Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dean had long since grown accustomed to John’s ways, as shitty and pathetic as they were. It started with subtle commands that eventually grew in weight and expectation; Dean, take care of Sam, Dean clean the place up for god’s sake, Dean become the mother of the house! Dean took his job as an older brother very seriously, he didn’t need his dad to make him take care of Sammy. No one else was going to if not him. It wasn’t always expected for Dean to be the bitch of the house. He longs for the before in his life, when he was just Dean.

John was one-hundred percent Alpha made, you could smell it in his scent and see it in his posture. The shitty personality wasn’t special, it just made him another statistic in the Alpha-run society. Even with scent blockers, his natural snarly disposition, his flaring temper, and his stubborn charm gave it away. And, of course, the great John Winchester would never produce anything less than two perfect Alpha sons. Dean and Sam were going to be his legacy.

The quick confidence of it, the surety, was astounding to Dean. It comforted him, even. He might be one of the biggest disappointments in his dad’s life, but at least he would make him proud in his secondary gender. He could always fall back on that. During hunts when he was scraped and bruised beyond recognition, when his silent tears fell, at the end of the day he was Alpha made, through and through.

It was the biggest kicker when it turned out that Dean wasn’t Alpha made, he was bitch made through and through.

Dean had been feeling off for days, subtle mood shifts and overstimulation; blankets felt too rough, he felt overprotective of Sammy. Foolishly, Dean didn’t know what it was, but when John came stumbling into their run-down motel late one night reaching for Sammy–no ill intent aside from that of a drunkard–Dean growled, pulling Sam against his chest. Just a short rumble, but everyone in the room heard it. John had bared his teeth, a brief flash, but it was enough for fear to flash through Dean. He bared his throat in submission, Sam tucked under his chin. All Dean heard was a grumble before his father lumbered past him, a quick backhand upside the head the only response.

The incident was quickly ignored, gone unspoken about aside from Sam’s consistent questioning. Every time he mentioned it, Dean would give a little huff and tell him to shut up, maybe even ruffle Sam’s mop of hair if he felt especially annoyed. More often than not, during those days, Dean wouldn’t allow Sam out of the house without extra scent markings. Sam would huff and puff and act annoyed, but Dean could tell he enjoyed the extra attention, even if it was getting tiresome. It was fine. It would probably go away soon. Dean hoped it would.

It wasn’t fine. Dean itched, his skin too tight. His pulse was loud in his ears, anticipation coursed through him but he wasn’t sure why. His mind was wired and ready, anxiety shooting through the roof. John took one step into their shitty place and immediately his face peeled back in disgust. Maybe there were a few words thrown around, Dean can’t remember now. As soon as John could, he grabbed Sam and they were out the door like the devil himself was on their ass.

No matter how fuzzy his memories are of that day, Dean would always remember the distressingly sorrowful look Sam shot him over his shoulder. That was all he remembered of his first heat. Aside from the agony, the desperate cries and cramping pain. The abandonment.

It’s here that life got broken up. That was the before and the moment. Now, Dean’s life is just the aftermath of that moment.

John doesn’t take him hunting anymore. Dean doesn’t get to do anything that normal teenagers would have done. There are no friends to comfort him, no love interest. Just himself. Sam helps, of course he does, but John is overly exuberant, determined for Sam to be an Alpha. Really, it worked well enough because Sam went into rut. He was going to be the perfect Alpha son. Until Sam and John began to be at each other's throats, until Sam had enough of the abuse, until Sam decided he'd had enough of everything. And then Sam left. Left the family, left the shitty motels, left Dean.

John spiraled after that. The drinking increased so much that Dean began dragging him home almost every night. Almost no bars would allow him entry any more because of how many fights he would start, which left him with Dean. The weak Omega son that he never wanted, the disappointment he got to come home to every night. Naturally if he couldn’t start a fight with bar patrons he’d have to start one at home.

It began with the yelling, the screaming. Dean could handle verbal abuse, he had for years, but one night he snapped. He got mouthy and John smacked it out of him. From then on it was an automatic backhand, there wasn’t much yelling after that. The urge to fight back, to give as good as he got, was always under his skin. The anger was frightening sometimes, to the point that he never fought back upon fear of what he would do if given the chance. He got to find out one night.

