Don't be mad but I kinda forgot I posted this story… Don't be mad, I said!

Some changes and additions were made to the first chapter. I hope this is still engaging to those initially interested.


The sun was sinking into the horizon by the time Dean woke, dim reddish orange light filtering through dusty windows and casting long shadows about the room. Evidently his short nap had become a deep slumber, yet the fire that should have long since died still crackled heartily. Dean blinked sleepy eyes at the flames, bemused. Bobby must have returned home at some point and added more logs to it but he didn't remember hearing anyone come in—an unsettling realization, that he'd been that deadened to the world, as if the loss of his nose wasn't bad enough.

With a great amount of effort, he hefted to his paws to put a little distance between himself and the now uncomfortable heat, uncaring of the saliva that dripped to the floor as his mouth opened in a wide pant. An ex-girlfriend or five would have had his tail in chew for such slovenly behavior, but Bobby was no Martha Stewart. Hell, if anything, the spit would give the old junker's floors a nice shine.

Perhaps a nap hadn't been a good idea. He felt no better after than he had before. In fact, he felt worse, all creaky-boned and achy-muscled when he took a moment to stretch. A noise from the kitchen made him tense, alarmed, but he then recognized the sounds of Bobby milling about. Huffing a sigh, Dean trudged to the open doorway, claws clicking with each slow step. His eyes twitched against the kitchen's artificial yellow light and he squinted as he spotted his pot-bellied godfather by the refrigerator.

"'Bout time you got up," Bobby groused, grabbing two beers and setting one on the counter before popping the top of the other. He faced Dean after a quick gulp, taking in Dean's bedraggled appearance, and concern grew in his eyes even as he gruffly asked, "Well? You plannin' to get dressed, Sleeping Beauty? Or are you just gonna be a lazy fleabag all night, too?"

Dean meant to growl at him, a bratty reply to the sarcasm, but whuffed like a newborn pup instead. Bobby's eyebrows took a dive, concern amending to full-blown worry, and Dean looked away in embarrassment, only mollified by the knowledge that at least this was Bobby he was being so weak in front of and not his real father.

"Yeah, I thought so," Bobby mumbled. He rubbed his hairy chin thoughtfully as he gave Dean another calculating lookover, scoffing after a moment and shaking his head. "I didn't think fools could get sick, 'specially you Winchester ones, but you've gone and caught a bad case of it, haven't you?"

Dean dropped back onto his haunches and settled for a slight snarl of the lip to convey his irritation.

"Well stay the hell away from me. If an Alpha can get it, I sure as hell don't want it," Bobby warned. Beer bottle still in hand, he dismissed Dean with a wave, attitude indifferent even as the worry was clear in the tense lines of his body. "Go on. Go back to sleep. Don't look at me like that, pup. You're not of any use to anyone 'til you've slept it off. I don't need you scratchin' the floors with those ridiculous claws of yours in the meantime."

The floor was already covered in scratches. Even if it wasn't, the linoleum was starting to peel at the edges so it was hardly of value, but Dean retreated as ordered, ignoring the feel of Bobby's scrutinization as he dragged himself out of the kitchen. He gave the fireplace a wide berth, his thick winter coat more than good enough now that the air was warmed, and chose instead to settle against the outermost wall, enjoying the cool press of it against his side.

Briefly, he recalled the Beta who'd been looking for Bobby, and he wondered if he ought shift and relay the encounter. However, the mere mention of more rest had an unsatisfied exhaustion tugging at his consciousness, as though he hadn't just woken, and he was asleep before his head hits his paws, the thought forgotten.


A nose rooted around in the fur at Dean's neck, like a pig snout after truffles, and it took Dean a few seconds to realize that he wasn't dreaming, that there really was an unknown sniffer, and subsequently unknown teeth, at his throat. He jolted awake in a panic, snarling an attack as he whirled on the daring stranger, his barely awake rationality swiftly disappearing under a surge of defensive instinct. The other wolf reflexively snarled back—equally as startled by Dean's sudden movement as Dean had been at the obtrusive sniffing—and retaliated just as violently. Jaws snapped and claws ripped between them in the breath that it took for them to separate and size-up their opponent.

