I'm not totally satisfied with this chapter, but I've been tweaking it for days. It takes the story where I want it to go, so I have decided to post it. I am sorry if it is not of the same standard as previous chapters.

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Dean races out of Taylorsville, Impala tires squealing, barely hitting asphalt. He pops Meatloaf into the cassette player with such violence that the tape gets looped, warbling to a halt mid-Bat Out Of Hell. Benny diplomatically says nothing, using a pencil to wind the album back to health. With an assessing eye he notes the storm cloud darkening his mate's features. Dean's teeth grind together. He can't speak, can't reassure his alpha, can't explain that he needs to get distance from the tumbledown cabin and ruin of his relationship with his father. Somewhere before they cross state lines into Indiana, Benny's fingers grip above Dean's knee and stay there. When it doesn't hurt to breathe anymore, he permits his right hand to snake down and cover the solid weight of Benny's.

Shy of Columbus, Dean makes a sharp late turn for a roadhouse. He attempts to drink the bar out of Jose Cuervo. He wants to forget, wants to be numb and blind with liquor. He slams the shot glass inverted onto the counter and calls for another.

Benny's hand appears, out of another dimension, the less likely to be real one, the one where he is valued and loved. Dean fixates on individual hairs that peep out from Benny's shirt cuff. He is still wearing the god-awful goodwill store suit. Somehow it is the same day as the one when they laughed and sang across Maryland into Kentucky.

"No more." The alpha is firm.

Raising his head Dean sees conflict dance across the face of the hardened alpha chick bartender. Her sinewy arm twitches, unsure whether to pour or defer to another alpha's demand. Benny's arm slides over Dean's shoulder blades. The alpha bartender's eyes soften as she sees Dean lean his head against Benny's bicep. Her lips quirk. She addresses Benny, "Yes, Alpha."

A whine escapes as Dean tilts his head towards Benny, "Leave meh get drunk."

"No, Dean." The arm squeezes, tugs the omega gently from his perch.

"I wanna be drunk, wanna be useless 'n' dumb, cos that's me, now, y'know, now, Alpha, I'm a fuckin' mess, a sorry dumb mess." His feet slide under him, betraying him. "Can't even stand up like a good son, dumb Dean."

"Stop."

Benny's hands brace him. The alpha holds his upper arms, stands straight in front on a separate stone flag.

"Like islands," Dean remarks aloud, "Other island, you got the star prize, Alpha Island like Dad, and Sammy who forgot me, and I got this one." He looks at his boots, one is turned in, toes pointing at the middle of his other foot, "No good…."

"No." Fingers press in, hard enough to bruise.

Dean gulps. Maybe now it comes. He braces for a smack across his cheek. A crack to bring him back to his senses, to express disapproval, to teach his dumb omega ass how to behave.

Benny's forehead meets Dean's. They stand co-joined at the brow. The same air fills their lungs. The hit never comes. Dean inhales his mate's scent which is heavy with spiced worry. He searches for anger and disappointment but can't place them.

Benny's hand moves. It lifts from his arm, meets Dean's jaw, and softly cups his cheek. His alpha's thumb strokes tender motions to the skin above Dean's collar.

"Mon Cher…" It is a whispered benediction.

Dean closes his eyes. They remain an island, but now complete and together, in a sea of washed out world-around-them. Inside his body the tequila makes Dean's head rock on tossed waves, like the choppy seas around Gauntlet. Other patrons, the bar, the walls, all fade away.

"Darlin'?" Benny requests his attention. "I refuse to listen to you belittle and demean your wonderful self."

Dean's eyes flicker. Although intended to comfort, the message stirs pain and clenches Dean's heart.

"I'm freakin' not…"

"You are." Benny argues.

Dean misses Benny's thumb when it lifts from his neck. Instead his alpha's pointer finger presses with intent on Dean's lips.

"No badmouthing. No repeating of cruel vile insults. I won't hear them and you will not utter them in my presence."

Dean gulps, wide-eyed into his alpha's sincere blue pupils.

