The Smell of Fear
Annaleise Marie
cross-posted from livejournal
username: girlgotagun

Full List of Kinks: public claiming, knotting, violence/agression, collars, submitting
WARNING: Dub-con

AN: This story was originally written as a fill for a prompt in the December round on the spnkink-meme livejournal community. FFn doesn't allow links in documents, but if you want to see the original prompt you can check out my LJ, which is linked on my profile.

Also this was my first time writing a/b/o or anything like it so...be kind?

X

Sam knew about the Collar Initiative. Of course he did. He learned about it, like every other kid in the free world since the 1960s, in his high school freshmen history class. But even before that, he knew about it on some level. After all, his father and brother were both collared. He remembered the day that Dean got his collar. He thought it had been a punishment at first—a really weird one, maybe, because it was a bit much, even for John—because Dean had just gotten into a fight with their dad the night before. Not one of their usual fights, either. This one had been a knock-down, drag-out, teeth-bared, growling death match of a fight. Sam had watched, frozen for reasons he didn't understand, unable to interfere, as Dean tossed their dad around the room like a rag doll, finally ending up on top of him, teeth clenched and bared, saliva dripping onto the older man's exposed throat.

Sam had squeezed his eyes shut then, so he could never say for sure how his dad got out of it, but the next thing he knew Dean was locked in Bobby's panic room, and the next day John went in and returned with a much calmer, chastised-looking Dean, his older brother's head bowed in shame. The new collar, heavy-looking and rigid, just like John's, was secured around his throat. He looked uncomfortable and ran his fingertip between the material—some high-tech polyweave—for a moment before yelping and pulling his finger away like he had been shocked.

So yeah, Sam knew about the Collar Initiative, and four years later, when he came of age and presented as an omega, he was grateful for it; grateful for the heavy, chafing collars that bound his brother and father, and every other Alpha on the damned planet. Because the Collar Initiative was the only thing standing between him and…

Well. He didn't think about that. Didn't think about what nature had made out of the person he loved and admired most, what science had managed to tamp back down.

Dean, for his part, got used to the collar; wore it like a second skin. Or at least, Sam thought he did. He never fiddled with it, never strained his neck against it or gave any indication that he noticed he was wearing it. So there was no harm, really. And Dean was back to the brother he knew before the snarling beast that had appeared in the kitchen that day, that had dominated and had nearly killed John.

It was only Sam's age at the time, his lack of scent, lack of a defined role, that had saved him from his newly-presenting brother. He knew that, but he didn't like to think about that much, either. Because Dean before, and Dean now—collared Dean, he could never hurt Sam. Sammy. Never in a million years. So the collar wasn't so much of a punishment, a prison, curse; it was a blessing, a gift that had returned Sam's older brother to him.

So they grew up normal. And they learned to hunt. And Dean protected Sam. And Sam let him, because at least Dean wasn't trying to kill anyone anymore. Because it hurt Sam, as a brother and as an omega, to remember his older brother, his Alpha since John had died (though not his mate; he reminded himself of this a lot, especially the nights that Dean went out and didn't come back to the hotel until late, smelling of booze and another omega), so out of control and violent, acting out of rage and with sheer brute force.

And if occasionally, in the hunt, when Sam was in danger and Dean became more…powerful, more brutal, his scent wafting thicker through whatever space they happened to be occupying, that was fine, too. And if afterward Dean had trouble returning to normal and maybe John had to adjust his collar, and maybe Dean let out a yelp before some semblance of human returned to his green eyes, well…that was okay; that was what was necessary. And if Dean seemed particularly docile in the days immediately following, his head low and his cheeks burning with embarrassment, his proud Alpha posture broken, well…Sam tried not to think about that, either.

And when Sam's heats hit, Dean saw him through those, never mating him, never dominating him, just holding him, keeping his scent and warmth close, enveloping him. And when Sam's fever went down and the pain and discomfort and the need ebbed and they could finally untangle their time-tensed muscles and shower and get back to the hunt.

So Sam was content. And Dean seemed fine. So the Collar Initiative could only be, in Sam's mind, a good thing, and Sam wondered why it had taken them until 1963, when Alphas and omegas had existed since the beginning of recorded history, to implement it.

He couldn't imagine what it must have been like before…

Couldn't…until suddenly he could. Until suddenly he had to. Until suddenly that was just the way it was again.

He was in their hotel room, field-stripping and cleaning their guns. Normally it was a task that Dean completed. The Alpha seemed to find comfort in keeping the guns serviceable, in managing the raw power and barely-restrained destructive force behind the tools. If Sam were a more poetic guy, he'd figure that they were some sort of metaphor to Dean. Dean was the gun's collar.

But Dean had been injured on the last hunt. Nothing major. It wasn't like they were going after a vampire or a pagan god or another one of the Big Bads. No, this was a ghost—a simple salt-and-burn. Or, it was supposed to be. Sam still didn't understand what had gone wrong. They had found the body; check. Salted it; check. Doused it in lighter fluid and lit the match; check. All checks down the how-to list of Kill That Thing Before It Kills Us that Sam kept in his head, but somehow it hadn't worked.