John had come home drunk again, Dean could tell in the way his boots dragged across the floor. Something different pricked at Dean’s mind, though. The muttering wasn’t some drunken slurs, but a quick desperateness that Dean hadn’t heard in a long time. Curiosity had him heaving up out of his bed. From his view between the cracks of the door, he could see his father a raging storm. Papers flew this way and that, items were shoved off counter tops, things thrown across the room.

John’s dark eyes flew in the direction of Dean’s room, their eyes seeming to meet from the slit in the door. Fear struck Dean then, straight through his gut. He scrambled back to his bed, to hide or do something else he wasn’t sure, he never got the chance to decide. The door slammed open and Dean nearly wretched when his nose caught the scent of desperate, fearful Alpha. Fear turned his scent from the normal leather and whiskey to a soured yeast, burning Dean’s nostrils. Triggered by the pheromones permeating the air, he went to run; past his father, out the window, it didn’t matter as long as he escaped.

As though sensing this, John lunged for him, hands rough and feral. Time slowed for Dean. The fear transformed to anger, the years of abuse catching up to him. He could feel his teeth sharpen and he was sure his eyes must be an interesting sight about now. A hand closed sharp and painful around his wrist. Using as much muscle as he could, he twisted and elbowed John, breaking the contact and stunning him. John was quick to ready himself, going for a swipe at Dean’s face. Only reflexes and muscle memory served the Omega well as he ducked and went for a kidney shot. He took advantage of John’s open state, serving punch after punch on the man. His knuckles were bloody and raw. He wasn’t sure when John had fallen or when he had climbed atop him, all he knew was that John was out of it, blood strewn across his face, ugly. He wasn’t sure if he’d killed the man, but the vicious part of himself hoped so.

He was walking out the door, ready to collect his things when the broken wheezes of his father caught his ears. “Debt… no money for..it..used you. Dean… Dean. I’m sor-” a gurgling cough cut him off, crimson pearls slipping from his mouth. “Alis-Alistair. Dean…Dean.” The words tore from his throat, rugged and raw. His pleading eyes did nothing for the fury coursing through Dean.

He wasn’t sure if John was dead, then. All he knew was that he needed to get out. On his way through the house, collecting everything he needed for the road, he caught himself in the mirror. Golden eyes, as he suspected. A feral Omega. His fingers peeled back his lips to see his teeth in all their glory. Bright and sharp, dangerous. Everything an Omega was not. He’d need to be careful and calm down before he went solution hunting or else he’d never make it to the nearest interstate. Feral Omegas are rare for a reason, if they’re too tricky to be handled they’re often put down.

On autopilot, he snagged anything that he might need. Toothbrush and paste, all of his clothes, John’s wallet and phone. He contemplated a hairbrush, waffling on it before finally stuffing it in the bag. It wasn’t like he didn’t have enough room to take more things anyways. John always kept a journal when they went hunting, but he couldn’t find it anywhere so he admitted defeat on that front. The bathroom held nothing for him, but he snatched the body wash and shampoo anyways, just in case. His hand rested on the doorknob before he doubled back and ganked a phone charger. Can’t have one without the other, right?

The Impala, his baby and one true love in life, was his again, from that night and onward he’d decided. He threw his stuff in the backseat, a meager bag that had only his clothes and necessities. He wore the leather jacket his father had given him from before, along with the amulet Sam gave him that one Christmas. His fathers wallet weighed heavily in his back pocket, but when he started Baby up, experiencing her purr for the first time in forever, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Dust caressed the tires as he sped away, cloaking the dirty motel in a haze. The ‘No Vacancy’ sign, characteristically missing a few letters, filtered through the dust. Vibrant red slowly faded behind him. He couldn’t stop the smile from stretching across his face if he tried. He was out, he was free. His knuckles glistened black and bloody from where they gripped the steering wheel. Wind whipped his roughly cut hair. He’d never felt so free as he did now. Golden eyes caught the mirror, blood spatters mingling with his freckles. He was free, he was dangerous, he was not weak.