"Because they ain't true, Sugar. They ain't. I am so sorry that you had to listen to that bullcrap, but no more."

"No more, Alpha." Dean parrots. He's not quite sure that his alpha mate opinion is sound, but it lays down a blocking layer of shrink wrap over the broiling vat of long learned self-hate that is housed in Dean's belly.

"Come on, Darlin'" Benny recommences their departure from the roadhouse.

Moving isn't a great idea. Tequila and leg co-ordination are mutually exclusive circles on a Venn diagram of intoxication. When he tries to concentrate on walking, a cloud of numbness fuddles his brain. Oblivion approaches, like the undercarriage of a big fat eider duck, plumage filling his head like unspun cotton.

Dean titters, wobbling into Benny's side, "I wanna be a duck." He slurs, "Ducks dunno how good they have it."

His feet leave the ground. Blinking at the sudden motion, Dean realizes he is in a fireman's carry when the icy night air hits his butt before his face.

"Come on, Quackers," Benny chuckles, "We're getting you outta here and finding a bed to sleep off that liquor."

Hung over his alpha's shoulder, dignity shelved, Dean sees the ground moving in waves, which pings his nose to the salty homey earth of his mate's scent palate. Before everything goes black, he murmurs, "You smell yummy."

He wakes feeling like the inside of a road-stop crapper. He groans hoarsely, throat parched as the Atacama, barely registering the monotone décor of a modern motel. As he stumbles to the toilet bowl to be reintroduced to Jose Cuervo, out of the corner of his eye he notes with warm approval that Benny lay down salt lines without prompting. He lifts his head from evacuating his stomach contents. Benny's there, already dressed in jeans and his gray Henley, while Dean holds onto the porcelain for dear life. His mate crouches down beside him. Dean braces for disapproval of his drunken ass, but Benny isn't there for condemnation. He carries Dean back to bed, tucks him in, provides cool iced water and a flannel for aching head.

"Y'love me."

Benny huffs.

"'m sorry." Dean gulps, "Don't leave me."

"I ain't going nowhere."

"Good." Dean sags into the pillows, relief that his alpha isn't running for the hills spreads like anti-anxiety meds through his bloodstream. His dad would have dumped his ass, either left behind comatose or hung-over and locked out on the pavement. Running his hand down the soft cotton of Benny's sleeve, Dean has irrefutable evidence that his alpha is a very different man to his father.

"There are better ways to, I dunno, process shit." Benny cards a hand through his short hair and sighs. "You could talk to me."

Dean drops his gaze to the edge of the bedside table and his collar resting by the lamp, where his alpha must have reverently placed it after undressing his comatose drunken mate. Sam used want to talk, used to say he wasn't a baby and that Dean could tell him shit, but mostly Dean didn't load his little brother down with his troubles, and now Sam doesn't want to talk to him at all, ever.

"Or not." Benny hums sadly, twisting away to stand up.

"No!" Dean blurts, flailing his arm out to grab Benny's shirt sleeve, afraid his alpha thinks that he has lost Dean's trust. "I mean, yes!"

Benny's lips twitch, while Dean rambles on, "I'm used to dealing alone."

His hand is caught in Benny's warm one. "You're not alone now."

Shuffling sideways across the king, Dean makes room for his alpha to join him.

"Where are we, Alpha?" The omega whispers conspiratorially into the curl of Benny's ear.

With a chuckle Benny tells a tale that makes Dean wince, of being spread across the back seat of his Baby, of check in for two at this decent motel, and a dreadful rendition of Stairway to Heaven that made the lights turn on in both adjoining units before Dean's hind brain recognized Benny using his alpha voice to tell him to hush.

Thus Dean spends his twenty fourth birthday in a motel off I-65 in Franklin, Indiana, being plied with OJ, pain meds, and a trash can puke bucket. Benny holds him, keeps the curtains closed, hangs the do-not-disturb sign on their door, and generally proves to be a godsend.

It's a day of wallowing self pity. With a level of patience Dean didn't know alphas could possess, Benny tends his mate through it all from choked barfing to sweat beaded brow, and Dean loves him for every minute of it.