Dean attempted to plant his feet, make his stance imposing, but instead found himself feebly staggering, the world around him spinning and threatening to tip him on his side. His heavy, wheezy pants were obvious signs of weakness but the other Were didn't take the easy opening to attack and instead seemed wary. Dean growled a warning all the same, trying to focus on the hulking form before him, but the headache that burned behind his eyes had him seeing through fog. There was something about the fuzzy double-image that he recognized but he couldn't quite put a claw on what it was.

The sound of feet rushing down the stairs interrupted Dean's confusion and a second later Bobby burst into the room, eyes wide and hands wrapped tightly around a pointed shotgun. It took him merely one out of breath assessment of the situation for the panicked fright on his face to dissolve into exasperated anger and he was quick to lift the gun's barrel away from the two wolves.

"Damn it, Sam! I told you to leave Dean alone!" Bobby snapped at the large wolf, and recognition abruptly clicked in Dean's mind—because, yeah, that huge fur ball was his baby brother, wasn't it? But he couldn't smell Sam, something that made his instinct cautious even though his eyes told him the shaggy wolf was more than familiar.

Without completely dropping his guard, still wary of further attack from Dean, Sam whined softly, head and ears drooping under the force of the Bobby's glare. The man may have been a Beta, but he'd put Dean and Sam in their places more than enough times as pups for their respect to carry into adulthood.

"You tryin' to give me a heart attack?" Bobby accused, making Sam wilt even more. "Didn't I say not to go pokin' at him? That moron can't even smell his own ass right now!"

The crunch and crack of Sam shifting back to human drowned out Dean's insulted whumpf. His nose wasn't working but that didn't mean his ears weren't. Except—maybe they weren't, because when had Sam arrived?

"I called to him several times but he didn't answer," Sam justified, and even in human form he looked like a kicked pup, all worry lines and frowns, simultaneously ashamed and fretful but, as always, defensive of his actions. He threw Dean an unsure glance and then turned his back in a display of trust as he retrieved his clothes.

Dean let out a puff of a sigh, accepting the truce, and dropped to his stomach, resting his throbbing head on his paws.

"You two giant idjits! Look at this mess!" Bobby growled, indicating the new gouges in the wood, the tears in the rug, the displaced furniture—typical byproducts of even a brief tussle between Alphas. Sam muttered an apology but Dean simply turned an uncaring, weary gaze on his godfather. Rather than be angered by the insolence, Bobby took one look at him and deflated, jerking a thumb over his shoulder and gruffing, "Dean, get up stairs and get in a bed. You'll not get any better mopin' down here like a dog."

The blurry doorway behind Bobby received a disdainful look, the normally standard task of climbing stairs suddenly seeming daunting, but Sam was observing with those pitying eyes of his, even if he was pretending not to. Dean lurched to his feet, keeping as dignified as possible as he swayed under another head-throbbing wave of dizziness, and forced himself to move. Each step ached in his joints and muscles, into the core of his very bones, tail uselessly dragging the floor behind him, but he uttered not one whimper under the watchful eyes of his godfather and brother.

As he made his slow exit, he heard Bobby mutter, "Clean up this mess then get the books you need and get out before you catch what he has. I'm not about to play nursemaid to both you lugheads," and it made him snort, humored, because maybe he was a little delirious but Bobby's lumpy form in a nurse uniform was a funny, if repelling, image. Ah, delirium; it usually only reared its head when he was drunk.

He was already out of breath by the time he reached the bottom of the stairs. He paused there, panting, and was tempted to drop for another nap, but then he caught Bobby glancing back at him, every bit as worried as Sam, and that was enough to encourage him to paw the first step. It was a tedious climb, probably took every bit as long as it felt, and his tongue may have accidentally licked the floor a few times as his head drooped—but he was a big boy and he didn't need any help making it to the top and that was what mattered.

Dean didn't really remember walking from the stairs to the nearest bedroom but he did remember thanking the gods that Bobby's beds were low.


At one point, he was woken by a rustling at the door. He simply rumbled a warning growl, head and eyelids too heavy to lift up and see who was bothering him, but then a voice murmured, "I know. Just let him get some sleep," and the rustling went away. Dean would have rolled his eyes if he wasn't already falling asleep again.

Stupid Sammy.


A bark jerked Dean from dreamland. It was followed by shouting that started off loud and angry but abruptly cut off a second later, only a brief pause before the voice continued at an agitated hush.

