Chapter Text
The chill of the window glass felt strangely comforting under Castiel’s fingertips. A grounding sensation, more reminiscent of cool water than the bite of steel, such as that of an abandoned school bus past midnight.
In the front seat, after a brief debate on whether or not to stop for food, Dean and Sam had fallen silent. Castiel interpreted the quiet without thinking, reading their weariness and frustration in the air with no more trouble than watching their mortal souls wavering underneath their physical forms.
He blinked, surprised and pleased by his own skills. There had a been a time (not at all long ago for a being such as himself) when he struggled to find the meaning of an expression, a split-second gesture, a flash of a scent; he an all-powerful presence hindered by his inability to grasp human emotion. It was much less often a challenge for him now, and he had several factors to thank: Time. His experiences as a human himself. A willingness to seek out and find and understand. And of course, his most important tie to humanity now.
Dean. Castiel’s own mate, who at that moment, flickered his gaze from the road to the rearview mirror, catching Castiel leaving fingerprints on the glass of his other beloved. There was an amused grunt and roll of his eyes, which returned to the puddle of light illuminating the Impala’s way. Castiel took his hand from the window, smiling slightly, and set about entertaining himself through other means.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, taking in all that he could through this, the most special and crucial of the humans’ senses.
At present, the air was stuffy with the scent of farmland left too long to rot in the August sun. Old rope gone mildewy with seawater. Particles of sour dust. As in so many other areas, the brothers were perfectly synced.
But Castiel focused harder, teasing out the nuances that distinguished them.
Dean’s scent he understood better than any other in this form, the unique combination of warm fabric, steam from lava rocks, forest undergrowth, and a smell that felt more like a memory, something that spoke of ancient forms of life and campfires at dusk and battlefield blood. It was something that could not be expressed in any language.
Castiel had not spent the same number of hours mapping out Sam’s scent, yet he could still read the inky-sawdust-iron-raw almond smell nearly as well as the looks of concern Sam reserved for his brother. It was an undeniably Alpha scent, more industrial than Dean but no less masculine and powerful.
The car, their home in motion, was saturated with the two Winchesters, every inch infused with undertones of gunpowder and the rank, predatory musk of lions.
It was an intimidating blend for the uninitiated, those outside their small pack, but Castiel settled back into the worn leather seat with ease. His place here was earned.
And it wasn’t as if his own hands were free from blood.
The silence continued to surround the pack as Dean guided them safely home, parking the Impala in the dimly lit concrete garage and opening the trunk for their duffels. Exhaustion made the brothers’ footsteps heavy and sluggish across the faded carpet leading to their respective bedrooms.
Castiel went to the bunker’s scrubbed kitchen right away, hoping Dean and Sam would not have to regret their decision to go home without eating first. He dug through the pantry that held their small cache of cereals and canned goods and discovered several boxes of macaroni and cheese. Not the product in the vivid blue box Castiel saw advertised on television, but generic, colorless cardboard holding even more colorless noodles that clattered against the bottom of the pot.
Castiel grimaced and covered the dusty macaroni with water. Far from an appealing dinner, but it would beat starvation. He opened one of the packets of neon orange cheese powder.
Perhaps.
He was examining the nutritional content on the back of the boxes (he should really be more vigilant about his mate’s sodium intake) when he became aware of a certain spark in the air, like the first crackle of lightning. His placement of the sensation was instinctual, as was his instant relocation to its source.
Reaching at once for his blade as he flew and found himself in the library, Castiel felt the fire coursing through his human form rise. His wings, which could not be truly seen nor felt in this plane, spread wide, feathers pulsing with liquid electricity.
“And good evening to you as well, Castiel.”
A low snarl sounded from the corner of the room, where Dean was poised to strike at the intruders, knife in hand. Likewise, Sam bore his own teeth and blade, long legs bent in a crouch next to the chair he’d obviously knocked over in his hurry to get upright.
Castiel was relieved his humans were unharmed, but he knew too well that could change in an instant with angels involved.
“What do you want, Alana. Seraphiel.”
He knew them, of course. Castiel knew all his brothers and sisters, even if he was only well acquainted with a small number. The two standing before him, dressed in women wearing bland, grey suits, brought a nodding sense of recognition, but nothing more.
The one with the bright-blue-star-shining-bear-cub form, Alana, spoke again and her vessel’s tongue rolled over and under with tones of her broad, True voice.
“Fear not, Castiel. We have not come to harm you, nor the humans under your protection, but at the request of Heaven.”
She paused briefly, the air beside her shimmering like heat over asphalt and Castiel knew she was unaccustomed to containing her form within a vessel, unused to the confinement of her wings in flesh-and-blood.
“A solution for returning our brethren to Heaven has been proposed. A possible route to peace again among our ranks, at the cost of only a short period of…compliance from the Winchesters.”
“Well, sweetheart, you must be new to the club, ‘cus we don’t take too well to memos from upstairs,” Dean barked, seething with the rage that dropped uncomfortable silences at crowded bars and forced information out of the most unwilling. The scent of black licorice mixed with wood smoke filled the air.