When Dean finds light, motion and sound aren't the worse things in the universe, his alpha guides him to the bathroom. It is heaven to brush away the scummy skunk taste. Benny helps him into the shower and tenderly cleans his hangover stinky body. There is some caressing which naturally progresses to grinding and heaving under hot spray. Benny's hand spans their erections, stripping and jerking them off in unison, sating their need, allowing Dean to sag satisfied against his mate, be swaddled in a giant towel and returned to rest on soft bed covers.

By evening, Dean is sitting upright, picking the healthy out of a salad burger and slurping on a thick chocolate milkshake.

Benny's got a portion of cheese mayo fries, grumbling under his breath something about a Canadian poutine recipe he'd been perfecting for Mac's Bar.

"There is somethin' I don't like." Benny says gravely.

Dean raises a brow. He doesn't think his alpha is talking about their takeout. He inches his body up the mattress, straightening his back to brace for impact.

"I don't like credit card fraud."

Bottom lip falling open, Dean gapes at his alpha's scruples about a crime that he is so inured to, it has become part of his normal transient way of life.

"I mean," Benny reasons, "Either the good folks who own this motel won't get paid, or else Crosby Young's gonna be stressed out over his credit charges."

A snorted laugh escapes Dean before he can prevent it. "We take from the credit card companies. Crosby Young ain't real. Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, y'know Alpha."

There must be residual alcohol in his bloodstream because without the buffer of cassette accompaniment he attempts to serenade his alpha, "Think about how many times I have fallen, Spirits are using me larger voices callin', What heaven brought you and me cannot be forgotten."

Benny bends from the waist to meet Dean's lips. When they part from the deep kiss, the alpha smile is gentle. "You know Dean, that song always called to me. Sailing out on Southern seas, but hearing it from you, that's something special."

Dean ducks his eyes, sure his cheeks are flaming from his out of tune rendition and corresponding freely given praise.

"Doesn't change my view on fraud, Darlin'." Benny says without condemnation, "Once we get set up, find employment, no dodgy crap that could land our asses, more importantly your ass, in jail."

With a nod, Dean agrees. It was always a risky business, one that skated close to the law on occasion, meaning midnight flits out of towns with Sam bawling his nerdy eyes out in the back seat, over school buddies or test scores left behind.

"Alpha?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we do it one more time?" He seeks his alpha's okay. He doesn't want deception to enter his mating, but a part of Dean would carry out this plan behind his back if he was forced to.

"What?" Benny narrows his eyes.

"I wanna give Bobby some names…" Dean bites down on his bottom lip, releasing it from between his teeth he continues, "For his top secret contact who sets up stuff for hunters or messes with credit scores. Y'know, Bryson, Littman, The Lookout…"

The beaming grin and way Benny slaps his thigh, makes Dean break out a toothy smile.

"Sure thing, Sugar. I'm all on board, and I got the full names of the others there that night. I only wish it was their faces we were grinding into the dirt not their finances."

"Ways and means," Dean clicks his tongue, more than satisfied with his alpha's approval and the prospect of knowing the scum on Gauntlet will get at least a measure of their just desserts.

They hit the road the following morning, travelling north through a snow white world, stopping only to eat or switch seats, aiming to make Sioux Falls before midnight. They stumble to Bobby's front door, chilled and worn, and are welcomed with open arms. At least, Bobby Singer's version of open arms, which involves silver knives and prepared measures of rotgut spiked with holy water.

"This is him?" Bobby addresses Dean.

"My Alpha." Dean confirms, shifting his weight from one leg to the other from cold and nerves.

Bobby hums deep in his throat. Benny meets his steady gaze, while snaking his arm into Dean's bent elbow.

Bobby nods once. "Scent combination is good. Get in here and shut that door. It's as cold as a witch's tit out there."