Dean snuffled and shook the last of his sleep from his mind, understanding that whoever was making noise below was apparently trying to keep from waking him. Too late, he thought with a mild growl, rising to his paws to stretch away the stiffness in his limbs. He still felt achy, his nose was still stuffed, but his vision was clearer, his head not as heavy. With sunlight happily beaming through the windows, he figured a night of deep sleep had done him some good after all.

Voices continued floating up the stairs in a quieted argument. He recognized one as coming from a frustrated Bobby but the other was only a mild rumble that lacked the same irritation. Feeling up to it, Dean eased off the bed and carefully shifted back to human, grunting as the soreness in his muscles lingered. Scratching a whiskered chin, he glanced around for the clothes he expected would be there. Bobby liked to play at being hardhearted but Dean knew better; he smirked when he saw a set waiting on a nearby chair.

A little while later, clothed and moderately presentable, Dean stood at the top of the stairs, wearily eyeing the narrow decline. He felt better, but he didn't feel great. The stairs, he imagined, were likely to be a slowly performed task once more. Indeed, his first impatient step down proved that his balance was not quite restored in his two-legged form, and he wavered for a moment before descending more cautiously.

Dean absentmindedly eavesdropped on the unrelenting argument being had in the kitchen. His slower pace kept the creaks of the old wooden stairs quiet, allowing him to listen without immediately alerting Bobby or the other Were. Not that he expected to hear anything of importance. He assumed their lows tones were simply because they thought him still fast asleep, and he knew they would smell or feel him soon enough, so it didn't occur to him that he was possibly hearing something he wasn't supposed to.

"That bastard's lying!" Bobby was snarling, volume controlled but voice rough.

"The exact nature of your understanding with Mr. Crowley was not discussed with me," came the almost monotonous and infuriatingly calm response. The voice was vaguely familiar, but Dean's mind was too busy racing at the mention of Crowley to ponder it. "Therefore, it is not currently my concern. If you have complaints, please take them up with him. I am merely here to accept payment for you debt."

Dean froze in place, just at the bottom of the stairs. His fingers automatically clawed, cutting into the soft wood of the banister that he'd been holding for balance.

No, surely Bobby hadn't

"I'm telling you I've already paid!" Bobby snapped, confirming Dean's fears. "He's changing the terms of the contract! And if he thinks sending you is gonna trick me into—"

Bobby cut off in a hissed gasp, the sniffing pause between him and the other Were a tell-tale sign that Dean was caught out. They had no doubt sensed the angry flare in his Presence. Sure enough, a clatter sounded, followed by hurried steps, and then Bobby appeared in the kitchen doorway, eyes instantly pinning Dean with an accusing glower. Dean firmly met and held his gaze for a long, tense moment, mind racing with so many heated words that he couldn't decide which ones to use. Before he could speak, the accusation in Bobby's expression slipped to guilty defeat—Dean wasn't the only one who'd been caught out.

Bobby turned back into the kitchen, shame in his countenance now, and growled lowly to the unknown Were, "This conversation's over. We're done here."

"Mr. Singer, I have been advised not to—"

"Don't Mr. Singer me!"

Dean felt a push of Bobby's Presence—nothing compared to him or Sam, nowhere near his father, but strong for a Beta.

"Are you a bulldog or a wolf?" Bobby snarled. "I said we're done. Now get your teeth outta it and git out!"

Even with Bobby's Presence at full intimidation, the intruding Were seemed unwilling to leave, as Dean heard no movement to indicate the man was yielding. It was that insolent stubbornness that helped Dean match a face to the voice. What a determined little shit, he decided with a scoff. Although, if Crowley was involved, it was no wonder the man had been so insistent on seeing Bobby—no wonder he didn't want to return empty-handed.

Only after Bobby's threatening growls grew to thunderous volume did Dean finally hear the other Beta begin shuffling papers together and gathering his things. Dean didn't move from where he waited at the bottom of the stairs, but he bristled as the sensed the man drawing closer. It bothered that he could hear the strange Were but not smell him. In his wariness, he must have unconsciously pushed out his Presence as a warning, for the Beta hesitated, stopping just at the threshold between kitchen and hallway, just out of Dean's sight.

"Aw, he ain't gonna jump ya," Bobby snorted, tone mocking. "You got nothing to worry about, princess. Now git."

Dean should have known what was coming, expected it even, having already encountered the guy. However, when the Beta stepped out of the kitchen at last, again immediately meeting his eyes with that Alpha-like stare, he found himself automatically tensing, hackles rising. His chest vibrated with a low growl, not threatening so much, just an assertion that he may be sick but he wasn't weak.

