Warning: mentions underage non-con (non-explicit) and it's against our Alpha; Bela Talbot is portrayed negatively but I always strive to avoid character bashing.

Hope you enjoy!

The old door to Ellen's tavern was heavy, hardened under a layer of slick frost, its frozen handle stealing the last bit of warmth from Dean's palm. Each stiff, red finger ached deeply as he wretched it open, effort due more to the crookedness of its frame than the wet cold that stuck it in place. Immediately, Dean was met with yellowed light, the low rustle of hushed voices, and an escaping gust of hot air that was like a giant puff of bad breath in his face, awash mostly with smells he recognized but a few were new, even unwelcome.

Heads turned his way as he entered, silences occurring in every conversation as the other Weres detected his scent in turn. As always, his Presence was acknowledged by the Beta regulars with slight shuffles or curious glances and, not for the first time, Dean found himself wishing his Alpha stench weren't quite so strong.

But if their noses were good, his was fan-fucking-tastic, and his eyes automatically followed his sniffer's directive to an irritatingly enticing scent, the owner of which sat directly center in the tavern. It was an instinctual draw Dean couldn't stop, but he was careful to school his expression into indifference when his lured gaze was greeted with a quick, flirtatious smile. He should have been able to smell an Omega from outside, especially one so obviously flaunting her Heat. He blamed the cold for dampening his senses—he wouldn't have bothered if he'd been aware of the current clientele.

As it was, he'd already made a grand entrance, his scent having announced him like the blaring horn of royalty, leaving little point in turning tail. Letting the door close with a loud thud behind him, he headed toward the bar, chastising himself for his blunder as he slid onto one of the stools. The first mistake when dealing with Omegas, especially ones in Heat, was making eye contact.

"You've not heard of gloves then?" a dry but familiar voice asked, interrupting Dean's attempts to rub warmth back into his hands, and he looked up into Jo's mocking brown eyes with a small smile.

"Had some mittens, pretty pink things with puffs on the strings and everything, but lost 'em in the snow," he joked, meeting her light scoff with another smile and adding, "The usual," as he tapped twice on the counter. It was sticky and dirty but his hands had met worse so he paid the grime no mind, even grabbing the edge for balance as he leaned back enough to stretch one stiff leg out. An empty glass was placed before him, Jo mid-reach for a bottle of cheap whiskey, when he said, "The battery's fine, just a bad connection. The cables are corroded."

The whiskey retrieval aborted, Jo's demeanor shifted to one between exasperation and annoyance, her head dropping to one side in a huff, eyes accusing.

"Did you break into my car again?" she growled. Adorable, her attempts at being threatening to him.

"Well I can't see the battery if the hood's down," Dean answered, his smile widening at her subsequently pinched expression. He shrugged, then raised his eyebrows and nudged the still empty glass between them.

"I'll come by in the morning with a battery jumper," he continued, rolling in his lips to hide a smirk when she scowled but set to retrieving his alcohol. She was throwing a tantrum now but she'd be pleased when her car was running again. He nodded his thanks as she slid a half-full glass back to him. "That should get it started and I can take it to Bobby's. He'll have a near make or model I can scavenge some same-size cables from."

"And Bobby'll be okay with that?" Jo asked wryly, finally a hint of amusement in her expression.

"Ah, he won't notice," Dean snorted and took a large swallow of amber liquid, fogging a contented breath into the raised glass as the alcohol warmed him. Another quick sip and then he lowered the glass with a smile, more teasing ready for Jo, but a slight shift in the air interrupted his banter. His humor vanished with a sigh, the brief moment of lifted spirits crashing back into weariness.

He'd expected it, of course, but had hoped the undesirable exchange could be delayed for as long as possible. Jo's eyes flitted over his shoulder and, for a moment, her unimpressed stare made him wonder if she's planned to rescue him, if she has his back on this one. But then other patrons were calling for more alcohol, rattling their empty glasses on the counter, and she had to leave him to face the enemy alone, naught but a sympathetic glance to support him.

Dean was quick to pull in both feet against the stool's rungs and tuck in his elbows even as he slumped over the countertop in the most unappealing manner possible—simple body language to give the impression of unfriendliness and help fend off unsolicited advances.

