Supernatural in its entirety © Kripke Enterprises / Warner Bros. Television / The CW

A/N1: When an idea just won't leave you alone . . .

A bare bones idea. A what if idea. A "girl, you haven't even named the leads yet!" idea. I have no clue where Off-Beat is going to go, or if it's going to go anywhere. However, it is a story I have been yearning to write, one where all of us can fall just as deeply in love with the leads as they do with each other, and everywhere will exist the recurring theme that Consent Is Sexy.

O-B is a spinoff, featuring one of Dean and Cas's children from the fanwork, A Hole in the World. While I'm not sure if jumpstarting a story off someone else's is really an acceptable thing to do, I have been so deeply inspired by the author AnnelieseMichel and AHITW that I thought maybe—just maybe—I will be able to find my story from there. Isn't imitation the sincerest form of flattery, or something like that? Well, either way, I believe AM's story deserves all the love and attention it still gets all these years later. You can find it on AO3, so go read it if you haven't!

As for O-B, I sincerely hope you enjoy it.

~ Anne

P.S. This is the 13+ version, with the juicy parts cut out. For the full M version, please visit me on AO3!

It doesn't have to start this way.

"Whoa. Back up. No, don't you look at her, look at me. Nobody invited you. Nobody wants to smell you. My girl's stepped in poop smarter than you."

But, because it's Joseph Kadoka, it does.

"Are you trying to tell me she's yours, hotshot? Bringing her out unclaimed like that?"

"We didn't bring her anywhere."

"Not that I care. I'm sure you're aware that she must take responsibility for this rather . . . inconvenient, shall we say, predicament."

Joseph swells. "Already told you, jackass. Back up. Deal with that yourself. I'm sure you and your hand are real familiar with each other already."

It's not possible to be friends with an alpha without knowing when to stay out of it and when to throw down. Corbett unfolds from his stool, inserting himself between his friend and the stranger breathing boilermakers in his face, who is wearing a tailored suit much too expensive for a dive like this.

Joseph leans around him to sneer at the well-groomed intruder. "You take one step closer, and I'll be the one sticking something up your rear, you ugly jerk."

Several people snarl. As the Wall Street-type and his two cue stick-toting friends shove closer, stools scrape the floor. One falls over, landing with a bang that makes everyone in the barroom look over, including the bartender, whose eyes focus on them like disapproving blue lasers.

But Alan J. Corbett is a respectably-sized beta and is oblivious to the arousal and the territoriality swirling in the air. Rylie, sitting with her hand covering her mouth and nose, envies the way pheromones bounce right off him. He ducks a grab by Wall Street's smaller, bearded friend and responds with a shoulder-check, knocking the other man a few steps away before Joseph can get his hands around his throat. After a swift about-face, he captures Joseph's wrists. "Dude, chill. I swear to God your mouth and your brain have some kind of disconnect."

"Do not tell me to chill, Corbett. This Brit is out of line!"

"So are you." Corbett keeps his voice low and even, chest-to-chest with him, both of them breathing harder than usual.

Joseph, tendons corded in his neck, pushes against his hold and growls, "Let go of me, man."

"C'mon, dumbass, cool it!" Loafers sliding through the lingering wet left by the ashy snow camped outside, Corbett loses some ground. He digs in, straining against his friend while behind him, the older alpha laughs and takes a poke at the back of his head, taunting now, gaining confidence with the lack of retaliation. Thunderclouds swarm Corbett's normally open, friendly face. "I'm not saying this jerk doesn't deserve to be bent in half and fed his own backside, and you know I've got your back, but Rylie looks like she's gonna puke. Whatever you're doing to her, you need to get a lid on it."

He's not wrong. A trickle of sweat runs from Rylie's hairline and down her cheek, leaving a chill in its wake. It's easier, in the shadows around the spotlighted pool tables, for the stench of violent alpha pheromones to overpower their buffalo wings and beer. Even Joseph's familiar scent is turning her stomach, and she knows that hers is intensifying in distress.

