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

Troubled, hazy dreams leave Rylie unsettled.

Sunlight shines through the broad, dry leaves of a sickly linden tree. Heat. Clouds scud across the wide sky. Humidity. Cicadas drone, buzz, hum overhead. Lazy. Candy wrappers crinkle in her pocket. Summer—

Frightened crying, the sound thin, weak, and muffled—

Rocks dig into her palms and her bare knees. She can't see. There's nothing there. It's too narrow and dark—

A toddler, white face covered in scratches, the scratches covered in greenish mud. Dimpled hands clutch at pitted, curved walls of concrete. It's not high enough. The sunlight and the heat don't make it that far. The cicadas are quiet—

She grips the grass, feels the ground tug at it. She stretches, strains, fingers grasping. Tilts too far—

The blades of grass rip. Rocks and dirt slide away, bouncing off concrete, splashing into water—

Darkness. Musty, moldy, ashy, confined—

The dreams end and Rylie startles awake. Their impressions disappear into the fuzzy corners of her bedroom, formless, meaningless, but her mind refuses to shut down. It brings her anxieties to the fore, prompting her to toss and turn to escape them.

There's no escape. Sweaty and exhausted, she gives up. She spends a couple of hours down in the office, seeking comfort in routine, but nothing works. She's itchy, restless, weary. She props her elbows on her desk, slides her fingers under the frames of her computer glasses, and rubs her tired eyes. She feels her roommate's presence at her side, but she doesn't acknowledge her. She's in no mood to socialize.

Bela Talbot, the brat, waits her out. With an internal grumble, Rylie removes her hands and glances up sidelong.

Bela, dressed for and back from her run, proffers a shoulder bottle. Amber liquid glints within. She lifts her eyebrows at Rylie's neglected travel mug.

"You realize it's only eight in the morning," Rylie says, settling her headphones around her neck. On the other hand, it's already eight in the morning and she hasn't changed out of her fleece pajamas, her hair bunched into a tangled bun on top of her head. Since she feels like five miles of bad road, she pops off the lid and allows Bela to pour a dollop of whiskey into the mug. She takes a sip and savors it, leaning back in her desk chair, cross-legged. Weak winter sunlight falls across her face, as warm as the whiskey. "Thanks."

"You looked like you needed it." Bela scoots her desk chair over and settles, cradling a second spiked coffee between her hands. "Want to talk about it?"

"I guess." Rylie gestures at her monitor. "Viewership counts are down this month. My payout is going to take a hit, so I've been trying to get this video finished and posted today, to catch people here in the U.S. before they go out for the night, but it's just not coming together."

"That's not what I was talking about." Bela fiddles with the closure to her mug's lid. She speaks to it, not Rylie. "I was referring to whatever happened last night that kept you from sleeping."

Ope. "Noticed that, did you?"

"Hard not to, with you banging away out here at an ungodly hour of the morning." Bela's mouth curves downward in an exaggerated pout, but amusement dances in her large, wide eyes. She nods at the e-kit in the corner of the office. "You might not turn on the amp—which I appreciate, by the way, don't get me wrong—but I can still hear you. I can usually tell what kind of mood you're in by the sound of it, too."

Rylie sighs. She holds her mug to her chest like a security blanket. "It's the same story it always is. Some alpha caught a whiff of me and decided we were destined to mate like bunnies."

"Doesn't necessarily sound like the worst proposition."

"Coming from a forty-something married dude who gives off serious 'Bond, James Bond' vibes, it does."

Bela splutters on her coffee. She might be laughing, and she might actually be choking. "Connery, Craig, or Brosnan?"

"What does it matter? They all played an alpha jerk." With a couple agitated clicks, Rylie closes down her editing program and then spins her chair away from the monitor before she does something irreversible. She'll deal with the video later. New subscribers trickle in weekly. Her bank account isn't going to run dry, at least not this month. Her social life, however, could be facing a roadblock.

It was awful, she wants to say. I was scared.

She frowns. Why, though? What was it about an encounter that wasn't the first or even the worst that rattled her so?

Bela flicks an eyebrow. "So what did 007 do?"

"He didn't actually do anything, but he said some stuff and I . . ." Rylie falters, then attempts to shrug it off. "It bent me out of shape. That's why I got in the accident. I mean, aside from that lady pickling her liver and completely forgetting that she needed to turn the wheel to turn her car at the same time."

"Where were our adorable not-a-couple during all this?" Bela asks. "Don't tell me they left you there alone."

When Rylie doesn't answer, gaze slipping to the side, her roommate gives an angry huff. "Those two should start thinking with their upstairs brains again, for goodness' sake. They know better! Just because they never have to see the aftermath of what goes on around you—That's it, I'm calling right now—"

"Bela!" Giggling, Rylie grabs for Bela's phone, but Bela lifts it high, squinting at the screen. "Wait, calling who? Joseph or Corbett?"

"Either one," she says, thumbing through her contacts. "They're both idiots."

"Granted, but it's none of your business."