Instead of catching the hint and looking away, the guy's stare intensified. There were several feet between them, but Dean swore he saw the Beta's pupils dilate, the many layers the man wore rising and falling quickly as though his chest was heaving underneath them. An answering thrum echoed in Dean's own veins, because suddenly the Beta stare wasn't a challenge, it was an invitation, but why he would—

A loud slam made them both jump, the trance breaking between them. The Beta immediately grimaced, as if embarrassed, and then hunched his shoulder defensively and hurried to the front door, passing Dean with his head down. Dean kept a sharp eye on him, watching as he all but dashed outside, and tried to sniff at the air that wafted in his wake but got nothing more than a snort of snot. He was oddly daring for a Beta, leaving Dean a little off balance, but a moment later Dean shook off the confusion and continued on to the kitchen.

Bobby was clattering about, having started a pot of something on the stove. Dean suspected it was an herbal soup, the kind Bobby had always made when either he or Sam got sick as pups, but he wasn't too concerned with it at the moment. Bobby took one glance at his pinched expression and turned away with an annoyed sigh.

"Don't even start," his godfather warned.

"Jesus Christ, Bobby—"

"I said, don't start!" Bobby snarled over his shoulder.

"Oh I'm gonna start!" Dean challenged, striding right up to the Beta's side.

For a brief moment, Bobby appeared wary, instinctively shifting away from Dean's glare, but then he twitched, as if shaking off the urge to acquiesce, and elbowed at Dean's side, moving the Alpha out of his way so he could cook.

"There's no point to arguin' it now," he said, sounding tired. "What's done is done. It's my business, so stay out of it."

Dean groaned, his intimidation having failed, and leaned back against the counter with a huff. "Why'd you do it in the first place? Making a deal with Crowley—hell, you might as well be selling your soul to the bastard!"

"Don't you think I already know that, pup?"

"Then why?"

"'Cause I needed the money, that's why!" Bobby snapped, sloshing soup from the pot when he stirred too harshly. Seeing that Dean was about to comment, he cut in, "It ain't your business why. I've got a handle on it anyway."

"A handle on it?" Dean asked incredulously, expression one of doubtful defiance. He gestured toward the doorway. "That was one of Crowley's debt collectors. But you've got a handle on it."

"That's right, I do," Bobby asserted with a growl.

"Obviously you don't or he wouldn't have been here!"

"Aw that pup was just yammerin' about fine print," Bobby snorted. His tone soured further as he muttered, "I was about to fine print my boot up his ass."

Rubbing his hands over his face, Dean let out a deep sigh. "Bobby…"

"I said I've got a handle on it, Dean. There's no reason your fluffy hide needs to get involved. Now sit down before you wear yourself out. Soup's almost ready."

Dean considered pursuing the issue, wanting to get to the bottom of it—Bobby's problems were his problems. The old Beta had practically raised him and Sam after their mother died, was certainly there for them more than their real father ever was. Dean owed it to the man to help out with any trouble he was having. But Bobby was clearly not willing to open up about it, and already Dean's headache from the day before was making a nasty comeback.

With one last sigh, he pushed away from the counter and obediently sat at the table.

"Man, that dude's persistent, though," Dean grumbled, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes before slumping in the chair with a huff. "He came by yesterday, too."

Bobby snorted derisively as he turned off the stovetop and opened a cabinet to retrieve a chipped bowl. "Well he won't be back for a couple weeks, at the least."

"Why do you say that?"

Hands halting their movement with a jerk, Bobby looked back at Dean in surprise. "You didn't smell it on him? How close he is?"

"I can't even smell my own ass right now," Dean grumbled, throwing Bobby's own words back at him with a scowl.

He studied Dean worriedly. "Maybe I should take you to the hospital."

Dean glared harder.

"Well, in any case," Bobby continued with a sigh of his own, "let's get something warm in you first and we'll go from there."

Headache now a pulsing reminder of why he shouldn't have bothered getting out of bed, Dean simply rocked forward to slump over the table with a pained groan.


Bobby didn't drive Dean to the hospital two towns over, for which Dean was rather grateful, but he did ring the local doctor for a house call when the fever got high enough that the Alpha began hallucinating. Bobby had never seen it so bad, or so he told Sam over the phone, shouting that no, damn it, Sam had better stay the hell away! That warning was the last real sentence Dean recalled hearing. The rest of the week passed in a fuzzy haze of coughing, retching, and generally miserable achiness.