Chapter Text

It had been ages since he’d navigated a road, but there was a time when he’d been good at it. Slowly, it was coming back to him. He’d stopped by a local gas station once his eyes and teeth returned to normal. Dean had walked in, the bell ringing overhead, when he made eye contact with the cashier. The girl's eyes widened slightly, taken aback. He cursed himself silently before asking, “You have a bathroom I can use?”

His voice was rough from disuse, but otherwise deep and smooth and normal. Without a word, she pointed to the back of the store where he could see the bathroom sign hanging. With a quick nod of thanks he was gone. Once inside he could see why she looked so shocked. His hair was unkempt and wild, his eyes deep and tired. The blood was probably what did her in, though. His knuckles were deep purple and it was easy to see where a majority of the blood had flaked off. His face had little scratches, freckles of blood misted his face. 

Again, he cursed himself. He cursed John, he cursed his stupid life and shitty luck. It didn’t take long to wash his face, just a splash of water and a drag of paper towel and he was clean. His arms were a bit more tricky. The blood caught on his arm hair, it was bedded under his fingernails. Eventually though, he was clean and looked just like the unassuming Omega his father expected him to be. His heart ached at that thought, but anger soon cleared it. He’d shown that asshole what an Omega could do. He just needed to get some road snacks and get out.

Zipping through the store was easy. He knew what he liked and what he wanted. After a few bottles of water and some offhand snacks, he was ready to go. A strange box behind the counter caught his eye as he set everything down for her. “What are those?” He asked the cashier hesitantly.

She looked over to what he was pointing at. “Those?”

“Yeah, I don’t.. What are they?”

“They’re a brand of scent blockers. You know, to keep your scent hidden when you go out. Lots of people use them when they go to work related functions or whatnot, but they’re for everybody.”

Nodding along with what she said, he hummed. “Can I get a box, and then that’ll be all, ma’am.”

Once again, her eyes roamed over him. Then, she shrugged and tossed a box onto the counter. “All right then. That brings your total to $12.73.”

He handed her some cash he fished out of John’s wallet before pocketing the change and swiftly making a run for the exit. Once out, he did his best to ignore the people around him. Dean wasn’t sure what he smelled like, but he knew he wasn’t experienced at disguising his scent. Safely in Baby, he was quick to shuffle through the bag for the box of scent blockers. They were foreign on his fingers, just a packet of strips. Turning the box over, he read the instructions before ripping a strip from the rest and peeling the back. It was similar to peeling a bandaid, actually. 

Carefully, he applied the strip to the gland on his neck, low enough that it wasn’t visible but it wasn’t purposefully hidden either. He wasn’t sure how long it would take or the effects it would have, but the box said to wait around ten minutes for it to work. In the meantime, he got to navigate his way through Kansas. Despite the rest stop, it was getting later in the evening and he would like to find a place to stay for the night. He was only a few hours from Lawrence, but it should be enough distance to worry about it tomorrow. 

Finding another rest spot or cheap motel didn’t take as long as he thought it would. He wasn’t exactly in the middle of nowhere, but still the pickings were slim. When he did finally find one with vacancy, it was only about a twelve minute drive to town, thankfully. He’d get himself situated and then hit up the bars, see if he can’t find any information on this Alistair guy. At least find out something about the guy he supposedly got sold to. 

For the night it was about $75, which was doable. John started both him and Sam out early on credit card scams, it was like a duck in water. Smooth. The room was as dank and dodgy as he was expecting it to be. The curtains were thin and yellowing with age, probably from smoke. The carpet had a number of mysterious stains and Dean didn’t even want to know what they were. Peeling paint and the occasional corner of mold were there. On the plus side, he only found a few centipedes in the shower! 

He didn’t bother settling his clothes into the dresser that was offered, he doubted he’d be there long. Instead, he placed his bag on the oddly placed chair in the corner near the window. The bathroom wasn’t stocked and he was glad he had the foresight to bring his own personal items. The body wash was something he nicked from his dad, John sure as hell wasn’t going to need it if he really was dead. The shampoo was from a sentimental action he’d made a year or so ago, it was the kind that Sam always used. It was stupid to keep, but it was the only thing that had Sam’s scent. God, Dean was such a pathetic Omega. 

