Chapter Text
Under different circumstances, the little girl Dean’s saving could probably hold her own in a fight. The only reason she’s losing now is because her four opponents are thirty, maybe thirty-five years older than her—she can’t be much older than nine, maybe ten years old. Plus, her hands are zip-tied behind her back.
She does a good job looking the part of a fierce, rabid animal, though, kicking and squirming and trying to scream past the rag tied around her head. But again, the odds aren’t in her favor. She’s a firecracker for sure, but it doesn’t matter when she’s unable to light herself up.
Dean hadn’t even been meaning to save her. He’s no hero—just a “beta” looking for answers. He recognized Gordon Walker as one of the bastard alphas his dad borrowed money from and decided to see what was up. Little did he know, Gordon was playing look-out for a gaggle of knotheads buying a rowdy pup out of another knothead’s trunk. Dean would’ve been just as evil if he hadn’t stepped in.
So he did. Followed the guys inside, used his blade to keep the job quiet. Mowed down at least seven guys on the first floor, a mix of alphas and betas, plus the four alphas with the girl in the upstairs bedroom. Quiet, but not clean, ‘cause now he’s facing this little girl while covered in blood, and she looks more scared than she did when they were pulling her out of the trunk.
The girl had tripped at some point, probably while Dean was airing the place out, and hasn’t moved since, so Dean takes the initiative and kneels down slowly, putting his bag to the side. “I’m not gonna hurt you, pup,” he says as he reaches his bloody blade around to her wrists. “Just getting these zip-ties off.”
When her hands are free, Dean expects the girl to spring into action, but instead, she clumsily tugs at the fabric knot keeping the rag in her mouth, trying and failing to remove it. Dean does her yet another kindness and removes that, too, angling his blade in a way that keeps her bruised face from getting sliced up. She spits the rag out and takes a few big gulps of air, brushing frizz and stray strands of blonde hair out of her face with small, scuffed-up hands.
Dean watches her, trying to figure out if she’s drugged or just processing slowly. Her pupils are dilated, flecks of gold around the gray-blue, which points toward something unnaturally mind-altering. But also, it makes sense for an elementary schooler to take a few moments for a panic attack after almost being sold into an omega trafficking ring.
After about thirty more seconds of this, Dean stands. He’s got a lot of bodies to clean up, and unfortunately the one guy he wanted to get fled the scene. The pup is just gonna have to sort her shit out by herself.
He makes for the exit, but something stops him. Something painfully human and very, very inconvenient to his tight schedule. This pup is freaking out, beaten up, probably injured worse in other places, and all alone. Dean swooped in to save her because he can’t ignore his stupid save-a-stray omega instincts, and unfortunately, they haven’t gone away just because he opened up a couple bad guys like shitty Christmas cards.
He uses the discarded rag to wipe the blood off his face and arms, hoping to clean out his scent a little, and then returns to the pup hyperventilating on the floor.
“Deep breaths,” he whispers, folding his legs to sit criss-cross-applesauce. He feels like a kindergarten teacher, and it’s ridiculous, but he does it anyway. Goddamn instincts. “You’re okay, kiddo. You’re alright. It’s just you and me in here, and I’m not gonna hurt you. You’re safe. Here, breathe with me.” He takes a deep, slow inhale and watches the girl try to follow along. She stutters a bit, but by the fourth try, she’s able to breathe in deeply and sob out a successful exhale. “What’s your name?”
“Claire,” the girl whispers. Her voice is rougher than it should be. She must’ve been gagged for a while.
“I’m Dean. Is there someone I can call for you? A grown-up that can help you get home safe?”
Claire shakes her head, and that makes Dean’s job a lot harder.
“Alright, that’s okay. Do you live nearby?”
“Dunno where we are,” Claire huffs, breath picking up again. Dean can almost smell her fear beneath the waves of alpha and death. “I was– was at the train station, and this guy– he put me in his car, I don’t know—”
“Slow down, Claire. What train station?”
“Reno. I was going to see my mom, she– she’s sick, she lives in Fernley. I have the address in my notebook, but they– they took it, I don’t—”
“It’s okay, it’s okay. Your mom lives in Nevada?”
Claire nods.
Dean doesn’t tell her how far that is, but she gets a hint from the look on his face.
“Where are we?”
“Massachusetts.”
“That’s… that’s far. That’s really far.”
Dean can only nod.
Claire shuts her eyes, shuddering her way through another breath. The smells of the house are just as cruel as the visuals. Her terror is obvious even to the corpses littered around.
If Dean had a heart, it’d break for her.
“I need to clean this up,” he says. “There’s a place nearby, a little hole in the wall. I know the bartender. She’s an alpha, a little tough, but she’ll take care of you if you tell her I sent you—”
Claire’s shaking her head before Dean’s even finished talking. “No, no more, I can’t—”
“Claire,” Dean cuts in. “I really need to clean this place up, and you need to be somewhere safe. She’s a good woman, and she’s got a pup not too much older than y—”
“I’ll help!” Claire basically screams, desperation squeezing her voice. “I can help you clean up the- the bodies. Please, please don’t send me away. I can help you, I swear!”
Dean sighs. What choice does he have, really?
“You sure there’s no one I can call for you?” he asks again.
“No,” Claire tells him. “I don’t have an alpha. My mom’s my only family, and she’s sick. I have no safe grown-ups.”
Dean wants to ask why she’s away from her mom in the first place if she has no one else, but he knows what it’s like, being a pup and needing to flee. Having reasons that don’t make sense out loud, not even to yourself, especially not when you’re ten years old.
“Fine,” he says, “but you’re not helping me clean this shit up.” He pulls out his dad’s old Walkman, loaded with a Zepp track, and hands it over. “Sit here, listen to this, and don’t move. I’ll be done before the album’s through.”
Two hours later, Dean has the crackhouse wiped clean of any trace of him. He didn’t dispose of all the bodies, just the ones that got their hands on Claire, just in case any of her scent was on them or her DNA was under their nails or something. One of the seven on the first floor was tossed as well—Dean thought he recognized the guy, and he’d rather not take any chances. If the police ever get around to investigating this shit show, he doesn’t want to become a suspect because of a bar fight five years ago.
He does one more walkthrough of the place, making sure it looks like a normal, run-of-the-mill drug-deal-gone-wrong. Sprays some alpha cologne where the faint hints of omega linger and wipes down any place Claire might’ve touched on her way in. Dean makes a mental note to get her a pair of gloves similar to his from his bag.
When he’s satisfied, he heads back upstairs to collect the omega pup.
He finds her curled against the wall, legs bent and arms wrapped around her knees. Her head’s down, and the orange puffs on the end of the headphones stand out against her blonde hair. The thin cords run down and to the side where the Walkman sits, almost at the end of Mothership. She’s sitting still, and Dean has to steady himself when his first reaction is She’s dead! She’s dead! Obviously the pup isn’t dead—nobody’s been in this damn place besides him in two hours. He would’ve heard if something went wrong.
“Time to get up,” Dean says, nudging Claire with his boot. She curls into herself more. “Up. Now. I don’t have time for a temper tantrum.”
Claire groans, clearly still deep in the throes of sleep.
Dean sighs, crouching down. “You’re a little brat, y’know that?” he says. But he’s careful when he removes the headphones, pausing Achilles Last Stand and wrapping the wires so they don’t get tangled. He takes off his rubber gloves, too, and replaces them with the cotton ones stuffed in his bag. When he’s situated, he scoops Claire up, one arm under her knees and the other around her shoulders. Instinctively she turns her nose to his neck, scenting him. Dean freezes—the last person to scent him like this was Sammy, ages and ages ago—but he allows it. He knows the pup is in need of some comfort, and he’s in a position to help. For now, anyway. Soon enough he’ll be dropping her off with her mom in Nevada and he’ll never have to take care of a pup ever again.
Claire wakes up about an hour later. They’re parked at a gas station in the middle of nowhere, far from the crackhouse in the city where Gordon and the knotheads were, and out here the scent of hemlock trees dominates, woody and herbal permeating the open road. Dean’s humming to himself while pumping Baby’s tank, having given up on doing the math for what they can afford. He’s been trying to stop with the credit card scams in case someone starts tracking him, but it’s much easier—and safer, honestly—than hustling the old fashioned way. He’d prefer a hacker’s attention over an angry drunk alpha any day.
Claire slides out from the backseat with a grimace. She’s wrapped in Dean’s leather jacket and it dwarfs her, making her look even smaller and younger than she already does. The bruises on her neck and arms are covered this way, though, so Dean lets her keep it, Plus, it’s pretty chilly out here. Besides the gas station, it’s nothing but trees and the road for miles, November setting in quickly with sharp breezes and crunchy leaves.
“Where are we now?” Claire asks.
“Just outside of Worcester,” Dean answers. “‘Bout 50 miles west of Boston.”
“Still in Massachusetts?"
He nods. “And since we’re out of New England crime central, it’s time to get our shit together. I’m assuming you don’t have blockers with you?”
Claire scowls at him. “I just presented last week. I haven’t even had my first heat yet.”
“Well, you should get it sometime this month,” Dean tells her. “Which makes the blockers thing even more important.”
“If I had blockers, I never would’ve gotten taken in the first place.”
