Chapter Text
Dean arrived in Silver Peak at three in the morning on October 8th. The sign, caught in the passing flash of Baby’s headlights, welcomed him to the “Small Town by the Sea.” Dean didn’t get to read the population number before he passed. It was somewhere in the two thousand range.
His ears were beginning to ache, so Dean finally turned off the radio. He’d been blaring Metallica at top volume for the past six hours straight, and he was beginning to worry about his hearing. After the music cut off, Dean rolled down the window. The air outside was frigid and biting, but the roar of the wind was better than the complete silence in the car.
Next to Dean, the empty passenger seat seemed to mock him. Even though he’d driven the Impala by himself more times than he could count, the space beside him felt different, somehow. Colder. Crueler. Maybe it was the fact that Dean didn’t have anyone to fill it, anymore. Maybe it was the fact that it was all his fault.
He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, forcing his attention back to the road. There were deer in this area, and the last thing Dean wanted to do was smash into one of the stupid fuckers. It would likely kill the deer and damage his car, and that would be horrible. Whether or not Dean lived or died, well…
“Fuck,” Dean cursed, half-tempted to turn the music on again. It seemed the biting wind roaring through the car and making him shiver violently wasn’t enough to silence the stupid thoughts in his head.
To try to distract himself, the green-eyed Omega ran through the logistics of his case again. Four people dead, seemingly without any connections save for the fact that they were all Alphas. They’d had their hands cut off and their throats ripped open, and they’d been nailed to their front doors. The local police thought it was a serial killer. Bobby thought it was a vengeful spirit. Dean wasn’t so sure; the ritualistic way the victims had been killed implied something more sentient than an angry ghost.
He blinked sluggishly, exhausted, and squinted at the roadside as the first of the buildings in town began to emerge from the gorgeous evergreen forest surrounding them. Dean knew they were a few miles from the beach, so the possibility of a water spirit wasn’t all too high, but it helped to know the geography.
The town really was small. It consisted of a couple blocks that made up “downtown,” with houses and summer rentals surrounding it in a neat grid. The whole place looked calm and peaceful. Certainly not like a town that had just seen four of its residents brutally murdered.
Dean was beginning to lose time between blinks, so he decided to pull over at the nearest place he could sleep. It was called the “Seashell Motel,” and the whole front of it was painted sand-white and light blue. Dean blinked slowly at the “vacancy” sign, his exhausted brain trying to piece together what that word meant.
Eventually, the Omega climbed stiffly out of his car. His body ached from the poltergeist he’d hunted in New Mexico a few days ago. The thing had thrown a whole cabinet at him before he’d managed to get rid of it.
He limped tiredly to the front office, unsurprised to see that it was locked and dark. The owners of the inn probably weren’t going to be up for a few hours yet. Dean was gonna have to sleep in the Impala for the time being.
He sighed and walked back over to his Baby. He loved her, but this was gonna suck. Dean was not a small human being. He was big, ugly by Omega standards, if John’s hunting partners were to be believed. Dean usually didn’t really care, since he could masquerade as a Beta easily enough because of his size, but now he was really wishing he had the slight figure of a real Omega.
Dean crammed himself into Baby’s backseat, grunting awkwardly as he reached back to close the door and then tried to lay down. This would have been quite comfortable if he’d been about six inches shorter and his shoulders had been smaller. Fuck, he hated being a freak sometimes.
Even as Dean thought it, he heard his little brother’s voice in his head. You’re not a freak, Dean. Just ‘cause you don’t conform to society’s frankly ridiculous standards, doesn’t mean you’re some sort of creature. Did you know that almost 75% of Omegas don’t actually fit into the “norm” of Omega shape and size? It’s kinda crazy. Did you know that…
Dean felt his lips quirk upward into a sad smile. His little brother would make everything better. He’d probably have an even worse time than Dean trying to fit into the Impala’s bench seats. His big, Alpha frame would look comical.
But he wasn’t here. Dean’s little smile dropped from his face as he remembered that his brother was gone, probably sleeping in a nice, large bed in a dorm room at Stanford. The last time Dean had gone to check on him, he’d seen Sam with a pretty blond Omega, living the good life. Dean didn’t want to think of how long it had probably been since Sam even remembered he had a brother.