“Dean!” Sam fixed his brother with a tempering stare, then turned back to the other angels warily. Dean caught Castiel’s eye and frowned, but said no more.
Castiel shared his dread and concern. He sensed that Alana spoke truthfully –that was, that she did believe in the message she delivered –yet he knew too well that a solution to overturning Metatron’s spell could not come easily. Nor could he imagine what part he could possibly be asked to play within such a solution, not after his recent demonstrations of allegiance.
Sam lowered his knife slightly and addressed Alana himself, lemon-pepper-curiosity coloring his wariness.
“That’s a pretty big claim, saying you’ve got a Band-aid to hold that mess together. Before we hear what kind of “compliance” you’ve got in mind for us, how about telling us who you even are?”
“Impertinent, human.” Seraphiel’s vessel was smaller than any other body in the room, and her tinny voice was soft, but she spoke with cold, ancient power. It was with the knowledge of archangels, and Castiel gasped aloud as her True form finally broke a cord of recollection within his memory. Face beautiful, crowned with peonies and holly, body of a great eagle, and many, many times larger than he himself. His mouth filled up with a silent curse.
“It seems that having Castiel at your beck and call has filled you with a false sense of security among the presence of angels, but you would do well to remember that our taking the time to speak to you, like equals, is nothing more than a courtesy.”
When Seraphiel halted her imposing speech to shake out her own wings, it was not only the space around her that vibrated, but the entire library. Dean’s eyes flashed with fear for a split second, before he tightened his grip on his blade and his face settled with grim determination.
“Still, to further that courtesy, I will answer your question, Sam Winchester. My companion is Alana, guardian of motherhood and birth under my office.”
Seraphiel raised her vessel’s small chin, a gesture that pushed her golden cheekbones to higher prominence, though neither Sam nor Dean could see it.
“For I am Seraphiel: chief of the Seraphim, judge of angels, and protector of Metatron.”
There was a sharp inhale of breath and dull clatter as Sam dropped his blade, but it was all but obscured by Dean’s howl of rage as he made to charge at the angels. Seraphiel raised a hand calmly and Dean was shoved back hard into the brick with the force of her Grace.
Castiel tried to move, drawn to his mate’s grunt of pain, but found himself similarly pinned where he stood.
“We’d never!” Dean spit, struggling uselessly against his bonds. “Never work with the bastard protecting fuckin’ Metatron! Although…” He managed a rueful smile. “Doesn’t seem like you’re gonna be up for a promotion any time soon, seeing as you went and let the boss-man get locked up.”
Seraphiel spared him a grotesque approximation of disgust, revulsion curling her sculpted lips.
“I will finish speaking now. You misunderstand, which I am certain is no uncommon occurrence. While I was charged with the protection of the holy scribe, I agree that imprisonment is the suitable punishment for his crimes. My highest obligation is to Heaven, even above the welfare of one angel, and so, fittingly, I also must answer for my part in his plot. Had I been keeping proper watch over Metatron, tracking his hideouts here on Earth, I would have known of his plans to expel us all from Heaven, and thus, I must sacrifice something of myself in our rebuilding.”
“And what will that be?” Sam asked from his place near the up-turned chair, hands at his side. He moved and breathed easily, free from the bond of Seraphiel’s Grace, and Castiel wondered at this, feeling his unease build even further.
It was Alana who answered, in a tone of such practiced obedience it neared boredom.
“In the spellwork for our species-wide expulsion, which he alone can wield, Metatron called for –along with other items, including your Grace, Castiel –a Nephilim, slain. With the recovery of your Grace, along with the Cupid’s bow, the order of the Seraphim believe it possible to try to reverse the spell, finally drawing back all remaining angels to Heaven and restoring order to the chaotic divisions that have resulted from the Fall.”
Castiel experienced a momentary fluttering of hope in his chest, which quickly dropped to the pits of his stomach.
“You need to breed a Nephilim for the counterspell.”
“Yes,” Seraphiel answered tartly. “I have elected to conceive it, in atonement for my mistakes.”
“You…have to make a human-angel baby? That’s your punishment?” Sam looked so confused, Castiel burned with sympathy for him.
He tried to speak quickly, to enlighten him before Alana and Seraphiel decided they had enough of what he knew they must consider to be idle chatter.
“Nephilim are abominations, Sam, monsters in the view of Heaven. To conceive one in the old days was a great disgrace among angels, and the stigma remains so strong that none currently exist on Earth. I must admit that when Dean and I were first mated, I was relieved to know we are not sexually compatible to create pups ourselves.”
Castiel glanced back at Dean shamefully, guilt and remorse rolling through him at the hurt on his mate’s face. But there would be time to soothe Dean later. Castiel was only becoming more and more convinced that it was Sam who was in greatest danger at the moment.
The younger Alpha turned his gaze from angel to Dean to Castiel to angel, growing visibly frustrated. His expression was the same as when he struggled to find some obscure piece of lore, late in the night after two days of no rest.
