Castiel ran his tongue over the wound on the inside of his lip. The torn skin bled enough to fill his mouth with an iron aftertaste, but it couldn't drown out the taste and smell of the Omega he'd held in his hands only moments before. The delicate scent of apple blossoms mingled with the resinous scent of pine trees and was tinged with Omega sweetness in a way that... wasn't unpleasant to Castiel. No. It wasn't the saccharine smell common to both Omegas and women, regardless of secondary gender, that lingered like molasses on the upper floor, clogging his nose so that eventually he couldn't even breathe.

This was different. This was... perfect. Every nerve in his body, every instinct, screamed loudly that this was it. This was what he'd been looking for all these long forty years of his life.

The sound of shuffling footsteps interrupted his thoughts. He turned for the source and met the startled yet questioning gaze of the shop owner.

"Close the blinds and lock the door, Mr. Sorokin," he ordered in a voice thick with pain. His throat ached and the skin under his collar burned. He was sure he would have purple chain-shaped bruises on his neck by morning.

"Yes, batyushka," Sorokin nodded quickly and ran to do as he was ordered.

Meanwhile, Castiel leaned against the counter, fished a cigarette and lighter out of his front pants pocket, and lit up. The warm smoke pushed through his bruised bronchial tubes and into his lungs, bringing both a pleasurable feeling of satiation as his raging body got some much needed nicotine and a searing pain that made him unworthily cough the smoke out again.

He glared murderously at the cigarette as he tried to hold back another coughing fit.

Sokorin appeared at his side along with a cloud of frightened odor that stung Castiel's already suffering bronchial tubes and nose.

"Done," he announced in a shaky voice, turning his pale face to the two prone bodies. "They... are they really dead? What - what do we do?" He turned to Castiel, his gaze full of concern.

"Relax, Sorokin. I'll take care of this. That's what we're here for," he assured him before reaching into his pocket for his cell phone.

He didn't have to wait two rings when a familiar voice answered:

"Boss?"

"There are two large bags of garbage to take out at Sorokin's shop. One," he looked at Beth with a smashed face, "is leaking a little. It's going to need someone to clean it up. And bring me some shirts," he added with a cursory glance at his blood-stained sleeve.

"Okay. We'll be there in fifteen minutes."

He hung up the call, returned the phone to his pocket, and took a slow drag from his cigarette while he looked around. The merchandise from the two overturned shelves was on the floor, there was a small pool of blood on the counter, some of the blood was on Sorokin, and... his attention was drawn to the wallet lying on the floor. It wasn't his, and it certainly didn't belong to Sorokin, as it had the Nirvana logo on it.

He stuck the cigarette between his teeth and picked it up. Almost immediately, the scent of apple blossoms and resin assaulted his nose. Subtle, tinged with the scent of a leather wallet, but it was there. It rose from the groped surface so enticingly sweet that he had a hard time keeping the wallet from pressing against his face and sucking deeply on the remnants of the omega scent that clung to it. Instead, he opened it.

He pulled out a driver's license in the name of Chester Bennington, and it was immediately clear to him that it was a fake. He knew his own people's work when he saw it, besides, even though there was a picture of Omega on the driver's license, the birth date claimed he was two and twenty. He looked closely at Omega's face. He had youthful eyes the color of autumn grass, his chin was sharp, but his cheeks were still childishly soft, and though he was broad-shouldered, especially for Omega, and really strong and a surprisingly good fighter, Castiel wouldn't have guessed him more than sixteen maybe eighteen. Then, tucked next to his driver's license was a credit card in a completely different name, a few dollars, and a fast food receipt from yesterday. There was nothing else. No other IDs, receipts, photos, or even just a gum wrapper. This despite the fact that the wallet looked both used and loved and cared for. It had to be empty for one reason; the Omega to whom it belonged wished to remain anonymous.

He snapped the wallet shut, and this time he couldn't resist the urge to lift it to his nose and sniff. The scent of the wonderfully wild Omega was deeply embedded in it from long wear and still so distinct that he thought to follow the young Omega's trail. Like a true hound. He could do it. Lord help him, he longed to do it, but knew he couldn't leave Sorokin with two bodies.

Cleaning up his own mess was one of the cardinal rules.

And cleaning up included finding out more about Omega.

He stepped around Sorokin and bent down to retrieve the shopping basket Omega had dropped by the door. Surprisingly, the goods hadn't spilled out of it. It was just cheap instant soups and then medicine; cough lozenges and paracetamol, both meant for children under twelve. Did Omega have a puppy? He was too young for that and he certainly didn't smell like he'd been mated. He didn't even smell like a small child, and that his own puppy would have to be six years old at most if he introduced himself early and got pregnant the first time he gambled. Maybe a younger sibling...?

There was a knock on the glass.

He pulled back the blinds.

It was Pyotr with two of his men. All three of them were carrying sports bags with the usual quick-cleaning equipment; rolls of thick plastic sheeting, duct tape, garbage bags, and cleaning products including peroxide. In addition, Pyotr also had a plastic bag with a white shirt in it.