In the cold darkness of the Impala’s interior, Dean wrapped his arms around himself and curled up as much as the bench seat would allow. He almost wished he could turn on some music again, but he actually wanted to get some sleep. He tried to push away the cruel thoughts in his head, closing his eyes in the hopes that he’d get some rest before sunrise.
Despite Dean’s active brain and the fact that he was almost surely going to wake up from a nightmare, his body was exhausted. He’d spent the last twelve hours straight driving from some place in Nevada to get here. He’d probably gotten a total of fifteen hours of sleep in the past week. Even if he’d tried, Dean couldn’t have stayed awake.
Not long after he settled in, the Omega was fast asleep.
~>>>~
The warehouse was dark. The shadows seemed to shift, slipping in and out in jerky, threatening ways. Dean could swear he saw the figures of people out of the corners of his eyes, people who he knew would kill him if they got too close. When he whipped his head around to look, though, they were gone.
He was alone, and he was looking for someone. His throat ached with phantom pain as he screamed for his father, fear making his voice rise. “Dad? Dad! Dad, where the hell are you? DAD!”
Dean would probably get a good punch in the face later for being so loud and so disruptive in the middle of a hunt, but right now, he didn’t care. He hadn’t liked the plan of splitting up from the start. Only three minutes after Dean and John parted ways to circle around different sides of the warehouse, Dean heard his father emit a horrible scream.
So yeah, Dean would probably be punished for being so loud. John might even send him on a solo hunt or take off for a couple days, fed up with Dean’s clinginess. But that could all be resolved later, when Dean wasn’t alone and when his familial Alpha wasn’t in danger.
“Dad!” Dean shouted, fighting back a whimper of fear. “Dad, where the fuck—”
Dean cut off as one of the shadows surged, rising up from beside him faster than he could anticipate. His heart stammered with terror as he fell back, the vampire laughing at him with horrible dead eyes. Her face and neck were red, red with human blood, and Dean knew right then and there that his father was gone. He was gonna be alone, he was gonna die alone, he was alone—
Dean jolted upright with a scream that turned into a yelp as he flailed out and smacked his arm against Baby’s door. For a moment, Dean could only stare around the space, chest heaving with panic and fear. His knees were too close to his chest, his legs too cramped, his head too close to the ceiling. The space was too small, and Dean was fumbling with the door handle and toppling out onto the gravel of the parking lot before he even knew what was happening.
In the foggy early morning, Dean knelt on the ground and gasped, the frigid October air helping to clear the remaining terror from his dream. The gravel was sharp underneath his palms, helping to anchor him to reality. Unconsciously, Dean scraped a handful of it and squeezed, using the pain of the sharp points to ground him.
Fuck, Dean hated his brain sometimes. He’d been having similar variations of the same nightmare ever since that last fatal hunt with his father. It had been two months since John Winchester died, but Dean still couldn’t get over the memories. He’d burned what was left of his father’s body right there in that warehouse, too numb and too injured to try to drag the body to the car, gather everything needed for a proper burial, and complete it.
The physical wounds from that hunt had healed a while ago, but Dean’s brain was still stuck on that night, on the fear and terror that had been so impossible to control.
He grunted where he knelt, finally looking up and around. Thankfully, there was no one around within viewing distance, though Dean could hear cars passing on the street just on the other side of the motel’s wall of bushes. He forced himself to relax a little, wincing as he realized that he’d been gripping the gravel way too hard. His hand was bleeding, dripping crimson on the parking lot below him.
Dean released the rocks, groaning as he stood stiffly. His whole body ached, likely because of the cramped position of sleeping in the car.
The lights in the motel’s office were on, indicating that Dean could now try to rent a room. He dug around in his pocket for his wallet, wincing at his stinging right hand. He was a Goddamn idiot.
Inside the motel office, there was an Alpha and a Beta couple manning the front. Well, the Beta was. The Alpha was sitting off to the side, grumpily sipping some coffee. Dean would probably need some coffee soon, too. He took note of the logo on the man’s cup, a little smiling bee, and decided to check out the “Honeybee Bakery” later.