“That still doesn’t explain what you two are doing here,” Sam gestured at the angels.
His face turned aghast.
“You don’t…. don’t expect me or Dean to, well, to father it, do you?”
Castiel shook his head before the others could answer.
“Nephilim cannot be born of angels. Only of humans.”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree, ladies,” Dean sang out, confident despite the traces of pain still etched around his eyes. “Winchesters are Alphas.”
“Yes, and anyone with a nose could sense that,” Seraphiel snapped back. “Castiel, your pets seem to appreciate subtlety like a hundred-years plague, so I will be blunt: as a vessel bred to hold Lucifer, greatest of us all, Sam has been selected as the best possible carrier for a Nephilim. It is a simple process, though by no means easy, for Alana to modify his form to appropriately conceive and nurture the child, and upon birth, we will return to accept it for what the order believes will be a completed counterspell.”
Castiel was anticipating his mate’s outrage on his brother’s behalf, so he only half-heard Dean’s furious, ocean-wave-crash proclamation, “Son of a bitch! You can’t just stuff him full of Omega parts and use him like a broodmare!”
He focused his attentions instead on Sam, who seemed pale and smaller than usual under the blazing light of the angels. Seraphiel and Alana watched for his reaction as well, clearly expecting a verbal response.
Sam seemed to ignore Dean’s outburst and instead stared straight back at the angels, frowning slightly.
“If I say no, will you do it anyway?”
“No,” Alana answered simply. “The process requires entry to your body and cannot be undertaken without your consent.”
There was quiet while Sam folded his arms and leaned back against the heavy wood table in the center of the room, face lined with concentration.
“You can change me for this…but you can change me back, afterwards?”
“Yes.”
“Will I be responsible for…it after you’re done with the spell? Assuming it even survives?”
“No.”
“Will I survive, having it inside me? It won’t hurt me?”
“There is no reason to believe otherwise.”
“Right.” Sam wet his lips and crossed his arms the other way. “And this is the best plan anyone’s got, for getting Heaven back together?”
“Sammy, no,” Dean moaned, fists clenching and unclenching from where he was held.
“My Seraphs are the highest order of angels, Sam, as well as the oldest, with the collective wisdom of millennia,” Seraphiel strode closer, tiny feet making almost no noise on the carpet. “And I know myself to be a good, righteous, if somewhat desperate leader and judge. We all must contribute what we can to right the wrongs that have been done, I making a part of myself mortal and unbuttoning my…dignity, you surrendering your body, while your brother and Castiel watch over you these coming months. Past sins must be atoned for.”
Castiel felt one of his wings twitch and kept his gaze fixed on Sam’s face. There was silence for a few more beats before Sam straightened his tall frame and let his arms fall free.
“I’ll do it.”
“Sam!” Dean cried out, but already Alana was moving to place a hand flat against Sam’s forehead, her Grace flowing from her in molten blue and silver.
It was difficult for Castiel to decipher the Enochian she chanted, which was rich with age and complexity. He felt, rather than heard the commands for change, for flesh to grow and pulse and burn. Having examined Sam at an atomic, spirit-level himself, he was relieved to see the pains Alana took to work with care, creating and growing from Sam while preserving all she could. Even still, the process took only a few minutes at most.
Seraphiel stepped forward then and Alana reached back to clasp the hand she offered. Alana dropped her touch from Sam’s head to his abdomen and the living chain of three glowed and pulsed brighter than before, urging Sam’s body to do as no angel could and create anew.
The connection broke with a faint sizzle and all three members of the Winchester pack slumped to the ground; Castiel and Dean with Seraphiel’s bonds having broken, Sam with the force of the transformation he’d just endured.
“SAMMY!”
Dean tripped and stumbled as he propelled himself to his brother. Castiel knelt beside the two and placed a hand to Sam’s throat, feeling for a pulse. It was a bit faster than usual, no doubt his heart accustoming itself to flowing in new areas, but Sam was unconscious. Dean shook at his shoulders, calling his name a few more times, before whirling around to face the angels.
“Spineless sonsabitches, you said it wouldn’t hurt him!” Dean’s eyes glinted dangerously and the burnt licorice smell intensified. “The fuck do you call this?!”
Seraphiel seemed no more concerned than if she’d just poured a cup of coffee, and Castiel felt a streak of now-familiar irritation at his kind’s disregard for the fragility of humans.
“Sam’s body has been reshaped into an entirely new form, as well as coerced into accepting a Seraph’s Grace to create a new life. Let him rest and recover. Your brother will be well throughout his pregnancy.”
“We should leave now,” Alana put in, eyes on Sam’s motionless form. “You should have no further need of us, unless difficulty arises. Castiel will know if any part of the child’s development is amiss.”
Castiel felt his wing twitch again and looked up to inquire about this supposed ability only to find the Seraphs had vanished with a rustle of feathers.
Dean rolled his head back with a bitten-off curse before clutching at Castiel’s wrist with one hand, his other still holding tight on Sam’s shoulder. The air was sharp with the marathon sweat and sunbleached bones smell of fear for his brother.
