Chapter Text
Warming Up
Dean's head is pounding like crazy when he wakes up, rays cutting through the curtains, lightening the room a sickly yellow.
For a moment, he's nauseous, almost blinded, and he doesn't recognize the place, but then he squints his eyes and the world - the room - makes sense again. When he stands up, his stomach churns and his mouth is dry as hell, as if he hasn't eaten a thing in days and he's just clawed his way out of his own grave, remorse hitting him like a punch in the gut along with nausea, which is back quicker than expected. It's a tidal wave that envelops him and makes him stumble.
Overall, he feels like shit.
Unsurprisingly, given yesterday. He suspects he has a fever, too.
The moment he opens the bedroom's door, guilt and shame come too, quicker than what he hoped. And he should blame himself. Absolutely.
Because he always does the dumbest things, he's his worst enemy: he did it plenty in the past and he keeps doing it, his life is just a series of messes one after the other. A fucking failure, that's what he is - he can still hears his father saying that and he was right, he couldn't even keep Benny in his life. Or Lisa. And it's not like he didn't know it was a bad idea to kiss his fake future husband (catastrophic is the word Charlie would say, he bets), but with the surgeon less than an inch away after months of zero sex life he could just smell two things, the distinct musk of alpha slash Castiel, and the promise of hands all over him. Besides, he wasn't the only culprit: Cass did smell horny. For once his scent was telling something instead of being the usual unhelpful blank slate.
So, of course his brain stopped functioning altogether.
In his defense, the alpha did not help at all, the man could have granted Dean his blessing to go fucking around and everything would have gone well. But no, he did not, and from that point on it had been too late... Let's say you can't unscramble scramble eggs and, when his own lust crept in, they both were too far gone.
Leaning for a kiss had been the only option, in hindsight. His only chance to get laid.
Which was idiotic, fucking demented, clearly, but he's always been a dumbass with a master degree in poor choices. This doesn't mean shit, though, because he should have known better, at least for Sammy's sake. He's doing all of this for him.
Everything he does is for him.
Coffee burns his lips.
Dean lowers his gaze on the cup in his hands and resists the urge to shatter it. He can't even drink a freaking coffee without burning his tongue and now, jokes on him, he can feel the bitter taste of regret on his tongue on top of the burn. And somehow Castiel's taste, too, and it's quite concerning, because it should not be physically possible to feel Cass like that, but his brain doesn't agree. Yeah, logic has just flown out of the window and he can't shake the memories of the previous night either: it's starting to get embarrassing. It's not normal how he keeps replaying each moment in his mind and, even worse, wondering how Cass's lips would feel on his nape.
How it would feel to have Cass marking him with a bite. In his office. In his doctor's attire. Insid-
For fuck's sake, this is not normal even by his standards. Being horny is one thing, but this, this is something else.
And where the fuck is Cass? That is the mystery of the day. He is nowhere to be found, his scent faint. Dean has tried to message him to apologize for yesterday's behavior, 'cause yeah, kissing him had been an awful idea and Cass's passivity had been a clear refusal, but the surgeon doesn't answer. He hasn't viewed his messages either, that fucker. And this is kind of unacceptable: what the actual fuck? Is he a scared teen that has to run away and hide? Honestly, between the two of them there is not a green flag in sight.
And now Dean feels like shit again.
The omega drains the coffee down the sink, once again nauseous, and heads toward his car.
His destination? The first drugstore he comes across. In short, fun staff.
He's there in ten minutes.
The place is empty and that's for the better: less people that can stare at him.
The pharmacist behind the counter, a cute brunette in her forties, greets him with a shy smile when he says hello, while the other one, a serious alpha with grey in his beard, hardly looks at him whilst he stocks shelves with pill bottles - his nostrils flares, though. He knows something is up with Dean. And Dean, Dean already knows whom is going to talk to, because he is not in the mood to confront a tight-ass alpha that is going to judge him, so brunette it is. Besides, she looks like Lisa. That's a good enough reason for him now - and that's the second time in a day he is thinking about his ex. Which is weird. It's been years since they broke up: he should not think about her and maybe, maybe, it's kind of worrying that he's still brooding over her. Just a little.
Yeah, plainly speaking, the timing is concerning.
"I'd like to check my hormone's level."
The side-eye the alpha gives him is unprofessional at best, but the Winchester doesn't care, he is not talking to him: he is talking to Lisa's lookalike and, luckily, the beta is quick to act. The needle of the prick test is out in seconds, cold on his skin. It doesn't hurt at all, though, not like last time, and this is the second hint beside the stare he's received entering the drugstore, the nausea that's accompanying him since this morning, him thinking not one, but two times about Lisa after years of no contact, the... Yeah, no shit, Sherlock, clues are right in front of him, even if he doesn't want to acknowledge them.