The water steamed from the shower, igniting his back and turning his skin red, but Dean couldn’t care less. To burn the filth away was to almost reach a state of cleanliness that he hasn’t had since before. Before his heat, before his dad, before Sam left. God, he missed the before. The water turning cold shocked him out of his depressing thoughts and he almost slipped. Cursing, he hurried to lather his hair, rinse, lather his body, rinse. 

The motel towel was ragged and tattered, holes big enough for Dean to stick his fingers through and loose ropes of thread fell from it in dramatic arcs. The abuse it had suffered made it look more fitting for a dish rag than anything, but it dried him off well enough. The texture made his skin crawl, goose bumps prickling along his arms and legs. He’d made sure to avoid the blocker on his neck, just in case. He could take care of himself if the situation called for it, but that would mean more trouble. I’ve had enough trouble for a lifetime , he thought ruefully. 

Before he left, he checked the overhead cabinet above the sink for any bandages. Thank someone above that there was a roll of gauze in there. It wasn’t perfect, but it would be better than risking infection or unnecessary pain when he grazed his knuckles along something. In no time, he was fresh from the shower and ready to go. Hair still damp, knuckles dressed in white, his leather jacket still smelling of whiskey while his necklace gleamed in the light. Hopefully he looked more confident than he felt, but he’d always been told he had a “sex on legs” appeal to him. He’d just have to up the charm and pray that it worked.

The bar was as seedy on the inside as it looked on the outside. As soon as Dean pulled into the parking lot, the Impala’s engine rumbling softly, a group of punks turned to watch him. They must be regulars, or maybe they were just the type of people to stalk a joint and prey on newcomers. Dean could work with that.  He was extra careful to lock the car, just in case someone tried something. His nose was assaulted by the stench of Alpha as soon as he stepped out onto the asphalt.

Barely suppressing a grimace, he persevered. The alphas weren’t so close to the door that they would bother him, thankfully, but it was impossible to not notice the lingering stares he felt on his back. The tension was broken as he stepped inside where the music and loud laughter and conversation drew him in. The smell of beer and sweat wasn’t so much welcoming as it was familiar. It was warm in the bar, either from the people or the heating, he was unsure. Buffalo Springfield’s “For what it’s Worth” was playing in the background, faint and comforting, from the jukebox. Dean viewed his surroundings on the sidelines, content to watch the patrons and categorize them. 

It was easy to put each person or group in a category: there were the few lonesome drinkers, the ones who are content to listen to their neighbors' conversation or talk to the bartender; the loud, but not aggressive patrons who come in storms to laugh and slosh beer that they ordered from tap; the ones who have clearly had too much to drink, silently debilitating on going home or making a scene. It’s nothing Dean hasn’t seen before. He’s almost ready to move to the bar and add to the scene as a lonesome drinker when his skin starts to prickle. Someone's watching him, intently.

His pulse jumps in anticipation, fingers getting twitchy. Despite the urge to look, to confront and be loud, he let it lie. Instead, Dean walks calmly to the bar with purpose, ignoring the tracking gaze. It’s times like these that he can’t help but get self conscious of his bow legs, or the way he has a barely there limp. He’s sure that whoever is watching can dissect this immediately, his unsureness. A subtle shake of his head dismisses these thoughts. He has a part to play tonight, he can’t get distracted. 

The bartender, a smoking hot brunette in a low cut tank and low rise jeans, meets his eyes with a coy smile. She knows the game, Dean knows the game, time to play. He takes his seat as gracefully as he can manage, throws his arm across the bartop to lean into her and put up his charms. Confidence oozes from his grin as he orders. “Whatever’s on tap, please. Just start a tab.”

All she gives him is a flirtatious nod and then she’s off. Keeping the air of confidence was easier than he thought it was going to be. All he had to do was look around at the people who were probably here all the time, to know that they bowed down to the drink, needed it. It repulsed him, that addiction. So yes, he was confident because yes, he was better than these people. The others though, the ones who are here not for the drink but to escape their loneliness, he had a respect for them. If things were different, he probably would be one of them.

Eyes were still watching him. Carefully, he cracked his neck, trying to take everything in as his head twisted one way and the next. He didn’t gain much from it, but again he wasn’t really expecting to. A glass thudding in front of him brought his attention back. The hot bartender was back. She didn’t say what was on tap and he didn’t ask, just shot her a winning smile and took a sip. Whatever it was was decent, stout with a wheat taste. The kind of beer that would go good with moving the lawn and hanging out with friends.

