Dean investigates, familiarizes himself with Gauntlet, and eats pie and a burger. Things take a dark turn.
WARNING: Sexual intimidation. Threat of sexual violence.
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Dean can't breathe.
He can't inhale against the band of alpha arms pressing on his ribs. Feeling helpless ranks sky high on the list of Dean-hates. He is tempted to object but the giant is righting Dean onto his pins. Kicking with his steel toed boot would be pretty ungrateful when the alpha had helped him swap face plant embarrassment for omega-in-distress humiliation. Dean would bet his bowie knife that his scent is a whole hodge podge of distress signals.
"Hey little one, you still all alone? You OK, pretty pup?"
It's Don from the ferry, puffed up alpha son of the lawman, spouting belittling terms in a condescending tone. The only thing stopping Dean from planting a curled fist in his rescuer's fugly plump jaw is the hunt. He lets his body go limp like a swooning omega and allows Don to guide him to a stone bench overlooking the sea.
"Thanks, Alpha." Dean emphasizes the 'alpha'. He's good at subtle interrogation, way better than John. People will talk to Dean.
An arm curls around his back, supporting him. It's not invasive. Don's underlying scent does nothing for Dean, a bland neutrality of not-mate mixed with the sour taint of a self-important-dickbag. That undertone is fairly repulsive but Dean just sniffles, as if he is upset, to dispel it. Yet despite the offence to his nose, Don is being mannerly. Dean is not above using the situation.
"I called my Dad." Dean ducks his eyes as if he is overcome.
"Yeah?" Don enquires with a deep chesty rumble.
"He's still coming and all, but I heard stuff, like about the island, and omegas, and stuff…" Dean lets his voice trail away.
Don chuckles. He pats Dean on the shoulder with a meaty paw. Dean takes it as permission and looks up.
"Don't worry your pretty little head about those rumors. Rival islands vying for tourists spread 'em. Couple of times we had omega boys missing for a day or two, turn up like bad pennies, chilled to the bone. Then all of a sudden, we've an urban legend on our not very urban island."
"So you think it's safe?" Dean tries.
"As safe as anywhere for a lone unmated omega."
The predatory undercurrent sets Dean's bells ringing. He wants away from this alpha, this bench, now, sooner than now, but he dampens down his instincts. He's good at that.
"I suppose," Dean picks the hem of his plaid over-shirt, aims for an impression of airheadedness, "Guess they coulda been wandering and fell and hit their heads, or something."
There is another chuckle. "Or ran off for a day or two. If I had an omega, they'd never run off."
Dean jumps up, hearing loud and clear the suggestion that Don's omega would not be able to run anywhere. He brushes down the thighs of his denims.
"Huh, thanks and all, for the hand. I got to go."
"Fine." Don's smile is calculating. It makes Dean's hair stand on end. "Be seeing you round."
Dean nods, making his way to the general store. He has more luck with the older omega working the cash drawer. Kenny believes the hype. He presses his hand to Dean's wrist and warns him to be careful, says the ones that lost a day or so out of their lives vanished at night, tells Dean to lock his door until the rest of his family join him on his vacation.
With his provisions stashed under the boat's tarp, Dean does a little recon. Gloves are chosen from a taciturn old beta storekeeper who gives him a look cold enough to chill his bones when Dean tries to bring up omega disappearances.
The community peters out to clapboard summer homes and a few distressed yet inhabited looking cabins on the south-western coast. He follows a track inland to the lee of a shallow valley. A clear stream bubbles over rocks and round the grounds of a whitewashed chapel with tall double doors. Taking a turn back to what passes for civilization, there is the tiniest elementary school Dean's ever seen. He and Sam went to all sorts of educational establishments but this looks like a one-bed trailer. An omega in his twenties, wrapped up in scarves and a beanie, passes with a stroller. When Dean salutes him the guy stops. Jonah tells him that the older kids are schooled on the mainland. It's kind of sad. Dean says so. That leads to a discussion of if Dean is promised to someone, thinking of moving to Gauntlet. There is the hope of a lonely young omega-parent in the guy's speech. Dean extracts himself as a hand-rung bell sounds inside, having been too sympathetic to pump the guy for information.