He started to get better toward the end of the week; he could at least remember things from the few times he was conscious. Specifically, he remembered a large hand roughly petting over his scruff, giving his shaggy neck a light shake—but when had he shifted back?—and his father's deep voice saying, "Come on, pup. Alpha up." John's quiet tone hadn't been disappointed or even chastising, simply concerned, but Dean was mortified and ashamed all the same. Winchesters weren't supposed to succumb to things like colds.

It was midweek the second week when he truly woke up for the first time, groggy, dry-mouthed and with a sore throat that felt like it was swollen shut. The room was warm, an electric space heater buzzing away in a corner, but only moderately lit due to the curtains being drawn over the windows. Still, he could hear birds chirping and see the frame of sunlight around the edges of the curtains, so he knew it had to be daytime.

"You feelin' any better?"

Dean startled as much as his tired body allowed, his neck stiff and protesting as he swiveled it to look in Bobby's direction. His godfather sat near the bed, book open on his lap, lamp dimly glowing over one shoulder. Dean just blinked at him.

With a heavy sigh, Bobby lurched to his feet, closing the book and setting it in his seat before moving to the head of the bed so Dean didn't have to strain in order to see him.

"It's just the flu," he said, as though Dean hadn't already managed to make that deduction. "Half the town's bedridden with it, Doc says. Said you're one of the worst cases yet, though." He paused then, searching Dean's watery eyes, a cautious look in his own. After another second of hesitation, he added, "She said you need a mate—"

Dean gargled a growl, dropping his head back to his paws and pointedly looking at the wall, ears flattened back against his head in displeasure.

"Don't get all huffy with me," Bobby ordered in mild irritation. "I ain't sayin' it's as important as everyone's claiming. I mean, hell, Karen's been…" The irritation disappeared in a swallow as Bobby sobered. "Well, she's been gone years now and… And I ain't keeled over yet."

The tension in Dean's body relaxed a little, ears drooping to the side rather than pointing back. He still didn't look at Bobby, but he knew his godfather wouldn't have brought up her unless the man felt it was important, and that alone deserved the respect of actually listening to what he had to say.

"But it does affect you," Bobby continued, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. Evidently, he didn't want to have this conversation either. "It affects me. I know it affects that knuckleheaded sire of yours, and like him, you've got too much Alpha blood in ya." The irritation had begun to return in that last sentence but was softened again by a sigh. "It won't kill ya to let someone in. It doesn't make you weak. The way John is, with that temper, that's weak."

Dean didn't know how to respond, understanding what Bobby was trying to convey but feeling his own irritation rising on the matter. After all, Bobby knew better than anyone—

"And I know what you've been through," Bobby said then, seeming to pick up Dean's line of thought. "I know you've had it rough, especially with being an Alpha, but you're not a green pup anymore, Dean, and they're not all like Cassie and Lydia."

Dean glanced at Bobby, unsure what his godfather expected from him, his wheezy breaths and the hum of the heater the only sounds in the quiet between them. Did he want a mate? On some level, one that he'd never admit to anyone, of course he did. What Were didn't at least secretly romanticize the notion of finding the other half? Sure Alphas were more known for their promiscuity, but it was in the nature of all Weres to want to pair off. But he'd experienced shit luck in the past and, yeah, it left him raw on the subject.

"Aw, hell, do what you want!" Bobby suddenly exploded, taking Dean's uncertain silence to mean he was angry. "I'm just sayin' to make an effort is all! The last thing I need is another John Winchester! Just give it some thought! It ain't like you have anything else to do while you recover."

With that, Bobby stomped out of the room, red-faced with embarrassment. Dean wasn't particularly upset to see him go, also moderately embarrassed and glad that fur prevented any possibility of blush from showing. He hoped Bobby never, ever brought it up again.

As if the bird and the bees talk hadn't been bad enough.

Snorting lightly, Dean dropped his head to his paws and drifted back to sleep.


The return of his nose was a glorious moment, and though Dean did refrain, he felt he would've been completely justified in howling triumphantly.