Dean doesn’t have time to get sick over how true that is. “I’ve only got enough for me so stay close or stay in the car.”
“Fine,” she huffs. “Can we get something to eat?”
“As long as you like gas station food, we can have a fuckin’ feast.”
Inside, Dean buys armfuls of snacks and as many shitty hotdogs as Claire can hold. He also gets some cleaning wipes and more rubber gloves. Claire goes to the bathroom while Dean pays and shamelessly flirts with the gorgeous beta woman behind the counter. She’s a couple years older, but Dean’s a ladies’ man, and ladies don’t stop being ladies just ‘cause the days get longer.
When Claire returns, smelling fresher, she pinches Dean’s side and laughs with the beta woman when he yelps like a pup. “You’ll have to excuse my dad,” Claire teases. She’s only a head taller than the counter, but she makes it work, pushing herself up to her tippy-toes and planting her elbows. “He forgets his manners in front of beautiful women like yourself.”
“Oh, you flatter me, dear,” the beta chuckles. “You are such a fine young lady yourself, I’m sure you’ll grow up to be the most wonderful bride. Any alpha would be lucky to have you.”
Claire’s scent sours a bit at that last part—it’s obvious she’s not used to controlling her scent, so Dean’s quick to wrap the interaction up, taking his plastic bags full of goodies on his way out.
In the car, Claire takes the passenger seat, and Dean shoots her a side eye.
“She was hot,” the pup says. “Too bad she was a traditionalist bitch.”
“You called me your dad,” Dean blurts, completely dumbfounded. As a second thought, he adds, “And watch your damn mouth.”
Claire rolls her eyes. “Whatever. You rather me tell her you picked me up from a crackhouse?”
“I’d rather you didn’t say anything at all,” Dean grumbles, turning Baby’s keys a little too roughly. “And why the hell were you flirting with her? You’re, like, five. She’s ten times your age.”
“You flirted with her first,” Claire argues, “and I’m not five. I’m ten.”
“So she’s five times your age. Wow, big difference.”
“Whatever,” Claire huffs. “She’s hot. Yoga mom hot. Pardon me if I appreciate a little eye candy out here on the open road.”
“Whoever taught you that shit needs to pay for their fuckin’ sins,” Dean laughs. “Pass me those Twizzlers, pup. I’m hungry.”
“Sure thing, dad.”
They make it through the rest of Mass alright. Claire sleeps some more, climbing into the backseat and swiping the Walkman for a classic rock lullaby, while Dean pops a few Ritalin tablets to keep his eyes on the road. He hasn’t slept in almost 32 hours now, but he doesn’t feel great about catching his 4 hours in the Impala when he’s got a passenger. He isn’t sure if it’s Claire being here or the idea of her running away with his baby that unsettles him. Either way, sleeping in the car isn’t an option.
They could grab a motel, but… Dean wrinkles his nose. It’s not worth buying a whole room just for a 4-hour nap, and his blockers don’t last long enough for them to sleep safely through the night. He’d have to scent-block the door with towels drenched in alpha cologne, and then he’d have to buy more alpha cologne to clean up a potential mess like the one he left back at the crackhouse. Dean’s not picky about a lot of things—food, drinks, sex—but he is picky about his messes. Specifically the crime scene kinds.
On the other hand, Dean should stop by a real store to restock anyway, and he knows there’s a pharmacy and a motel in Weirton, West Virginia, one he’s been to before. According to the sign they passed a few minutes ago, it’s only a half hour away.
He chews his lip and glances at Claire in the rear view mirror. She’s awake, though barely, wrapped in the big jacket and pressed against the door. She catches Dean looking and sits up still with droopy eyes.
“How d’you feel about stopping at a motel for the night?” he asks.
Claire nods, yawning. “Sleeping in an actual bed sounds good,” she says. “Glad you tapped out before you fell asleep behind the wheel and sent us flying into a tree or something.”
“Alright, smartass,” Dean huffs. “I’m gonna stop at a pharmacy, too, see if they have the stuff to make blockers.”
“Make blockers?” Claire blurts. “How the hell do you make blockers?”
Dean smirks. “I’ll teach you.”
The trip to the pharmacy goes well, all things considered. Claire follows Dean’s rule and tucks herself to his side, holding as much of his hand as she can in her smaller one. They both smell distinctly of their secondary genders, Claire more-so than Dean, and it makes things much more stressful. Thankfully, the area they’re in is known more for verbal discrimination than violent hate crimes, so the worst they get is an older man gruffly asking where their alpha is.
“Damn Os walking around alone without a care in the world.” The man sniffles between sentences, patchy eyebrows pulled together beneath the brim of his U.S. Navy cap. “By God, the hell’s happenin’ to this country?”
Claire tries to snap back at the old fart, but Dean tugs her along. He’d do the same thing back in the day, back when he was carting around a young Sammy and didn’t know any better when it came to dealing with strangers. But now that he’s older, he knows how to pick his battles.
“Stupid old-ass knot-sucking bastard,” Claire grumbles, marching back to Dean’s side. “He talks a lotta shit for a beta. He knows I don’t need an alpha to kick in his rotting dentures, right?”
Dean laughs under his breath despite his attempt to stifle it, pushing out as much neutral scent as he can to combat Claire’s sour frustration. The pup is funny for sure, but she’s a danger to both of them like this. Children and unmated omegas are the most vulnerable groups in the country, and Claire covers both bases. Dean, being a male omega on the younger and prettier side, isn’t much safer. With public displays of violence towards both groups basically normalized—sometimes encouraged, if they’re acting out of line—neither of them can afford the extra attention Claire’s sass brings, hilarious as it may be. They can’t kill their way out of a public problem.
When they finally get to the back counter, Dean digs out a prescription slip from his wallet, essential to the blocker-making business. His most reliable source of them is from the bossy alpha psychiatrist he sleeps with every now and then down in Louisiana, but he’s been working on replicating the tamper-resistent paper so he doesn’t have to make the trips any more. The less people he has to depend on, the better.
“I’m here to pick up a prescription for Robert Page,” Dean greets with his most charming smile. The woman at the counter eyes him, then Claire, and takes the prescription slip.
“This is from a doctor out of state,” the woman notes.
“Yeah, the moving process has been a pain,” Dean lies, faking light frustration. Enough to be believable but not too much as to make him disagreeable. “All that paperwork. Just getting my little girl here into school has been a nightmare.”
The woman nods, seemingly disinterested. She taps some keys on her computer and a few minutes later, Dean is a bottle of bupropion richer.
On their way out, Dean buys some over-the-counter heat suppressants, a small bottle of lemon juice, a few energy drink shots, and a stack of paper cups.
All the while, Claire stares at him like he just tackled god to the floor. She smells safe, not at all frustrated from the old man earlier, and her underlying fear stench from their first meeting has ceased altogether. It makes Dean a little dizzy, so he avoids her pale blue eyes and kicks Baby into drive, speeding to the nearest motel.
“Alright, here’s how this works,” Dean starts, sitting beside Claire. Their motel room is small, longer than it is wide with two full beds and a couch. Across from the couch is a low coffee table, but besides that, the room is empty. There’s not even the usual microwave and minifridge most motel rooms have. No TV, and the bathroom is communal, down the hall by the elevators. Dean won’t complain, though. He loves his baby, but he can’t fit two people in a car to sleep comfortably the same way he can in here.
Claire watches his every move with rapt attention, brows pulled together in concentration. Their ingredients are laid out on the table.
“We’re gonna dissolve these pills in the lemon juice,” Dean explains. He picks up the bottle of bupropion. “This is an anti-depressant. Do you know what that means?”
Claire scoffs at him. “I’m not stupid.”
“Just checking,” Dean smirks. “This brand is Wellbutrin, but the chemical name is bupropion. It’s mainly used for treating depression, but it’s got this nifty little side effect of temporarily weakening scent-producing glands. This is our main ingredient. Even if you can’t get your hands on the rest of this stuff, bupropion by itself can work in a pinch.”
Claire nods.
“I usually put 150 milligrams in mine, but for you I’m gonna half that.”
“What? Why?!”
“‘Cause I’ve never given this stuff to a pup before,” Dean shoots back. “I’d rather you have to pretend to be my omega pup than accidentally overdose you trying to make you pass as a beta.” He hands Claire half a pill and watches her pout as she drops it in her lemon juice. “Next are the heat suppressants.”
“I haven’t even gone into heat yet,” Claire huffs. “You know that, dumbass. I just developed my scent, like, last week.”
“The heat suppressants aren’t for heat in this case, dumbass,” Dean mocks with a sly grin. He gets a world-class bitch face in response. “They also block scent, just in a different way. The anti-depressant stops us from producing a lot of pheromones, but the heat suppressants will squash any scents that might slip past.”
“So like extra security?” Claire asks.
“Exactly,” Dean grins. They each get an even dose of suppressants because Dean’s 99% sure you can’t overdose on glorified birth control.
“What’s next?” Claire presses on.
“Next we wait,” Dean answers. “Fifteen minutes, then we stir it for thirty seconds or so. I got some small energy drinks in case you get overly drowsy from the meds in the morning.”
“Huh. That’s easier than I thought,” she says. “How come all omegas don’t do this?”