He listens in, as he gets a surprisingly good espresso from the beta in the bookstore, cum library, cum mariners supply chandlers. She keeps looking over his shoulder for an alpha but Dean's too bummed by that point to explain. He does learn that Mac's is the eatery of choice for the discerning local and that Mac, the alpha-proprietor, carries craft beer from the mainland which he brings over in his pilot boat that doubles at the shepherd for any unfamiliar craft. Seems there is a reef between Gauntlet and the next uninhabited rock.
Dean stores up parcels of gossip and warnings. He'll make notes when he gets home, read them over, and see if he can glean any hints. The trip back round to the cabin is bouncier, the small craft not doing Dean's digestive system any favors. If he was still on the sups he'd be chucking over the side.
When he unpacks his groceries, Dean finds that his egg carton is labeled as produced by the chickens of Geoff and Jonah Shields. He likes that the omega's name is displayed proudly, and happily cracks a couple into the skillet. He toasts thick sliced sourdough and scoops a serving of the bookstore's ground beans into the coffee plunger.
Over his breakfast style dinner, Dean flicks through an eight page pamphlet on the island attractions. He'd plucked it from a display outside the tourist office cum museum cum pier-side café. He'd come by there last, too late to duck his head inside. He reads that the place is only open nine to three in the off season. There is a map spread across the two middle pages. Place names clue Dean in that early settlers were whaling folk. The preamble of isle history confirms his hunch, telling how the first French occupiers were driven out when Gaunt became a whaling station. It's sort of quaint how the cabin is in Harpoon Cove. If Dean was to follow the cliff path in its northeasterly curve he'll come over the rise of The Knuckle, pass above Shark Tooth Bay, arrive back at those clapboard cabins along Barnacle Sands, and pass over the freshwaters of Baleen Stream as it trickles to the ocean at Gaunt Dock. The stubby peninsula he rounds to get to the village is boringly named Toe Point, which makes Dean feel irrationally cheated and with a desire to name it Moby Dick's Snout or some other creative marine name. Just as he is moving on to the less interesting pages on summer birding, water taxi services, and the founder of St. Nicholas's chapel, he notices a faded mark by the Knuckle. Squinting he makes out 'Caves' in tiny print. It's another place to consider. Dean's never heard of a slimy creature who didn't like a damp dark cave to skulk in.
The following day dawns clear and bright. Dean's been blessed with crisp winter weather. He figures Gauntlet would be a hell of a place in the middle of a blizzard. Once he has chopped more wood and hefted it indoors, Dean sets off to complete the circuit of the island. The Knuckle is a disappointment. It's not even a hill or a peninsula, just a rise in the cliff that is more like a bump. There is a faded marker telling the adventurous ambler that this is a 'viewing place' and the sea stack off shore is called The Nail. There is no visible path or likely place to clamber down the cliff, so Dean parks the idea of getting to the elusive caves until the tide is low. Shark Tooth Bay is all grass and sand. From his higher vantage point, Dean thinks he spies a mink slinking between the only dwelling and its dilapidated outhouse. Over Barnacle Sands, Dean is surprised to see a trio of teenage pups kicking a ball between the cabins. They wave at him. He lifts his brow and waves back. Maybe these are the kids who go to high school in Trenton on weekdays.
Dean makes the museum before close. There are even a few day trippers marveling at the two room display of marine artifacts, antique pieces from the homes of the first settlers, and panels on the flora and fauna of Acadia. In the far room Dean kneels on the floor to read the pup tailored legend that is illustrated above the skirting board, underneath silent artistic videos of Gauntlet through the seasons.
There was a witch who lived at the source of the Baleen. She'd been washed ashore, the only survivor of a shipwreck. The fisher folk took pity on her. They brought her the choice of their catches and she cast spells of protection over their boats. But she grew greedy.
Dean wrinkles his nose. Witches suck ass.