“Hello, welcome to the Seashell Motel,” the Beta greeted warmly as Dean entered. “Looking to stay the night?”
“Lookin’ to stay the week, actually,” Dean said. He summoned the most charming smile he could muster at the moment, which was admittedly not that charming.
“Oh, wonderful,” the Beta said, not seeming to notice. “Is this just for you?”
Dean’s throat tightened.
No, he’d said for the first month after his father’s death. Double, please. Now, he forced himself to say, “Just me.”
“Perfect.” The Beta happily began tapping on her little tablet, completely unaware of Dean’s inner struggle. To keep himself from completely losing it, Dean glanced to the side. He found the Alpha looking back at him with that blank sort of look that only went away after the caffeine kicked in.
Dean paid for the room and got his key. As he was turning to leave, he saw the Beta press a kiss to the side of her Alpha’s head, her expression warm and affectionate as she teased him about not being awake for another hour. Dean left soon after that, chest aching with a feeling he couldn’t name.
His room was on the second floor of the little inn. It wasn’t very large, but it had wide windows that Dean could yank open to let the sound and smell of the ocean into the space. Everything was painted in light, soft colors. It was sort of pleasing. Dean tried not to think too much about it.
Dean set his duffel bags down and sat on the bed, mentally preparing himself for the day. He’d need coffee, probably, and…
Dean blinked, frowning at the bed he’d sat on. The comforter was soft, but the sheets had a strange look to them that Dean recognized. He reached out, almost on instinct, and brushed his fingertips up against the soft, silky Omega fabric that was sold in most stores.
Immediately, rage flooded through him. He jerked his hand back as if he’d been burned. The bed was made up in the extra soft fabrics that most studies claimed was good for Omegas, since they had more sensitive skin. This kind of shit was everywhere. Clothing, bedding, whatever. Every time John had seen the extra-soft, Omega fabric, he’d scoffed and said something about fucking weaklings.
The Beta downstairs had recognized that Dean was an Omega, even though he was wearing scent-blockers and had probably been taller than her and possibly even taller than her Alpha. She’d seen that he was an Omega, and she’d given him a room that was specifically outfitted for someone of his designation.
Dean wanted to go back down there and yell at her, but he knew that would be a stupid idea. First of all, it was a dick move. Second, he would probably get thrown out of the motel and he wasn’t sure there was another one in town. And third, she’d probably meant well. Dean sometimes forgot that he was the backward one with the issues and the inability to accept his own biology. He was the one whose skin got red and irritated because of his normal clothes in the week leading up to his heat, even though he was on suppressants.
He didn’t go downstairs to yell at the woman. Instead, he tiredly got up from the bed and pulled open the closet door. There weren’t any alternative sheets, but there was a thick blanket and some extra pillows, likely meant for nesting. Dean ignored those with a tight feeling in his gut.
He could technically go back downstairs and ask for different sheets, but that would be stupid. It would also look weird. What was the point of switching out sheets that Dean was probably only going to use for a few days anyway?
Besides, he couldn’t deny the small part of him that was curious.
Dean had never really used Omega fabrics before. The first time he’d seen a shirt for female Omegas, he’d spent ten minutes just rubbing his fingertips on it, eyes wide and amazed at the wonderful feeling of it beneath his fingers. John had yanked him away by his collar and beaten him senseless once they’d reached the motel room. Dean hadn’t made the mistake of looking interested in Omega fabric again.
John would have already stomped down to the reception desk and yelled at the Beta. He probably would have punched her mate, too, for good measure. And then he would have punched Dean, just because.
But John wasn’t here right now, and logically… logically, it made sense to keep the sheets. Dean backed away from the bed and shut the closet, deciding that just for the span of this hunt, he could indulge. He was probably going to be out of here by the end of the week, anyway.
He needed to get out of the room and clear his head. Dean remembered the coffee the Alpha downstairs had been holding. Yeah, breakfast would be good. Breakfast and caffeine.
Nodding to himself, Dean gathered his phone and his keys, limping back to the door of his room. Climbing back into Baby felt horrible after he’d just been driving for what felt like forever, but the promise of caffeine kept Dean moving. He didn’t have to go far to find the Honeybee Bakery, thankfully. It was near the center of what counted as “downtown” in his area, on a little street corner.