“Well.” Dean pats her shoulder as he stands. “Most of us don’t need it until we’ve already learned why we do.”
After they take their blockers, Dean scent-proofs the room while Claire flips through a magazine she swiped from a rack at the pharmacy. Clever girl, he thinks. Her sticky fingers could get them out of—or into, actually, a lot of trouble. For now, he’ll let it slide. When he’s done with the door, making sure there’s no chance either of their scents seep into the hallway during the night, he flops down on the bed.
The blockers usually last him about five hours, so as long as he’s up before that, they’ll be fine. Claire’s are gonna last about half that, so Dean keeps their window cracked. Somehow the pup smuggled his leather jacket inside, so she’s got that to nest with if it gets too cold.
Dean closes his eyes to rest for the first time in almost two days. Bases covered, they’re safe for the night, he can finally get some sleep.
The pup doesn’t seem to get the memo.
“Can I ask you a question?” she blurts.
“Just did,” is Dean’s answer. He hopes his exhaustion is kept out of his tone. It’s not the pup that’s bothering him, but she won’t be able to tell the difference if he’s a bitch about it.
“You know what I mean, jackass,” she snaps.
“Fine. Shoot.”
“Those guys that took me,” Claire starts, “back in the city… You killed them all.”
His fingers twitch where they lie on his stomach. So much for rest. “That’s not a question,” he says.
“I’m getting there,” Claire huffs. “Have you… Do you, y’know… do that a lot?”
“Kill people?”
“Yeah.”
It’s the omega in him that wants to lie, to tell Claire that he doesn’t make a habit out of hurting people, that she’s safe with him.
It’s the child in him, his mother’s child, that wants to scream that he’s capable of kindness, that he is good. He’s good.
But it’s Dean that speaks, the man alone on the run, missing his family and unable to lie but so far from being true that he’s like a whole different person.
“There are two kinds of people in this world,” he tells her. “There are the ones that really, really like hurting people, and the ones that don’t like it at all. But there’s no one that hasn’t hurt people, or at least won’t some time in the future. I’ve killed people, yeah, but I didn’t like doing it.” The words feel like a lie, even though they can’t be. They can’t be. “I have to protect myself.”
“You killed those guys for me,” Claire reminds him. “You weren’t in danger. You did it for me.”
“Well,” Dean shrugs. “I guess I have to protect myself and the people that deserve protecting.”
It’s quiet for a while, like a cool balm over a sunburn. Sleep is coming soon, and Dean sinks into the feeling.
“Will you teach me?” Claire’s voice is a whisper.
“How to protect yourself?”
“How to kill people.”
Dean feels like vomiting.
“I’ll teach you how to protect yourself,” he says. “Those two things– killing and staying safe. They don’t have to be the same.”
“Okay.” Another beat of silence. “Thank you, by the way. For protecting me.”
“No problem, pup. Now get some sleep.”
They make a routine out of it.
Drive until the road blurs into something manageable. Stop for food and supplies. Make blockers in motel cups that taste like lemon and chalk. Sleep lightly in cheap rooms with doors Dean doesn’t fully trust and windows cracked just enough to bleed their fake-beta scents into the night. Then do it again.
It works. Mostly.
Dean keeps his ear to the ground when they stop—listens for Gordon’s name, for whispers of alphas moving money or pups or guns, for anything that smells like Sam or Dad—but it’s all old noise. Recycled rumors. Dead ends. He doesn’t have time to dig. Every extra hour spent poking around is another hour Claire’s farther from her mom, another hour she’s vulnerable.
So he keeps driving.
A few hours into Pennsylvania, something starts to feel…off.
It’s not dramatic. There’s no sharp pain, no sudden crash. Just a creeping heaviness behind his eyes, like someone’s packing cotton into his skull. His joints ache in a way he usually only gets after a bad heat, deep and sour, radiating out from his hips and spine. His skin feels too tight. Too warm. Like he’s been sitting too close to a fire he can’t quite step away from.
Dean adjusts his grip on the wheel and keeps going.
They stop more often than usual. Bathroom breaks. Gas. Claire asking for snacks. Dean tells himself it’s fine—better safe than sorry, right? He’s always been careful. He prides himself on it. Efficiency dips a little, but that happens on long hauls. Bodies aren’t machines.
By the time his blockers wear off again, he’s already decided it’s just exhaustion.
Claire’s scent recognition is still rough around the edges, all instinct and no polish, but she catches it anyway. The air inside Baby has shifted—gone thick, wrong, buzzing faintly under the familiar smells of leather and road dust and old coffee.
“Hey,” she blurts from the backseat, worry leaking out beneath her practiced irritation. “You’re stinking up the car.”
Dean blinks, his vision smearing at the edges for half a second before snapping back into place. He swallows, tongue thick in his mouth. His head is pounding now, a steady, ugly throb right behind his eyes.
“‘m fine,” he says, and hates how the words come out a little slurred. He pops open the glove compartment and starts rummaging, fingers clumsy as they push aside receipts and loose change and a half-melted candy bar. “Just– hold on.”
“What’re you looking for?” Claire asks, already suspicious.
“Nunya,” Dean mutters.
He finds what he’s looking for—Adderall, rattling softly in its bottle—and fumbles with the cap. His hands shake just enough to piss him off. He tells himself it’s the road. The caffeine. The lack of sleep. This many hours on the move will do that to anyone.
Before he can dry-swallow a pill, the backseat erupts into motion.
“Hey–!” Dean yelps as Claire abandons her half-made, portable nest and climbs over the seat, swatting at his shoulder when he curses at her. She’s all sharp elbows and feral determination, snapping her growing canines when he tells her to knock it off. For a second, the movement makes his head spin, and he has to grit his teeth and focus hard on the road to keep Baby steady.
Claire twists around in the passenger seat, lands on her hands, and slams the glove compartment shut with a decisive thunk. Then she sticks her tongue out at him, defiant and infuriating and way too alert for someone who should be napping.
“Are you happy now?” Dean huffs. “Almost made me crash my baby.”
“There’s nothing to crash into,” Claire shoots back, jerking her chin toward the endless stretch of grassy flats rolling past the windows. “Now tell me what’s wrong with you.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Dean says automatically. “I’m just tired.”
It’s not even a full lie. He is tired. Bone-deep tired, the kind that makes his muscles buzz and his thoughts lag a half-step behind where they should be. He’s been pushing hard. Anyone would feel like shit.
Claire sniffs, nose wrinkling. “You don’t smell tired.”
Dean’s jaw tightens. “Don’t start.”
“You smell sick,” she insists. Her voice drops, losing its bite. “Like…like something’s burning wrong.”
Dean laughs, sharp and humorless. “Wow. Real scientific. You should be a doctor.”
“You smell like you’re close to heat,” Claire says, undeterred. “But not. Like it’s…stuck.”
That gets his attention. Just for a second.
He shifts in his seat, discomfort flaring low in his belly, and shoves it down hard. He’s on suppressants, good ones on top of the ones he mixes into his blockers, but even if he wasn’t, he’s not anywhere near heat. He tracks his cycles obsessively despite not having them. He plans around them. He’s careful, always has been.
It’s just the blockers wearing off weird. Bad timing. Bad batch. He’s had worse.
“Yeah? Well you smell annoying,” he snaps back.
“Real mature,” says the ten-year-old. She crosses her arms, scowl firmly in place. “We should stop soon.”
Dean pats the bag between them, heavy with supplies. “Don’t need to.”
“You need medicine,” Claire argues. “And more sleep.”
“I have medicine.”
“Not that kind,” she says. “Real medicine. For sickness.”
Dean opens his mouth to argue—and then a wave of nausea rolls through him, sudden and vicious. His grip tightens on the wheel as he breathes through it, slow and steady, eyes fixed on the road.
It passes. Mostly.
“Five more minutes,” he mutters. “Then we’ll see.”
Claire doesn’t look convinced. She settles back into her seat, eyes tracking him like she’s cataloging every wrong detail for later.
Dean keeps driving.
The road stretches on, flat and endless, and the heat under his skin doesn’t fade. It just simmers, patient as something that knows it has all the time in the world.
Dean doesn’t make it five more minutes.
It hits him all at once, like his body finally gets tired of negotiating.
His vision tunnels, the world narrowing to the yellow line on the road and the rhythmic thunk of Baby’s tires over seams in the asphalt. Heat blooms under his skin, sudden and vicious, not the slow coil he’s used to but a flare—too bright, too fast. His stomach clenches hard enough to steal his breath, and sweat breaks out along his spine despite the November chill creeping through the cracked window.
“Shit,” he mutters, barely audible.
Claire hears it anyway.
“Dean?” she says, sharp now. “Pull over.”
“I’m fine,” he tries to say, but it comes out wrong—thick, slurred, like his mouth isn’t quite obeying him. He blinks hard, once, twice. The road swims.
Well that’s new.
He doesn’t remember drifting onto the shoulder, but suddenly the gravel is screaming under the tires, Baby shuddering as he jerks the wheel and slams the brakes. They stop at an awkward angle, half on the road, half off, engine still running.
Dean sags forward, forehead thunking lightly against the steering wheel.
“Dean!” Claire grabs his shoulder, shakes him hard. Her voice sounds like it’s underwater, and that makes no sense. “Dean, hey—don’t do that! Get up!”
