Chapter Text
There was a biological explanation for all of it, or that's what Dean had always been told. He wished he could remember it all now, wished Sammy was able to explain it all in geeky detail.
Beta was the most dominant gene, that much he knew. It hadn't always been, in fact at one point it didn't even exist, and scientists now considered it an evolution of the original alpha and omega gene due to its far greater stability. It was an adaptation to the modern world, a world where smell and instinct weren't as important, where single births were viable due to better medical conditions, where mating was based on compatibility and divorce didn't have devastatingly painful physical repercussions. As Bobby and Pastor Jim could attest, being a beta meant not being controlled by your biology, hormones or weird evolutionary instincts.
Not that Dean would know, being an alpha.
But betas were still a new development, in the evolutionary scheme of things. For the longest time, alpha had been the dominant gene, and society had been primarily alphas and omegas, real caveman style. Alphas were built to fight, to protect, to lead. Omegas were built to nurture, to submit, to serve. Because omegas tended to bear multiple young in each pregnancy, Mother Nature had seen fit to offset that with a relatively low omega birthrate – something on the order of three alphas born for every omega – and a regular rut-and-estrus fertility cycle to stabilize population growth.
Of course, because Mother Nature was also a fucking bitch, she provided a back-up plan: the alpha gene had a switch that could be flipped as long as the target had not yet reached their physical maturity (someplace around 21) or entered a mated relationship. The process was painful and traumatic, even back in the day when it was treated like an honor and given full pomp and ceremony. It involved multiple alphas, none of whom came from the omega-to-be's immediate family line, plus multiple hours – and a whole lot of fucking.
Or as the promega propaganda liked to sugarcoat it, "It takes a village."
Yeah, it took a lot of semen to turn an alpha into a breeding bitch, and sure, maybe it destroyed some lives and futures in the process, but in times of low birthrates, omega-specific diseases and widespread tragedies (and fucking redneck asshole rapists), society as a whole would go on.
None of that gave Dean any comfort. Looking down at his battered, unconscious younger brother, whimpering and panting in his arms as the changes surged through him, he thought that Mother Nature and society could go die in a fire right the fuck now.
"We'll be at Bobby's in two hours," John said from the driver's seat. "Status report?"
"Fever spiked about an hour ago, but it's stabilized. I think his scent's started to change, but – I don't know, maybe I'm just imagining it? He's still out –" and would be until the changes had finished, the only merciful thing about the whole goddamn process "– the doctor estimated another 12 hours. Dad, what–"
"The only thing we can do, Dean," John interrupted. "We'll get him through this, whatever it takes. Christ, what a godforsaken cluster-fuck this week has been."
Their eyes met in the rear-view mirror, each reflecting worry and grief. It was good that Sam was asleep; with the car stinking of distressed alpha pheromones and his system unable to process any of them properly, he'd be even more of a nervous wreck.
As always, the oldest Winchester knew what his son was thinking. "Calm yourself down, Dean. Practice those breathing techniques Jim taught you. I'm going to need you thinking clear for all of us."
Dean closed his eyes, breathed in for four counts, held for seven, breathed out for eight. Repeat, repeat, repeat until the pheromones calm to neutral. In, out, in, out, breathe for Sammy.
John grunted, sensing the change. "Keep Sam's nose closer to your neck, Dean. He may not be awake, but his subconscious will recognize your scent and feel more secure."
Two days ago, Sam would have growled at him for getting anywhere close to his territorial space, and Dean would have growled right back. Now, even unconscious, it was the exact opposite – he snuggled into Dean like he used to back before he presented, and it made something inside Dean want to hold him forever.
His head fit perfectly under his chin, in fact. Too perfectly –
"Dad," Dean asked, suddenly panicked, "I think Sam's – is Sam shrinking? It's like, there's no way we should both be fitting back here, not with the kid's gargantuan legs and all, but–"
John sighed. "You're not wrong, Dean. Omegas… they have a slighter stature than alphas. Sam's body is trying to compensate for that. He probably won't lose much, maybe just a few inches of height. It's the muscle mass that's going to be harder to rebuild, although I-" his voice caught, hitched a little with unvented emotion "-I guess that's not going to be as much of a problem, is it."
Dean tensed. "We're going to go back for those sons of bitches, right Dad? We're not going to let them get away with it, right?"
Sam let out a little whimper, and Dean realized he was unconsciously clenching his fingers too tightly. He willed himself to relax, folding his arms more loosely around his younger brother and hugging him in apology.
"Maybe not immediately, Dean, we've got to play it smart, got to take care of Sammy, but yeah… we won't let them get away with it." His voice broke. "Sammy-" He slammed his fist down futilely on the dashboard.
"Hey." Dean caught John's gaze in the rear-view mirror once again, willing him to see the love and respect there. "It wasn't your fault, Dad. You know it, and Sam knows it too. It was just the wrong fucking everything at the wrong fucking time."