But, hey, maybe it's just stress and he is not himself because of that.
She nods, appeasing, as if he's read his mind and she's agreeing.
"Just two minutes" she says with a smile, but then she gasps, one of her brow goes up comically and in a matter of seconds he bets it'll be officially confirmed that he's in deep shit indeed. That arched brow is his third clue, final confirmation that he is one hundred percent fucked. Or maybe not - don't be a pessimist, Dean, he reassures himself. Probably there is another valid reason for her reaction.
Maybe she is just having trouble digesting her breakfast.
Or maybe not.
"Mr. Winchester," her tone doesn't suggest anything good, though. He would prepare himself, if he was wise, but he isn't and he's still somewhat surprised when she mentions his heat. Because it's unbelievable; why, just why. It doesn't make sense, he cannot be in heat, but she keeps going.
"It seems you're entering the first stages of your heat," she says with a plain voice. "From your medical history I see you've started a new blocker less than eight months ago and have a prescription for an entire year. Did you interrupt it?"
He shakes his head in a no without even thinking, 'cause, come on, who in his right mind would do that?
He's not a fucking idiot.
"Kept taking it every day as usual, lately I've been feeling..." he searches for the right word, but it doesn't come. He feels his head just pounding and now he's sure that it's not just because of the hangover, it's because he is going into fucking heat after almost fifteen years.
Well, on the bright side, at the very least that explains his poor choices (poorer than usual).
He's not a total idiot, he's just in heat, and of course he didn't interrupt it, is she retarded? Why would he do so?
It's not like he had a choice in this.
"Not like yourself?" She helps when he stays silent. Pity in her tone and eyes while she says that, a facsimile of a sympathetic look. And he nods once again, swallowing a nasty remark, because he doesn't need her sympathy nor her stupid questions. He's not disabled, he's just in heat.
"There are few reasons that can solicit a heat," she goes on, but it's not as if he really cares. He just wants something to stop all of this, it's not rocket science. "I see you've been taking blockers since you were seventeen without any real break, you just changed receipt every few years to adjust the dosage to your age, but it's not a long term solution, your body needs time to recover. Didn't the last doctor that approved your new blocker advise you on it?"
Dean sighs, annoyed. He doesn't want to think about his last appointment, he just want a blocker of class III that will stop his heat before it's too late. What's so wrong with that?
"No, but..." the Winchester starts breathing a little too hard, face pearled in sweat 'cause it's too freaking hot in there and they should definitely switch the AC on. So hot. And now he's forgotten himself: what was he going to say? This is not going how he expected and, damn, Cass keeps ignoring his messages.
Fuck, why is he even thinking about him now?
He wipes the sweat from his face with his hand.
"Listen, my husband is a surgeon. Almost husband," he corrects himself with a smile, trying to breath normally. Not sweating too much seems impossible, though, but what he needs is looking lucid enough to get what he wants. And be chill, if possible. "We have to get marry in less than a week and I can't came home in heat otherwise all our plans go out of the window and we'll have to postpone the wedding. We still have tons of things to do before it, all the documents, flowers, you know, everything". He tries to smile convincingly. "Just give me a blocker of class III to stop this before I'm too far gone and I'll be ok".
The beta falters.
When the face of the woman in front of him gets conflicted, he knows he needs to start begging, because she's not going to give him what he wants without some real convincing. And so he begs. "Please" he starts. "He's a doctor, if I get ill he'll recognize the symptoms and deal with them. I know you can handout emergency blockers of class III without receipt in these situations..." and yada yada. A script that would convince anyone and... Fuck yeah: she's going to give in. He can see it in her eyes, she's going to say yes.
But. There's always a but.
"Only if it's necessary."
Of course the alpha beside her can't keep his mouth shut. Dean can feel heat pooling in his chest, hot red rage filling him, fist ready to hit, but the man doesn't even flinch at the rancid smell of his anger, he just looks at him with bored eyes. As if he isn't even a threat. Lovely man.
And he keeps going, that prick. "Your heat has already started and, yes, we could give you Chenesten to block it in these early stages, but it has too many side effects. It's a last option type of medical aid. You clearly have a partner, a home, you're physically in good shape as confirmed by your file - the alpha stares through him with a clinical eye, a fucking x-ray - and your temper: I see no need to resort to it. Yourself or your partner can take care of you: if you have to postpone your wedding, so be it. If we give you Chenesten and something happens, which is not so uncommon, you'd still have to postpone your wedding and you should face side effects as well, temporary and/or chronic. Because as it is said on the leaflet, Chenesten can cause a plethora of chronic illness and it shouldn't be taken lightly." It's so fucking factual, his tone, and the delivery - God, the delivery. The urge to punch him is so strong, Dean fears he won't be able to stop himself if this man keeps getting in the way between him and his blockers.