He laughs weakly, the sound scraping his throat. “Bossy,” he murmurs. His skin feels wrong—too hot, too sensitive, every nerve ending lit up like it’s been sanded raw. His hips ache, deep and sharp, pain radiating down his thighs. It’s like heat, but twisted. Incomplete. Trapped.
Claire recoils a little when she scents him fully, fear spiking sharp and metallic. “Shit,” she breathes. “Shit, that’s bad.”
Dean tries to push himself upright and nearly vomits. He barely manages to get the door open before retching onto the gravel, body folding in on itself as the nausea tears through him. His hands shake violently, fingers clawing uselessly at the dirt as another wave hits—pain, heat, dizziness all blurring together.
Claire stands there for half a second, frozen.
Then she moves.
She grabs a paper towel from the backseat, dabs at his mouth like a new mother, awkward but determined. “Okay,” she says, voice trembling but steady enough to pass. “Okay. We’re stopping. You’re done driving.”
Dean groans. “Can’t… can’t stop here.”
“I know,” she snaps. “I’m not stupid.”
She helps him back into the car, shoving him toward the passenger side door with more force than necessary. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even have the energy to swear. His head lolls against the window, sweat soaking into his hair, breath coming shallow and uneven.
Claire slides behind the wheel.
The bench seat’s too far back and she can’t scoot it up, but somehow, her feet reach the pedals just barely. She adjusts the mirrors like she’s seen him do a hundred times, hands shaking.
“Okay,” she mutters to herself. “Yeah. We got this.”
She doesn’t drive far, just to the next exit, the glowing promise of a gas station sign cutting through the dark. She pulls in crooked, parks across two spaces, and kills the engine.
Dean doesn’t move.
“Dean?” Claire whispers, nudging him. His skin is burning now, heat rolling off him in waves so strong it makes her eyes water. His scent is everywhere, thick and sweet and wrong, crawling under her skin and setting off every alarm she has.
She swallows hard.
“Okay,” she says again, louder. “Okay. You’re not dying. Just… just stay put, alright?”
She rummages through his bag with frantic efficiency—water, pills, gloves, rags. She finds the blockers, the heat suppressants, but her hands hesitate. She remembers what he said. About dosing. About being careful.
Dean groans, low and broken, curling in on himself. “Fuck,” he whispers. “Hurts—”
“I know,” she says, voice cracking. “I know, just hold on.”
She gives him water, small sips like her mom used to do when she was sick, and wipes sweat from his face with shaking hands. It’s not enough. She can feel it, the same way she felt it in the car—this is bigger than her.
She looks around the gas station parking lot. Too open. Too many people. Too dangerous. Claire originally thought Dean’s scent is too much like illness to attract alphas, but she sees a man pumping gas behind them, and he’s looking more curious than concerned. Behind him, though, is a flickering motel sign. A Days Inn. They’ve stayed at one of those before, right?
Either way, the decision slams into place.
“New plan,” Claire says, straightening herself out. She gets the keys back in the ignition and speeds them across the street to the motel’s parking lot. It’s relatively empty, emptier than the gas station somehow, and it’s reassuring. Maybe she can pull this off after all.
Dean’s dead weight when Claire tries to get him out of the car. She hooks an arm under his shoulder and hauls him upright inch by inch, ignoring how his sick scent soaks into her clothes. She grabs the keys to lock the doors and gets the credit card then slings the bag of supplies over Dean’s shoulder. He’s as cooperative as he can be, gritting his teeth and shuffling along to the motel entrance.
At the motel desk, Claire does exactly what she’s seen Dean do: lie, lie, lie.
“My dad’s sick,” she tells the bored clerk, voice pitched just right—scared but brave, small but not helpless. She hopes Dean’s stuffing down as much of his sweet scent as he can, amping up the illness half of whatever’s happening to him. “He needs to lie down. We don’t need anything fancy, just somewhere quiet. His card should have enough for two nights.”
The clerk hesitates, eyes flicking between Dean’s fever-glazed stare and Claire’s too-steady posture.
Claire holds his gaze. Doesn’t blink.
They get a room on the first floor.
It isn’t scent-proofed. Claire knows that the second the door clicks shut behind them. She tries anyway—shoving spare clothes under the crack, cracking the window even though the cold bites at her fingers, spraying way too much of Dean’s alpha cologne until the air burns sharp and chemical in her nose. It’s nowhere near as meticulous as Dean usually does it, but it’ll have to do.
Dean barely makes it to the bed before he collapses, body curling in on itself like he’s trying to escape his own skin. His breath hitches, sharp and shallow, and then another wave hits, his whole frame shuddering as pain tears through him. He whimpers, and it’s weak. Nothing like the man who kicked down doors and cleaned up piles of dead bodies and drove them halfway across the country without blinking.
Claire’s chest aches.
She stands there uselessly for a moment, then forces herself closer, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking his hand. His skin is burning hot, feverish in a way that makes her dizzy. She tries to remember what her mom used to need during her heats—what helped, what soothed—but it’s been so long since Claire lived with her full time that the memories feel blurry around the edges.
She remembers scent mattered. A lot.
After her dad died, it was always Claire’s things her mom nested with—Claire’s shirts, her pillow, the stupid stuffed dinosaur she slept with every night. Claire used to cry when her mom took it, hated giving it up for four whole days at a time, but she always did.
Here, though, they don’t have anything like that. The only thing that smells like Claire at all is the leather jacket Dean let her use in the backseat—and she left it in the Impala. The realization sinks like a stone.
Defeated, Claire stays where she is, fingers curled tight around Dean’s like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. His fever keeps climbing, and she knows that’s bad. She knows she should do something—find ice, more medicine, someone who actually knows what they’re doing—but her body feels heavy.
She’s tired.
She’s scared.
She wants her mom.
More than that, though, she wants Dean to open his eyes and tell her everything’s going to be okay, the way he did back when he first found her, voice steady and sure like nothing in the world could touch them.
An idea hits her all at once.
“Sorry,” she whispers, gently prying her hand free from Dean’s weak, drowsy grip. He makes a small, unhappy sound but doesn’t wake. Claire’s already moving, rifling through his duffle with frantic purpose until she finds it—the Walkman, the headphones still neatly wrapped.
She rushes back to the bed.
It’s harder than she expects, fitting the orange puffs over his ears with the way he’s curled on his side, but she manages. She rewinds the tape all the way back to the beginning, the faint mechanical whirring loud in the too-quiet room, and presses play.
Music fills the space—soft at first, familiar.
Dean murmurs something, a low, half-formed sound she can’t make out. His grip tightens around the blanket instead of her hand, but his breathing eases just a fraction.
Claire exhales.
She curls up beside him, back pressed to the mattress, close enough to feel his heat through the thin motel sheets. The music hums on, steady and constant, like a promise.
Hopefully, she thinks hazily, everything will go back to normal in the morning.
Hopefully, when the album’s through, he’ll be okay.
Outside the thin motel walls, the night keeps breathing—unaware, uncaring—while Claire drifts into sleep beside the man who saved her, doing the only thing she knows how to do now.
Stay.
When Claire wakes up, it’s to the smell of unfamiliar alphas.
It hits her all at once. Thick, invasive, flooding the small motel room and sinking straight into her lungs. Her heart lurches so hard it hurts. Dean is beside her on the bed, curled toward her but not quite touching, like he’d positioned himself close enough to keep her safe without adding heat to his fever. His breathing is shallow but steady. He doesn’t react.
Outside the door, scents overlap and churn. Too many, too close.
Very carefully, she slides out of bed, every movement slow and silent. The carpet is rough under her bare feet. She doesn’t know how long she’s been asleep—only that it’s still dark, the window showing nothing but black. Her blockers have worn off; she can feel it in the way her skin prickles, the way the air feels aware of her.
Dean is still out cold, fever-sick in a way that terrifies her more than anything else. She’s gonna have to take care of this by herself.
Her eyes flick to the duffel bag on the coffee table. Blockers, she thinks desperately. If she can just mix some. Get Dean to swallow them. Make themselves smaller, quieter. Invisible.
A knock slams into the door.
Claire flinches so hard her teeth click.
“C’monnnn,” a man slurs from the other side, voice thick and loose. “I can smell ya in there. Open up, we just wanna talk.”
The next knocks are louder. Meaner. The door rattles in its frame, and in seeps angry, hungry, predatory alpha scent. Alpha scent that makes her skin crawl. Claire presses a hand over her mouth to keep from making a sound. She wants to cry.
“Sa… mmy…?” Dean’s voice is painful to listen to, scratchy and thick, swallowing around the mucus in his throat. “Wha… Wha’s goin’ on?”
She spins around. His eyes are barely open, unfocused, fever-glossed. He can’t help her, and she can’t help him, either. “I—I don’t know,” Claire hiccups, voice shaking. “There’s—there’s alphas—”
BANG. BANG. BANG.
“Open the goddamn door, Omega!” someone snarls “We don’t got all night!"
Dean’s eyes widen in realization, and he pushes himself up on shaky arms. “Fuck,” he breathes. “Fuck, I… o-okay, okay, Claire, c’mere, quick.”
She scrambles to him, knees knocking, and she doesn’t hide the sigh of relief she lets out when he cups her face, hands trembling against her cheeks.