“Why d’we always get the weird shit, Cas? Never just bedbugs or runnin’ out of gas, is it, babe?” Dean’s grip was warm and strong, but Castiel could feel the slight shaking of his hand.
“He’ll be fine, Dean. The angels…need him safe and whole.”
Dean snorted, a desperate, painful sound.
“ ‘S’long as he’s in good enough shape to incubate their monster, I guess.”
Castiel was about to respond (an affirmation would be the truthful route, if his love for Dean were not so great) when Dean suddenly lifted his head to sniff at the air with his keen Alpha nose.
“Something burning?”
“Oh! Yes. I was, um, cooking macaroni and cheese.” Castiel locked eyes with his mate guiltily, until he felt Dean’s gaze warm with reluctant amusement.
“Right. Okay.” Dean hooked an arm under Sam’s shoulder and started to rise, cueing Castiel to assist him. “Let’s tally up today: there’s a freshly-turned vamp on the loose we couldn’t bring in, Sam got knocked up, we’re totally out of clean socks, and we probably don’t have more than half a box of Raisin Bran and burnt mac and cheese to round out the evening.”
“Sam ate the Raisin Bran this morning,” Castiel reminded his mate, trying to be helpful.
Dean only grunted in response.
Dean raised his arms above his head, letting loose a yawn as he stretched. The incredible wrongness of the air hit him and he shook his head, trying to rid his nose of the irritating scent.
He knew what his brother smelled like –books tools health food store – knew that smell better than he knew any in the whole world (Cas’ scent just wasn’t as pervasive, as defining as a human’s), and even though it wasn’t really gone, it was like it was muted somehow, like the lights had been dimmed. It was seriously freaking him out.
And then, the truly scary part. Ever since Sam laid down to “rest and recover,” the bunker had been filling with a scent totally foreign and unbelievable: the mellow notes of pregnant Omega. When Dean closed his eyes, he could almost pretend he’d just walked by a woman or man on the street with a big belly and slow pace.
But the smell wasn’t coming from a stranger. The cocktail of clean grass and warm fur and fuckin’ fresh-baked blueberry muffins was what the angels had turned Sam into. His baby brother, a sacred vessel not for the devil but for a Nephilim, a creature so revolting to angel-kind his own mate was relieved they couldn’t have pups of their own.
Like he’d heard himself churning in Dean’s mind (hell, maybe he had), Cas padded into the kitchen, wafting cinnamon honey oaky rain to announce his presence before Dean even noticed his footsteps.
“Maybe they conveniently forgot to mention Sam’d be unconscious for the whole thing.”
Cas dropped to a stool opposite at the low wood table and studied Dean’s closed laptop, head tilted.
“I don’t think so. He wanted to eat and urinate during the brief period he was awake yesterday. It seems that his body is just adjusting to its new state.”
“Mmm. Right.” Dean breathed deeply, ignoring the Omega-scented air to focus on steeling himself for the can of worms he was about to open up. “So. Cas?”
“Yes, Dean.”
“Y’know, you could have told me sometime before now if the thought of having a kid with me was so horrible.”
Cas’ eyes went wide as his face took on that kicked-puppy expression he got whenever he’d let Dean down. Dean recognized that look well, had to know all Cas’ many moods from just his face, when his scent only changed minutely in response to his emotions. At the moment though, the sour tang of guilt was enough to cover the sweetness of the bunker.
But not for long. Cas had only gotten as far as opening his mouth to start a “Dean, I-” when the smell increased a hundredfold and the source appeared in the doorway, stumbling and rubbing his eyes.
Sam may have smelled like a garden party, but he looked like shit. Hair all tangled up and greasy. Drool-trail at the corner of his mouth. Eyes puffy. The weird thing though was how he carried himself. He walked almost as if he’d taken one too many hits to the back: lower to the ground, knees bent, like he wasn’t sure whether the next step would bring him pain.
Dean was on him in a flash, taking shoulders in his hands that felt smaller than before, daring to feel thankful for just a moment.
“Sam! Man, is it good to see you up, little brother.”
Sam managed a smile, accepted the hug Dean wrapped him up in, and broke free to settle on Dean’s stool, lowering himself with the same carefulness.
“How are you feeling?” Cas asked, stowing away all traces of his own emotion and avoiding Dean’s eye. To be continued, then.
“Exhausted.” Despite the crappiness of his appearance and the newness of his scent, Sam sounded exactly like himself, a tiny thing for Dean to take comfort in. “How long’ve I been out?”
“Two days. You were up a little while yesterday when I was grabbing a shower, Cas helped you pee and eat half a Pop-Tart before you went down again.”
Sam tossed back his shaggy head and sighed.
“I don’t remember. When they…changed me, it was like being hit with lightning, everything just seemed to hurt and vibrate, and then I was waking up a few minutes ago. It doesn’t hurt anymore and the vibrating is slowing down, but it’s still there. It’s weird. Dizzy-feeling. Like, I could shake and break apart into a million pieces.”