Yet, he has to stay reasonable. "My fian-" the Winchester is already saying, but the alpha's voice shuts him again. And it's always alphas, of course - for starters, it's Cass's fault, it's because of him that he is going into fucking heat, because all that co-living bullshit without the opportunity to let off steam destroyed his cycle and triggered a heat. It's his freaking fault. And he didn't even fuck him properly! That's plainly rude.
"Your fiancé, that I'm sure has your best interest in high regard as we do, would agree with us."
Dean's blood is boiling. The logical part of his brain is probably hiding after this words, buried somewhere deep inside, because the only thing he can think of right now is his fist crashing the prick's face and his teeth breaking apart like mentos. An idyllic vision and everything inside him is screaming to fucking do it.
"You know what, fuck my fiancé, I've already taken it in the past and nothing happened, give it to me". He's almost surprised by the desperation in his own voice, but it is what it is, it's his approach now. And it's the last straw, too: there is no coming back.
"Dude," the Winchester's fist impacts with the counter with a loud thud when the alpha doesn't acknowledge his request - Lisa's lookalike is wide eyed, but Dean can't care right now, he is too far gone. And the worst is that he fucking knows he's too far gone, but there's nothing that could stop him. If anything, he knows it's the final act of this interaction.
"I," he breathes out - drama is his second name. "Need," second pause, just to add gravity. "It!" And now he's plainly growling, because it's not like he can get a seat and enjoy his heat, he has things to do. Like, he has to take Sammy to his appointments, 'cause he must take care of him, must make sure he keeps getting chemo and does not spend all day in bed - his boy need exercise - and he has yet to sign all the premarital bullshit Castiel presented him a while ago and, well, there's the wedding itself. There's definitely that, too. But the alpha-prick in front of him doesn't care. He just sighs, bored. As if Dean is some kind of difficult customer and he needs to put up with his crazy requests, and it's not like he cares for him. Nobody really cares about him, even Sammy as soon as he could went away to Law School. Before his cancer they grew apart. This damn pharmacist just wants to ruin his life.
Great. And now Dean wants to cry, because acknowledging it now, the Sammy thing, has been the worst idea ever - this shit hurts.
"Then, let's not try your luck a second time without a real need. Go home" the alpha's voice is quick to drag him back to Earth. There's a sense of finality that irks him and he doesn't really know how, but Dean is suddenly behind the counter and he is growling, and in that growl there is every emotion he had to bottle deep inside him, before Sammy's cancer even got diagnosed. Freaking years of repressed anger.
And he is angry. He is sad. He is pissed.
"Repeat that" the omega snarls, teeth showing, his hands on the pharmacist's shirt.
But that prick is still unbothered, and it's not just that, it's how he takes Dean's hands in his and remove them from his shirt.
There's only annoyance in his eyes and scent.
"Go home or I'm calling the cops." It's John's tone. It sounds like his father.
And that's where he draws the line. Dean Winchester closes his fists and "Fuck off," whispers, his anger roaring, but he has to admit defeat. He couldn't go in jail back then at the bank and he can't afford to go to jail now, to confront a pharmacist. Alpha or not alpha, that's not the point, point is that he can't risk it all because Sammy is still counting on him.
So, yeah. Let's try again.
He attempts to get Chenesten in two different drugstores, but to no avails; the result is the same and no Lisa's lookalike is waiting for him in there. Neither luck itself does. And Cass, Cass doesn't answer. The fucker has yet to reply to his messages and his calls - 'cause yes, he's started calling him after he kept ignoring his messages. Because you know what, he himself could even prescribe Chenesten to Dean, if only he'd answer the damn phone!
But there's no time, soon it will be too late to take it. And time is against them.
It's after a while, when it's starting to get too hard to think, that he chooses where he's gonna stay for the next few days. Because, fair enough, he has no desire to spend his heat at Cass's nor at Bobby's: he won't be a burden and he won't be in the way. He's already contacted Bobby to arrange a ride for Sammy for his next chemo appointments and, at least that, it's been set. The old man will take care of Sammy.
And so here he is.
Outside a cheap motel when, for the fourth time, the voicemail of Cass's phone starts automatically. Dean wants to throw punches because he can't figure out if he's been ditched or else. All in all, it's just humiliating, like when his father used to ignore his calls. He's always been a good kid, but he's never been enough. It's never enough, what he does, what he is... After he checks in the motel and closes the door of his room, it's even worse: he's in a flashback. He feels like a teen again, back in one of those shitty rooms in which his father dragged him and Sammy, before Bobby welcomed them in his home years ago. The same shitty smell of Naftalin, ammonia and cigarettes. And, of course, the bed is hard as a rock when he sits on it. Not so bad when he lies down, luckily.
