Honestly, I don't even know what the heck this is, I just had this idea and I needed a few days off from working on "What Do I Stand For" and somehow this happened.

I've got a good chunk written and am splitting it arbitrarily into a few chapters. I'll get more up later today, and finish writing the first draft today or tomorrow; goal is to have the whole thing wrapped up by Sunday. I'm guessing it'll break into three or four chapters. Maybe 5.

Tubthumping reference in the title is intentional even though I have no idea why (I mean I know why I picked the title but no idea what Tubthumping has to do with this story - probably nothing). Seriously I can't even pretend that I know where this story came from, but I'm having fun writing it. :)

Oh, and there's nothing realistic about this story. Especially as regards the sex. I'm not even going to pretend. So don't expect this to be a paragon of good representation because the only reason it's not an absurd PWP sex-a-thon is that apparently I'm pathologically unable not to include plot.

Holy shit, this place fucking stinks. Literally and figuratively.

The dance club that Sam's friends had chosen for his bachelor party was loud and so packed with horny college students that it was nausea-inducing. There was nothing about this that was Dean's scene; give him a bar with a jumping dance floor and an AC/DC cover band and he'd be in heaven. Haunter's Haven, with its thumping electronica and people jammed so closely together that the best they could manage was to bump and grind, made him feel claustrophobic. Dean had always had a sensitive nose – which Sam delighted in mocking him for – and if he didn't get some fresh air he was going to vomit on the shoes of the eleventh or twelfth douche bag of the evening who had decided to scent him without permission. At least this one was cute.

When polite "excuse me's" failed to clear a path through the throng, Dean restored to pushing and shoving to make his way from the bar to a booth along the far wall near the door. Jumping up on the seat, ignoring the protests of those already sitting there, Dean surveyed the heads of the crowd, illuminated in flashes by strobe lights and glow sticks. Fortunately, his sasquatch of a brother was easy to spot. Sam was surrounded by his friends, dancing with Jo like they were getting married the next day, and though it made Dean uncomfortable to abandon his baby brother, he had to get the fuck out of there. The amount of effort it would take to win through the crowd to let Sam know he was leaving would be ludicrous, and would definitely end with his fist smashing some hipsters nose, so instead he pushed towards the exit, tapping out a text.

Dean (11:14 PM): need fresh air. see you 2morrow.

Stepping outside was like escaping the damn undertow of the nearby Pacific. Behind him, the door slammed shut, dulling the sound of what could questionably be called music to a resounding thud, and wonderfully trapping the fetor within. The evening was cool, gratifyingly so after inside, and Dean leaned against the brick wall of the post-industrial warehouse, breathing deeply, letting the sweat slowly dry from his t-shirt. Down the alley, a young woman furtively spray-painted a tag on the side of the building, looking over her shoulder as if terrified of getting caught, as if she couldn't see the zillion other tags preceding hers.

Seriously, sweet cheeks, in this neighborhood no one gives a shit.

God, he reeked, his skin and clothing fucking coated in the scent of every damn alpha, beta and omega in the place. He was going to have to burn this fucking outfit. Fuck, he liked these jeans. What the fuck was he thinking, wearing one of his favorite shirts to a fucking club? The miasma clogging the air around him was nearly enough to make him gag. He was going to need a fricken hour in the shower before getting into bed or else his sheets would reek of this shit for the next month.

A group of teens, alphas young enough that their knots had just popped, came up to the door, stalking together with the ease of a pack long-used to each other's presence. They eyed Dean and his hackles rise at their expressions. He wasn't afraid – this wasn't the old days, a group of four or five alphas wouldn't threaten a lone omega even in a place like this – but their frank appraisal pissed him off.

"Go home, grandpa," said a round faced girl with at least a dozen piercings, her hair dyed raven black.

It brought an odd kind of relief to realize that they didn't give a shit that he was an omega, all they noticed was that he was close to fucking twice their age. Fricken babies.

"Fuck off."

They laughed and went in, the girl blowing him a kiss as the door closed behind her.

He was way too old for this shit. Fuck, at 26, Sammy was too old for this place, too. Illegal or not, the average age in Haunter's Haven had to be about 18.

A pleasant whiff of something caught Dean's nose, the first thing he had smelled that wasn't disgusting since he'd gotten to the Warehouse District. Focusing on it, Dean tried to pick it out from amongst the various other aromas and grimaced. It had faded already, and as he inhaled deeply all he picked up was more gross crap – rotting garbage, the salty tang of dirty ocean and dead fish, shit and stale urine, old sex, the lingering aroma of some unfortunate vagrant weathering their heat on the streets. It was too much. Bolting, Dean barely made it around a corner and out of sight of the people coming and going from the club before he fell to his knees and threw up.

Perfect. Fuck this shit, I'm going home.

Cleaner air drew Dean down the alley and out onto an abandoned stretch of water front. This had once been a bustling industrial neighborhood, but now the club was the only business, the rest of the buildings boarded up, inhabited by squatters, a slum that every politician swore to clean out but in practice everyone ignored. If this questionable haven went away, the homeless would find somewhere else to go. Here, they were contained, their location known, they could safely, quietly be forgotten. A lifetime ago after his father first died, Dean had lived here for nearly four years while Sam attended college and Dean hadn't the nerve to admit how badly he'd fucked his life. Every alley and bolt hole was familiar, the walk along the ocean formerly one of his favorites. There was no beach here, no private homes, only a built up esplanade and the remains of docks and equipment slowly rusting and molding as it crumbled into the ocean. Scattered street lights still contained functional light bulbs, spreading uneven pools of light at random intervals, reflecting gold off the crests of the choppy sea. In one particularly large illuminated patch, an omega sat with her pups on the remains of a dock head, smearing pungent peanut butter on stale bread, ignoring Dean.