The place looked nice enough. Dean parked near the corner of the parking lot and got out, just so he could stand next to the Impala and stare at the bakery for five minutes straight. The building was fairly modern, with light concrete walls accented by dark oak wood and large glass windows. It looked warm and welcoming in the morning light.
Dean snapped himself out of his stupor, realizing that he’d literally been standing next to his car for God knew how long. He looked around, embarrassed, and was grateful to see no one else in the parking lot. Jesus, he needed to get his shit together.
Caffeine, Dean reminded himself, clinging to the idea rather desperately. I just need some caffeine, and then I’ll be solid. Never mind that he’d never really needed coffee to function before. Well, not usually. God, he must really be tired or something.
Shaking his head at himself, Dean locked the Impala and headed across the parking lot. His limbs and joints ached, especially his left knee. He’d torn some sort of tendon on the vamp hunt, which had made getting himself to the hospital rather difficult. Dean was pretty sure he was supposed to have rested it more, since he’d broken out of the hospital two weeks early, but whatever. He was fine. It worked, which was all that mattered.
The moment Dean opened the Honeybee Bakery’s doors, he was enveloped in a wash of delicious scents. Baking bread, vanilla, and something sugary and sweet met his nose. Dean inhaled deeply just because he could, some of the tension from his shoulders easing.
It was blessedly warm inside the bakery. The interior looked much the same as the exterior: modern, pleasing to the eyes, and comfortably welcoming. This was the kind of place students went to study, or where teenagers went on dates, or families went to eat breakfast. In fact, those were the exact people who were scattered around the dining area. Dean felt somewhat out of place, though that feeling was surpassed by one of calm and relative peace.
He walked up to the front desk, blinking as he realized that there was no one there. Dean looked around, and before he could start to wonder who was running this place, the door to the back kitchen opened and a man hurried through it.
Holy shit, was Dean’s first thought. Blue was his second.
The man—the Alpha, because that was what he was—who had just emerged from the back was very handsome. Dean could normally appreciate someone’s attractiveness, but he had to admit that the Alpha currently setting down a tray of muffins on the back counter was certifiably gorgeous. He had dark, fluffy hair and a strong jawline, with plush pink lips and eyes the color of the summer sky. Then he turned around and said, “Sorry about that, we’re a bit short-staffed at the moment,” and Dean just about fell over.
The guy’s voice was ridiculous. Dean had to clear his throat before he spoke, his cheeks heating with embarrassment at his own body’s reactions. Even then, he barely managed a, “Uh, yeah, no problem, man.”
The Alpha smiled, and Dean’s heart stammered in his chest. Shit, he had a gorgeous smile. “Thank you for your patience. What can I get you?”
“Uh…” Dean blinked, looking up at the menu. Right, shit. Damn it, he looked like an idiot. “Uh, sorry, can I, uh… Shit, sorry.” Dean’s cheeks were burning so badly that he was absolutely sure his face was flaming red right now. Fuck. “Uh, can I get some coffee?”
The Alpha smiled, nodding as he tapped something on his tablet. “Coffee, yes. What kind? Do you want anything in it? Oh, and what size?”
“Sorry,” Dean said again, realizing just how vague “coffee” sounded. Shit, he was really bombing this, wasn’t he? “Uh, just… just black coffee. Medium, or whatever equates to that, I think.”
“Perfect,” the Alpha said. A tremble ran down Dean’s spine at the sound of that word being said in the Alpha’s voice. Jesus Christ, he was being a complete idiot right now. “Anything else? Something to eat?” He pointed at the display case where he’d just been loading the muffins. “We make all of our baked goods fresh.”
Dean was about to say no, since he didn’t need the extra calories anyway, but something caught his eye. He skimmed his gaze over the selection of delicious-looking pie slices before admitting, “Uh, I… I could go for some pie. Is that, uh… Is that good?” Why am I even asking that? Dean demanded of his own brain.
The Alpha smiled warmly, completely oblivious to Dean’s internal struggle. “That sounds great. What kind would you like?”
“God, sorry, I keep not telling you,” Dean said, wishing he could bend over and smack his forehead on the counter. He felt like such an idiot, it wasn’t even funny. What the hell had happened to the brain-to-mouth pipeline in his head? “Apple, please.”