In actuality, he couldn't smell as well as normal and still needed to be close to a scent or odor to really get a whiff, but it was better than nothing. He had never felt as truly defenseless as he had without his greatest sense. It was an unsettling condition he hoped to never be in again. If finding a mate could guarantee him such, then he'd make plans to go and find one immediately for that reason alone.

But there was no consistent proof that mating worked in that manner. That a Were's mental state could so seriously affect his physical health was still just popular conjecture.

The cold air against Dean's skin felt soothing after being cooped up in the hot, stuffy bedroom for the past two weeks. Bobby hadn't wanted him to leave the house, stating that he still had cold-like symptoms, that he wasn't completely healed. Dean had merely scoffed and waited patiently until his godfather left on an errand before slipping outside for a leisurely stroll around the junkyard. It wasn't like he wanted to go for a jog. He wasn't Sam. He just needed to stretch his legs a little.

He casually wound between the piles of scrap and the stacked crushed cars, sniffing every so often to see how much he could read out of the air, although there wasn't much there to smell. Just cold rust and metal, the occasional hint of grease and—

Dean paused, confused, and took a long, deep breath through his half-clogged nose. It was so faint, but he swore he could smell something spice-like…

"Excuse me."

Dean whirled with a snarl, startled. He'd been so focused on scenting that he hadn't heard anyone approach.

There other Were jumped as well, responding to the sudden aggression by taking a quick step back. He squinted uncertainly at Dean.

"Oh," Dean huffed, relaxing at the sight of Crowley's debt collector, "It's you."

The Beta frowned at the way in which he was referred, expression flatly annoyed, but the upset flare in his Presence was almost nonexistent. Dean couldn't imagine why Crowley would send someone with such little ability to intimidate in order to retrieve debts.

"Bobby ain't here," he said roughly, shoving his hands in his pockets and striding past the Beta without another glance. "So take a hike."

"Do you know when he'll return?" the Beta asked, following after Dean without getting too close.

"Never. He's not coming back. He's fled the state."

"Then the authorities will need to be notified. He has an outstanding debt—"

"Listen," Dean interrupted, stopping as they came up to the back porch. He narrowed a glare on the Beta, letting his Presence pressure the man. "I don't care what kind of deal Bobby made with Crowley. He said he's paid up already so that means he's paid up already. Tell Crowley to shove it up his ass, or he'll have to answer to me."

The Beta swallowed against the force of the intimidation but, impressively, straightened his back and looked Dean straight in the eye. "The law is on his side—"

Dean roared, slamming a clenched fist against the wall of Bobby's house, his Presence pushing against the shorter Were so powerfully that the man shrank in front of him, curling in on himself as he was quick to look away and duck his head.

"Don't ever say those words to me," Dean growled, voice so quiet he'd practically whispered it.

"Stop it," the Beta murmured, shuddering, gloved hands fisting on his coat sleeves. He jerkily lifted his head, clearly having to force himself to meet Dean's fierce eyes. "Stop."

Dean was taken aback by the determination in the Beta's own gaze. Whatever the man lacked in Presence he made up for with sheer willpower. Dean eyed him from top to bottom, the Beta yet hidden under so many layers, and wondered how much backbone the shorter Were really had. With a dismissive scoff, Dean lowered his Presence, so quickly that it left the other gasping at the freedom from it like a drowning man after air. He glared angrily at Dean as he panted.

Dean merely rolled his eyes and turned toward the door, taking the porch stairs in two hopping steps.

"You are mistaken if you believe intimidation will prevent me from returning," the Beta said, again moving to follow Dean. "Fergus had already warned me that Mr. Singer was closely acquainted with a family of Alphas—"

"Fergus?" Dean queried, scrunching his face in confusion as he shoved open the back door. He was tempted to slam it in the Beta's face, but Bobby had told him to stay out of whatever the hell was going on and he had reluctantly agreed to respect his godfather's wishes. He sighed in agitation and, after only a brief hesitation, left the door open behind him in silent invitation.

"Fergus Crowley," the Beta supplied, pausing at the threshold, eyeing Dean suspiciously before tentatively stepping into the kitchen.

"Fergus? Crowley's name is Fergus?" Dean stared at the man for a moment, appalled, and then threw his head back and howled with laughter.

The Beta attempted to look disapproving as he calmly closed the back door, apparently having decided that Dean wasn't going to attack him, but his lips twitched into a small smile.

"Well," he conceded, "it is a rather uncommon name."