As always, it didn't work as well as he hoped it would.

"Hello there," the Omega purred, tugging a free stool closer to Dean's and sliding onto it, exuding an air of confidence and conceit. She rubbed a hand over her neck in a show of pushing back her long hair but it was obvious she was wafting her scent at him. Dean's eyes closed for a moment, his breath stuttering. She smelled amazing, as all Omegas did, like goddamned freshly baked pie sitting temptingly on an open windowsill. Her Heat was that extra pinch of cinnamon spiciness that made his mouth water and stomach clench.

And damn it if she didn't know the effect she was having on him, how she was pushing him further than any of the Betas around them ever could. As such, it was hard not to miss her smirk—a small thing, but enough to clear the fog in his mind.

"Not interested," he growled, quick to bring the glass of whiskey back to his mouth, both to breathe in the alcohol fumes, cancelling out the Omega's scent, and to make his hand harder to reach for any casual touching. The second mistake when dealing with Omegas was letting them get skin-to-skin contact.

"Don't be like that," she said with an exaggerated pout, and lifted a delicate hand—slowly, as she was aware that Dean was keeping a close watch on her movements from the corner of his eye. When he didn't immediately snarl at her, she ran her fingertips lightly down his bicep. His usual layers of shirts and leather jacket keep either of them from feeling the burn but they both shuddered anyway at the touch, and the Omega scooted closer excitedly.

Dean jerked away, shooting her a scowl, careful to never look above her nose. "Stop it. I said I wasn't interested."

A flash of irritation crossed the Omega's face and she gave a subtle sniff, taking in his scent.

"Like hell you're not," she disagreed quietly, tone harsh but even. Then, her flare of temper seeming to pass quickly, she was back to looking coy, smiling sweetly. "I don't smell a mate on you. How unusual, too." Her hand again began a teasing trace down his arm. "Seems like an Alpha with your Presence would have his pick of the bitches."

It was meant to be a compliment, and somewhere deep inside Dean's instinctual ego did enjoy the stroke, but he was more than instinct. He may not be as smart as Sam, but even he could read between the lines. She wanted to trap him, to make him her dog on a leash, her defender—at least so far until she found one bigger and stronger than him. That was the way Omegas worked, always ready to roll over for the next best Alpha. While Alphas did have a natural leadership to them, their Presence commanding attention, they would always be weak to the mouthwatering scent of an Omega.

Physical strength was an Alpha's greatest advantage over his pack but behaviors like barking out orders and cuffing the ears of any that didn't obey were coming more and more to an end, the rise of the intellectual mind giving way to civilized culture. Hell, they didn't even run in packs anymore, not really. It was a shame how such natural customs were ruined by the advancement, the betterment according to some, of their culture.

Not that Dean agreed with the redneck, radical groups who clung to the past—those that claimed Betas had no right to do anything without an Alpha's order, and that Omegas should be beaten, put in their place through violence, dominated whether they wanted it or not. No, Dean was all for equality amongst their kind. It only irritated him that equality was rapidly becoming a one way street in society's mind. An Alpha claiming to be abused by an Omega was still seen as weak, a nancy-boy, but one cry of wolf from an Omega and the laws came down, hardly any doubt in the minds of a jury. After all, surely a frail little Omega didn't stand a chance against a big bad Alpha.

Funny, how society was willing to regress to such old beliefs when it was on an Omega's behalf.

So Dean didn't answer, didn't let himself growl in approval at the Omega's attentions. Instead, he swallowed the last of his drink in one large gulp and then slammed down the glass on the counter, turning away from the Omega to slide off his stool. He tossed a bill retrieved from his jean's pocket next to the emptied glass and nodded at Jo when their eyes meet across the bar, a silent indication that he'd be back in the morning to help with her car. He ignored the Omega but her scent indicated that she was getting excited, clearly thinking she'd landed a strong Presence for her Heat cycle. His body language should have been clear, he thought, but Omegas only ever saw what they wanted.

With a derisive snort, Dean moved to leave. When he heard the creak of the Omega's stool shifting as she hopped to her feet behind him, he paused, eyes focused on the door as he, without turning around, snarled, "I'm not interested."

