Chapter Text
‘Hey, Winchester,’ someone yells, and Sam’s head jerks up.
Being an omega sitting in the waiting area of an abortion clinic is bad enough without being publicly called out, but Sam’s heard and seen worse.
‘What?’ he says shortly.
Craig from math class, curly-blond-haired and beta-bright, brandishes a home-made sign at him from outside the glass doors. It says I was a fetous once.
‘Wonder what your big bad alpha brother would say if he could see you now. He know you’re here?’
‘None of your business.’
‘Maybe I’ll just tell him for ya, huh? Maybe that’ll teach you to respect life more, shithead.’
‘Craig,’ the girl next to him says. ‘Just stick to the script, would you? And learn to spell, for god’s sake.’ She snatches the sign from him and shoots Sam a glance that’s almost apologetic.
Sam gives her a half-smile and turns away. Pro-lifer or not, it can’t be easy for anyone to spend a whole afternoon in the company of a total douche like Craig.
He glances at his watch from time to time, returning intermittently to the book between his knees. Paul’s procedure would take at least three hours, the nurses had said. Sam could come back and pick up his friend later, they’d said. But Sam hadn’t wanted to leave. He doesn’t really have anywhere to be—Dean works late on Mondays—and besides, he’d hated the thought of Paul, fifteen years old and six weeks pregnant, lying unconscious on a hospital table with no one waiting outside for him, worrying about him. Everyone deserves to have someone care for them.
A little while later, when he gets up to stretch his legs and look for some coffee, he realizes it’s been quiet outside for a while; apparently the picketers are done with their afternoon shift. Something nags at the back of his mind, something Craig had said that had set Sam on edge, but he can’t remember now what it was.
—
‘Hey, Dean.’
Dean slides out from under the car he’s been working on, wiping thick black engine grease on a rag before tossing it aside. The car’s a beautiful Cadillac convertible that’s definitely seen better days, now uncared for and abandoned; it’s been in the garage for the entire two months that Dean’s been working there. He hasn’t asked whom it belongs to. It’s good working on it to pass the time when nothing else needs his attention.
‘What?’ he says, not in the mood for Craig’s assholery. He may be the boss’s kid, but Dean is one wisecrack away from landing a heavy punch on the kid’s nose. He isn’t even that fussed about Craig’s jibes, really; what fucks with him the most is the leering glances and sleazy remarks that the little shit directs Sam’s way pretty much every time Sam comes to meet Dean at work.
Usually, Sam gentles him with a word or a brush of his hand against Dean’s sleeve, a tiny shake of the head that means Let it go, Dean. He’s not worth it. Today, Sam’s not here.
‘You wanna know a secret?’ Craig goes on, all swagger and no balls. He’s flanked by two of his flunkies, a stocky beta and a fairly muscled alpha.
Dean doesn’t spare any of them a glance. ‘Not really, but thanks for the offer.’ He shrugs out of his greasy overalls and pulls on his jacket.
‘It’s about your bro-o-ther,’ Craig says in a hugely annoying sing-song voice. He pauses for effect, slurping on his soda.
‘Don’t you have homework to do, little boy?’ Checking that his wallet and keys are in his pockets, Dean makes for the door.
‘Little Sammy is a total slut,’ Craig says in a loud fake-whisper.
Dean stops walking.
‘In fact,’ Craig continues, oblivious, ‘he’s the sluttiest little omega whore this side of the tracks. There, now you know. You’re welcome.’
Dean turns around, his face expressionless. ‘What did you say?’
‘You heard me.’
Dean takes a single step forward. He’s a head taller than Craig’s alpha buddy and has a foot on the betas.
‘Um, Craig?’ the beta mutters. The alpha is very still, watching Dean with narrowed eyes.
‘Don’t be a wuss, Alan.’ Craig crushes his empty soda can in his hand as though it’s some kind of impressive feat. ‘It’s three against one.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ Dean says, his voice toneless. He glances at the alpha. ‘What do you say, Derek? It is Derek, isn’t it? I hear our dads are hunting buddies.’
He has the satisfaction of seeing the other alpha instantly turn pale beneath his expensive fake tan. ‘Dean Winchester’s the target?’ he snarls at Craig. ‘Do you have a fucking death wish? I’m so outta here, man.’ He stalks off without a backward glance.
Dean flicks a glance toward Alan, the beta, who takes several steps back and crashes into an oil drum. ‘You have something to say?’ Dean asks, pleasant. ‘Out with it, sonny.’
‘N-no, nothing.’ The boy starts scurrying away, still walking backward, and Dean would’ve found it hilarious if his blood weren’t simmering at boiling point under his skin from Craig’s filthy words. ‘S-sorry, man,’ Alan mutters in Craig’s direction.
Not even bothering to check if the two cronies have actually left the room, Dean turns to Craig, who’s standing frozen against the Cadillac, still clutching the bent soda can.
‘Care to repeat what you were saying?’ Dean says, toneless.
‘L-look, man, I don’t want any t-trouble, okay?’
‘Really? Sounded to me that trouble was exactly what you were looking for.’ Dean steps into the boy’s space and wraps his hand gently around his neck, flexing his fingers just a little. ‘Trouble’s what you would’ve got for opening your filthy little mouth and daring to say my brother’s name.’
He takes a slow step forward, his other hand on Craig’s waist, as though they’re slow-dancing. Craig’s pushed up against the car now. ‘What you said? That’s earned you at least a few broken bones. Maybe a crushed windpipe.’ Dean’s hand tightens on his throat, the tiniest inch.
The air suddenly fills with the stench of ammonia, a huge dark stain spreading across the crotch of Craig’s jeans. ‘Look what you did.’ Dean glances at the pool of urine Craig is now standing in, some of it trickling under the car’s back tire. ‘You messed up my work.’
‘I—I’ll wash the car,’ Craig says, terror in every syllable, his voice shuddering worse than his body, his neck fragile as a twig under Dean’s hand. ‘P-please, mister.’
Dean raises his eyebrows, letting his callused thumb brush against Craig’s jugular.
‘Al-alpha, I mean. Alpha. Please.’
Dean presses down lightly against the thin skin fluttering beneath his grip. ‘You were saying something? About my brother?’
‘No. No, I swear. I won’t tell anyone. Let… let me go, please. Oh god.’
‘Won’t tell anyone what?’
‘Th-that he’s at the a-abortion clinic. P-please, alpha,’ Craig sobs, actual tears and snot wetting his face now.
Dean’s hand drops. Craig scuttles as far back as possible, his back hitting the wall with a loud thud, but Dean doesn’t hear it. The Impala is already screeching away, as loud as an enraged, wounded animal leaping for the kill.