"For good reason!" Dean laughed, muttering in a stuffy chuckle, "Fergus, man…" He took a deep breath in order to help the chuckles subside, but stopped abruptly when he caught another trace of spices. He tried to sniff again but it was too faint and his nose still a little too clogged for him to pinpoint it. After a quick glance at the Beta, who was curiously watching him, he opened the refrigerator to grab a beer, impolitely not offering any to his guest. "I don't know when Bobby's coming back."

The little smile dropped, the Beta recognizing that they were back to bare civility. "I can wait."

Dean scowled and popped the top on his beer, taking a long drink as he again eyed the other Were. Catching the look, the Beta straightened defiantly, expression questioning.

"You're not how I imagined Crowley's goons," Dean explained mockingly. "A bit scrawny."

"That's because I am not a goon," the Beta sniffed, offended. "Fergus and I simply have an agreement—"

"You made a deal with him," Dean said in dawning understanding.

"An agreement," the Beta corrected sternly, "in which we mutually benefit."

"Oh, so, he'll scratch your back if you scratch his, huh? That it?"

The other Were's cheeks reddened and he was quick to look elsewhere in the kitchen.

"There will be no scratching of backs," he assured in a mumble.

Dean smirked, amused in spite of himself.

"Yeah, well, I don't know when Bobby'll be home," he repeated, pushing away from the counter and moving to leave. "If you're so desperate to talk to him, you can wait here, but stay the hell outta my way."

"That was already the plan, as I do not wish to share in whatever is ailing you," the Beta stiffly responded, tugging at his scarf even as he appeared uncertain at being left alone in a strange house.

"Sure, whatever," Dean snorted, exiting the kitchen with beer still in hand and heading for the stairs. He had just placed his foot on the first step when he smelled it.

Sweet spiciness that made his vision swim for reasons other than sickness, the scent easily distinguished even though he could barely smell anything else. It hit him so unexpectedly that he staggered into the banister, beer bottle slipping from between his fingers and breaking in two as it crashed to floor.

That smell—fuck, he knew that smell!

Dean spun around in time to see the other Were step into the hallway, expression confused and curious about the noise. Gone was his scarf and top outer layer, his inner coat unzipped, freeing his scent. Dean's eyes almost rolled back.

It was coming from him—it was fucking coming from him!

Their gazes locked and the other Were inhaled sharply, his own pupils blowing wide as he caught Dean's flaring scent in turn, and he stepped back in such a hurry that he banged into the doorframe.

"Don't," he choked, scurrying backwards into the kitchen as Dean suddenly strode forward, his legs wobbling under him as another wave of Dean's scent hit him. "Don't. I've only just finished my—"

"You!" Dean growled, catching him by the shoulder when he tried to scramble away. He yelped as Dean yanked him back around, clawed hands fisting in the fluff of his coat to hold him still. Dean tugged him closer and, in a spontaneous act of incredible vulgarity, buried his face in the guy's neck, breathing in the scent there.

Rather than shriek in offense at such an overly familiar behavior, such utter rudeness between strangers, the shorter Were instead moaned and pressed against Dean, tilting his head to the side in acquiescence and providing better access. Dean let go with one hand to wrap the arm around him, pulling them flush together, also moaning as he lost himself in the intoxicating scent. There was a lingering of cinnamon-like spice to it that made Dean shiver down to his toes.

I've only just finished my—

Heat, Dean mentally finished for him, licking at him, nipping with a dominating growl, wanting to smell more, and hearing the other Were whimper compliantly, offering, begging…

Stop, that same voice had commanded, earlier, minutes before, when they were standing outside.

Don't, he had said, only seconds ago.

"Fuck!" Dean gasped, suddenly shoving away from the shorter Were with a snarl. His head spun, his inner wolf howling furiously for him to continue, to take, claim. He stumbled into the kitchen wall, clawing at it to stay upright, trying his best to ignore the moaning gasps behind him, the scenting call for him to return.

But then the inviting scenting abruptly stopped, the other Were forcing back his own innate behavior, fighting his own hormonal draw, and moving quickly to the other side of the kitchen so that the table was a weak protection between them.

Dean viciously glared over his shoulder at the guy, clinging to the wall to keep himself from flying across the room.

"You—" he huffed, panting for air. "You!"

The Were licked his lips, unconsciously swooning a little under the force of Dean's dominant aggression.

Dean scowled, disgusted.

"You— You're a fucking Omega!"