There was quiet for a beat before Dean decided it was time to get to the guts of this thing.
“Sam, why’d you do it? You let two angels we don’t even know zap you into a cupcake-scented Omega and stick you with a baby, and for what? The chance that maybe making another Nephilim will suck the rest of the angels back up top and they’ll go all kumbaya with each other now? We had no reason to trust them, or this plan, and you dive in headfirst, saddling yourself with this, this thing for nine months!”
Cas frowned but Sam just sighed again and looked at Dean in a world-weary kind of way, giving off no trace of anger or regret or even annoyance. Dean felt his grip on the edge of the table clench against his will. Sam’s lack of response was making him uncomfortable. It was weird, unexpected, alarming. It wasn’t Alpha at all.
“Dean, the thing is, it’s not a bad plan. It might even be a really good plan, it makes a lot of intuitive sense. Reversing the spell by gathering up the components taken in it would be the simplest way.”
“Then wouldn’t they need the Nephilim who was killed in the first place? Why don’t they just drag her out again?”
“The Nephilim I killed is almost certainly in Purgatory,” Cas put in quietly. “Although I myself proved to be the exception, the Seraphs and the other angels cannot escape there even if they were to find and rescue her.”
“Exactly! They can’t get the original one, so they’re taking a leap here assuming another one will work in the counterspell. There’s no reason to believe it’ll work!”
“Well, there’s no reason to believe it won’t. Maybe just the creation of a new life counters the taking of another, and Seraphiel will pop back up today to say it’s done and we can all move on with our lives knowing the angels are all back where they’re supposed to be, hopefully figuring out how to set up some kind of elected democracy in Heaven. Look, I already agreed to this and it’s already happening, okay? If it doesn’t work, what’s a few months of retaining water and getting too fat to see my feet? It already beats hell, that’s for sure. And if it does work, it’ll be worth it to help restore balance to what Metatron’s done to the world.”
“He’s right, Dean.” Cas looked at him now, jaw set with determination. “As long as there is a chance that this can bring the angels back home, Sam’s decision is a choice worth protecting. Besides.”
Those baby blues dropped for a minute before coming back to gaze at Dean, all liquid with regret again.
“Culpability for much of the Fall and its casualties lies with me, including the death of the only Nephilim in existence for millennia. Now I have a chance to redeem myself in some way, by watching over this new life.”
Cas looked so beautiful in those moments, when he was stupid with bravery and willing to burn himself up for a few seconds of sunshine for someone else, that Dean felt his heart kind of ache with the enormity of whatever it was they had together. He didn’t understand how he could be constantly surprised by someone and yet still feel like they’d always known and belonged to each other all their lives.
Dean pressed his palms flat into the table and dropped his head for a beat before the weight of everything collapsed in. As the years passed by, some items got taken off his own personal list of Rules (‘No Chick Music’ had been off for years, while ‘No Fantasizing about Sucking Dick’ hung on ‘til, well, exactly how long had he and Cas been mated now?) and some new ones got tacked on. ‘If Sam and Cas Agree, It’s Worth Looking into’ was at the very top, and so he let himself exhale his doubts for the moment, relenting.
“Okay, fine. Operation Angel Baby is a go. So what now?”
Sam just shrugged.
“Now nothing. We keep on keeping on, doing what we always do, and I adjust to life without knot.”
Dean whipped his head up, horror bubbling up anew.
“They took your knot?!”
“They redid my whole setup, trust me, losing my knot is the least weird part of all this,” Sam muttered darkly, staring at his own hands on the tabletop.
Dean immediately decided he really, really did not want to know. Sammy was okay. That was the important thing, always. They’d deal with the shit once it actually hit the fan, same as they ever did.
Despite himself, he found his eye wandering to Sam’s stomach, wondering at the thing brewing inside. Half-angel, half-human. Should be the best of both worlds, honestly. Not a punishment. Not a tool. Not a threat.
Suddenly restless, Dean surprised himself by straightening up and pulling his keys from his pocket.
“Well, you’re not going to feed a pup on MREs and Pop-tarts, not on my watch. I’m makin’ a grocery run.”
Cas made to stand, like wanted to stop him or join him, but Dean waved his mate off.
“You stay. Look after him.”
“So having a baby means I need a babysitter?” Sam asked dryly. “I’m fine, Dean, I don’t think a floating clump of cells can do much damage, even if it is an affront to nature.”
“You get your breed status changed by angels, you take a few days off, it’s all in the Hunters’ handbook,” Dean called over his shoulder as he strode from the kitchen, hoping he sounded more authoritative than he felt at the moment.
The Omega-scent faded and then grew stronger again as he passed Sam’s room, on the way to the garage, before being drowned out entirely by the reassuring smell of motor oil. He steered Baby out into the sunshine, grateful for the quiet and the even greater reassurance of Sam’s scent-mark on the leather. It would fade eventually, but for now, he could have a few minutes of imagining nothing had changed.
It was late afternoon by now and the supermarket parking lot was crowded with people doing after-work grocery shopping. Dean found a cart and joined the throng, pulling food off the shelves absentmindedly.