“Apple pie and coffee,” the Alpha said, tapping more things into his device. “Alright, thank you. Your total is on the screen.”
Dean got all the way to fishing his wallet out of his pocket before he realized he didn’t have it. All he had was a couple bills from when he’d paid for some peanuts at a gas station in Oregon. He must have left his wallet in his room at the Seashell Motel. Fuck.
“Uh, is it okay if I just get the coffee?” Dean asked, voice quieting a little with embarrassment. He felt like an asshole for making this so complicated. Thank God John wasn’t here to see this. “Sorry, I really don’t mean to be so difficult.”
“You’re perfectly fine, there’s nothing to worry about,” the Alpha said, his voice softening. “There’s no one behind you, anyway. Here, your new total is right there.”
“Sorry, thanks,” Dean couldn’t help but say again. He looked down and found, to his relief, that the coffee was something he could pay for. With a flaming face, he handed over his crumpled bills and stepped back, eager to stop fucking wasting this guy’s time. Dean silently prayed that the blue-eyed Alpha behind the counter couldn’t see the way his hands were shaking lightly.
“Here’s your change. Can I have your name for the order? And is this for here?” the Alpha asked.
“Oh, shit, yeah. Uh, it’s Dean,” Dean stammered out, wishing his mouth would start working properly. “It’s… It’s to-go.” Like hell he was gonna stay here when he’d already thoroughly made a fool of himself through a simple interaction. How the hell was he going to talk to witnesses today if he couldn’t even get a full sentence out without looking like an idiot?
“Thank you, Dean. Your order will be ready soon,” the Alpha said. He smiled again, that same one that made Dean’s organs feel like they were melting. Jesus Christ, he needed to get a grip on himself. He was in public, for God’s sake!
Dean nodded and thanked the man, feeling like his skin was going to literally melt off his face. He didn’t know how it was possible for him to be blushing so badly, but it was making him lightheaded. He seriously needed to sit down, preferably somewhere out of the blue-eyed barista’s line of sight.
Thankfully, the blush on Dean’s face died down once he sat in a random booth with his back to the counter. He stared at the light gray tabletop and slowly calmed himself down, thinking through the details of his hunt to try to distract his stupid brain. He had to speak to the families of the victims and look through the town’s history. That would require research at the library, which he was dreading.
Dean mentally ran through the profiles of the people that had been killed, resisting the urge to turn around and watch as the blue-eyed Alpha moved around the front of the bakery. They were from different social backgrounds, of different ethnicities, and were even different primary genders. There was literally no connection between any of them, save for their secondary gender.
As Dean distracted himself, he slowly calmed. He’d mostly recovered—from what had been a simple social interaction, he reminded himself—when the barista from before suddenly appeared at his side. Dean jolted so badly he nearly smacked his knee into the table he was sitting at. He looked up to find himself faced with the man’s nametag, which he hadn’t noticed before.
Castiel.
“Here’s your order, Dean,” the Alpha said, his voice so deep and so, so close now that he was standing only a few inches away
“Uh, th-thanks,” Dean squeaked. He nearly dropped the to-go cup of coffee he was handed, his fingers closing awkwardly around the little cardboard box that came with it.
“You’re welcome. Have a good rest of your day,” Castiel said. Dean prayed that the noise that came out of his throat was decipherable as an acceptable answer.
It was only when he’d fled the bakery and escaped to the safety of Baby’s interior that he realized he was holding a cup of coffee and a box, presumably with food inside. Dean sat in the driver’s seat for a full three and a half minutes, having a serious debate about whether it was worth it or not to be ethical and take the damn thing back in when he knew he wasn’t gonna act like a functioning human being.
Eventually, the decision was made for him. Dean finally gathered the brain cells to reason that maybe he should open the damn thing, and then he found a perfectly-made slice of apple pie waiting for him, a little note written on the napkins tucked in beside it.
On the house, in the hopes that I see you again sometime ;)
~ Castiel
Dean was pretty sure he passed out for a few solid seconds. When he finally came back to his senses and realized how much he was freaking out over a Goddamn piece of pie and a note from a stranger he’d seen ten minutes ago, he felt ashamed. Dean looked down at the dessert he was holding and clenched his free hand into a fist.