He'd only said it loud enough for the Omega to hear, but his scent darkened enough with anger to grab the attention of the entire tavern. There were a few sharp intakes of breath before everyone went silent again, the only thing keeping the air from stilling entirely being the quiet hum of music from the bar's speakers. The Omega's gasp had been the loudest, hers with a touch of fright against the surprise of the others. Typically, Omegas liked dominance displays, it made them swoon, but Dean hadn't been showing off, hadn't been boasting his Presence.

Dean had threatened.

The heels the Omega wore clicked against the boarded floor of the tavern as she scuttled backwards, a stool clattering loudly to the floor when she bumped it along the way. The rest in the tavern, all Betas, were quick to duck their heads, cautiously watching Dean without really looking at him, ready to read his cues and get out of his way if necessary. Well, all of them except Jo; Dean could feel her eyes burning into his back, though he knew she was probably rigid and shaking, forcing herself to stare at him, always one to fight instincts as much as he did.

Giving another snort, Dean again started toward the door, the Betas who'd been chatting near it hurriedly moving to make a clear path.

Just as he pushed it open, ready to step into the cold, the Omega shakily and weakly called after him, "Mi-misogynistic pig!" but all it took was one glare over his shoulder and she was again cowering against the bar.

The door closed with another heavy thud behind him.

Dean had been barely fourteen when he first faced a sexually mature Omega. He had just started his human puberty, was far from his wolf one, but even then he could smell the Omega better than any of his classmates.

Over the centuries, birthrates had risen along with advancements in technology. Betas had always been the majority gender, with Alphas being rare, Omegas more so. However, the days of packs wandering the continents had long since passed. No longer was their species simply small clusters of nomadic Weres relying on one or two Alphas to lead the way. There were towns now—cities. It was only natural that changes in attitude would occur as time progressed.

It had become a Beta's world. As such, Dean had had little contact with the either polar gender beyond that of his own family. His father hadn't prepared him, hadn't thought to warn him. Or—maybe John had, but had then dismissed the notion and decided to let Dean learn through experience, however harsh that road could be. John was of a no-nonsense breed and, from what he could remember of her, Dean's mother had been tough as nails. There were reasons Alphas were drawn to other Alphas; such wolves were not often branded nurturing.

And thus, at fourteen, that first whiff Dean caught of the mature Omega had him so dizzy he'd almost fallen out of his desk—and she wasn't even in his classroom yet. Later, he would come to understand that she'd been in her Heat, that that had caused the haze in his pre-pubescent Were mind. At the time, all he knew was that she smelled absolutely marvelous and that his body was becoming unnaturally warm. He'd never gotten a boner in the middle of class before, one of many firsts that day.

Dean had been accustomed to getting his way. As an Alpha, he was bigger than the rest of his age group and his strong Presence called on their instincts. Technology may have advanced but their bodies still intuitively followed the ways of old. His classmates had been more than happy to fall in line behind him. It was natural, they were drawn to him. He was born to lead, a long lost role, and if it made him a bit pompous—well, what Alpha wasn't?

But when Ms. Talbot had stepped into his homeroom, the new substitute for their pupped teacher, everything Dean thought he knew about his place amongst his peers felt like nothing more than chasing after his own tail. Her eyes had zeroed in on him without even a glance at the other students and she'd smiled in such a way that had Dean's already cloudy mind fogging even further. He had smiled back, dreamily, confidently, naively, and was lost.

He was just a kid human then, a mere pup of a wolf. Ms. Talbot hadn't been much older than him by years, though considerably older by maturity. She was merely twenty, the age most Omegas began their puberty, Alphas typically starting a little later around 23. Though Dean never knew it, Bela Talbot had started her Heats early, at a tender age of 16. If having to fend off aggressive advances at such a young age had warped her at all, she was too strong of character to show it. At least not to any prying eyes.