Castiel motioned for Sorokin to open up and stepped aside himself to give them some space. The hulking Beta entered first, assessing the situation with quick, keen eyes before sending one of his men to the dry corpse, the other to Sorokin to strip him of his bloody clothes, and himself to Castiel.

"If I may ask, boss..." he indicated respectfully towards his shirt.

Silently, he choked on his cigarette, put the butt back in the pack, and then set about undoing the buttons.

"What happened here, anyway?" Pyotr asked as Castiel shoved his shirt into the bag.

"They tried to steal my car," he answered truthfully, just leaving out the part where the reason for killing the two men wasn't just his car. Not that that wasn't reason enough. It was a matter of honor to cut off the hands of anyone who dared touch his property. But this time it wasn't just a matter of principle, it was a wild, young Omega who was in danger. Even now, he barely suppressed a protective growl as he remembered the weapon that was far too close to his Omega. The moment it happened, his Alpha had thought of nothing but how to rip the Betas windpipes out with his own teeth, and it was hard to control the urge as the scent of apple blossoms and resin filled his nose, tinged with a shiver of sour fear.

The least he could do at that moment was try to kill the two as cleanly as possible despite the furious growl in his gut.

His resolve not to turn Sorokin's shop into a bloodbath was probably one of the reasons he ended up on the ground with his neck wrapped in chain. If he hadn't held back, the two would have been dead before Omega could try to escape, thus unhappily drawing Castiel's attention to himself.

Still, there was some good in that. Omega came back to defend Castiel. He smelled determined and a little angry. His Alpha had slipped from a furious growl to a satisfied snarl in a matter of seconds as the perfectly scented Omega... his Omega, had returned to protect his Alpha. He was beautiful, young, fertile, brave, strong and interested.

"Boys picked a bad deal," Pyotr grinned in amusement, handing him the bag containing the new shirt.

He nodded slightly, but made no comment. Partly because he had nothing to say, but also because his thoughts had turned back to Omega. He was... he could be the One. He certainly smelled better than anyone he'd ever known. And that was significant when he was also an Omega, because the smell of Omegas, even the few males he'd ever known, smothered him with their sickening sweetness. But he was also a Witness, and if there was any risk of him talking... Castiel knew what would have to happen, and nothing could change the pitiful wail of his Alpha instincts. If he had to choose between himself, and therefore the whole enterprise, and an unknown Omega, there was nothing to hesitate over, but he could afford to hope.

This Omega wasn't just an ordinary kid from an ordinary family. He knew that for a fact. The contents of his wallet, the fact that he hadn't fended off two armed men, and the skill with which he could fight a larger opponent spoke volumes. If he hadn't had at least one foot in Castiel's life, he was far from it.

"I've got one more job for you," he said once his new shirt was on, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. "I need you to find him."

He pulled out his ID, credit card, and receipt and handed everything to Pyotr, who took it and looked it over curiously. From his expression, he immediately came to the same conclusions Castiel had earlier. He also figured out why he should look for the young man.

"Witness?"

He nodded in agreement.

"I see." Pyotr shook his head. "We'll take care of it."

"No!" He snapped sharply, a hint of his Alpha's anger showing in his voice, "I want you to find him and bring him to me. Alive and unharmed. I want to deal with him myself."

"Aye, boss," Pyotr agreed without hesitation, though his faint Beta scent was filled with uncertainty.

Castiel had to admit that it wasn't usual for him to deal with something as minor as inconvenient witnesses who needed to be silenced. But to Pyotr's credit, he didn't mention it, he simply acknowledged the order.

"I'll leave you in charge, Pyotr. My car generates more attention in this neighborhood than your van," he nodded slightly towards the drawn blinds before turning to the half-naked clerk who stood at the counter, nervously watching as one of Pyotr's men consistently wrapped the corpse with wide strips of plastic wrap. "Mr. Sorokin..."

The beta salesman turned his head toward him.

"Markup the milk and cookies for me... as long as there's no blood on them," he demanded, reaching into his pocket for the money.

°°0°°

He quietly opened the door, slipped inside and locked it behind him. Then, with a sigh, he leaned his forehead against the cheap laminate through which he could hear all the distant sounds of the street perfectly. Finally he was back in the motel, in relative safety, surrounded by Sammy's homey scent. Sandalwood with a hint of olive oil, tinged with the scent of sickness, yet all it took was a few sips for his inner Omega to start humming home, puppy, safe place. How he hated that feeling. He should be there for Sam, he should be comforting him, not the other way around. Except his fucked up Omega instincts responded not only to the scent of a puppy that was almost like his own - after all, he'd practically raised Sammy - but also to the scent of his Alpha, even if he was just his brother.

With a sigh, he turned and leaned his back against the door.