He sees he has been joined by a golden haired toddler pup in a stripy blue and pink dress that flares over her knees. Her lips are parted at the drawings of huge waves, piles of fish, and the witch in a Halloween costume. He tells himself that it's nothing to do with his nesting instincts that he goes back to the beginning and reads aloud. His shoulder itches. He twists his head to see two slightly older male pups rapt and in awe. Warming to his audience, Dean adds sound effects of rushing wind and does the voices like he used to do for little Sammy. A little candy-sticky hand finds his when he tells that the stinky (his ad lib) witch got greedy.
"Then," he pauses for dramatic effect, continuing in a hushed breathy voice. "The wicked witch wanted more. She stopped the Baleen from flowing, but the islanders sunk wells. She caused storms to rage but the islanders took shelter."
Dean stretches his arms. The two younger pups take shelter under his wings. It's nice.
"Finally she summoned an evil sea spirit to suck the life out of every poor soul on Gauntlet." Dean makes a slurping sound that gets the littlest blonde pup to giggle.
"What'd they do then, Mister?" The older pup asks with eyes wide.
"Brave Pastor Bopp." Dean bites his lip. Seriously, the hero is named Bopp? "The brave padre marched through the hail and wind to the witch's hovel."
"Wassa hovel?"
"Yucky place to live, like a pig sty." Dean supplies, figuring there is artistic license involved in this retelling. If the witch was greedy why would she have been skulking in a hovel? "And he cast her out. He led all the people and they told her 'No More'. They gathered together and the mean old witch was banished."
Dean deflates. They banished her? Her bones aren't on the island? Not a haunting then.
"What happened then?" the little miss asks.
The last sentence rounds off the story. "The people were so grateful to God that they dedicated the island to St Nicholas and built Pastor Bopp a home in the center of them all, and the wicked witch was never seen again."
There is clapping. Dean looks up. The parents are there, as enthralled as their brood. Behind them Dean sees the looming attendant, but she looks kindly at him.
"An impromptu performance. Thank you, Omega." The tall slim sliver haired beta says with a smile.
Dean's cheeks pink. He fumbles to stand, but finds the Alpha-Dad helping him to his feet.
"Annie likes you," their omega-mother adds, "that is a feat. I'm Jacinta. This is my alpha Charles."
"'Was nuthin," Dean mumbles, shamed to be caught playing with the youngsters. What would his Dad say?
"Was not." Charles insists. "You have made our trip to the Cranberry Isles, Omega."
Dean preens. The alpha praise warms him, stirs something needy in his soul and adds a balm to that want. Stupid tears are prickling his eyes. He wipes with one hand. How can being seen as worthy by a complete stranger impact him so much? He is guided by one warm hand in the small of his back and another small one reaching up for his fingers to the glass conservatory that serves as seating for the single counter café. They buy him pie when he meeps, like a pup himself, at the glass display of pastries.
He has two mouthfuls savored when Jacinta draws him back to reality.
"Are you a resident...?"
"Dean." He supplies his real name before his dumb brain remembers that he is on one of his Zeppelin IDs. He tells himself it doesn't matter. The family are day trippers. "No, Ma'am, I'm vacationing."
There are drawn brows of concern at this information. It is only then that Dean takes in the wide brown collar around Jacinta's neck and the thin satin pup-training one encircling their middle pup's baby neck. He revises his opinion. Charles, in his expensive windbreaker and canvas chinos, is a traditionalist. Maybe Jacinta is too. It doesn't make them any less kind, but Dean is wary now, a spark of panic that they'll take him home with them if they learn how alone he really is.
"My Dad's not here today. I like museums." Dean speeds up his consumption of the peachy syrupy flakey goodness.
"Are you promised, Dean?" Charles asks with his alpha voice, the one that demands fast answered truth.
Dean moistens his lips. Shakes his head, "No, Sir."
"That is a shame." Jacinta mutters sympathetically, patting the back of Dean's hand.
"My parents arranged a match for my sister," Charles easies back on the alphaness, maybe realizing he came on too strong. "Progressive of them, they stipulated twenty-one as the contract age. Attractive pup-loving omega like you, I was sure the reason you are unclaimed must be the same."
Super. Not only do they think he is in need of an alpha, they also think he is under twenty-one. He'll be delivered to the cop-station for safekeeping next, and that won't work because the Sheriff knows his Dad isn't around.