Why was this such a big deal? Dean was a fucking disaster, as proved by the past half hour. The note might literally mean nothing, especially not in a romantic sense. The guy had just met Dean, and Dean knew his pretty face wasn’t enough to offset his ugly broad shoulders and crooked legs enough to make a good first impression with looks alone. Aside from his physical appearance, he really didn’t have much going for him. There was literally no reason for the Alpha he’d just met to be interested in him, unless he was into freaks or something.
The warm feeling that had ballooned in Dean’s chest when he’d seen the note deflated faster than he could accommodate for, leaving a sinking feeling throughout his whole being. Dean quietly closed the lid of the pie’s container and set it in the empty passenger seat, feeling a little sick.
The Omega was silent throughout the entire drive back to the motel.
~>>>~
The rest of the day after the disaster at the bakery went just as terribly as Dean expected. Three out of the four families didn’t want to speak to him, and the one that did couldn’t give him any good information. It probably would have been better for Dean to pretend to be an FBI agent instead of some stupid reporter, but it was too late to change now. At the end of the day, Dean found himself in the library, fruitlessly researching the town’s history for any murders or nasty accidents. He found quite literally nothing.
“Buncha fuckin’ saints,” Dean muttered, glaring at the textbook he’d just slammed shut. There was nothing in the recent news, save for the deaths. Most of it was taken up by news about some random local plant nursery’s success, or whatever. This town was small enough that anything would seem incredible.
Grumpy, tired, and hungry, Dean went back to the motel room. There was nothing there for him, just an empty room and an empty single bed and empty space that seemed to be filled with the ghosts of the past mocking him cruelly.
Dean lasted for about ten minutes before he abruptly grabbed his wallet and his keys and stomped out of the room again.
There was an itchiness under his skin, an aching need for something that Dean couldn’t name. He wanted to scream. He wanted to punch a wall, or maybe just sit down and start crying uncontrollably. The different urges were weird and frankly, fucking stupid. Dean clenched his hands into fists, reveling in the ache of the cuts on his palm from when he’d held the gravel too tightly that morning.
“Fuckin’ fuck this,” Dean snarled to himself, glaring at the Impala’s door from where he stood beside the car. His face looked twisted and nasty in the reflection of the window. He looked like a monster. That was what he felt like right now. Just some worthless, unloveable monster that was good for nothing but hunting others that were just as bad as he was.
Feeling bitter and angry and suffocatingly lonely, Dean ripped the Impala’s door open with a little more force than was probably necessary, muttering an apology to his Baby on instinct.
If he couldn’t figure out his own problems, he could certainly go be someone else’s. Dean wasn’t sure he could find a seedy dive bar in a town like this, but he managed it when he drove to the outskirts of Silver Peak. The place was packed on a Friday night, which was fucking perfect. More people meant more blood.
Dean rolled his shoulders back on instinct as he walked up to the door of the bar, his hands clenching into fists again. The cuts on his palm ached, but it was good. The pain made his adrenaline spike. It helped to shove that soft, Omega part of him back into its box, where it belonged. Dean didn’t have time for that bullshit. Not here. Not ever.
The bar was just as busy as it had looked from the outside. There were a couple pinball machines and three pool tables, all located near the back. Dean found the one with the douchiest-looking Alphas surrounding it and made his way forward, mentally preparing himself as he went. Fleecing assholes at pool was easy. Fighting them afterward usually wasn’t. That was good. That kind of distraction was what he was looking for.
Thankfully, Dean wasn’t posing as a cop for this hunt. That meant he could be as rowdy and aggressive as he wanted to be without worrying about his projected image. Fucking perfect.
It was easy enough to pretend to be some uppity Beta looking to get lucky at pool. Dean played badly enough to stoke the Alphas’ egos, and then he moved in for the kill. There was very little that was more satisfying than watching their eyes widen as he landed balls left and right, ending in a stack of cash that was placed right in his pocket.
Even then, despite how fired up and angry Dean was tonight, he hadn’t expected the fight to be so easy to instigate. Yeah, he could be pretty fucking annoying, but usually guys didn’t go right for his throat when he’d only downed them four hundred in cash. Dean wasn’t complaining, of course. The resulting scuffle was fantastic.