"Take a whiff of that, boys," Wall Street drawls. In any other situation, Rylie might consider him darkly, cleanly good-looking, but right now, with that sharp-toothed smile, he simply oozes predator. "I could smell her the moment she walked in."

"Smells like a good time, don't she?" the smaller, scrappier alpha says eagerly, all Irish, stormy blue eyes and wavy black hair and undone collar. "Be still my heart!"

"Pretty bitch like her can ride my knot a-a-a-any time," his redheaded friend responds. He's the only one in more casual clothes, more a hanger-on than a peer, plain and awkward but still a threat.

Then Rylie catches sight of the gold band around Wall Street's long, pale finger when he swats at Corbett's head again, harder this time, he and his flunkies jeering.

They break up in laughter, and she shivers. God, he is married. He looks comfortable in his threads, his smile so self-assured it would take a nuclear strike to dislodge he's here, in the Banshee Bar & Lounge of Sioux Falls, South Dakota—not exactly a mecca of the Midwest—panting after a woman twenty years his junior, willing to take down her friends to get to her, probably happy to share her with his buddies once he's done using her.

All these years since the Omega Rights Movement and the world, while safer for people like her on the surface, is still broken. Why, when this man loved someone enough to legally bind himself to them, to swear fidelity and all that, does he think a side piece is at all acceptable just because she's omega?

It's not acceptable. Not for her. Looking Wall Street right in the eye, she lifts her middle finger. "This a clear enough 'no' for you?"

To her irritation, Wall Street isn't put off in the slightest. In fact, he looks like he's having fun; he shifts his stance, ensuring she can spot the obvious bulge in his slacks. His gray eyes, however, are cold. "Be nice, breeder, and we'll give you what you want. Judging by the company you keep, you have room for all of us. If you're short on time I'm sure you can take us three at once."

Gross! Joseph is alpha, and not once in their entire lives has he uttered so invasive a sentence in her presence, which proves the only reason anyone acts this way to a total stranger, with no way of knowing her preferences or boundaries, is because he wants to. Rylie shows her teeth. "Seriously, you need a vibe check. No. The answer is no. As far as I'm concerned, there's a good reason you're not currently included in the gene pool."

At that, most of their avidly watching audience bursts into laughter and catcalls. Appreciative. Goading. Sounds start to warp, raised voices and half-heard music and dinging arcade games and the smooth clack of the balls at the next table over going muffled and slow-motion.

This stuff really hacks her off. She's not here to be the free entertainment!

It wouldn't be so bad if she hadn't decided that heck, it's Friday night, it's time to let loose and have a few drinks with her friends. If Bela were able to join them so at least Rylie wouldn't be the only chick there. If her body didn't practically scream, I must have your babies! to nearly every alpha on the planet, even when she isn't in heat. If she didn't despise alphas so much she let one claim her long ago. If there weren't four large specimens currently sucking all the oxygen out of the room.

She can't breathe. Why don't they ever smell that she isn't interested as easily as they can smell what she is?

You know the answer to that, Ryles. All they care about is how good you can make them feel. And that is never going to change.

Still. No reason to keep sitting there like bait, worsening the situation the longer Joseph feels the need to protect her, the longer Wall Street or Scrappy Doo thinks he has a chance of getting her pink mohair skirt off her. After a longing glance at her uneaten food, she slings her purse over her shoulder, then tries to shrug her white coat over it. "I hate to break things up, guys, but I didn't sign up for this. I'm out."

"Good idea." Corbett frowns up at Joseph. "We don't want a fight."

Joseph tries to step around him, but either Corbett has better reflexes, or Joseph doesn't want to get into it with him. The alpha steps back at last, frustrated. "Says who?"

"I do, dumbass. Getting arrested isn't my idea of a good time."

The bartender is on her way over, eyes tired under layers of mascara and eyeliner, shoulders rigid in a long-sleeved crewneck and plaid woolen wrap, legs long and slim in dark jeggings. In a soft, politely stern voice, she calls, "I heard that, Corbett. You gonna hold to it? You're real good kids 'n all. I like seein' you around my bar. I'd hate to have to ask you to leave."