He makes up a tale of errands to run, receives the kisses of each pup, and hides in the chapel until the afternoon ferry departs.
It's been a weird day so far. The chapel is cool but not cold. It's quiet, peaceful, in a way that Dean hasn't associated with churches and boneyards. Usually he is breaking open tombs and torching the contents. There is a plaque to Whitsunday Bopp. Dean risks being struck down by heavenly wrath to guffaw at the name. There is a more adult calligraphy version of the witch story in a frame. Rowan Emery was washed ashore. She dealt in profane curses and was the bane of the good folk of Gauntlet. Finally after a summer of drought and a fall of tempests, Whitsunday Bopp paid passage for her to the mainland, and God did rejoice that the heretic had been exiled from his blessed isle. For all the pious words, the tale reads like a pagan folk tale. There is no mention of missing omegas, summoning demons, or sucking souls dry. Dean whips his notebook out of his ass pocket. He makes notes for reference, and spends a while looking at names on funerary plates and grave markers, just in case he's got to dig someone up later.
Back at the dock, Dean reaches John's voicemail. Then he gets Sam's roommate Brady again, who tells him Sam's busy and to try again later. Dean shrugs it off, lamenting the stupidity of spending the last of his loose change connecting to Palo Alto.
He can't face a return to the cabin yet. No TV and another night with his cauldron of drifting thoughts have lost their appeal. He's gonna splurge on a bacon double cheeseburger or whatever this rock offers as equivalent.
Mac's is surprisingly congenial. Shabby in a rustic way that summer tourists appreciate, fresh from their cinnamon topped lattes and silver service restaurants. The single sheet laminated evening menu is like an ode the cranberry, with everything from hot turkey sandwiches with cranberry jelly, to cranberry apple pies, and cranberry orange juice. The waitress is an older pup of the eponymous Mac, called June. She's got curly bangs and a sparky attitude, all hands on hip. He pegs her as an alpha to be, but he could be wrong, the rich smells of food, beer and islanders mingling in his olfactory passages. She takes some kind of pity on him, tells him the cranberry is optional, and brings him a larger order of fries with his freaking mouthwatering burger, than he sees on the other tables with food.
Stomach pleasantly full, Dean decides to move to a bar stool. It's harder for people to approach him at a table. A presumption that he is biding time for his alpha or family to join him, means civility forbids it, and Mac's place is that. It might look scruffy but it is polite.
The aromas coming from the kitchen area are ridiculous. The swing doors are closed but bright light shines through two porthole windows. Dean takes a huge gulping inhalation on his way to hit the head. On the way back, June pushes backwards through the doors balancing three massive bowls of chowder. Dean's head jerks as if pulled in that direction and he glimpses the back and side shoulders of the burly chef, moving at hectic but precise speed. As the doors swing back to position, his nose perks up. Warm cinnamon and ginger taffy he can place as cooked puddings, but that new shoe leather and salty earth is the same alpha that he caught a tendril of on his first night. Every fiber of Dean's inner core tells him to go find the source of that delicious scent. It entices him to put a foot in the direction of the steamy kitchen. It pulls on his solar plexus as if a thread of golden light was seeping out of him seeking his mate. His omega brain wants, but Dean grinds his teeth. He convinces his stupid instincts to shut the fuck up. He won't make a show of himself in this family friendly eatery. He is a rational, strong, hunter hunting on a freaking hunt.
It takes his deaf-to-rationality heart a while to stop flapping kaboom kaboom, after he plunks his butt cheek on the well worn stool at Mac's bar. The owner isn't overly busy. The grizzled alpha with long sleeves of marine themed tattoos is manning the bar alone. He spares a few words for Dean, who learns nothing more than the assertion that no omega ever vanished from Mac's bar.
Dean Winchester prides himself on being thorough. Whatever else he might be, he's not slapdash. Leaving Mac's with the pleasant buzz of craft blond ale, he ducks straight into the other watering hole next door.