Maybe it was just because the store was so busy or maybe it wasn’t, but the vast quantity and diversity of scents felt overwhelming. A silky female Omega pushed a cart with her female Alpha, the two of them arguing over cereal. Beta college kids gawked and blocked traffic in front of the beer. Grouchy, newly-presented teenagers followed their mothers.
And by the meat counter, Dean was looking at cuts of steak when he caught a whiff of smoky, musky, dominant Alpha. He looked up instinctively, hormones still telling him to seek out this potential threat even when he couldn’t care less about comparing weapons, and found himself eye-to-eye with a man as tall as he was, thick in the neck and jaw, with steely ‘fuck off’ eyes…and a young pup strapped to his chest. Another kid, a toddler, bounced up and down in the cart full of baby things.
Dean let his gaze linger on the neat stacks of diapers and formula and his nose take in the sweet, milky scent of the newborn. His heart seemed to swell and pound, swirling with a raw, aching feeling of unfair.
The other Alpha noticed Dean and gave a lazy nod of recognition before steering his pack up to the counter to ask for pork chops.
Dean blinked, dragging himself back into the moment. Shopping. Right. Should get some of that kale crap for Sam, and maybe bread for sandwiches, if they were going to be cooped up a while. Might be worth it to spring for the organic lunch meat, what with Cas giving him crap lately about eating salt and shit. Hadn’t even cracked a smile when Dean joked it helped keep the demons away, and so he was probably serious anyway.
He was halfway back home, front seat loaded with plastic bags, before Dean abruptly remembered that Omegas –especially pregnant Omegas –probably weren’t allowed to do field work for the FBI. Or the CIA or FEMA or the MIB or whatever fake badge-ery their work required for the week.
The pharmacy in Lebanon, Kansas was one of those quiet, mom-and-pop affairs, dependent more on social ties to the owners than prescriptions. Not that he needed either to get what he came for: scent-masking deodorant spray. The cheaper, herbal based stuff stood in rows on the shelf, just like in any other pharmacy in the whole world, but the chemical sprays were locked up behind the counter, mostly to keep them away from greedy Omega and Beta kids.
Dean marched straight up to that counter and slapped down his cash.
“I need scent-masking. Beta and Alpha, best quality you’ve got.”
The old woman perched on a stool in front of the glass, hands full of wool work, looked up sharply. Her eyes bounced from Dean to the wad on the counter, lips pursed, clearly trying to work out if the money was worth selling such valuable goods to a crass Alpha.
It must have been, because the woman finally stood, unlocked the display, and handed over the glossy boxes with a neutral, “Here you are. Good night, then,” before returning to her knitting, carefully sliding the cash into a skirt pocket.
Satisfied, Dean resumed the trip home. Home, where his pack waited, the three of them fearless and tough and ready to save the world, almost always through really fucking stupid means.
He stopped for a red light and skimmed the back of one of the packages.
Show your TRUE ALPHA SELF to the world! Advanced scent-masking technology elevates natural levels of your own inner Alpha to create a UNIQUE and POWERFUL blend that tells everyone in your path you are here to DOMINATE!
Dean groaned out loud.
Really fucking stupid.
It was strange and amazing and discomforting all at once that he could wake up some days now and accept this as normal. But then, Sam tried not to think too much about that.
He tried not to think too much about any facet of what life had become, just went through these past two weeks day to day, resting and exploring the bunker and idly searching online for weirdness. It could almost be any other slow week, if he forced himself to not notice the changes that had already taken place.
Like how Dean treated him now, like something dangerous but delicate. It was demon blood all over again, Lucifer all over again, Trials all over again, with his brother circling constantly, afraid to leave him alone too long. Dean never could just trust that he wasn’t going to break.
Except sometimes he did feel like he was under the influence of something bigger than himself, something powerful and unstoppable, bent on destroying him from the inside. He was tired, no matter how long he slept. Food no longer seemed appealing. It was like coming down with a bad flu, if he didn’t factor in the vibrating.
That, he couldn’t ignore. It was very faint now, akin to the feel of the Impala’s hood cooling after a short drive, and seemed to come from, well, where he guessed his uterus probably was. He couldn’t find any mention of it on any of the pregnancy blogs he now kept on his reading list, and Cas could offer no clear-cut explanation.
“An afterglow of creation,” he said. “A calming of the massive energy that was required in conception.”
Sam guessed it was possible he was just more sensitive to things now. His sense of smell, in particular, had changed dramatically. Whereas before he had never noticed the scent of the bunker, except to register his and Dean’s combined scent-marks as home, now he found himself sometimes overwhelmed by the potency of Alpha in the air. Dean still smelled like Dean – which was to say, a jumbled but powerful blend of damp firewood warming old blankets, rain on a cold Oregon beach, and dust kicked up in a ghost town – but now Sam was more aware of the wavy undercurrents that also characterized him. Hints of things like fresh blood and the oily handle of a used pistol.
He recognized parts of these dark undertones actually belonged to him, who he was two weeks ago, and tried not to think of that either.