Or maybe he's just too damn tired.
And a voice. There's a voice, too.
"Dean, are you there?"
For a moment he thinks he's hallucinating, but then he hears it again and he recognizes it.
It's his voice. The fucker is here. Dean's brow furrows with concern as he finally tries to actually get up.
He feels numb and hot. Hotter than number, if he has to be clear. The water bottle on his bed falls with a thump, when he stands up.
"Dean?"
Yeah, it's really Cass. He studies him from the peephole... The alpha stands before his room's door in the most disheveled clothes and hair he's ever seen him. He seems troubled, even worried. But he knows that's not realistic, he cares just about Jack and his work. Most important, he hasn't picked up his phone when he needed him, so now it's too late, and the fact that the alpha's shoulders are so tense, eyes closed as if he is in pain, makes Dean even angrier. This man has no right to act this way, as he actually cares. Fuckin' ipocrite.
"What do you want?" he mutters, voice rough.
Dean clears his throat, leaning against the door full weight.
He hears a sigh on the other end.
"Dean, are you ok?"
No, he's not okay. What kind of question is that, he wouldn't be in a motel if he was.
"How did you find me?" Dean shifts his weight from the door, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He pinches his nose as well, as he waits for an explanation. The door against is arm is cold, he focus on that trying to stay focused.
"How did you find me?" Dean has no clue.
He tries to think of a way, but nothing comes to mind. Is he a magician on top of a tight-ass surgeon? It's not like he can't picture him trying to do some voodoo shit, he's weird enough for that, but he for sure he can't picture the alpha doing it for him. They are just some dudes living together to trick the system, it's not like the alpha really cares for him.
Dean hears a second sigh from the other side of the door, this one is tired. If he was himself, he would definitely send him to hell.
"You sounded distressed in your last voice message, I called Charlie," the alpha makes a pause, as if he's evaluating his words. "She tracked your phone."
So that's how he found him.
The betrayal stings. He'd never thought she could do that to him. "You kidding-" Dean's voice cracks. A hot wave of hurt and disbelief knocks the air out of him, while he tries to process what Cass has just said, but it's hard; he feels as if he can't trust anyone.
Dean Winchester for the first time has nothing to say.
But Cass does, or it seems so. "I told her we kissed and that the following day I couldn't find you anywhere" the alpha confesses, his voice soft, tinged with unsaid apologies, but it's not enough, 'cause WHAT THE FUCK. Is he hearing what he's saying?
"YOU are the one that went AWOL, not ME!"
Dean's retort is sharp, and he start beating the door, channeling his frustration against it. He doesn't even want to see Cass's face now, his jaw hurts for how hard it's clenching it; he can't even take a deep breath, his emotions running rampant. If there is one good thing of this, it's how liberating it is.
"Dean, open the door, let's talk".
Ah! Not happening. He doesn't need to hear his poor excuses or whatever he wants to say. It's not like that kiss meant anything. "Fuck you, Cass, go home," is his answer to a dumb request.
"Not before talking to you."
Dean rolls his eyes. "We are talking," he snaps, his frustration bubbling to the surface.
"Dean, you don't need to stay here."
"Trust me you have no clue why I'm here" he wants to laugh. Dean wants to laugh so bad.
"I won't go away until I'm sure you are ok." And if he says so...
"Is this enough?" Dean cracks the door open, revealing a glimpse of the room beyond. He hesitates, his hand still on the door handle, unsure of what to say or do next. Is there anything he should say apart from a fuck you in his face? The whole thing - his scent, the motel room, his mental state - is very self-explanatory, isn't it? And Cass is a doctor, he should be able to do basic math.
"You're in heat." Oh, he finally got the memo. But he's probably just sniffed his scent.
The horrific thing, though, is that now that the door is open and he can smell Castiel, he wants some. And Cass's voice is gentle, too, and he hates him for that, because this is doing things to him, and his eyes, now that he can locks eyes with him, are so freakin' blue. They're looking at him as if he is the only thing in the world. No, wait- Stop that.
"I am."
"You don't have to stay here, Dean." Of course he has! Because he knows damn well what's going to happen if he goes with Cass. Dean is not an idiot, and if he can trust Cass, he's not so convinced he can trust himself. The things he's already thinking... "But if that's what you want I'll bring you food and clothes. My door's always open." Fuck, fuck, fuck.
When the surgeon turns his back to go as if he hasn't just shattered his world, Dean wants to scream.
That man hasn't even flinched when he smelled him, he's not just been friendzoned, this is worse.
And now he's alone again.