“You g-gotta control your scent, pup, gotta calm down.”
“I don’t know how,” she sobs, panic clawing up her throat. “I don’t—I’m sorry—”
“Shh, ’s okay,” Dean murmurs. “Not you they want. Here.” He fumbles weakly with his shirt, tugging it over his head. Claire helps without thinking, even though her hands are shaking so badly she can barely manage it. “Put this on,” he says. “Hide under the bed. Quiet, ‘kay? Smell like me ‘n they won’t know you’re here.”
She nods, tears streaming down her face. Dean presses a kiss to her forehead, lingering like he’s memorizing her, or maybe like he’s gonna pass out. But then he folds the Walkman and headphones into her hands, and Claire knows he’s made his decision.
The door splinters inward, but Claire is already under the bed when it happens, heart hammering so hard she’s sure they’ll hear it.
Boots fill her vision. Three pairs, all heavy steps and confident movement.
“Jesus H. Christ,” someone laughs. “Well I’ll be damned.”
“The one and only Dean Winchester!” another says. “Can’t say I expected this one.”
“What are the fuckin’ odds,” a third one chuckles. “Shirt off, all weak and pliant? We walked into a Winchester in heat. This must be our lucky day.”
“Damn right it is. C’mon, get his pants off. We’ve waited long enough.”
Claire clamps a hand over her mouth as they surround the bed. The mattress dips sharply. Dean groans, weak and furious, and the sound makes her chest seize. He protests like only Dean could in the midst of a heat from hell, but the alphas ignore him, manhandling him into whatever position pleases them, talking over him like he isn’t even there.
She squeezes her eyes shut.
Then the duffel bag is pushed to the floor. It skids and stops inches from her face, just close enough to grab.
The knife. She knows it’s in there. Knows exactly where. Her hands hover, shaking. If she moves, they might see her. They’ll overpower her for sure, maybe sell her off again like those other guys tried to in Mass. Dean won’t be able to save her this time, and then she’ll never see her mom again.
But if she doesn’t—
Dean cries out above her.
They’re… they’re hurting him. They’re doing to him when the other alphas tried to do to her, what he saved her from. She can’t just sit here and do nothing.
Claire drags the bag toward herself, fingers clumsy and numb as she finds the blade’s handle. It’s heavy in her hands. She doesn’t want to be brave this way, mainly because she knows it’s not going to end well, but she also knows she has no other choice. Dean protected her, and it’s time for her to return the favor.
She crawls out from under the bed before she can think better of it, and someone shouts.
She drives the blade forward with everything she has, with every angry fiber in her body. She manages to get the knife about halfway into the tallest man’s back, watching with morbid fascination as the smell of blood immediately stinks up the room, even through his clothes. The man screams, stumbling back, and for one wild second she feels powerful, like she’s done something impossible.
Then she’s kicked hard, the air tearing from her lungs as she hits the floor. She can’t get to her feet before the alpha she stabbed kicks her again, landing a vicious blow on her ribs. She cries out and curls up, arms tucked to cover her organs. It’s a pitiful display, she knows, but it’s all she can do. Pain explodes through her side. She tries to crawl away, sobbing, vision blurred with tears, but someone grabs her hair and yanks her upright.
“Stupid little bitch,” the man snarls, breath hot and sour in her face. His red eyes are near feral. “What, you feeling left out? I’m not big into pups but Nick over here will fuck you like there’s no tomorrow.” He yanks her hair again, laughing when more tears spill down her cheeks. “Is that what you want, bitch?! Wanna be used like a cheap whore? Like your slutty omega daddy?”
“Let me go!” Claire screams, thrashing uselessly. “Let me go, let me go or I-I’ll kill you! I swear to god I’ll fuckin’ kill you!”
“Listen to her sing, Danny,” Nick grins. “Beautiful.”
“You’re sick in the head, man,” Danny laughs, throwing Claire roughly onto the floor. “But yeah, have at her. Didn’t know Winchester had a kid but whatever. Al, turn him on his side so he can watch. Yeah, like that, that’s perfect. Zay, grab me a towel or something for…”
His voice fades out of Claire’s ears as the one they call Nick moves to mount her. He earns a small foot to the jaw, but it’s not enough to keep him off her. Not once does she stop screaming, though, not even when Nick pins her arms down above her head and whispers curses into her neck, sucking in her petrified scent. She starts begging when she feels his teeth graze her scent gland.
“Dean!” Claire wails. “Help me, please! Dean, please!” She screams until her throat burns, until her chest aches, until her vision spots over. “Please!”
“Shut up, bitch, before I decide to mate you for real,” Nick snaps crudely, palming Claire’s flat chest with his calloused hands. “Focus on me, doll. I’m the one you should be begging for.”
Claire is sure she’s gonna throw up, but then—
“What the hell is going on here?!”
Everything freezes.
Claire doesn’t think. She takes advantage of the stunned silence and bolts, ripping herself free and crashing into the stranger, fists clutching his jacket like it’s the only solid thing left in the room.
“Please,” she babbles, words tripping over each other. “They broke in—my dad’s sick—they’re hurting him—please, you have to help, please!”
Her sinuses are clogged with tears and snot; she can’t scent a damn thing. Still, she knows this man isn’t one of them. His expression is confused, brow furrowed, eyes darting over the wrecked room—the overturned furniture, the blood, Dean barely conscious on the bed.
The stranger moves before Claire can even register letting go.
One moment his hands are steadying her shoulders. The next, he’s stepping past her like she weighs nothing, voice sharp and ringing.
“Get away from him.”
The alphas laugh.
Claire only catches fragments after that—a boot skidding across carpet, a fist swinging wide. The stranger ducks like he knows the punch is coming before it’s thrown, then drives his elbow into a man’s throat. Another alpha lunges and gets flipped hard enough that the bed frame shrieks across the floor.
It’s fast. Brutal.
Claire doesn’t watch. She’s busy scrambling back to Dean and drops to her knees beside the bed. He’s half-slid off the mattress, eyes glassy, skin burning under her hands.
“Dean—Dean, hey,” she whispers, shaking him gently. “C’mon. We gotta go.”
His eyes flutter. “Claire…?”
“I’m here.” Her voice wobbles, but she forces it steady. “We’re leaving. Right now.”
Behind her, there’s shouting—angry, panicked. Something slams into the wall. The stranger’s voice cuts through it again, calm and maddeningly polite.
“I said down.”
Dean groans as she tries to haul him upright, murmuring reassurances that make her throat close. She can’t do this alone, she knows that.
She hates that, but she glances back anyway.
The stranger has two of the alphas pinned on the floor, knee between shoulder blades, phone wedged between shoulder and ear like this is all routine.
“Yes,” he’s saying. “This is an emergency. Forced entry. There’s a pup. Yes, I’ll hold.”
Claire’s stomach drops.
Cops. Fucking cops.
“No,” she blurts, louder than she means to.
He looks up, startled. His eyes are wide—blue and earnest and gentle in a way that feels wrong after what he’s just done.
“They need medical attention,” he says. “Your—your father especially. I already called.”
“No,” Claire repeats, shaking her head hard. “You can’t. We can’t be here when they show up.”
“They broke into your room,” he says slowly, like she might not understand. “They hurt you. You’re not safe.”
“I’m less safe if we stay,” she snaps, hauling Dean’s arm over her shoulders. “Please. Just—keep them busy.”
Dean sags against her, murmuring something she can’t make out. She grits her teeth and drags him toward the door, heart hammering so hard it makes her dizzy.
The stranger hesitates.
Then one of the alphas surges up again, snarling. The stranger reacts on instinct—turning, striking, putting him back down with a sharp, controlled movement that makes Claire flinch. She doesn’t wait to find out what will happen next, hauling Dean and swiping the discarded, bloody knife on her way out.
The hallway is empty, fluorescent lights buzzing too loud, too bright. Claire half-carries, half-drags Dean down the walkway, every shadow feeling like another threat. Her arms burn. Her lungs ache.
Outside, the Impala looks like an oasis.
She fumbles the keys, shoves Dean into the passenger seat, nearly losing it when his head lolls uselessly against the window. She slams the door, runs around to the driver’s side—
—and freezes.
The stranger is standing there.
Up close, she can scent him clearly now. Alpha—but not sharp or aggressive. Clean. Singular. Dean smells like a dozen things layered together; her own scent is a mess, still forming, but this man smells like just one thing.
…She has no idea what the one thing is, but it’s surprisingly nice.
Maybe fake. Do alphas have a way to fake their scents? Claire has no idea, and the person who would is high on heat.
The stranger looks rumpled, jacket scuffed, knuckles red, but he’s got on a small frown that belongs in a preschool classroom. “I told the police where we are,” he says apologetically. “They’ll be here in a few minutes. You should stay. Let them help.”
Claire stares at him. What a fucking moron.
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
His brow furrows deeper. “I was trying to help.”
“Yeah, well you made it worse. Good going.”
Sirens wail in the distance.
Claire reaches for the driver’s door, knife gripped tight in her non-donminant hand. “Move.”
“You’re not seriously going to drive,” he says, incredulous. “You’re just a pup.”