The first punch to his face immediately silenced the desperate aching under his skin. The pain jolted through the light haze that had wrapped around Dean’s mind since mid-morning, bringing his focus into crystal clarity. Dean ducked the next swing, just to keep up appearances, and threw out a few sloppy punches himself. He wasn’t here to cause damage, only to keep the fight going. He had a feeling the Alphas knew he was holding back, anyway. It seemed to enrage all three of them.
At some point, someone seemed to jump to his aid, or maybe they just got caught in the crossfire and decided to join in. All Dean knew was that one second, he was fighting three Alphas while the rest of the tavern looked on gleefully. The next, he was ducking swings from all directions, the air thick with shouting and the sound of flesh hitting flesh.
For the life of him, Dean didn’t know how the bartender managed to get everyone to calm down. At some point, someone grabbed him by the back of his collar and physically dragged him toward the door. Dean was shoved outside rather unceremoniously, an aggressive snarl following him on his way out. “Stay the fuck away from ‘ere, ya hear me?!”
Dean flipped the bird thoughtlessly, already staggering toward his car. He’d been a part of too many bar fights to know that it would be dangerous to continue once they were outside. Besides, he didn’t want anyone deciding to take revenge on his car instead of him. Baby didn’t deserve that kind of treatment.
Dean pulled out of the parking lot with a screech of tires, uninterested in interacting with the douchebags that were being thrown out of the bar left and right. Some of them were choosing to continue their scuffle outside, but Dean was uninterested in that. Maybe that made him a coward, but at the moment, he didn’t really care. He just wanted to get back to his room at the Seashell Motel. He’d gotten what he needed.
The aching prickliness underneath Dean’s skin had faded a little, making way for the throbbing agony of the marks that Dean knew would become bruises by tomorrow morning. His left eye was already beginning to swell, the pulse of blood seeming to echo through Dean’s entire skull. His fingertips throbbed with his heartbeat. It was an ugly feeling, but it was better than the aching from before.
Now that he wasn’t filled with restless, anxious energy, he was able to feel the exhaustion weighing him down. Hopefully, he’d be able to sleep tonight. A combination of several days of driving and many months of continuous nightmares made for a very tired Omega.
Dean got back to his motel room and realized as he shut the door that he hadn’t eaten or drank anything since his coffee that morning. He was hungry, too. Apparently fighting a whole bar of strangers worked up an appetite, even for someone with a fucked-up body like Dean’s.
“Damn it,” Dean cursed, sitting down on his bed. He was no stranger to hunger, no stranger to an empty refrigerator, but…
But the refrigerator wasn’t empty.
Dean blinked, sitting up from where he’d been slumped over dejectedly on the bed. He still had that apple pie from the Honeybee Bakery. Dean remembered stuffing it in the fridge that morning, feeling pathetic and ashamed of himself. The thought of the leftover food filled him with joy now. He had something to eat!
Dean got off the bed and limped toward the little kitchenette. When he pulled open the small fridge, he found the takeout box with the smiling black bee inked into the lid waiting for him. Dean smiled back, just a little. The thought of food—especially his favorite food—was enough to make the entire day seem like it had been somewhat worth it after all.
In the fight, Dean had cut his lip and bit the inside of his cheek. His mouth tasted slightly of copper, but the ugly tang wasn’t nearly enough to mask the absolute deliciousness of the pie when Dean took his first bite. He actually sat on his bed with his eyes wide for a full thirty seconds, rolling the pie over in his mouth so he could taste all the flavors.
“Holy shit,” the Omega mumbled around his mouthful. “Holy shit. This is really good.” Even though there was no one to hear him but the empty room, Dean still thought it deserved to be said.
The crust was flaky, the apples tart, the filling sinfully sweet. There was a sharp, flavorful undertone of spices that made Dean’s mouth water just smelling the box. It was, without a doubt, the best apple pie he’d had in his entire life.
In the box, the napkin with the note and the little winking face smiled up at him. Dean read the note again, and as he took another bite of the incredible pie, he decided.
He was definitely going back tomorrow.