"Us?" Joseph demands. "What about those knotheads? We didn't start this."

"But we know how to end it." Cheekily, Corbett slings an arm around Joseph's neck, bowing him over, which shuts his mouth faster than a slap to the face would.

Having made her allegiance clear, the bartender lifts her chin at Wall Street and his friends. Her hand slips into her back pocket, over the outline of her cell phone, where she's sure to have the local sheriff's department on speed dial. "I don't want trouble here tonight, fellas. You go on back to your game, now, you hear?"

In no way can an elegant lady like Mildred Baker carry through on any physical threat, but she is the one who dispenses the booze, and she knows how to keep it coming. The alphas fade back, eyeing "the old dear" warily. When two of the three return their attention to their pool table, Mildred's other patrons do the same, talking louder than before to cover the lingering tension.

Joseph jerks away from Corbett and scowls like he just got told there's been a mistake, and he's not the Powerball winner after all. "Lucky you're cute, you asshole."

"Darn right I am," Corbett shoots back, unabashed. His wide smile flashes. "You know my face unlocks all the doors."

"Your pale, pale face."

"Too late. No takebacks."

Joseph rolls his eyes, then flips him off. "Shaddap."

"Got a weakness for the cute ones, myself," the bartender says fondly. She pats Corbett's cheek, biting her lower lip. Then she inhales, trading the misty doe-eyed look for a professional one. "Can I bring you kids somethin'?"

"Naw, Mildred, thanks though. Probably best we call it a night." Corbett winks at her. "Don't want to dump more work on a sweetheart like you."

She giggles, bright as a sparkling seltzer. "You are smooth, kiddo."

Rylie can't find her stupid coat sleeve. She's turning circles looking for it. Normally, she, like Corbett, finds Mildred's flirting funny, but right now, she wants to get out of Dodge. Especially since Wall Street hasn't taken his gaze off her yet, and it's far from a detached appraisal. "Sorry about this, Mildred."

The other woman props her fists on her hips and tosses short platinum curls. "Honey, what part of this do you think you need to apologize for?"

Coming out in public. Choosing your bar. Refusing to wear the collar. But Rylie keeps her mouth shut. Nothing good lies down that road.

Corbett's expression is a little too sober, a little too penetrating. It's not like he can really understand. She ducks her head. Oh! There's her sleeve! Good, the sooner she can get out from under the stink the better—

Catching sight of her fluffy snow boots, she realizes she dropped her scarf. It's smeared with the melted snow and ash chilling out on the cement floor, tracked in over the course of the evening.

Shoot. She picks it up, shakes off clumps of rock salt. All she wanted was to get out of the house for a bit and relax. Why was that too much to ask?

If there's a higher power out there, some sort of cosmic entity watching over them, it doesn't answer.

xXx

At this time of night, more people are arriving than departing. Rylie pushes out the Banshee's side door, pulling her face mask up and in place. Flanking her, Joseph and Corbett do the same. The ever-present prairie wind wraps around her neck as soon as she steps onto the sidewalk. She shivers, and then she finds herself with an armful of upset alpha.

"I'm sorry, Ryles," Joseph mumbles through his mask, broad shoulders hunched, forehead on her shoulder. "I didn't mean to get so worked up."

"I know. Thanks for looking out for me." Rylie hugs him, keeping in her sigh. She doesn't want to deal with this right now, having to prop him up when she was the one targeted. "I'm gonna head home. I need a bath."

They take her at face value, bless those boys. She starts her Corolla and leaves it idling to warm the engine. Then she waits, her breath freezing on the windows, until Corbett in his past-its-prime hybrid and Joseph in his battered pickup pull away. Theirs aren't the only vehicles on the road, but she's able to watch them go for several blocks before they each turn off on the way to their respective homes. After the country's population tanked, people congregated in the bigger cities without hope of filling them, wresting what arable land they could from the pervasive drifts of gray ash that transformed the once fast-flowing Big Sioux River into a muck-clogged creek for much of its journey south to Iowa. America's Heartland isn't what it used to be, according to the history books.