All Dean remembered about their first encounter alone was having his vision go white and his knees buckling under him. He'd been held after his physical education class, asked by Coach Roach to stack the jumpers; he was the strongest, after all. He had taken his time doing the chore, not eager to continue to his next class of Literature, but when he'd finally stepped into the locker room, the wave of tantalizing scent that had slammed into him was able to knock him off his feet as well as any solid wall.

It had all happened so fast, too fast. The next moment he was staring blearily up at the ceiling, body feeling oddly lethargic and heavy. His head was spinning, vision swimming. He struggled to sit up, only to belatedly realize he was naked from the waist down, jeans a restrictive clump around his ankles. He blinked at his own oddly wet and tender cock, utterly confused. It had taken the noise of shuffling to alert him to another person in the room—a shock, because as an Alpha he had a great sense of smell and should have known someone was there. But there'd been something wrong with his nose; it had stung, burned, like he'd smelled too much of too sharp an odor.

As it turned out, it had only been Ms. Talbot standing nearby, someone who shouldn't have been a threat. She had showered at some point, her wet hair tied up in a towel, and she was just beginning to adjust her skirt when she noticed Dean staring in wonder at her. He had never admitted it to anyone, even strictly denied it to himself, but the wicked smirk she'd given him then had shot a bolt of fear through him faster than any Alpha's snarl ever had—or ever would.

"You know why I like Alphas your age, Dean?" Ms. Talbot had asked, smoothly walking over to grasp his chin, forcing him to look at her even as he tried to draw away. He was Alpha strong, and yet had felt so disoriented and dizzy in the face of her burning scent. His struggles seemed to have pleased her, for her smirk widened before she'd continued, "You're too young to knot but just old enough that it's still fun. Such a good boy."

With that, she had kissed his forehead and ruffled his hair before letting her own loose of the towel, dropping the damp article over his face. He'd been so dull of sense that it had taken him a moment to think to pull it away. Ms. Talbot had made it to the door by then, but she paused to give him a wink over her shoulder, and had said, "Let's do this again sometime, hm?" before slipping out, leaving him there, half-naked and bewildered.

It was then that Dean began to understand the danger of an Alpha's greatest weakness.

It was a bad set of memories, Ms. Talbot's short time at his school. She had managed to corner him three more times in the month that she substituted, though none of those times were nearly as severe as the first without her Heat to completely confuse him. Still, her mature scent alone was enough to make him unwillingly compliant, but he was at least able to keep a few patchy recollections of their encounters, though he did his best to shove the memories away, to pretend nothing happened.

His mood, however, had soured drastically, and soon even his knuckleheaded friends had noticed. His closest ones had braved his surliness, had tentatively asked for the reason behind his recent disposition, and he was young enough, foolish enough, to confide in them. To his pained surprise, rather than be appalled by Ms. Talbot's advances, Dean's friends had been ecstatic, clapping him on the back and giving cheers. Awesome, they had called it, and praised Dean as an Alpha's Alpha—not even mature and already bagging chicks, Omegas even! What could he possibly have to be upset about?

Later, with a different set of friends, at an older age, Dean had jokingly brought up the possibility of Omegas raping Alphas, just to scent the winds of the new group's opinions. To his dismay, he had met similar reactions. What a good laugh they'd all had. It was impossible, the Betas had declared, because Alphas always wanted it, were always hot for it. Alphas could barely keep it in their pants as it was, much less when they smelled a nearby Omega. The notion that an Alpha wouldn't want to claim, mate, fuck was completely ludicrous.

Dean had laughed with them, played along, made self-deprecating jokes about his gender. It was only when he'd noticed his dorky little brother standing just outside his bedroom door, staring at him in puppy-eyed concern, that he realized someone had detected the nervousness in his jokes. That someone questioned his bravado. Embarrassed, Dean had been quick to slam the door in his brother's face—go find your own friends, Sammy!

It was the last time Dean ever tried to broach the subject.

It only felt like a bump against the cold metal of the car's engine but a sharp pain shot up Dean's hand anyway. He cursed, jerking away from the vehicle to examine the injury. It was small, the size of a pencil tip on the second knuckle of his index, but it stung, and the blood flowed freely, in spite of the purplish tint to his skin that indicated there was little circulation. He huffed an annoyed breath, mentally berating himself for not towing the car into the moderately warmer shop, having thought doing so a waste of time due to the quick nature of the required maintenance. The pain dulled to a throb and, irritated, Dean wondered how he could feel it at all when he couldn't feel anything else.