“Well someone has to get us out of here before the pigs show up,” she hisses. “Unless you wanna explain why four alphas, including you, broke into our room and my dad’s in heat despite taking a double dose of suppressants.”
That gives him pause.
He glances back toward the motel, toward the red-blue lights bleeding into the early morning. When he looks at her again, his certainty has softened.
“…Your father is very sick,” he says carefully. “He shouldn’t be moved like this.”
“He’ll die if we don’t,” Claire snaps. Her voice cracks. She hates it. She hates everything. “So either get out of the way or… or help me.”
The stranger exhales slowly. Not much of a choice, is it?
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll help. Will you let me drive?”
“No fucking way.”
“I can get you farther, faster,” he says. “You’re exhausted, and you probably can’t reach the pedals, anyway.”
Claire gasps, fists clenched. “Yes I can, asshole! I drove us here!”
He lets out a quiet laugh, probably amused at how offended the pup is. “My apologies. I just don’t think it’s smart to have a small pup drive with police nearby.”
She hates that he’s right. More things to fucking hate.
“If you make one wrong turn without my say-so, I will stab you.”
He doesn’t blink. “That’s fair.”
Well… okay, Claire thinks. He seems trustworthy enough... But what kind of lunatic agrees to help a crazy pup and a sick omega in the first place?
“Why should I trust you?” she demands, forcing herself to keep up the fierceness in her tone. Her scent leaks fear, though, and the stranger can smell it. “How do I know you’re not just gonna… do wh-what those alphas were gonna do?”
“I don’t force people into intercourse,” the stranger deadpans. “I don’t have intercourse with pups, and I don’t have intercourse with sick people. I treat omegas and pups with respect. I’m sorry you’ve been in situations where anyone has acted otherwise.”
That—that—throws her. What the hell is she supposed to say to that?!
“I’m a doctor,” the stranger goes on. “Or—almost. Med school. On leave. You don’t trust the police so you probably won’t trust a hospital. I can treat you and your father. Consider me a good samaritan.”
Of course he is, Claire thinks hysterically. Of course the one decent alpha she finds is a qualified walking liability.
“There’s no such thing as a good samaritan,” Claire snaps. “Everyone wants something. The question is what?”
Dean would know what, Claire thinks bitterly, cursing herself. The fact that she doesn't know shows how stupid she is. Dean would kick this guy in the balls and speed on out of here. He'd find a treatment without needing help from some softie alpha.
The stranger frowns, clueless to Claire's angry internal monologue. “Well, if you’re planning on going west, I could avoid having to buy another train ticket. The car I took here won’t get me very far in its current condition.”
They are going west, but… Claire wants to take time to think, think what Dean would do, but it’s time they don’t have. Dean whimpers, fever-sweet scent flooding the car, and Claire’s stomach twists. She’s close enough to her first heat that it affects her even more, makes her dizzy, makes her want to curl up and stop thinking.
Claire is scared out of her mind, and Dean needs help. They can’t do this alone.
“You can drive,” she says finally, handing him the keys. “But I’m watching you.”
Castiel nods immediately. “Good.”
“And you don’t tell the cops where we went.”
“I already—”
She glares.
“…I won’t tell them anything else.”
Sirens are closer now.
Castiel jogs to a heap of scrap metal previously called a sedan and returns with a large and battered medical bag, movements careful, deliberate. He loads it into the backseat without being asked and slides behind the wheel.
Claire moves Dean into the back, too, tucking him in with the leather jacket. She sits with his head in her lap and watches Castiel through the rearview mirror, knife in hand.
“Highway,” she says. “West.”
“My name is Castiel, by the way,” he adds. “Castiel Milton.”
“Don’t care. Drive.”
The Impala peels out just as the first patrol car turns in, sirens screaming. Castiel drives like he’s known the car for years, all smooth and controlled.
Once they’re on the highway, he signals and pulls onto the shoulder.
“What are you doing?” she snaps.
“Helping,” he says gently, reaching for the medical bag. “He’s burning up.”
He climbs into the back, works efficiently—checking vitals, cleaning blood, murmuring apologies even when Dean doesn’t respond. He administers something from a small vial, and Claire wants to object, but Dean’s breathing evens out, just a little. It’s not enough, but it’s something.
Claire sinks back, shaking as the adrenaline fades. Somehow, she feels safer with him here, like her body agrees with a choice her brain still doesn’t. She decides to stare out the window, jaw tight. When Castiel moves back behind the wheel, Dean snuggles into a proper sleep and Claire isn’t too far behind.
Dean is pretty sure he’s hallucinating the man driving his car.
He’s handsome, that’s for sure. The lightest of stubble, barely a 5 o’clock shadow on a sharp jaw and dark, tousled hair. His tan trenchcoat fits awkwardly, too big around the shoulders and biceps, and the lapels are adorably mismatched in the way they sit on his chest. His tie is backwards, too, and instead of making him look like a toddler in grown-up clothes like it should, it paints a warmer, more affectionate picture. In all honesty, the man behind the wheel of his car looks like a perfect figment of Dean’s romantic imagination.
That’s how he knows he’s hallucinating.
Claire is with him in the backseat, his head on her bony legs. She’s asleep again, and there’s a nagging feeling in the back of Dean’s head. She’s been sleeping a lot more than a pup her age should, right? But he can’t focus on it. Can’t focus on anything, really. There’s an angel in the front and a child in the back and Dean feels like he’s seeing shrimp colors.
He sits up slowly. The leather jacket he was using as a blanket crumples in his lap, and he passes it over to Claire, wrapping it around her front. She snuggles into it on instinct, and Dean’s hind-brain congratulates him on making the space safe and good for his pup.
The man driving catches Dean’s eye again. They stare at each other through the rearview mirror, and Dean drinks in the soft blue, gorgeous in the afternoon sun.
Then the man looks away. He pulls over on the side of the long, barren road and puts the car in park. Dean watches, detached, as the man exits and circles the car. He has a medical bag with him in the front seat that he brings along, too, and Dean thinks it’s fitting that his fake angel knows how to heal people.
He opens the door on Dean’s side and whispers an apology as he squeezes in. Baby is roomy, though, so it isn’t hard to fit two men and a pup in the backseat. The angel is just polite like that.
“My name is Castiel Milton,” he says, and Dean thinks that name is perfect, even though it’s a bit of a mouthful. “Can you tell me yours?”
“Dean Winchester.” Does this count as a meet-cute?
“Hello, Dean.” Despite its roughness, Castiel’s voice is undeniably welcoming. Dean wants to hug him, and that makes no sense. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
It takes a second for Dean to sort out his memories, but he finds a scene of Claire climbing over the seat to sit by him in the front— “Claire!” he blurts, jerking up violently. He spins around, but the angel catches his face, holding him steady.
“Your daughter is alright,” he says. “But please be careful. You’re not experiencing a normal heat.”
“Daughter?” Dean echoes weakly. “I don’t…”
“It’s okay,” Castiel tells him. “How’s your pain? Do you need more painkillers?”
Dean shakes his head. Slowly, softly. He’s a little dizzy, but he’s not in pain. There’s a faint ache in his stomach, and now that he’s thinking a little more clearly, he does have a headache. Wait… “Who are you?”
“Castiel Milton.”
“No, yeah, I know that,” Dean grumbles. “I mean, how the fuck did you get the keys to my car?” A wave of cold, wrong, danger washes over him, and Dean pats his pockets for his knife. Fuck, it’s in his bag. Fuck! He turns and finds Claire shifting herself awake, probably spurred by the panic scent Dean’s spreading all over the place.
“Please calm down,” Castiel says, slowly inching backward. “I’m a doctor. I just want to make sure you and your pup are okay.”
“We’re fine,” Dean snaps.
“I think you’re experiencing an iatrogenic omega collapse,” Castiel explains. “We need to stabilize your temperature and scent output—”
“Shut up, shut the fuck up,” Dean blabs. He fumbles a bit but manages to turn around and face the little girl beside him, weakly shaking her shoulder. “Claire? Claire, baby, wake up. C’mon, wake up.”
Claire groans but she’s up in seconds, analyzing the situation. “What’s wrong?” she murmurs.
“Are you okay?” Dean asks, smoothing out her hair.
“Yeah,” Claire grunts, stretching her shoulders. She looks at Castiel over Dean’s shoulder, frowning. “Did you find out what’s wrong with him?” she asks.
“I think it’s an iatrogenic omega collapse,” Castiel repeats. “His endocrine system—”
“Stop it! I told you to shut up!” Dean snarls. “Claire, what’s going on?”
“You passed out,” Claire says, “on the road. I brought us to a motel but…”
“Are you okay? Did anyone hurt you?”
“I’m fine, you lunatic,” Claire laughs. “Worry about yourself. They almost… If it weren’t for that dork over there—” She nods to Castiel. “—we would’ve been dead.” The or worse is left unsaid, mainly because they both know it’s the more likely scenario.
“Do you know him?” Dean asks her.
Claire shakes her head. “But he’s nice, I think. Not dangerous. Smells fine.”
Dean turns back to Castiel. “If you make one wrong move—”
“You will stab me,” Castiel finishes, grinning softly. “I understand. I just want to help.”
“He also needs a ride,” Claire chimes in. “He’s going west, just like us.”