He handed her his card, this one under the name of some Jensen Smith. Dean watched as she entered his information into the system. She opened her mouth, lips catching the light in a downright sinful way, when a man called out for her across the bar. Huffing with a roll of her eyes, she snatched a napkin and pen from her apron, furiously scribbling on it before shoving it at him as she handed him his card back.

Bewildered, he just stared as she left, hips sashaying to show off all her assets. He let his confusion become him for a second because honestly he didn’t think he warranted her number. Shaking his head, he stared at his beer before taking a swig of the frothy liquid. He noticed out of the corner of his eye as someone sat near him, but he thought nothing of it. Truthfully, he was trying to tune into nearby conversations, but nothing sounded like anything he needed to hear. Was it a wise idea to ask for a probable gang member's name in a crowded bar? Or a bar that wasn’t far enough away to be riskless?

A rumble in Dean’s ear brought him back to the present. Staring intently at his drink, he probably looked suspicious. Shit. Another deep rumble caught his attention once again, and so he looked to his left where the man had sat himself moments ago. His attempt at easygoing conversation was snatched by the wind as he was assaulted with the deepest blue eyes he’d ever seen. He could only mutter out an intelligent, “Huh?”

The man laughed, a gummy thing with lots of teeth. His eyes creased, amusement and intrigue sparkling in them. As lovely as he was to look at, something told Dean not to interact. This man was a predator. Dean could sense it, one hunter to another. “I said, Lindsey doesn’t give her number out to just anyone. What makes you so special?” Shit, if his voice wasn’t as sinful as premarital sex.

A glint in those cerulean blue eyes made Dean want to gulp. “Uhh.. I don’t know,” he shrugged. “It’s all this natural charm.” A nervous laugh crept up his through and he flicked his eyes away for a second.

“Mmm,” the man hummed with a tilt of his head, “not the distinct Alpha scent? She’s always been a sucker for a good time.”

Alpha scent? Unconsciously, he looked down at himself. He wasn’t exactly a typical Omega, but surely they didn’t think he was an Alpha? Unless it was–the fucking jacket. They weren’t smelling him, they were smelling John Winchester. John Winchester who was probably fucking dead in a rundown shitty motel because of him. 

“I don't think I’ve seen you here before.” The man said before Dean could think of something to say, angling himself more Dean’s way. Settling in. Shit.

Dean shook his head even though the man hadn’t asked a question. “No, I’m kind of looking for someone actually. Don’t know how wise it would be to announce the guy's name, though, I haven't heard a lot of good about him.” Surely this guy must be a regular, he might know news around town.

“Oh yeah?” Interest colored his voice. “Who is it then? I might be able to help.”

“Alistair? I think, yeah that sounds right.”

Silence. Absolute fucking silence. Dean turned towards the man which turned out to be a mistake because the dude’s features had darkened significantly. He faced forward again, tonguing his cheek. “Yeah, thats-that was about what I expected. Uh, nothin? No, right yeah. I think it’s time I head out.” He tossed a few bucks on the bartop, “Another round on me, have a good one.”

Those eyes followed him all the way out of the bar where he was met with the Kansas humidity and the offensive scent of Alpha. Lip curling in disgust, he made his way to the Impala when he heard footsteps fall behind him.

“Look, assholes,” he ground out, “now’s not a good time. Go fuck with someone else.”

A hand dug its way into his shoulder. On instinct, he turned and slapped the arm away with a growl. Three of the punks decided to follow him, the rest of the gang watching from under the overhang. One of the assholes, a spiky blond with blotchy tattoos, tossed his head back as he laughed, “Look fellas, he’s a feisty one!”

Dean growled again when he realized they’d cornered him against his car. Damnit, shit, shit, shit. “Look, go back with your buddies. I’m leaving alright? Not looking for any trouble.”

“Oh I see,” a stout, dark haired Alpha drawled. “Well see, that sucks because you’re real pretty. Why don’t you come hang out with us, we aren’t so bad.” A sickening sweet tone soured his voice, the suggestive smile slimy. Dean shuddered.