Once coats are shucked, Bobby pumps Benny's hand. He slaps Dean's back. The repeated beats of acceptance and familial warmth are more than Dean can take, and he turns his head to hide how affected his is. Benny knows. Dean knows that Benny knows, and he is another level of grateful that his alpha makes little of his upwelling emotions. Benny helps Dean out of his coat and slings an arm around his shoulders while Bobby updates them on his latest hunt. Mid-flow on a rascally poltergeist that was tormenting a beta couple over in Missouri, Bobby looks from one Lafitte mate to the other, taking in how exhausted they are. The new mates are clung together, holding each other upright. Grumbling about the goddamn foolishness of John Winchester driving off his pups, Bobby shows his guests directly to the back bedroom. Dean hasn't the energy to find any argument to defend his father. They are bade a good night with an admonishment to keep the noise down. There is no danger of disturbing their beta host. Dean collapses face down on the comforter, only shuffling to his side when Benny's strong arms wrap round to hold him close.

Being at Bobby's is both great and weird. It is awesome to be in a place where Dean doesn't have to put on a game face. At times though, he feels like he has entered a bizarro-world version of the salvage yard. Bobby and Benny can both see that they are united in their regard for Dean, but they are wary of the other, the unknown element in Dean's family circle. They remind Dean of wolves pacing in the snow, trying to divine their place in a new hierarchy. There are the moments when Dean catches his surrogate uncle making sidelong glances at his collar. In the past, the beta had expressed his opinion in Dean's hearing about the collaring of omegas being a symbol of both submission and oppression. Dean can see the older hunter is struggling to understand how and why he has embraced being so openly claimed by Benny.

Part of Dean wants to place three glasses on Bobby's table and break the tension with a 'talk', another part wants Bobby to call them out on their situation and plans for the future, but the greatest part of the omega is sore and bruised after his confrontation with John. He can't take another clusterfuck. If Bobby and Benny blew up at each other, Dean couldn't, he just couldn't.

So he doesn't intervene, and it turns out, surprisingly to be the right choice. Bobby mellows as he sees how fondly Benny looks at Dean and how tenderly he treats him. The hunter permits Dean's alpha to cook hearty winter meals in his kitchen. In the evenings after eating with beers in their hands, Benny is receptive to being shown basic lore books by their resident expert. After a long day giving Baby a tune up, Dean comes downstairs fresh from his shower, to overhear Bobby talking about his deceased mate Karen. That's when he knows Benny's in. He wishes that one day Benny and John will able to raise a glass to Mary's memory, but he'll take this with a glad heart.

Finally Bobby addresses his last quibble. Dean's got his head buried in laundry, loading their sheets into Bobby's old spin dryer.

"Did he insist on it?" Bobby opens.

Dean swallows, sensing more profoundly the warm supple leather round his neck. He deliberately plays dumb. "Laundry duty?"

"Idjit," Bobby huffs affectionately, "You know what I'm getting at. Did he, Dean? Was it a deal breaker? You know you don't have to wear it under my roof?"

"I love it." Dean gulps, rising to his feet. Words flow quickly, almost if he is afraid that what Bobby has to say will take this from him. "It's my collar. All mine. I chose it. I wanted it."

Bobby nods slowly. "You don't need it to prove you are an omega."

"I want it." Dean repeats. "Alpha offered me rings, but I didn't want 'em. I won't hide anymore. It doesn't oppress me. It has freed me."

"Once you're sure, Son." Bobby pats his arm.

After the fateful laundry talk, they fall into a routine. Dean helps out about the house and auto shop. Benny takes over cooking duties full time. The young alpha embraces being Bobby's new hunter recruit, reading texts the beta recommends, taking time to process them, and discussing the contents like a star pupil. Dean helps too, setting up a tin can shooting range in the snowy yard to improve Benny's aim with the Impala's store of shotguns, crossbows and sidearms. Bobby's salvage business is slow and his hunter phones are quiet. Winter settles in for a final week of continuous snow. It paints the junkers in white, muffles the sounds of outside, and insulates them from the wider world. There is an air of hiatus, of waiting for the weather to break, a case to land in their laps, or the arrival of Dean's heat.

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