Dean frowns. “And you trust him?”
Claire nods, gray-blue eyes all sharp and determined.
“Fine,” Dean huffs, “but he’s not driving my baby any more than he already has.”
Castiel hands the keys over without argument, wearing a small smile of his own. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to do a quick check-up on your daughter just to make sure she isn’t sick or concussed,” he says. “I didn’t want to do anything while you were out.”
“Good choice,” Dean snarks. “If I had woken up and smelled you on her, you’d be in twelve different plastic bags floating down six different rivers.”
“He’s not exaggerating,” Claire beams, her joyous, prideful scent mixing with the lingering sickness, panic, and confusion in the air. “He’s actually that crazy.”
Castiel either doesn’t mind or doesn’t believe them because he happily shuffles into the backseat while Dean shuffles out, taking out the proper tools and such. Claire’s a good sport about it, probably because she’s still groggy from sleep. Also, apparently Dean went first while he was unconscious.
“Don’t worry, Dean,” Claire teases. “I didn’t let him do anything weird to you. That tattoo was there when you found me.”
Dean does an honorary fake laugh as he gets comfortable behind the wheel. Besides the headache, he feels alright. Kind of like driving during a normal pre-heat. Or after a couple of beers. They should be fine.
He keeps an eye on Castiel through the mirror and tries not to think of the ceramic angel his mom kept on the shelf in his bedroom.
Dean makes it twenty minutes before Claire feels the need to speak up. “Those alphas at the motel recognized you,” she says, leaning forward to hook her chin on the front seat’s bench. “You think they’re gonna come after us?”
Dean rolls the stiffness out of his shoulders. “Probably not,” he lies. “Depends on how well Sunshine over here kicked their asses.”
“He was pretty damn good,” Claire says. “Took down all three of them without any weapons. Totally badass.”
Dean’s gaze shifts from the road to the doctor blushing in his backseat. Is he embarrassed? That’s hilarious.
“I just did what any decent person would,” Castiel says.
“Pfft, yeah, right,” Claire snorts. “You shoulda seen him, Dean. He laid out those jackasses like it was nothing. Dude went full They Live on them.”
“You’ve watched They Live?” Dean balks. “With Rowdy Roddy Piper?”
Claire scoffs, clearly offended. “Of course I’ve watched They Live. ‘I’ve come here to chew bubblegum and kick ass, and I'm all out of bubblegum,’ bitch."
“You’re officially the coolest pup in the whole damn world,” Dean decides. Claire grins and extends her hand for a fist bump, which Dean 110% grants. “Anyway,” he goes on, “we should be good. Those guys probably recognized me ‘cause of my dad. They’re not interested in getting it on for real, ‘specially since we’ve got our very own alpha guardian angel.”
Castiel’s laugh is all nervousness. “I wouldn’t refer to myself like that,” he says past the awkward lump in his throat.
Dean ignores him with a small smirk. “Where’d you learn to fight like that, Cas?”
The doctor shrugs, and despite his neutral face, his amusement toward the nickname bleeds through his scent. “I grew up with a lot of alpha older brothers,” he answers. “Plus I’ve learned how to subdue disorderly patients in med school.”
“Cool,” Claire beams. “Can you teach me? I wanna kick ass, too!”
Castiel must really not be used to attention. He shies away from Claire’s firecracker spotlight like he’s allergic to it. “You’d have to ask your father.”
Dean narrows his eyes at Claire through the rearview mirror but doesn’t object. He’s not going to correct Castiel’s assumption, but by now Dean’s sickness smell has faded enough for him to notice the lack of similarities between the two omegas. Dean’s scent is all smoke, leather, and burned sugar, and with the heat it’s cinnamon-y and magnetic; Claire, though, smells like the air right before lightning strikes with a citrus-like foundation. She’s raw sugar while Dean’s is processed, probably from the years of blockers and suppressants. Castiel seems smart enough to tell the difference, and yet.
Now that he’s thinking about scents, though, Dean notices his headache creeping back in. They’ve been on the road for maybe an hour at this point, but he’s already sick of it. He needs to lie down and curl up, needs stable scents and not the russian roulette he’s playing as he drives mile after mile. He doesn't even know what state they're in.
“Claire,” he says, plucking her out of her conversation with Cas. “You okay if we stop again?”
“Are you feeling sick, Dean?” Castiel politely interrupts.
Dean isn’t sure how much he should share with the guy, so he dodges the question. “I’m still a little drowsy, and like I said, you ain’t driving my car.”
“I’m okay to stop,” Claire agrees. “But only if we can get more snacks first. You need food.”
Dean grins. “Thought you’d never ask.”
Instead of pulling into another gas station, they head for a real grocery store—the kind with automatic doors and too-bright lighting that makes Dean feel like he’s wandered into enemy territory.
Dean mixes blockers for Claire in the back seat before they go in, hands steady from long practice even while his head swims. Castiel watches him with open concern and then—gently, infuriatingly—shakes his head.
“You shouldn’t take those while you’re still recovering,” he says.
Dean grunts, avoiding looking at the alpha altogether. “I’ve been taking ‘em my whole life. I’ll be fine.”
“What do you think caused your sudden sickness in the first place?” The question is rhetorical, but it hits Dean anyway. He’s got a thousand arguments ready, and they all die, scorched by the sun that is Castiel when he opens his trunk and produces a small, well-organized kit. “I understand wanting to suppress your scent, as you are very ill and in the midst of a heat, but drugs will only worsen your condition.” He offers Dean an alternative: a fuckass bottle of aggressively neutral beta perfume, scent-repressing deodorant that smells like hospital floors and disappointment, and another painkiller injection to keep him upright.
Dean hates all of it, and at the same time, his scent floods the car with gratitude. He hands the blockers off to Claire, and she dutifully takes half, saving the rest for later.
The pain ebbs just enough afterward that Dean can breathe again, and as soon as he’s out of the car, Claire clings to his side, holding his hand. Cas is at his other side with a thankful scent of his own—like he really does care whether or not Dean fries his scent glands or something. Once Dean’s out of heat and feeling better, he’ll figure out what this guy’s deal is, probably send him on his way, but for now, he lets the alpha guide him through the indignity of playing the good, compliant omega while Claire struts around pretending she’s a beta pup who totally doesn’t need supervision.
Inside the store, Claire immediately declares herself Cart Captain.
Neither Dean nor Castiel argue, even though the cart handle hits her square in the chest. She holds on anyway with the confidence of a warlord, until she realizes she can’t reach the shelves while steering. This leads to a system: Castiel pushes, Claire dismounts to grab snacks, then hops back on like she’s reclaiming her throne. Castiel steps aside without comment every time, like this is all perfectly reasonable.
Dean watches the whole thing, dazed.
They load the cart with Claire’s snacks—far too many—and Dean’s emergency food: insta-meals, canned soup, microwavable chicken nuggets, jars of peanut butter. Castiel quietly adds fruits and vegetables like he’s sneaking contraband past a border checkpoint. Late-season apples. Pears. Cranberries. An alarming quantity of carrots and sweet potatoes.
Dean’s the only one who objects.
“This is rabbit food,” he mutters. “If you haven’t noticed, we're not fucking rabbits.”
“I sure hope not,” Castiel teases softly. Dean has to manually stop his jaw from dropping. A joke? From this lame, awkward alpha? Wow. "And plus, you need the nutrients," Cas finishes.
Claire peers into the cart, shrugs. “It’s fine," she says. "I like the color orange.”
Damn traitor.
Really, Dean should be panicking. The whole things feels painfully domestic, and if Dean weren’t out of his mind from the half-heat, half-plague thing wrecking his system, he’d be freaked the fuck out. A sweet alpha keeping watch without claiming, taking, tearing things apart. A pup laughing freely instead of cowering by him, terrified her brand new omega scent will attract a crowd Dean can’t fight off. Even just… a grocery cart instead of a duffel bag, and buying food instead of stealing it. He’s never had this before, and it’s terrifying, and he doesn’t deserve it, and he should do something, anything, besides go with the flow here, but…
Well, his inner omega settles. Curls into the quiet, steady presence at his side. Dances with the pup as she finds a bag of chips with a Batman logo. And it’s hard to argue with that.
They get a hotel room instead of a motel room. It’s a small difference—one Dean’s never bothered to care about—but it’s a difference all the same. Hotels are all indoors: the lobby, the hallways, the elevators. No doors opening straight out onto the parking lot, no easy line of sight from a passing car to their bed. Dean didn’t realize how much that mattered until the tension in his shoulders eases a notch the moment the door shuts behind them.
The room is bigger, too. Two plush queen beds that don’t reek of old sex and desperation—no lingering traces of omega prostitutes and rough, careless alphas ground into the sheets. Dean hates that he knows that smell so well. He’s grateful not to smell it now. Clean is clean, all the way through, and Claire seems to feel it too. She climbs onto the bed closest to the window without a word, curls in like she belongs there.
Dean wants in this moment, more than anything, to get this pup her own bed. Her own space to curl up in. He forces the thought on the backburner.
They spent most of the day shopping and driving in circles, trying to find a place that meets Castiel’s standards. He’s not fancy—Dean clocked that right away, considering Cas had been staying in the same roadside motel as them—but he is paranoid. Probably wasn’t before he met Dean and the shitbags that almost raped him, but he is now. Like chipping wallpaper means a gang of drunk alphas will ambush them when the clock strikes midnight.
