Dean hates that he can smell his own omega musk.
In the confines of the elevator, he notices it more than he had in the hotel room. The omega signature isn't as insistent as the Woman and Beta Man signals radiating from the couple necking in the corner. Or as solid as Sam's kinship-marked aura. But it registers the way pheromones do when you get right next to a person ‑ as a smell, not just a cloud of sex-identity. In this case, a whiff of rank maleness that makes Dean picture those baboons with the red butts.
He grinds his teeth. People aren't supposed to sense their own pheros. Besides, he's encountered unmasked omegas before, and though they hadn't smelled attractive to him, they hadn't stunk like this either. His body has found yet another way to fuck with him.
Dean leans closer to Sam. "Thought you said the smell thing would go away."
His brother looks at him. "That still bothering you?"
Sam whispers this, like he's afraid the couple is paying attention, when they're practically dry-humping back there. Seriously, just because this hotel is attached to a sex club doesn't mean those two shouldn't get a room.
"Yeah, it's still bothering me." The arousal pouring off the love birds isn't helping, either. He's so fucking sensitive right now, and the turn-on from them is clashing with the turn-off from the omega odor. "Maybe we shouldn't hit the club yet."
Sam's mouth tightens. "You can't keep putting everything off. This wouldn't be happening if you'd stopped your pills yesterday instead of this morning. You've been masking so steadily, for so many years, that your brain needs time to realize the omega signal is coming from your own body."
His beta brother has been going into omega-ness instruction mode a hell of a lot lately, and it isn't getting any easier to take. "Like you actually know that, Sam. You're not a doctor. The maskers don't work during heat anyway, so how is that 'masking steadily'?"
"Several similar cases of phero-sense disorientation are described on the Omega Health Alliance website, and…"
Blah blah blah. Dean tunes out Sam's lecture voice and faces forward, seeing his scowl reflected in the brass-plated doors. Why did he ever agree to this idea?
Movement ripples to the left, drawing his gaze to a warped image of the couple. The man moans…
…and then the noise coming out of his throat shifts to a higher pitch, as his alpha lord plunges into him harder. Despite the harness, his sweaty chest slips forward with the force.
"That's right, pussy ass," says Luther. "That's how I like to hear you."
The shred of a thought passes through him, that he doesn't want to make these sounds. But he can't stop, can't even try, because his alpha has commanded otherwise.
Dean watches their reflections, as instructed. He's bent over on the special table, with Luther's huge, muscular body towering behind him, hips pumping. The alpha pounds into his channel, spreading waves of invasive pleasure all through him. He tries to stay aware of Luther's tugs on the reins, gyrating his lower body in response. The bangles on the harness jingle rhythmically, and Dean's sharp cries keep time.
"My customers like to hear that, too," his lord says. Then he grins, teeth flashing white. "Some of them. Some of them prefer this…"
Luther wraps the reins through his fists to shorten them, and yanks as he thrusts. Dean's noises turn thin and keening. He struggles to stay in position despite the pain. His hands clench on the bars, and his thighs strain to keep his legs spread wide.
The big alpha hands let out the reins again. In the mirror, Dean's mouth forms an "O" as he groans in relief.
"Listen to yourself," says his lord. "Watch us together. Feel it, and remember: this is what you are. You live to be fucked. By me, by anyone I give you to, in any way I tell you. You're my hungry little omega whore."
His lord's aura skewers Dean's soul. The words drop straight in and lodge there.
An idea hovers briefly ‑ to beg. No more words, please, not the words. But he's been commanded not to speak. Dean looks into his own eyes and sees vacant blackness, glazed with lust.
Ping.
The doors roll open, revealing a hallway with plush carpet and fancy light fixtures. Sam is still talking. Dean holds himself still, keeping his pounding heart hidden inside. He can't let Sammy realize he's had a flashback.
But then the stench from his flesh slams into him, and he gags. It's so much worse than before. Like rotting jizz caked all over him, that he can never wash away.
Sam's voice trails off.
Dean braces himself.
"Excuse me," says a woman.
Dean turns toward the new voice, away from Sam. He struggles to focus on the mousy, thirty-something brunette in the expensive dress. The guy next to her has hair so blond his eyebrows are almost invisible.
Right. The lip-lock couple. Their faces are flushed, their pupils blown.