A lot isn't like it used to be.

Rylie taps her fingers on the steering wheel, the toe of her boot on her floor mat, in a standard eighth note groove. Her mind swirls like a flock of starlings, pent-up thoughts seeking egress.

Even though Mildred quelled what could have turned into a nasty confrontation, even though Rylie's safe, she's free, life can go on like usual . . .

Dang it. Maybe she was looking forward to a bit of stress relief tonight. Not in the arms of some smelly alpha, but by putting her fist through one's face, then picking out a nice, normal beta to take her home—or staying out until closing time without seeking company, just because she wants to. However, Corbett and Joseph aren't here anymore, and going back into that alpha infested bar by herself is a very, very bad idea.

Rylie gets out of her car, her gloved hands searching her purse. Her fingers find and close around a half-empty pack of cigarettes and a cheap plastic lighter.

She wrestles with her better judgment for a good thirty seconds. Bela won't let her back in the house if she catches a whiff of tobacco. Nasty habit, she says. Why would anyone want to inhale this stuff on purpose when the stuff already in the air can turn to concrete in a pair of lungs anyway? The government mandated the face mask policy for a reason, not that there is scientific proof it makes a difference. Twenty-some years ago, the government was still responding to the population scare by enabling breeding farms, so. Yeah. Governmental efficiency. Not the gold standard. Heck, a pack of Reds is taxed less and is more widely available than birth control for omegas.

"Phooey," she mumbles, pulls down her mask, and lights up. Just one. Half of one. Then she'll go home.

She stands in the cold, her nose threatening to run, the cigarette burning between her fingers more than between her lips. She stares up at the featureless black sky. The ashy clouds lower, blanketing the entire city, hiding the stars. Noise from the bar makes it to the unlit parking lot, but it's a distant thing, increasing and decreasing as the door swings open and shut. She takes a drag and savors it, eyes closed, calming, calmer, calm, then blows out the smoke in a thin stream.

"Great breath holding. You know, pet, you and I could put that skill to much better use."

Rylie jerks back to Earth. Wall Street stands a Jeep and an SUV from her, a shadowy figure in the dark. She does a quick check of the lot as she straightens and pinches out the remainder of her guilty pleasure. He seems to be alone. She flicks the half-smoked cigarette to the ground and turns away. The tobacco tastes sour, anyway. Time to call it a night.

She hears his dress shoes sift through the gravel and ice, loud in his haste. In contrast, his voice is smooth. Cultured. Unhurried. "Come now, is it necessary to be such a tease? I'll even tell you who I am."

Rylie scoffs. Like he's conferring some great favor. Yet, as before, he doesn't seem to receive the signals she's giving off.

"My name is Arthur, Arthur Ketch. I do realize that I shouldn't have interrupted your night like that. I came out here to apologize. Thought maybe I could do this right. Invite you back inside. Buy you a drink. That's all."

At that, Rylie can't remember how to English. What the actual . . . what. First this alpha implies that she must be talented at bjs, then he states that she's encouraging him, then he asks her for a date? And he sounded so reasonable doing it!

If there is a commandment carved by holy fire onto a stone tablet somewhere that decrees All Apologies Must Be Accepted, she'd like to see it. Until then, this rando can choke on his. She didn't ask for his attention. She doesn't want it. Wordless and disgusted, she wrenches open her car's door and drops inside.

A hand slaps the side window, the metal of a ring striking the glass startling her. Through the smears and splatters of dried ash, Arthur Ketch grins.

He isn't wearing a mask, and he grins.

Like a coyote with its eye on a wounded jackrabbit. Anticipatory. Confident.

Something too painful to be called a shiver grips Rylie's spine. Angry tears spring to the surface. The car is already running. She shifts into gear and floors the gas pedal. In a squeal of her tires and a spray of gravel, she peels out of the parking lot. She sees Ketch jump to safety in her mirrors. Sees that he's laughing. Waving.