Dean doesn’t complain. Cas insists on paying, and if that’s the price of letting him be in control, Dean lets him have it. Could be worse.
Now Cas sits on the bed closest to the door, posture careful, medical bag open at his feet. His notes are spread neatly beside him, handwriting precise. Every few minutes he looks up—at Claire, at his watch, at Dean’s reflection in the darkened television screen—like he’s quietly counting breaths. He hasn’t said anything yet about Claire’s check-up, but Dean doesn’t need him to. The kid scent-presented a month ago and then… nothing. No instincts kicking in, no nesting, no appetite. She eats junk food because she’s a kid, but they’ve run out of food on the road multiple times and Claire hasn’t complained even once. Like she doesn’t remember she’s hungry until Dean brings them to the candy aisle. Add trauma on top of that, and Dean can do the math. Her first heat should be close. Days, maybe.
Dean’s terrified.
Claire looks even smaller curled on her side like this, Dean’s leather jacket tucked under her chin. The Walkman rests crooked against her ear, no headphones so the tinny music whispers into the room, barely loud enough to steady her breathing. Every so often she twitches, nose wrinkling, scent flaring bright and sharp for a heartbeat before settling again.
Dean sits on the edge of the bed, boots still on, elbows braced on his knees. He hasn’t moved in a while. Doesn’t trust himself to. Maybe if he does, something fragile will snap, and he can’t let that happen, no matter how irrational it is. He keeps one hand close to Claire without touching her and thinks about petting her hair. He’s not sure if it’d be for her or for him.
Dean takes his mind off of it by turning his gaze across the room where Castiel occupies his bed like he’s afraid of leaving a mark. His presence fills the space anyway—clean, steady, an alpha gravity Dean refuses to look at directly. The scratch of pen on paper is soft, almost rhythmic, and Dean watches without looking. Counts the sounds. The scrape of ink. The rise and fall of Claire’s breathing. The way the room smells like cheap soap, clean sheets, and something that feels dangerously close to peace.
It feels safe, and that’s what bothers him.
Castiel is the one who breaks the silence.
“Your vitals are still abnormal,” he says quietly, like he doesn’t want the words to carry any farther than the space between them. “They didn’t stabilize after the injection, so you will likely have another intense wave in a few hours.”
Dean snorts, leaning back on his hands. “Yeah, well.” He lifts one shoulder in a careless shrug that costs him more than he wants to admit. “I feel better, and that’s what counts. Just keep the drugs coming, doc, and we’ll be all good.”
Castiel doesn’t smile, and its absence makes the lightheartedness Dean was going for shrivel into nothing. He exhales through his nose, rubs a hand down his face, and lets his head tip forward.
“Okay,” he mutters. “Yeah. Fine. What do you need? Blood sample? Do you even have the kind of shit for that with you?”
“No,” Castiel answers. “For now I’ll settle on more information. What can you tell me about your drug habits?”
The scoff slips out sharp and ugly. “I don’t think doing what I have to so I don’t get kidnapped or raped qualifies as a drug habit,” Dean snaps. Then his shoulders sag. Fuck, he’s tired. “But… uh, yeah. Been on suppressants too damn long. Way longer than anyone’s supposed to, probably. Stacked with the homemade, half-measured blockers like that was gonna fix it.” A humorless breath leaves him. “Real scientific approach.”
Castiel doesn’t interrupt.
“I knew this could happen,” Dean goes on, voice lower now. “Knew I was playin’ chicken with my own biology back before I ever picked up Claire. But bein’ an omega on the road is bad enough. Bein’ an omega on the road with a kid?” He shakes his head. “That’s worse. Way worse. So yeah, I chose this. Dug my own damn grave, but better the devil I know, right?”
He looks up then, bracing himself for the look—for judgment, for pity, for the kind of clinical disapproval he’s gotten used to.
It doesn’t come.
Instead, Castiel says softly, “You shouldn’t have had to make that choice.”
The words hit harder than any lecture could have. Dean blinks, jaw tightening, and looks away again. He doesn’t have time for this chick-flick bullshit.
Castiel closes his notebook and sets it aside, the movement deliberate.
“I left med school because I froze up,” Cas says. Not defensive, not ashamed. Just factual. “A pup stumbled onto our private campus with a broken leg and… and worse. He was in such terrible shape, I could barely look at him. But he just kept begging for someone to help him, and…” His hands curl loosely in his lap. “I knew what to do. I was actively being trained in emergency services, but I just… didn’t do it fast enough.”
Dean glances at him, something sharp and wary in his eyes.
“He was okay,” Castiel adds quickly. “Another doctor stepped in. He got care. He survived.” A pause. “But I keep thinking about how easily it could have gone the other way. How standing there, hesitating, felt worse than doing something wrong.”
Dean swallows.
“I don’t want to freeze like that again,” Castiel finishes quietly. “So I try very hard not to.”
The silence that follows is heavier than before, but it’s different now—shared, instead of empty.
Dean shifts, rubbing his thumb along the seam of his jeans, then nods once.
“So,” he says, “what’d you find with Claire?”
Cas reaches for his notes again, and the shift is immediate—vulnerability tucked away, focus snapping into place. Whatever he’d just shared folds inward, replaced by something precise and steady.
“Her scent pattern isn’t consistent,” he says quietly. “It spikes during stress, then crashes too quickly. That kind of volatility usually tracks with disrupted sleep.” His gaze flicks to Claire, careful, practiced. “She’s micro-waking. Slipping out of REM before her body finishes what it’s supposed to do. She’s not actually resting.”
He pauses, watching her the way only someone trained to notice the smallest deviations can.
“There are physical indicators as well,” Cas continues. “Minor temperature fluctuations. Persistent muscle tension. Subtle things— all easy to miss, especially without a stable routine to measure them against.”
Dean presses his nails into his palm until the sting grounds him. His fault. Maybe. Probably. But she’s breathing. She’s here. That means there’s still something he can do, right? If he keeps his fucking head screwed on straight.
Still—
“Is it bad?”
“Not critically,” Cas says after a moment. “But it does mean her system isn’t following a predictable timeline.” He meets Dean’s eyes. “Predicting exactly when her heat will hit is going to be difficult.”
Dean nods, slower this time. He files the information away, already rearranging plans, routes, contingencies—anything that might keep her safe when the moment finally comes.
Then Claire’s breath stutters.
It’s barely a sound at first—a soft, broken whimper—but her scent flares sharp and panicked, cutting through the room. Dean is already turning when she jerks awake, a scream ripping out of her as her body folds in on itself, arms coming up to shield her.
“Let go!” she cries, voice raw, cracking. “Please– please! Don’t—”
Dean is there before the echo fades. Two steps, maybe less. He drops to the mattress and pulls her against him, one arm bracing her back, the other cupping the base of her skull like he’s done it a thousand times. For Claire, sure. But also for Sammy, something in his mind whispers. To keep Sammy safe.
“Hey. Hey.” His voice stays low, steady, meant to be felt more than heard. “It’s alright, pup, you’re safe, I got you.”
She fights for half a second on pure instinct, then breaks—fists tangling in his shirt, nails digging in as she buries her face against his collarbone. Her sobs come hard and fast, breath hitching like she can’t get enough air. Dean does his best to reel back his lingering heat and sickness scent, pushing out comfort and safety. Whatever drugs Castiel gave him work wonders.
“Dean,” she gasps. “Dean, they’re gonna hurt me, please, I don’t wanna– I don’t wanna—”
“I know,” he says immediately, rocking her without realizing he’s doing it, forehead resting against her hair. “I know, sweetheart, but you’re not there, you’ve with me. I’m gonna protect you, remember? You’re safe.”
Her scent is all sharp edges and fear—too young, too bright—and it hits him like a punch to the ribs. Dean tightens his hold, one hand smoothing down her back in slow, deliberate strokes, like if he keeps the rhythm steady enough, her breathing will follow.
Across the room, Castiel is already moving. Not rushing, never rushing, but close enough now that his presence settles into the space like another wall holding firm. He crouches beside the bed, careful not to crowd, voice calm and certain.
“Claire,” he says gently. “You’re in a hotel room. The door is locked. I checked it myself.”
God, him and his logic. Dean can’t help his smile—this damn alpha is adorable.
In his arms, Claire sobs harder at the sound, then, gradually, tilts her head just enough to look at Castiel through tear-blurred eyes. The alpha is pumping out pheromones of his own, protective and gentle. It’s so foreign to both Claire and Dean that time slows down.
“Dean’s here,” Cas continues. “And I’m here. Nothing bad is happening to you right now.”
Dean presses a kiss into her hair, rough and reverent all at once. “Hear that, pup? You’re surrounded. No one’s getting past us.”
Her grip loosens by degrees, breath evening out inch by inch as the panic burns itself down. She stays tucked against Dean’s chest, small and trembling, but breathing—actually breathing.
Castiel stays close, a steady presence at their side, watching Claire’s breathing normalize, watching Dean without judgment. The room still smells like pup’s nightmare, but beneath it, threading through, is something warmer. Safer.
Maybe this alpha is a keeper after all.