“Come on hot stuff, show us that Alpha swagger.” Blowup Blondie spoke up, again reaching out for Dean.

This time, Dean wasn’t so cautious. With a dangerous “fuck off” he shoved the guy. Hard. He could sense the shift in the air as the three Alphas took it as a challenge. Blondie lunged at Dean, but it was too easy to dodge and swipe his leg out from under him. The stout guy and the other quiet punk rushed at him together. Dean used the stout guy’s weight against him, following when he lumbered forward to scruff his neck, slamming him into the side of a random car. 

Arms encircled Dean’s abdomen, locking his arms in place. The grip was firm as Dean tried to squirm free. Blondie was back up from the pavement and he looked pissed . If Dean could feel anything other than anger, he might’ve been minorly intimidated. As it was, he was seething, teeth sharpening. He prayed his eyes remained normal but at this point he couldn’t care, his Omega seethed beneath his skin. Long bow legs kicked Blondie with all their might, sending him sailing to the pavement once again as Dean then used his weight to crash both him and his captor to the ground.

The silent guy grunted as he got crushed, winded. Dean rolled off him with a snarl, kicking the guy while he was down. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean could see the lumbering frame of the stout guy. A punch landed on his face, cheekbones be damned. He could feel the cartilage in his nose give. Water rushed to his eye and he couldn’t see. He heard the man curse as he cradled his hand. Quick and vicious, he lashed out, landing a solid punch to his face before going to a sternum shot. Doubling over, the guy grunted for breaths.

Dean allowed himself a moment to breathe, blood flowing from nose. Goosenecking fuck, this wasn’t his night. A searing pain in his leg had him collapsing, crying out his pain. Blondie stood above him, a fucking lug wrench clenched in his hands. He leaned down, palm wrapping around Dean’s neck to whisper something, but Dean had had enough. With a surge of strength, he rose up to meet him and bit down hard on his ear, tearing into it. The punk screamed as he shoved Dean away, but Dean was quick enough to shut him up with a firm skull punch. Disgust had him spitting out the man's torn chunk of ear. For extra measures, because he’s just petty like that, he spat out a thick coagulation of blood on the bastard.

They were out of commission and by the looks of it, the rest of the gang had the good sense to run off. Fuckass punks and shitty friends, what keepers. Gently, he lowered himself back down to rest on the pavement. He needed to leave, but he couldn’t see past his broken nose so his best bet was to hopefully slink back into the bar unnoticed and clean himself up in the bathroom. But fuck, it hurt to move. His leg throbbed as he heaved himself up. If everyone hadn’t noticed his limp before, they sure as hell couldn’t miss it now.

His breath came in ragged pants as he entered the bar for the second night. He couldn’t help how his eyes shifted, looking for those blue eyes. Dean snapped out of it quickly though and turned his face to the ground. He didn’t need to attract any unwanted attention with his face all bloody and limbs jerking. As upright and normal as he could, he fumbled for the bathroom, thankful that it’s single toilets and not the ones with stalls. 

The stars must be aligned to mess with him because the bathroom is occupied and he damn sure isn’t going into the lady’s room. He allowed his body to crumble against the wall as he waited, head tipped back to help with the tap that is his nose. His hand was thrown over his face, careful not to touch and just to guard from curious eyes. He’s in a dangerous position here, but really he won’t endanger Baby with his reckless driving if he can avoid it.

“What do you want with Alistair?”

The question was aggressive and firm and scared the fuck out of Dean. With a yelp, his arm jerked, the palm of his hands shoved against his nose and he couldn’t hold in a guttural groan. Forgetting himself, he curled his lip, flashing the stranger as much warning as he could give. There was surprise in those bright baby blues when they took him in. He knows he looks frightening, but to have it confirmed is a bit embarrassing. 

“Look, man,” his voice was nasally as breath panted from his open mouth, “I just got jumped in the fucking parking lot. I’ll tell you about it if it’s that important to you, but you’ll have to help me with my nose.”

The bathroom door creaking open distracted him. The guy occupying it slid out awkwardly once he realized Dean was waiting on him. He scuttered away then, leaving the bathroom cleared. Dead didn’t glance back or wait, he hurried into the bathroom and the brief pause before the door locking alerted him of Mister Blue Eyes presence.