She screams a curse as she speeds through an intersection, out and out fleeing the scene.

She should have stood her ground. She should have taken a stab at him with her lit cigarette. She should have let Joseph at him. She shouldn't have acknowledged his existence. She should never have gone to the bar!

She's starting to get yellow lights at the intersections. She doesn't slow. He didn't touch her, but she's shook. She hates this feeling so much. The submission of the omega to the alpha. The pheromone stench that clings to her skin like an oily mist, weakening her limbs, sapping her resolve. The prickle along the sides of her neck, readying her for the claiming bite, never mind that she was about as aroused as a wet cat in a bag. The panic that keeps trying to convince her that this guy Ketch saw her car, saw her license plate, knows how to find her—!

Her left turn rushes to meet her. She's going to make it to the intersection before the vehicle opposite, angled to make a right turn with its signal blinking, will. She stays sure of that decision until a pair of headlights blazes through the windows, too close, too bright. With a thump and a crunch, the other vehicle whacks her car off course.

Rylie sits stunned in the relative quiet of the cab, hands locked on the steering wheel, listening to the ticking of her blinker. Mist falls past the beams of her headlights. Her car completed the turn, but now it's facing the wrong way up the avenue, listing to the passenger side, the engine dead, the other vehicle slumping nose to end with it. She hears a door slam, an unsteady voice calling, asking if she's okay.

No. The answer is no.

xXx

Me: Can you come get me? 14th and Minnesota.

A snowflake lands on the glowing screen of Rylie's smartphone. Starting from the outer edges, the flake melts, depositing its offering of ash. As always, Bela's response comes quickly. Rylie swipes her thumb through the moisture to read it.

Bela: I would, but you know I'm working tonight. This client has been waiting quite a while for this particular item.

Bela: Wait, did something happen?

Me: Accident.

Bela: Oh no! Are you all right?

Me: I'm fine. Pretty sure my car is totaled though.

Bela: Have you been ticketed?

Me: No, the cops determined it wasn't my fault. She was drunk. And driving without a license.

Me: Look, it's been a rough night. I don't want to call for an Uber.

Me: Please?

Rylie pauses, her glove tucked into her pocket, a crumpled carbon copy of the incident report under her elbow, her hand reddened by the cold, then taps one more message before Bela can brush her off.

Me: One of the cops is alpha.

The wait for a response isn't a long one.

Bela: Stay there. I'm on my way.

With the first sense of relief she's felt since Arthur Ketch took an interest in her, Rylie trades her phone for her glove. She pulls it on, then stands shivering on the curb while the cops usher the other driver, wobbling more than walking, to one of the squad cars and then help her bundle inside. The two cops converse for a few seconds, their heads bent close. Rylie hugs herself and tries to ignore how the sparse traffic dawdles past her faithful little Corolla catawampus in the intersection. How the drivers slow further to check her out on the way by.

Then the beta cop, blissfully scentless, gets into her cruiser and pulls away with her passenger.

Internally, Rylie groans. The dreaded alpha cop jogs over to her, the keys hanging from his belt jingling. He stops several feet from her.

"Ma'am, you're free to go," he says in a deep, inflectionless voice that makes her shiver more than the wind chill does. "If you are in need of a ride, I am authorized to take you."

Ma'am? Does she look middle-aged when she's barely twenty-five? Rylie gives him an incredulous frown. "What genius thought it was a good idea to leave the alpha alone with an omega? I don't care who you are, I am not getting into a car with you."

He blinks, obviously taken aback. As though this thought never occurred to him. As though omegas aren't at the mercy of alphas every damn day of their lives. "Winchester."

"What?"

He tugs down his face mask. "Who I am. Dep. Winchester."

"Didn't ask." Is he for real? She slides her gloved hand into her pocket, traces the comforting edges of her phone, clenches it in her fist. "I already texted my friend. She's on her way. You can go now."