They had just turned away from the graveside, planning to grab a drink to celebrate a job well done and then head back to the hotel to get some rest before continuing on the next day to the next job. Lather, rinse, repeat. Straightforward and easy. Supposed to be, anyway.

The next thing that Sam remembered was Dean on the ground, his throat under Sam's hand, pushing down, pushing… "You're just an animal; always have been. Only reason I even let you stick around me is that fucking collar. I should put you down like the animal you are."

So it was Sam that injured Dean. Lucky it wasn't worse, really. The force that Sam was exerting should've snapped his windpipe. But ironically that fucking collar had saved Dean. The lack of give in the polyweave, the metal filament that let the punishing shock travel through it when Dean's vitals arched too high, too fast, had taken the bulk of the force and Dean was left with a sore throat, probably a bruised esophagus, and that was it.

Well, physically, that was it. It would be a long time before Sam could erase the hurt he had seen in his brother's eyes from his memory.

Just an animal…always…that fucking collar…put you down.

The words still echoed through his mind, his own voice stabbing him through the heart. He looked over to the bed, where Dean had flopped down as soon as they got back, turning his back to him and dozing off. Dean was trying to act like it hadn't bothered him. Maybe it hadn't. Maybe, because this was how Dean was, he agreed with what Sam said. That hurt Sam even more.

Because his brother wasn't just an animal without his collar, any more than Sam was just a bitch during his heat. It was a thought that nagged at him, at the peak of the fever, when his body was screaming out for an Alpha—any Alpha—to take him, claim him, fill him, fucking knot and breed him. But outside of the fever, he knew it wasn't true. There was a lot more to him than his omega status. Same for Dean and his Alpha status.

The low light from the lamp beside Sam barely reached Dean, throwing his body into a landscape of sharply-contrasting shadows, the changing light from the television throwing him into sharp relief every few seconds. Dean let out a low growl that sent the hairs on the back of his neck bristling, and Sam narrowed his eyes, watching the rhythmic movement of Dean's back. The Alpha was asleep, definitely. So, a dream?

He glanced at the television, his eyes falling on the headline sliding across the screen.

National Broadcast Warning

It was repeated over and over again, and Sam could just imagine the shrill tone that would go with it if he hadn't muted the television in order to not disturb Dean. His mouth went dry as he waited for the message to start. The states each had their own emergency broadcasts, as did most counties and even some cities. So for a message to hit the National Alert System…it had to be big. Like, the shit they had dealt with during the apocalypse big.

The screen flashed and a pretty anchorwoman appeared, her mouth moving silently. Sam's eyes focused on the scrolling marquee at the bottom of the screen, taking in its new message.

Power grid failure: Washington, D.C. announces a wide-spread failure in the power grid designated for the "Collar Initiative". All collars presumed to be failing. Citizens advised to avoid contact with or isolate Alphas. Assume that any Alpha is an immediate danger.

Sam reached for the remote, heart pounding as he hit the button to restore volume.

"—scenes of terror captured on film beginning at 8:37 tonight, just three minutes after the power failure was detected," the anchorwoman was saying, and Sam could hear a slight tremble of fear in her voice. "For safety reasons, our station has not dispatched crews to acquire live footage and we again urge you to stay in your homes and away from any Alpha pack or family members. We take you now to the footage that was sent in just minutes ago."

The video was shaky enough to make Sam nauseous, but it was nothing compared to the twist in his stomach when the camera stilled and zoomed, and the contents of the video were clear.

Chaos. Complete and total chaos. Sam watched as a young omega, no older than sixteen was pinned down by a much-larger Alpha, the collar blatantly absent from his neck.

Rape. The word leeched its way into Sam's mind, slow and thick like mud. Sam was watching an omega, like him, get raped on the streets on the eight o'clock news.

As he took in the video, took in more and more details, Sam realized with a violent lurch of his stomach that it wasn't just one. The background of the video featured multiple Alphas mounting screaming, crying omegas. And one by one, each of them seemed to give up, go limp and complacent, resulting in a triumphant roar from their attacker.

Assume that any Alpha is an immediate danger.

Sam's head whipped around to look back at the bed, and his heart nearly jumped into his throat at the sight that met him.

Dean was gone. In the space that he had previously occupied, Sam could see the familiar polyweave of his collar against the cheap floral motel bedspread.

Sam stood up quickly, trying to control his breathing, stepping carefully towards the closed bathroom door.

And if Dean was in there? Then what? He wasn't wearing his collar. The collars had failed. Dean was an Alpha. And Sam was to presume all Alphas were an immediate danger.

He considered grabbing one of the guns. But then what? Was he going to shoot his brother?

No. He knew, no matter what, he couldn't do that.

He took a deep, shuddering breath. He needed to leave. If Dean had gone to the bathroom, he was giving Sam his chance to escape. Sam tried not to think of what was on the other side of the room's door, what awaited him outside. He had to grab his shit and get out, lay low, wait for this to be over.

He turned around—

And found himself face-to-face with Dean.