"It is if they're too busy drooling after each other to make sure you're safe."

"Stop it! They aren't my keepers. And neither are you."

The words ring out, angry and sharp. Rylie, having surprised herself with their vehemence, forgets to close her mouth.

Phone to her ear, Bela blinks blankly at her. Then, without the slightest change in expression, she brightly says, "Sorry, sweetie, wrong number . . . Yes, I'm aware of the time . . . Maybe if you weren't such a lush you wouldn't be hating your life right now. Kisses!" She disconnects the call and drops her hand to her lap, frowning. "I didn't say that."

The ice in the air cracks, starts to dissipate. "It's what you meant."

"A moment, if you please." Sitting up, Bela places her mug on the desk as though disarming, denying herself the temptation to fling its contents in Rylie's face. As soon as her hands are free, Veritas leaps into her lap, butting her head into them, asking for scratches. Bela complies. "You do realize that we don't say these things to hurt you."

In contrast to Bela's strained tone, Veritas begins purring. She winks her vibrant eyes at Rylie.

Rylie squirms under their dual regard. Of course she realizes that, but— "It's not like saying the words does anything. It's like 'thoughts and prayers.' It's lip service."

"It's a little more than that." Bela sighs. "It's a dangerous world out there. If we're not careful something bad could happen to you."

"Do you know, when I was growing up, that's all my mother ever said to me?" Rylie asks, sick of this lifelong conversation. "Not that she loved me. Not, did I sleep well, did I finish my homework, what did I want to do for my birthday, could I use a ride to school. Not that it isn't our fault. Be careful. I am being careful. The shitty thing is, no matter how careful I am, things happen when I don't want them to. They happen to me, not because of me. So tell me, is that really my responsibility?"

"Yes." Bela's response is, as always, immediate and decisive, though she looks far from happy as she says it. "If the world worked the way it should, bad things wouldn't happen to anyone."

"That's such garbage." Rylie retreats, pressing on her eyes until she sees red and white sparks. "How am I supposed to be more careful? At what point do I stop living just so I can survive?"

"Carry a gun, for starters."

Rylie tears off her computer glasses, squeezes them in her fist. "No."

"Look, I understand your feelings on the subject, but whether you are armed or not, the world will come at you."

"I know that. You think I don't know that? No matter what I want or ask for, I can't control what other people choose to do! And if they choose to come at me, then—"

She stops. Privately finishes the thought. Then I either get away or I don't. That's how it's always been for people who smell like me.

"Damn it, Rylie! Wouldn't you rather be able to push back?" Bela stands, accidentally dumping her cat onto the floor. Veritas hisses and then streaks out of the room in a two-tone blur while Bela grabs Rylie's chair by the armrests and leans in close. "Nobody said you had to do this alone. We're your friends, we love you, and we'll destroy anyone who tries to hurt you, you insufferable ninny."

Bela, being beta, doesn't have a pheromone scent. Her emotions can't influence Rylie on a chemical level, and it's the out Rylie needs to stay in control of herself, to defuse this argument. She playfully sneers, "Who's a ninny? Excuse you, I'm not the woman who swindled a client with a so-called cursed rabbit's foot you priced at two-point-five million dollars, shot his partner when he found you out and confronted you—"

"In the shoulder!" Bela corrects, sounding entirely too proud of herself. "I can aim, you know."

They glare at each other a few moments more, and then Bela relaxes into a smile. "See? A great example of self-preservation. Acting the nice girl doesn't pay the bills."

"True. As I recall, you picked his pocket and made off with several thousand in scratch tickets."

"I simply made up for lost profit." Bela shrugs. "It's not like my clientele are the sort who can or will go to the police."

"That's just it. I wouldn't get away from a situation like that as cleanly as you always seem to. If I pull out a gun, if I aim it at someone, if I shoot—I can't handle the consequences." Not again. She intimately knows how the crack of a gun rips more than one life apart. But she can't talk about it. Won't. "Where would I even get my hands on one in the first place?"

Bela brightens.

"Legally."

Bela pouts.

"Nobody sells weapons to omegas," Rylie goes on, her bitter words stinging her lips on the way out. "The people in charge can't have one of us actually use one on some innocent alpha who just wants to procreate. Worse, no one stops to question why omega-on-alpha violence is even a thing, why it's not a one-time occurrence but an actual, ongoing disaster."

"True. Then we continue as we have been." Bela prowls the office. Her gaze, light and quick as a hummingbird, lands on and then flits past some of the obscure objects she's collected, such as the spirit talking board from the thirties inlaid with gorgeous chips of opal, and the disintegrating leather gris-gris bag well over a hundred years old, or the Hand of Glory, which she matter-of-factly explained was the right hand of a murderer, pickled and dried (Rylie doesn't know whether she believes her or not, but the gnarly thing does look human rather than simian). She circles back, rifles through the paperwork on the corner of Rylie's desk. "You be a good friend and let us help you."

Rylie snorts. "Bela, I can't keep an alpha balled up in my purse like some sort of Jerk Be Gone spray."