He smiles, so faintly that Rylie can't determine if it is genuine or a trick of the streetlamp and the falling snow. Either way, she feels suddenly, intensely uncomfortable. Because—oh. She was too shaken to notice before, since the other cop was the one who took her statement, but this Dep. Winchester is possibly the most beautiful man she's ever seen in her life. Not that she's all that hung up on looks in general, but a face like that would give Bela Talbot a run for her money. He is tall, probably cracking six feet, and leaner than the usual husky Scandinavian farm boy, legs long and straight in uniform khaki trousers with the dark green stripe down the outer seams.

"Well, ma'am," he drawls, stressing the offensive word, dimples marring his clean-shaven cheeks, "if it is the height of idiocy to ride with a police officer because he is alpha, then it would be unpardonably negligent to abandon a civilian on a street corner by herself at this hour because she is omega. Ma'am."

What the—Is he making fun of her? He stares expectantly at her, as though waiting for his charm or his pheromones to turn her to complacent putty. Rylie bristles. Alpha jerk! She does not need this tonight. Whoever thinks that constantly getting hit on is a compliment can go suck an egg.

At her silence, his humor slips away and the professional air resurfaces. He turns his head toward the chirping radio clipped to his shoulder. He murmurs something into it, listens to the crackling response, and replies, the words too indistinct for Rylie to decipher. He stands at ease, leaning on one leg, by all appearances unbothered by her and the disapproval and distrust that's surely radiating from her like thistles. Snow collects in his brunet hair, across the wide shoulders of his shiny brown jacket.

She pulls up her hood, partly to protect her from the increasing snowfall and wind and partly to hide her face, because she's sick and tired of being stared at tonight. Exhaustion creeps in as her body heat sneaks out. All she wants to do is go home, sink into a hot bath, and forget all about this disaster of an evening. She's craving a cigarette, but with Bela en route she doesn't dare.

"Excuse me, ma'am?"

Too bad the cop can't seem to leave well enough alone.

"Yeah, what?"

"I called a tow truck. It should arrive momentarily." He speaks to the metal clipboard-box thing on his arm, scribbling something there, back to sounding remote and factual from behind his crisp black face mask. "If you don't have a mechanic lined up, I can recommend a shop that will deal with you honestly and fairly."

He clicks his pen, tucks it into his breast pocket under his jacket, pulls a business card off the clipboard, and holds it out.

Rylie eyes it. "Is there some reason you feel the need to go out of your way for me?"

"Is there some reason you think I don't do this for everyone I assist while I'm on the job?" he fires back, though coldly. "In spite of your inflated sense of self-worth, ma'am, I am only doing my duty as a deputy sheriff."

His abrupt mood shifts are unnerving, as is the fact that he seriously doesn't pull his punches. Face on fire—whether from embarrassment or anger, she'll never admit to anyone, ever—Rylie doesn't reply.

Several quick toots of a car horn break into their standoff. Across the street, Bela brazenly flips a U-turn in her trim silver Mercedes. She honks again, warning the cop to keep his distance as she swoops up to the curb close enough to scrape her tires along it.

"My ride is here," Rylie says, unnecessarily pointed.

"Singer Salvage is run by an omega, and he is very good at his job." Dep. Winchester lowers his arm, what she can discern of his expression both annoyed and slightly hurt. "Not that I believe a person's gender has anything to do with how efficiently they do their job. If there's nothing else you need, I will be going."

It doesn't have to end this way.

"Just—give me the business card and go. I can take care of myself."

But, because she's Rylie Hayes, omega female not up for grabs, it does.

A/N2: Hello, Dear Readers, and happy Thursday!

I have been (SLOWLY) working on this fic over at AO3, but I'm stuck (what else is new, Anne?) and searching for fresh inspiration. Thought I'd try this out on you wonderful people and see what you think! Many many thanks go to my faithful beta reader, St4r Hunter. ;)

Until next time,

Anne

P.S. I had too much fun censoring this version. It's so silly to do! But I hope it still reads all right. It wasn't much anyway.