Pool table in the corner with a circle of younger guys, mix of betas and alphas, catches Dean's eyes straight off, like a homing instinct. If this case is a blow out, he lines up the location for a last night pool hustle. May as well go back to the mainland with extra bucks padding his money clip, and Dean knows that most alphas don't think an omega would know one end of a cue from the other.
In size and condition, The Lookout is so different to Mac's that Dean can't believe they look similar from the outside. This joint is dark. There's no background music or hum of happy voices. Dean's hand comes away sticky when he rests it on a table. There are no families out for a meal. In fact, Dean makes a quick assessment, aside from one downcast slender dude in his mid-thirties sitting in the only corner booth seat with his skuzzy looking alpha, there are no other omegas in this bar. Another glance and Dean computes that there are no women either, no girlfriends, no muscle flexing alpha chicks at the pool table. Dean unconsciously pulls his jacket tighter as he walks to the counter.
"You legal?" greets the surly barkeep.
Dean's nose tells him the guy is beta, but he is built and wearing a leather vest as if he could be heading back to his biker chapter any day. He moistens his lips, digs around the inner pocket, and produces his Robert Plant license. The birth date is real. The element of truth makes it easier if he needs to use a fake ID for more than a quick interview.
"OK Robert, what's your poison?" The smile is a thin veneer.
Every instinct is screaming at Dean to get out. He listens to it, but he is a hunter. He won't run. Hell, this crawling under his skin, pumping of fight or flight hormones, might mean the evil thing is here. Or maybe he is Gauntlet's underbelly's first look at fresh meat in weeks. He bets every sonvabitch and douchebag on the isle comes to The Lookout. The population can't be that big, and if one of them saw anything ever, they aren't the sort to be beating down Sheriff Bryson's door. So Dean will stay alert. He'll be prepared but he's not fleeing like some kind of scaredy cat sissy.
"A beer. Bottle. No glass." Dean won't risk getting cooties from the glassware.
There is a small but loud voice in his hind brain telling him to get back to Mac's, burst into the kitchen and hump against the meaty thigh of the short order cook. He shakes his head to dispel the need to turn tail. As he pulls out his money clip, he makes sure his shiv is where it's meant to be.
"I'll get this." It's a demand, not a suggestion.
Dean cranes his neck. The alpha is bald on top but sporting a rats' tail effect mullet. He smells of three day old fish and unwashed socks. Dean blocks his smell by holding his breath, which is enough distraction for the ugsome Neanderthal to take the beer from the counter. The guy is fast, well practiced, but Dean's no greenhorn. He sees the folded paper baggie of white powder. Like a slight of hand magician Dean fumbles with the baton pass of the bottle. The beer goes down to the dirty stone flags in reverse, a lake of roofie mix spreading out. Dean is all apologies and insistence that he's got to go, but Baldtop drags him back to the bar, plunks him on a stool that corners him against the back wall, and insists on paying for another. There's no roofie this time, but all eyes are on them after their show. Dean bides his time. He makes use of the few minutes until he can make his escape to ask his suitor about the local scare story.
"Missing omegas?" The guy chuckles, all yellowed teeth and nicotine breath. "That's a good one. Don? Come over here. Pretty Boy's asking about missing omegas."
Dean stiffens. He sees Don Bryson extract himself from an alcove by the fire doors.
"Well look'ee here. We meet again." Don's all false charm.
Dean's getting more and more of a feeling that he is the prey in a predator sandwich. He slips his hand into his pocket. The shiv is gone.
"Looking for this." Baldtop smirks, holding it up.
Dean gulps. He is in the crapper. How is he going to talk his way out of this? He licks his lips.
"That's right, Bitch, wet those rosy lips for us. Get 'em all slick and ready." Another voice says from behind Don.
Dean raises his hands, palms outward. "Hey, hey, dudes. I don't know what you think, but I came in for a beer. But no harm done, 'kay. I'm going to go."
He slips from the stool, takes one step to the side, before Don presses his whopping alpha body against Dean, squashing him full force against the wall.
"I don't think so."
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On Sunday, I'll post the next chapter, which is the dark before the light. I will put warnings at the beginning, but the first chapter warning remains valid (i.e. attempted sexual assault/rape).