The brunette hunches her shoulders, as if to make herself smaller. "I don't mean to intrude, but we couldn't help overhearing. About your phero-sense disorientation." She glances over Dean's shoulder, toward Sam. "And we couldn't leave without assuring you there is nothing wrong with your aura."
"Definitely not," says the guy, putting an arm around her. "We've been… well, really appreciating it." He looks at her, and they share a conspiratorial smile. "I'm Roy, by the way." He offers his hand.
Dean stares at it for a beat, before his social reflexes kick in and he shakes. He nearly flinches from the shot of beta-maleness. It's like the guy's pheros are soaking right into his palm.
Damn, he normally isn't skin-sensitive anywhere but his privates, except when he's actually in heat. Just another benefit of being off his maskers, he guesses.
"And this is my wife, Sally."
Dean doesn't believe in open marriage, but hey, different strokes. He shakes Sally's hand. Her slender fingers buzz with pleasant femaleness.
Sally's breath hitches. "I just have to tell you, your aura is beautiful. Truly lovely, not just hot." She blushes redder. "I mean, definitely hot, but hot in a way that's so… warm."
Despite everything, her interest is revving his engine. Doesn't take much when he's in heat-cusp overdrive.
Hungry little omega whore.
His motor chokes.
"I'm Dean," he remembers to say, pulling himself together. "This is my brother, Sam."
"Pleased to meet you," says Sam. The elevator doors begin to close; Sam extends one long arm and blocks them until they retract. "Thanks for the… reassurance. Umm. I guess this is your floor."
"We were just going to stop by our room for a sec," says Roy, "before heading down to the club." He smiles wide and fixes his gaze on Dean.
Dean looks from one pair of dilated eyes to the other. "I don't do couples," he blurts.
Their faces crumple.
You'd think he'd told them their classic car had been pretzeled. "Sorry. Nothing personal."
"No, no, of course not," says Roy. His pudgy features get all serious. "No need to apologize for your preferences. My wife and I are in complete solidarity with free omegas such as yourself."
Did the dude really just say that?
"I hope you don't think us forward," adds Sally, a crease between her brows. "We're not the sort who approach omegas outside the social areas, honest. We didn't mean…"
"Okay," says Dean. "Bye."
"Have a nice evening," puts in Sam.
The couple finally exit. But as soon as the elevator resumes descending, Sam punches the Stop button, bringing them to a lurching halt.
"You okay?" his brother asks.
Dean can no longer avoid meeting that intelligent gaze. But maybe he can fake Sam out. He hasn't had a flashback since before his last heat, which he spent with Pamela. Her psychic influence helped squash the crap Luther left in his head, just like Bobby thought it might. "Sure I'm okay. Smelling like a horny monkey doesn't bother me a bit," he says, hoping his brother will latch on.
A pained softness floods Sam's eyes. "Sorry I didn't listen. That's got to be disturbing, even if the odor isn't real. If you don't feel up to the club just yet…"
Dean shrugs. "Nah, I can manage. The reek got so bad, for a minute there, I thought it had to be more than my imagination. Thought you couldn't sense it on account of being my brother. But you were right." He offers a rueful smile. "Should have known you'd have your omega facts down."
"Somebody has to," mutters Sam.
Dean ignores that. "Should have known I don't stink," he adds.
Sam's mouth twitches. "You stink all right. But, judging from those two, your pheros have all the come-hither they should for an omega about to enter heat. You're going to have your pick of partners."
Dean smirks. "'Course I will. Don't need omega pheros for that."
Sam rolls his eyes and hits the Start button.
Dean takes a relieved breath. He catches his brother's recognition scent: close-kin beta male, with the phantom undertones of sun-warmed leather and apple pie his brain has assigned to Sam.
And that's all he smells. The world tilts a little closer to right-side-up. "Hey, Sam, it's gone! No more baboons!"
Sam's face lights up with one of his rare grins. "Just in time. This place is going to work, Dean. It's going to give us a safer way to manage your heats."
His brother's sincerity loosens the knot in Dean's stomach. Sam is trying to help, and his idea makes sense. Logical sense. Doesn't matter if Dean's gut doesn't like it. He fucked up and got himself heat-fucked by an alpha, which proves his gut is worthless. Nothing but dumb luck saved him from bonding to Luther and becoming one of his omega bitches.
As the readout above the doors reaches "CL," Dean resolves to give the omega/beta club an honest try.
What has he got to lose?