To distract himself, Sam stretched out on his bed, rolling over to his back, and thought about the not-so-subtle physical changes that had taken place.
He knew he didn’t look much different, but his body felt softer somehow. His muscles, though unchanged in appearance, seemed slack, useless. At the same time, he felt heavier, no doubt due to the additional organ in his body and the increased blood supply to it.
He let his eyes fall shut again as he ran his hands over the more supple skin of his stomach. He moved them further south and grimaced involuntarily.
His knot was gone, and his cock felt so much smaller, less significant without it. Also, his cock was placed slightly higher now, which was weird in and of itself, to make room for the small, strange line between his balls and his ass. A birthing slit. He’d never actually seen one before (having no occasion to get close and personal with Omega men), and now he could run a finger gently over the tight mark that didn’t yield or respond to his touch in any way. It was difficult –and more than slightly terrifying –to imagine anything coming out of himself here, and so he set that thought to the side too.
And then there was his ass.
Sam had never given much thought at all to his hole in a sexual state of mind, with almost two decades of having a knot and wanting only to find other holes to fill mark claim. But now it seemed to have a mind of its own. In moments of pleasure, whether in the shower or after waking or even (to his horror) when watching something racy on TV with Dean and Cas, he could feel it twitch and warm with a small amount of silky liquid.
He was producing slick. He was a sweet-smelling Omega, growing soft with pregnancy, and now his body was yearning for a knot it didn’t even need.
Thankfully, the sensations always went away quickly, before, it seemed, Dean could even pick up on the flicker of scent in the air.
A glance at his watch had Sam forcing himself upright in bed and scooting over to the edge, feet resting on the cold floor. Despite the usual exhaustion, he couldn’t help but feel a little bit excited to finally be getting out of the bunker. He’d pulled up a case too local and open-shut for Dean to shoot down the night before, some kind of haunting in Jewell. Diving back into the game felt like the natural thing to do; two weeks of sitting around on his ass was more than enough.
Or so it seemed, right up until Sam finally got to his feet and promptly threw up last night’s tacos into the wastebasket.
“You alright, man?”
Sam just groaned and waved away his brother’s would-be casual tone. The Impala was cold from sitting in the garage, and the chilled leather and glass felt soothing on his face. His stomach hadn’t stopped rolling since he’d gotten out of bed. Speaking seemed like too much effort (and risk) and he felt irritated, hot, inside his suit. An unpleasant chemical odor circled the air, courtesy of the deodorant spray Dean had bought to mask his new Omega scent. The package had said that dousing his armpits and neck with the stuff would tell the world he was an Alpha, for up to six hours, but Sam couldn’t imagine it fooling anyone. He smelled too aggressively loud, too strongly of generic Alpha trademarks like cooked meat, animal musk, sea salt, for the effect to be natural.
At the same time, he knew the spray had to be over-the-top to be effective at all. In a few months, maybe even weeks, his pregnancy scent would clash outrageously with the chemical Alpha and render it useless. Hopefully there would be time to use the less-distinctive, milder smelling Beta spray and pass with that for a while, but Sam recognized now that there was far from a guarantee he’d be able to keep actively working cases. A pregnant male Omega doing FBI fieldwork was more than unusual: it was unheard of. Their little pack couldn’t afford to stand out, not with their way of life.
“Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”
With his eyes closed and the angel’s emotions as difficult to scent as ever, even with his new nose, Sam could still hear the worried frown in Cas’ voice.
“ ‘s fine, let’s just go,” he mumbled, wondering if the familiarity of riding in the car would be enough to lull him into a quick nap.
Dean started the engine and pulled out of the garage onto the drive and then the main road silently. The quiet was too good to last.
“Look, Sam, you need a time-out today, you just pull out, okay? Me’n Cas can handle this, you don’t have to go straining yourself to prove-”
“I can do my job, Dean!” The motion of the road was doing nothing for Sam’s nausea, and the dry, salty aroma of his brother’s concern only annoyed him more. The Alpha spray just soured in response to his outburst, tainting the air with the smell of burned steak.
“Course you can.” Dean tapped at the steering wheel uneasily and glanced in the rearview mirror at Cas. “I’m just saying, if you get to feeling bad, you can always-”
“Dean, pull over.”
“Hey, dial it back a notch, drama queen, I’ll shut up, okay?”
“DEAN. Pull over or I’m going to puke in your car.”
The Impala’s brakes screeched to a grinding halt that had Dean biting off curses, but Sam couldn’t care about anything other than getting the door open before he lost the contents of his stomach for a second time. He leaned out of the car for a minute longer, catching his breath, and slumped back inside, feeling furious but totally wiped.
Dean granted him about five precious minutes of fuming before turning into an asshole again.
“Like I was saying. You can always let the kid win this one.”
The Jewell county coroner’s office was tiny and cramped and airless and Sam hated it. The coroner herself was politely accommodating, but Sam hated her too. He hated her sterile, neutral scent and the almost freakish thoroughness with which she relayed information about the victim’s wounds. To be completely fair, at the moment he hated everyone, living or dead, in the whole little room.
