A/N: Hey all! So, this is my foray into that weird world known as Omegaverse. I was always a bit troubled by the lack of Omega/Omega or Alpha/Alpha stories out there, so I decided to write one myself. This is the result.
"Hey there gorgeous, come here often?"
Dean scowled, the heavy, musky sent of Alpha assaulting his nose as a large, balding man leaned over him, crowding into his personal space. "Go away," he snapped, downing a gulp of Sam Adams. Typical. Go out to a bar to drink away a long day at work, and get hit on by a creepy sleazebag. It was almost pathetic, how he had come to expect this turn of events.
"Just trying to be friendly, babe." Dean growled low in his throat as the Alpha laid a large, meaty hand on his shoulder. "What's a pretty little thing like you doing here alone and unmated? You don't smell like you've got an Alpha or Beta around to take care of you."
"Don't want one, don't need one." Dean twitched, shrugging out of the stranger's gasp. "I told you to go away."
"There's no need to play hard to get." The man plunked himself down in the chair next to Dean, offering him a large, cheesy grin. "The name's Zachariah. Why don't you tell me your name?"
"Yeah, sure. It's 'the Omega who's going to get you thrown out of this bar if you don't fuck off,'" Dean snarled, glaring at the interloper. "I'm here for a drink, not a hook-up. Try someone else."
"Well, what crawled up your ass?" Zachariah asked, peeved, scowling at Dean.
"Not your dick." With a sigh, Dean tossed back the rest of his beer and set the bottle down on the counter. "Hey Ellen, I'm out!" he called, catching the no-nonsense woman's eye and flashing her a charming grin.
"And what do you want me to do about it, Winchester?" she called good-naturedly, flicking her fingers in his general direction. She laughed as Dean pouted dramatically, the smile in his eyes belying his expression. "Yeah, yeah, hold your horses, kiddo. Let me finish getting this shot tray together."
Dean grinned, leaning back easily in his chair. He was acutely aware of Zachariah's presence next to him, but he'd smelled threatening Alphas before, and while the man was annoying and presumptuous, he was not a creep—not really. Dean could tolerate annoying as long as it didn't delve into predatory. He would really hate to break out the pepper spray tonight.
Dean knew that as an attractive, single Omega at nearly thirty, he was an oddity in their society. Practically from birth, he, like everyone else he knew, had had the social order drilled into his head. Life was all about the biological imperative; everyone was supposed to spend their first few decades seeking out a mate, maybe even a few, and eventually settle down and raise a family. Alphas were biologically geared towards taking care of Omegas and Betas, Omegas naturally gravitated to the protection of Alphas and Betas, and those damn lucky Betas could settle down with whoever the hell they wanted to, even members of their own sex. The entire point of forming bonds was passing on genes, and the human race had evolved in such a way as to attract the best mate for that purpose.
Dean supposed that he was simply a genetic freak. The heavy musk of an Alpha held no erotic pull for him, and the crisp, clean scent of a beta left him neutral and cold. He could never seem to find an Alpha or a Beta with whom he wanted any more than friendship, or perhaps brotherly camaraderie. No, nothing set fire to his veins like the sweet, sugary scent of a fellow Omega, so soft and tantalizing that it made him ache with longing. Never in his life had Dean heard of such an anomaly as himself. Were it not for his own scent, rich and heavy with undertones of honey and sugar, were it not for the heats that plagued him every month or so, for the slick that dribbled down his thighs whenever he was particularly aroused, he would have thought that perhaps he was just a particularly unusual Beta. But biology didn't lie, at least not to such a degree, and Dean had simply resigned himself to a life of celibacy and spinsterhood.
Sometimes, Dean wondered what it would be like to be normal. To cry for the knot of an Alpha or the hands of a Beta during the agony of his heats, rather than sobbing for the gentle caress of one of his own kind; to settle down with a mate and raise a family. His younger brother, Sam, seemed to have no such genetic defect. Sam was every inch the perfect Alpha, strong and domineering, doting upon Kevin, his Omega spouse, just like a fairy-tale lover. His parents, too, fit the mold, Alpha husband and Beta wife, every inch the perfect family. The thought had plagued him in his younger years, but the angst of his situation had long since worn off. As far as things went, Dean was content, happy to enjoy the single life, focusing on family, friends, and career.
Several beers later, Dean left the bar, only slightly drunk and most likely below the legal blood-alcohol limit. With a contented sigh, he slid into his car, a gorgeous 1967 Chevy Impala and his most precious possession. Really, with a fast car, a strong set of friends, wonderful parents, and an amazing brother, what more could he need? Certainly not a mate. Dean Winchester might be an Omega, but he was his own person. He did not need an Alpha or a Beta to order his life, dominating him in bed and possibly outside of it. As for children, well, Sam was perfectly capable of carrying on the family line. Dean grinned, ACDC blasting from the Impala's speakers as he sped home, more than ready for a night alone and unbothered in his bed, able to wake up rested and fulfilled for work in the morning.