He had to twist awkwardly to dig a wad of tissues from his pocket, being that his non-bleeding hand was on the opposite side of where they were stuffed in his coat, but he figured snot-soaked Kleenex was better than a stiff, grease-covered rag. Once retrieved, he gave his raw and runny nose another wipe before dabbing up the blood on his hand. Amazing that such a little wound could gush so much red, yet he could barely smell the blood, what with the winter cold that had taken up residence in his lungs. As if a nasty cough and aching chest weren't enough, his nose was beyond clogged and gooey. It was disconcerting to have his sense of smell so crippled. He, who had a nose better than any, now had to practically bury his face in a scent just to get a good sniff.

Abruptly deciding that he could finish changing spark plugs after lunch, Dean stuffed the dirtied tissue back into a pocket and wound through snow-covered junk piles toward Bobby's house, eyeing the small nick in his finger as he went. The blood had stopped dripping but the skin wasn't stitching together yet, the healing process slowed by the cold. Feeling another sneeze coming on, Dean was tempted to wolf out and find a nice fireplace to curl in front of. He always healed faster as a wolf, both from disease and injury.

The kitchen was empty when he clambered through the back door, tracking in dirty snow as he did. A small space heater hummed near the opposite wall, only giving out enough heat to warm the room a few degrees higher than the outside temperature, but there was no wind and that made all the difference—at least for the first few minutes, and then Dean clomped into Bobby's living-room-turned-library to start some logs burning in the fireplace. As the fire grew, his hands flexed a short distance from its small flames to absorb heat, he again considered turning wolf and napping away his afternoon, job be damned.

Before he could fully convince himself it was a good idea, that Bobby's temper wasn't that terrifying, a buzzing rattled through the book-filled halls. He groaned.

Normally he would ignore the caller. It wasn't technically his house, no matter he'd spent a good deal of his life in it, and anything to do with the salvage yard—inquiries, complaints, demands—were supposed to be made at the little tin shack that posed as Bobby's office. However, Bobby's latest visitor apparently did not understand that the door buzzer merely need but one or two pushes, not to be held continuously, and it took less than five seconds for the noise to grate on Dean's nerves. He stomped to the front door, yanking it open with a stuffy snarl that was cut off by a hack as he accidentally snorted a ball of snot.

Immediately, he was pinned by an intense stare. Quickly, his shoulders stiffened in automatic response, his back straightening to make himself look bigger, his teeth sharpening threateningly, faster than his lips could draw back—because, fuck, this was another Alpha that was fucking challenging him at the mouth of his own den, what the fuck!—but then, in the next breath, the other's head swiftly tilted down, stare dropping from Dean's eyes to his toes in a gesture of submission.

Dean was slow to lower his hackles, adrenaline that had instantly pumped at the possibility of a fight still swimming in each heartbeat, but he forced himself to relax enough to no longer loom aggressively over the man on his—on Bobby's—doorstep. He was secretly rather proud he could pull off a Presence when impaired by fevered exhaustion.

Not an Alpha, not an Alpha, he repeated to himself, mentally helping to calm his physical response. He licked at the blood pooling along the crease of his mouth, his teeth having cut several small tears, and warily surveyed the bulky form of the unfamiliar Beta.

Bundled, was Dean's first thought, because there were so many layers covering the guy, the only show of skin being an oval around his eyes. A smashed, floppy brown hat covered his head with a red scarf haphazardly wrapped around the lower half of his face. He looked to have two, if not three, coats on, the collars and hoods tangled with the scarf in a way that had to be uncomfortable. The suit pants were stretched over what appeared to be thick legs but a peeking bit of green plaid fabric under the pant seams over each boot indicated that the hulk was more from additional layers rather than build of body. Absolutely nothing matched.

Dean scoffed inwardly. It was cold, but not that cold.

The man's finger still hovered over the buzzer. Dean gave it a sharp, annoyed look, but rather than hurriedly returning the hand to his side, the man instead hesitated for a moment and then once more pushed the buzzer.