He hated Dean for being right, and Cas for being kind, offering soft, steadying touches at his shoulder. He hated the vic for existing. Most of all, he hated himself for dragging them out here, when he could be at home, moaning complaints in bed instead of moaning complaints inside his own head.
“Were any pieces of jewelry recovered from the body, maybe an old locket or ring?” Dean was in his element, as always, looking healthy and confident. A dominant Alpha, hard at work. It struck Sam as incredibly gross right then.
“Yes, actually.” The coroner pulled an intricate leather bracelet from the bag of personal effects and handed it over. “It belonged to her sister, originally.”
Dean hid a smile as he turned to show Sam and Cas. Some wheedling and a toothy thank-you later, they were outside in the grey sunlight, bracelet in hand.
“Sister’s buried in the town cemetery, barely a year ago. Man, if they were all this easy, we could retire in Florida, get Cas a nice tan,” Dean trumpeted, heading back to the car.
“We’ll need the cover of nightfall to dig up the body,” Cas reminded him. “That may prove to be more of a…problem, than it once was.” Subtlety never really was Cas’ strong suit, and he glanced at Sam as he spoke and settled in the back seat again.
Sam physically restrained himself from rolling his eyes with his finger and thumb pressed to his eyelids.
“So we’ll wait it out, same as always. We’re already here aren’t we? Drive, Dean, anywhere.”
A quick note of salty dryness again, but Dean complied.
Unfortunately, his idea of waiting out the day involved a leisurely lunch at Biggerson’s. Sam was quietly gagging over the smell of grease and picking at his slimy salad when he noticed their waitress staring at him from the register station, confusion etched over her face.
He looked himself over, then caught a whiff of fresh-baked goods too sweet to have come from the kitchen here.
Crap.
“Let me out,” he whispered to Dean, who had him boxed into their corner booth, fully occupied with putting away a burger the size of his head. “I smell like Omega, the spray’s worn off.”
Dean’s eyes went wide as he dropped the burger and handed over the keys, practically jumping from the bench.
“Fuck. Here, go.”
Sam had managed to plow through the parking lot without anyone noticing, get to the Impala, spray himself all over, and was just making his way back to the restaurant when he ran into Dean and Cas coming the same way.
Dean just shook his head and led them back to the car.
“She had all the wait staff and the manager going, gossiping in the back. You really were full-on frou-frou, Sam. Best that we just move on.”
A pit settled in the bottom of Sam’s stomach that had nothing to do with his voiding of it. He felt dirty now, contaminated, inside his Fed suit. It didn’t seem fair that he’d have to pretend to be something he’d always been, something he was, at the core of his being, and be punished when he didn’t convince people. As the road took them to the outer skirts of town, he told himself he knew his reasons for pretending were good, for the greater good of everyone in the world, human and angel. But the world seemed a lot smaller suddenly.
They spent the rest of the day at a community park with a big, messy duck pond and a lot of brown grass, killed by the fall frost. Periodically, Cas would wander off to watch the ducks (“Their social structure is much less complex than bees; I’ve almost mastered it”) and Sam and Dean would be left alone on a decaying wooden bench uphill to sit and wait for fleeting conversation topics. They’d already exhausted flashlight duty for the night’s dig and which closet the Men of Letters kept the spare linens in when Dean sighed and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.
“So,” he started, licking his lips and staring determinedly at his mate. Cas had vanished for a few seconds and reappeared with a bag of white bread, which he began ripping up and placing carefully around the pond. “You good now?”
Sam mirrored his brother’s pose and looked down at his interlocked hands.
“I don’t know. Sometimes I forget it’s even happening. But then today comes along and it’s like I can’t ignore it anymore and I’m just hit with this feeling of What the hell was I thinking? I mean, I still want to go through with it. Not that I have any choice, probably. It’s just starting to feel more real now. The sacrifice part.”
Dean looked him over sharply, eyes bright with a glimmer of emotion, an indistinct hint of citrus and pine coloring the air. Then he let himself slide into an easy smile, breathing a huff of laughter as he turned back to Cas, who was being stalked by a handful of the greediest ducks.
“Hey, I was just talking about your gut, I didn’t sign up to sacrifice my Baby’s interior.” Dean stood then, and called down to Cas, “Babe! Let’s go!” before nodding at Sam.
“C’mon. Sun’s almost down; we got time for a cup of coffee or something.”
Sam got to his feet reluctantly. The thought of hanging around some other junky diner was far from tempting, but he felt a little better, getting his thoughts outside his own head.
He couldn’t quite stop himself from wondering at Dean’s reaction though, at that strange flash of…longing? Or was it despair? He just knew he’d never scented anything like it on his brother before.
Cas caught up as they hiked back to the car, bringing a little parade of ducks that shrieked at the indignity of his leaving. Sam watched as he waved a hand over the flock and every single bird took off in flight, darkening the sky with the chaotic cadence of wings and feathers and reproachful quacking.