0o0o0o0o0
Castiel MacLeod could not help but flinch at the sound of a key scraping in the lock to the front door. "Listen to me, Samandriel," he murmured, pressing a shaky kiss to his six year old son's forehead. "Daddy wasn't in a good mood when he left for work. I want you to be on your best behavior when he comes in, okay? Can you do that for me?"
Samandriel nodded, his wide blue eyes huge in his thin, pale face. "Yes, Papa," he said seriously, reaching for Castiel's hand. Castiel offered his child a shaky smile and sank to his knees, ostensibly to better help his son with the large puzzle spread out on the living room floor, but in the back of his head, he knew that it was a gesture intended to soothe his mate. Fergus Crowley MacLeod, best known as Crowley to his friends and family, had a short temper and expected submission in every way from his spouse, especially after a long day at work. Castiel kept his head bowed as footsteps sounded in the hall, his hand shaking slightly as he helped Samandriel fit a particularly stubborn piece into the border of the puzzle.
Samandriel stiffened beside Castiel, and Cas knew that his mate had entered the room. "Hello, Dear," he said softly, glancing up without meeting Crowley's eyes. He would rather not spark his husband's ire by breaking his rules so early in the night.
"Hello, Castiel, Samandriel," Crowley replied, his accented voice crisp and loud in comparison to Castiel's. "Working on a puzzle, I see?"
"Yes," Castiel replied softly, dusting off his hands and rising carefully, keeping his head bowed in submission. "We've gotten pretty far in it over the past few hours."
"Didn't put you off making dinner, I hope?" Crowley asked, an edge to his voice that Castiel picked up only after long years of practice.
"Of course not," Castiel replied quickly, smoothing his hands over his rumpled button-down. "There's a roast in the oven. It should be done in a few minutes. Samandriel, now that your father is home, why don't you go set the table?"
Samandriel took the hint, standing up and half-running for the kitchen. Castiel waited, staring at his socked feet, as his husband pattered around, loosening his tie and removing his suit jacket.
"A puzzle, is it?" Crowley's voice was low, dangerous, and Castiel could not control the shiver that ran down his spine. "Surely you have more useful things to do with the boy than play games, Castiel. Have you even started teaching him how to clean, like I told you to?"
"Yes," Castiel answered quietly, daring to glance up into his mate's cold, impassive face. "He cleaned the bathrooms all by himself today. And I taught him how to make the sauce for the roast. It's just that he's a child, and we had some time after the chores were finished, so I thought—"
"I didn't marry you for your thoughts, Castiel," Crowley replied coolly. "You're an Omega. You're not supposed to think. Neither is our son. I won't have you raising him the way you would an Alpha or a Beta. You keep this up, and I will send Samandriel off to a single sex boarding school to learn his place—is that clear?"
Castiel nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. He had prayed, when his son was born, that he would turn out to be an Alpha or a Beta, and be spared the fate that had fallen upon Castiel himself. Luck had not been on his side; Samandriel was an intelligent, kindly child, but he was an Omega, and in Crowley's household, biology superseded all else. There was still plenty of time for him to have more children, to give his husband an Alpha or a Beta, and if his late heat this month was any indication, there was a good chance that this would happen sooner rather than later, but the sex of any future children would not spare Samandriel an upbringing as a proper house-spouse. There were no dreams of college or a career for Omegas under Crowley's roof.
"We will handle this properly later," Crowley said dismissively, turning on his heel to leave the room. Castiel released the breath that he had been unaware he was holding and wiped his sweaty palms on his dress pants. He took a moment to compose himself, and headed into the kitchen to put out the salad and check on the roast. Dinner would not serve itself, after all.
As always, dinner was a quiet affair in the MacLeod house. Crowley talked about his day in between bites, and Castiel and Samandriel listened silently, smiling and nodding in all the right places. After the meal, Crowley poured himself a glass of well-aged scotch, and Castiel helped walk Samandriel through doing the dishes. All too soon, the left-overs were stored in the fridge and the dishwasher was full and running, returning the dishes to their sparklingly clean state. "Bed," Castiel ordered softly, with a glance at the clock. It was not even eight, but Samandriel was used to going to bed early, and Castiel's tone broke no nonsense. His son did not question him, slipping upstairs as quietly as possible to brush his teeth and put himself to bed.
Castiel slunk into the living room, dropping submissively to his knees at Crowley's feet. "Please forgive me," he whispered, resting his head against the seat of the couch. The words slid easily from his tongue; it had not mattered what he was apologizing for in years, after all. He could get through the rest of the night on autopilot, unless something went terribly wrong.
"Very well, pet," Crowley said carelessly, setting his drink down on the coffee table. "Up, on the couch," he ordered. Castiel scrambled to obey, clasping his hands tightly between his knees and keeping his gaze on the floor. "You understand what you did wrong, and you have apologized. I do not see the need to punish you tonight."
"Thank you, Alpha," Castiel whispered, allowing Crowley to slip his hands around his waist. He shivered as the cloying scent of musk and scotch assaulted his nose, but allowed his mate to draw him in for a kiss.