This night really sucked. His legs ached from running, his lungs still stung a little, and he'd also gotten lost on the way to the motel. It took him almost two hours to find his way back with the help of the sat nav. That's why he hated big cities. In the smaller ones, all he had to do was walk around or bike around to remember the neighborhood. Big cities were like a goddamn maze. On top of that, at the next store he tried to shop at, he discovered he'd lost his wallet. Panic gripped him for a moment as he could only think of one place he could lose it, but he quickly calmed down. The wallet contained a fake ID, a stolen credit card and some cash. Nothing that the murdering lunatic could use to find him. The worst thing that had happened was that he had lost his beloved wallet; a leather, licensed wallet that had cost him three months of slavery in the kitchen, and he couldn't buy Sammy the medicine he needed. That sucked the most.

At least he made it home alive and in one piece. He could run out before school tomorrow for something for his fever and cough, and until then there were cold compresses and hot water and salt, like Bobby did when they were at his place.

He pushed himself away from the door and tried to get into bed as quietly as possible, damned thankful that Sam hadn't woken up by now, but the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. His instincts screamed at him that he couldn't sleep yet because their room wasn't secure enough and... it was actually true. After what he'd seen a few hours ago, it wasn't a bad idea to take a few extra precautions. Just in case.

Carefully, he took a chair from the small kitchenette and slowly, quietly buckled it under the handle. In reality, it wouldn't hold anyone back. After all, the door was literally made of paper and could easily be ripped to shreds. But it would have held anyone outside long enough for Dean to get to his gun.

Which was the second thing he did.

He fished the SIG and ammo out of the gun bag and loaded it.

"Dean?" Came the hissing words behind him.

He turned abruptly and quickly hid the gun behind his back.

"Sammy! How come you're not in bed?" He scolded his brother sternly.

Raising his eyebrows in an eloquent gesture, Sam threw the blanket over his shoulders and stepped out from behind the would-be decorative wooden wall that separated the bed area from the rest of the room.

"Did... ohrm... something happen? Ahrm..."

"No, nothing happened," he lied easily, only Sam didn't believe him by his expression.

"So where's the food shopping? And why are you... loading the gun?" He asked, managing to sound reproachful despite the squeak in his voice.

"Okay..." he admitted, because what else was he supposed to do? He had a brother who was as smart as a squirrel on ecstasy and more annoying than a rash. But he didn't have to tell him the truth, just something that sounded like the truth. "I've met a few stunted knots. That's all."

The bitter smell of anger and sour concern exploded through the room as if someone had thrown a smoke bomb at him, and even in the dim light streaming from the parking lot, Sam's eyes could see them take on a red tint.

"Did they hurt you?" Sammy tried to growl, but since even his normal growl sounded like a wheeze, and now he had a real cold to boot, it sounded more like a grunt that was even a little laughable.

Dean had to purse his lips to keep from chuckling in amusement. How little it took to make him feel better.

"Relax, champ. I'm fine. Surely I wouldn't be intimidated by a bunch of morons?" He grinned. At least he didn't have to lie on this one.

Groups of faceless Alphas never worried him, but that Alpha tonight...? That was an encounter he probably wouldn't forget for the rest of his damn life, if only because it left him with terribly mixed feelings. Sure, there was the fear of seeing the guy get killed, but at the same time, his inner Omega thought there was something incredibly attractive about it. As if what he, the unknown Alpha had done was a demonstration of his strength and ability to take care of Dean and any puppies they might have together. Which was a fucking shitty reasoning. No, seriously, Winchester, what's wrong with you if you think a killer Alpha at least twice your age would be a good father to puppies you don't even want to have?

And he better not have been thinking about the wonderfully tart smell.

"But you've got a gun..." pointed out Sam, pointing to the gun Dean was already not hiding because it would be pointless.

"Yeah, well..." he glanced at the gun briefly before turning back to Sam. "Chalk it up to a little omega hysteria," he grinned self-ironically.

"Dean..." murmured Sam for the second time.

"Enough already," he interrupted firmly. "It's almost four in the morning. You need to be warm and I want to get some more sleep, so hurry back to bed."

Sammy made a defiant face and opened his mouth to protest. He didn't let him say anything. He threw an arm around his shoulders and pulled his to him. Sam's head rested on his chest, close to his scent gland, so he could smell Dean's scent through his stuffy nose. As always, it was literally magic. With a few deep breaths, the tension eased from Sam's shoulders and he buried his head deeper into Dean's shirt.

"I hate it when you do that. I'm not a puppy anymore," Sam muttered grumpily into his chest, but despite his words, he allowed himself to be obediently led to the bed and tucked in.

"You'll always be just a puppy to me, bitch," he replied as he lay down behind him so he could hold him close and safe at night.

"Jerk," Sam snapped with a pout, but his next words were a little more serious: "You shouldn't be sleeping here. You'll be... ohrm... sick too."

"At least then I won't have to go to school," he growled as he buried his nose in Sammy's hair.

The gun found its place on the nightstand.