic. Sam was always better at fitting in than he was. He wonders bitterly if that’s just another advantage of being born an Alpha.
Sam’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts.
“… just awful, isn’t it? We were almost afraid to come.” Dean thinks vaguely that he should have just said ‘I’, instead of ‘we’. Not like his opinion matters here. It doesn’t seem like anyone thought Sam’s wording was odd though, there are murmurs of agreement from the other Alphas around the room. It seems that despite the staffs’ best efforts, the mysterious deaths of four guests aren’t easy to gloss over. Dean thinks viciously that it wouldn’t bother him if the whole place shut down. Good fucking riddance.
“Still,” says the large male Alpha Dean saw earlier (his Omega is still just as twitchy, and looks a bit like he’s been crying. So does Dean though, so he supposes he’s in good company), “not a bad way to go. You heard how they went out, right?” His voice is full of insinuations, and Sam leans forward slightly, easing Dean back against the couch.
“No, I didn’t, what happened?” Sam doesn’t need to fake the eagerness in his voice – this is the first hint they’ve had of any useful information.
The big Alpha leans back, clearly pleased at the attention on him. “They all died in bed, if you know what I mean.” Dean almost snorts. These people came here, bringing their Omegas who they seem to have no trouble pawing at in public, and they can’t even say outright that the dead people were in the middle of fucking when their hearts gave out.
“I’m sure it was drugs,” says the expensively-dressed female Alpha. She’s changed into an emerald-green dress with a plunging neckline and added about $3 million worth of diamonds to her already heavily-laden limbs. It’s a wonder she’s able to move the martini glass she’s holding from the table to her lips. Dean thinks, offhandedly, that she’s rather attractive for an older woman, though she’d look about eight times better if she wasn’t quite so blinding to look at. Even the other Alphas are squinting a little in the flares of light given off from all those jewels. “They were all young, in the prime of their lives. It’s odd though, I knew Peter Horton, and he didn’t even drink.” She stops, looking suddenly morose. Peter Horton was the first Alpha to die – he’d been a judge, very high-powered. The tabloids had had a field day with lurid, increasingly wild guesses as to what it had actually been that killed him. Of course, the coroners couldn’t find anything – on him or the other Alpha. The Omegas hadn’t been mentioned except in off-hand sentences, carelessly tacked on to the end of every article.
Conversation swiftly changes to more pleasant topics after that – yachts, parties, barely-concealed rivalry over wealth and whose children are going to the best Colleges. Sam whispers to Dean under the pretence of adjusting his collar and kissing the side of his neck.
“Still nothing. God, I feel so helpless.” Dean glares at him and he grimaces apologetically. “I could say I’m tired – we could go to bed early?” It’s a peace offering, but Dean isn’t going to give him the satisfaction.
“Fuck that. I’m having lobster.”
Dinner is an almost unbearable experience, not helped by the huge clock in the corner of the room that, if anything, seems to be moving backwards. Nobody wants to talk about any of the victims, and by the end Sam seems to be just as twitchy and irritable as Dean is.
Eventually it ends (only after seven courses – not including palate cleansers and after-dinner chocolates, Dean likes to eat but Jesus there’s a limit), and they both practically sprint back to their room.
Dean isn’t really thinking about it when he collapses on the huge bed. Sam was right, it’s amazingly comfy. He feels half asleep already. He barely notices when Sam flops down next to him.
“That was…” he starts, too sleepy to continue.
“Awful,” Sam finishes for him. They both dissolve into hysterically tired snickers as Sam starts to imitate the diamond-laden Alpha woman (her name is Eugenia Fortescue apparently, which Dean finds strangely amusing). At some point Dean can’t keep his eyes open anymore, and he falls asleep, fully clothed, with a genuine smile on his face for the first time since they arrived.
TBC...