Another whiff of that enticing smell had Dean jerking his head around, looking for the source. It was stronger this time, and though it ebbed as the wind died it didn't fade completely. The scent was thick with the burning tang of ozone, rich with the fresh, clean, perfect aroma of a world washed cleaned by a driving rain storm. It reminded Dean of the storms that struck the Kansas plains, drops enormous, falling so thickly that it was as if the very skies had opened up, the clouds so thick that bright noon was plunged into dark night only to burn brilliant bright when lightning forked from the sky, jolted into the ground, thunder booming across the endless expanses of waving grasses like an ocean of fields. Dean loved storms like that, the rare, merciful times when the rain washed him clean of every scent he accumulated every damn day, when he could go outside and smell nothing but the fresh water, the wet barley scent of soaked grain, and the sear left in the wake of the lightning bolts.

It smelled like home.

Following his nose, Dean moved blindly, turning, squeezing down a narrow alley, weaving his way through a tent camp. Other smells tried to distract and sicken him. People called out to him.

"Hey, cracker, you got a problem?"

"Dean! Long time no see!"

"Hey mister, got some food? How 'bout some money?"

"Pretty omega, need a place to stay?"

There were a few familiar faces scattered depressingly among the masses even though he'd been gone nearly 5 years. None of them were the source of the smell, it led him on, waning and waxing as he passed through darkened streets. Finally, he emerged before the burnt-out shell of what had once been Sandover's Shipping. Dean had lived down here when the fire had broken out; the fire department had taken 2 hours to reply and more than 30 people had died, many never identified because of the damage to their bodies and because they were vagrants, mostly minorities, and mostly omegas and no one gave a shit. That was like the fucking trifecta to get fucking screwed, and all too common among the homeless – around here, most were Hispanic, and the vast majority were omegas.

The man leaning against the raggedly shattered concrete wall of the destroyed shipping warehouse, a ragged blanket covering his head and completely enfolding his body, his gaze fixed on the night-black ocean, was most definitely not an omega.

Alphas were rare in the Warehouse District, and every one that Dean had met suffered from some debilitating mental illness or other – usually schizophrenia, which for whatever reason alphas seemed especially prone to. There wasn't a whiff of such to the man's scent, only pure ozone and dowsing rain, and despite himself Dean froze and inhaled deeply, the smell going straight to his head, straight to his cock, straight to the glands in his channel that began to slowly leak slick.

The man snorted.

"Hey, sorry man," Dean said awkwardly. "You smell fuckin' awesome."

"Gee, thanks," he replied sarcastically, his voice low and roughened by hard times. "I can't give you what you want."

"Not even gonna see if you like what's being offered?" suggested Dean, feeling a little like he was losing his mind. He never propositioned random alphas. Most smelled gross, over-strong, dowsed in cologne or scent marker and the lingering aromas of every fucking omega who had ever slicked on them. He never propositioned anyone. There was no one night stand on the planet worth the smells that inevitably soaked into his mattress, his carpet, his walls, his fucking skin.

This man didn't smell like any of that shit, not a trace of anyone but him except for lingering aromas on his blanket and clothing. It was almost like the dude was a virgin.

That was utterly fucking impossible.

"You smell like the bus." The man looked up for the first time, and, fuck, not only did he smell like fucking heaven, he was also gorgeous. The faint light picked out highlights and planes while leaving the hollows shadowed. He was worn, definitely – he could use a shave and a bath and a month of solid meals – but his hair, peeking out from beneath the blanket, was so dark it read as black in the darkness, his features were chiseled, high cheek bones, cleft chin, and his fucking eyes were so blue they put the ocean to shame.

"Fair," grunted Dean. "Not scenting me at my best."

"Doesn't matter, you still smell amazing," the man sighed and turned back to the ocean, slumping dejectedly, tone defeated.

"Then what's the issue? Get a motel room – get you cleaned up, get me cleaned up – I'm not sayin' we bump uglies, but..." Dean took a deep breath. "Okay, fuck, I never do shit like this, seriously – if you don't believe me, do you know Henriksen?" The large black man was something of a local defender; though he was employed, he yet lived in his tent on the streets and used the money he earned to help families into temporary housing and keep the elderly fed. He was a fucking saint. Dean gave him 300 bucks a month. The stranger nodded. "He knows me. Dean Winchester. I used to live down here. So, like, you can ask him – I'm not dangerous. Just, I ain't ever smelled anyone like you, and if you're getting anything like what I'm getting, it's worth at least talking about it. Over dinner, maybe?"

There was a long pause.

"No."

"But—"

"What part of I can't give you what you want didn't communicate clearly?" The most frustrating part was that, despite the anger implied by the words, the man's tone was flat and neutral.

"You don't have to 'give me' anything," Dean sighed. "It's just dinner. But fine, forget it. Stay out here if you prefer. Later!"

If this were a movie, or one of those trashy novels that stereotypically lonely omegas consumed by the box load, Dean would turn away, round the corner, and be nearly at the train station when the handsome man would catch up to him, huffing and puffing, explaining that he had nothing and couldn't bear to be a burden but if that was okay, they could give it a try. Six months later they'd have a bungalow, a picket fence, and bunch of pups in the oven.

This wasn't a rom-com, and Dean went home alone.

He forgot all about Sam's fucking bachelor party.