"Wha'dya want?" Dean barked, hating how raspy he sounded, how weak. Even so, even with his nose Rudolph red, his cheeks equally hot, he managed a decent enough glower to intimidate the other Were into halting, the buzzing cutting off instantly. Once more, his teeth were beginning to sharpen in response to his anger and they again tore at his lips as he snarled, "Jesus! I'm standing right here! The fuck, man?"

The multi-layered Were briefly looked up—and in that short time the gaze was as every bit intense and firm as before, not the slightest bit of fear or deference in the man's eyes, and Dean could feel the little hairs on his neck starting to rise—but then the guy looked away, over Dean's shoulder into the house beyond. In a very matter-of-fact, muffled rumble he said, "Yes, but I am looking for a Bobby Singer, whom I don't believe you are."

Dean glared through narrowed eyes, but he was starting to become dizzy, a headache beginning behind his eyes, and he didn't have the patience for this sort of thing on a good day, much less a bad one. He growled as the man's hand again drifted toward the buzzer and slammed his own palm over the offensive button before it could be pressed.

The man flinched at the sudden movement but instead of looking surprised, he, of all things, appeared miffed, eyebrows drawn tight, eyes squinty, as though Dean was the one being difficult.

"Bobby's not here," Dean snarled, fingernails morphing into claws and digging into the wood around the buzzer. "So scram."

Even the hair on Dean's head was standing on end by then and he knew he had to make quite the sight, what with being in full threat mode without going entirely wolf—hackles up, teeth sharp, claws out, shoulders again stiff and broad—while at the same time being completely sick off his ass—a runny and red nose, watery eyes, flushed cheeks, sounding like a dying frog—but finally, finally, the other Were seemed unnerved. He took a quick step back, head again tilting down in submission even as he kept a watchful eye, careful to never look higher than Dean's chest. He was quick to turn sideways to Dean, instinctively positioning himself in a way to flee should the need arise.

And yet, even looking as cautious as the guy did, even knowing full well Dean's opinion on the matter, he still gained confidence from somewhere to determinedly start, "I have business with Bobby Sing—"

"Leave!" Dean roared, and his voice cracked embarrassingly on the word but it didn't matter because the Beta yelped and scrambled to escape as Dean heaved forward with threatening intent, clawed hand swiping dangerously close the man's head. If they were in wolf form, Dean would have snapped at the other's tail. As it was, he settled for giving chase for a few strides, just close enough on the Beta's heels to put the fear of God in the him, to let him know that Dean could easily catch him if he wanted to, sick or not.

But Dean didn't want to catch him, he only wanted the guy to go, and he abruptly stopped, snuffling in satisfaction when the other Were kept running, eventually disappearing around a car pile. He hated relying on his sight rather than his nose—not nearly as dependable—so he waited a minute or two, eyes focused where the man had fled, before he was convinced he was alone at last.

Whatever source he'd pulled strength from had apparently depleted at the burst of activity, leaving him feeling even more drained than before as he returned to the house. He practically had to drag himself through the front door, using his body to slam it closed by falling back against it. He slouched in place for a moment as he waiting for the dizziness to pass, huffing and puffing and half-expecting to hear the annoying buzzer at any moment. Much to his relief, it never came, and after a while he pushed himself away from the door and trudged to the living room.

One glance at the warm fire now steadily burning in the hearth and he decided that it was, in fact, worth Bobby's yapping to shirk work for a nap. His clothes ended up in a heap over one of the couches and then he was cracking his way through a full transformation, breath wheezing out of him at the effort it took.

The rug was no doubt full of dust and dirt but it was comfortable enough and his nose was too stuffed with mucous to smell anything anyway. He lay splayed on his side, belly exposed to the heat, and had to part his lips and suck air through his teeth to breathe. There was a persistent itch behind his ear and, God, he wanted to scratch it, but it would take so much energy that he just didn't have right then. All he could do was simply give quiet whine. A small, repressed part of him wished he had someone around to scratch it for him.

And so, with unwanted feelings of loneliness making his chest ache worse than his cold, Dean fell asleep.