Her roommate straightens, her hand flat on the paperwork. Her voice comes out oddly muted. "Or can you?"

"Huh?"

"Why don't you get yourself an alpha who can cover you in his scent and discourage the unwashed masses?"

Rylie drops her face onto her desk. "Because then I'd smell awful."

"I'm serious."

"So am I." Rylie hesitates, then reluctantly adds, "What you're talking about, that's called claiming. It's not security, it's submission. It's not safety, it's a kind of sanctioned violence. It's not comfort, it's a leash, and he would be the one holding it. And I would let him. Even if it meant that everything I am disappears."

Bela heaves a noisy sigh, which is very unlike her. She starts tapping at her phone's screen again. "Let me guess. You're holding out for that fated encounter, your destined soulmate—"

"That's a sack of chicken feathers and you know it."

"Yes, I do." Bela doesn't look up from her phone. "You don't."

Rylie growls under her breath but doesn't argue. Okay, so maybe she doesn't know it. She doesn't believe in fate, but concepts like belonging and equality and fulfillment? Why were those things so much to ask for?

"Well, I can't tell you what to do, of course. However, you could do worse."

"Now what are you talking about?"

"I'm talking—" Beaming, a wicked glint in her eye, Bela turns her phone so that Rylie can see it, punctuating her words for emphasis— "about one. Hunter. Dean. Winchester."

Rylie goggles. There he is. Last night's alpha cop, barely managing a shy smile for his profile picture on the Minnehaha County Sheriff's Department website. He looks good, though she never would have pegged Eagle Scout as her thing. And, gosh. His eyes—though she hates herself down to the bone for noticing—aren't blue like she thought. Or, one of them isn't. It's green. The unevenness is hypnotizing, drawing her in, making her feel—

Oh, no! Rylie almost doesn't stop herself from slapping the phone out of Bela's hand like it's a big black cricket wiggling its antennas at her. "Wha—how did you—?" She whips around, stares at the disheveled stack of paperwork on the corner of her desk. The incident report carbon copy and the written-on business card sporting the sheriff's department's seal, are now lying right on top. Darn Bela and her sticky fingers! Rylie gives up on talking with a strangled noise. She wasn't curious enough to learn his first name, never mind run a search on him, but now Bela's gone and done it and she can't pretend she didn't see it.

"I'm just saying," Bela says. She examines the photo herself, giving a pleased hum. "I thought this last night, too. You really could do worse."

Rylie puts her burning face in her hands. No. No. No. A racing pulse, a shortness of breath, a prickling along her skin, and God knows what else. From a photo, for goodness' sake, and the memory of a deep, calm voice in the snow.

No. Not for an alpha. She won't be this for an alpha. Forget her omega instincts waking up and taking notice like Veritas at a laser dot, she's not about to go present herself to one. Her life is fine just the way it is, thank you very much.

"Well, whatever." Bela, observing Rylie melting down with amusement, turns off her phone and reclaims her whiskey and coffee. "I have some errands to run today. Do you need any more Ctrl while I'm at it?"

The change in topic sobers Rylie right up. Ctrl-Alt-Del. A controversial phrase that showed up recently on national news sites, along with the hashtag #SubvertTheParadigm, constantly trending on X and Insta these days. "Control the cycles, Alternate the options, Delete the symptoms." So reads the slogan for the newly developed, currently banned, hotly debated, impossible to procure heat suppressant drug. Impossible, that is, for normal people. But Bela isn't normal people.

Truth be told, Rylie isn't crazy about it. It's got a lot of folks screaming on both sides of the fence, some even managing to find a third or fourth side and clamoring to be heard. On top of that, it has unpleasant side effects, though not debilitating ones.

She checks her smartwatch. As she expects, her next cycle should start around Wednesday.

She considers telling Bela no. Heat only lasts for three days each month. Three days when her life comes to a halt to wait out the driving primal imperative to reproduce. It's neither shocking nor dirty, no matter how smutfics online like to misrepresent it for the sake of dubious plot and thirsty readers. It's a recurring function of the adult omega body, male and female alike, and half the reason human beings as a whole didn't go extinct along with all the species that have. They came close, and the world is as it is.

The natural way to deal with heat is by spending the time with an alpha, for the mix of pheromones that balance each other out. She, by choice, spends hers closeted alone in her room with her toys and a case of bottled water and some premade meals. Neither pregnancy nor parenthood appear anywhere on her wish list. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

Then she recalls Arthur Ketch laughing as she drove away. Remembers the irrational fear that he'll find her again. That he won't take no for an answer, that he will take her choice away. That there is, in fact, such a thing as a heat inducer drug, all FDA-approved and ready to go.

A weight descends on her, invisible and oppressive, bowing her shoulders, lowering her head. So. That's how it is now. It's either Ctrl, or she starts going out with a gun.

She's so tired. "Yeah, I need some. Can you get it for me?"

Bela's sympathy, though sincere, stings. "Of course."

xXx

The city buses don't run as far as Singer Salvage, a junkyard sprawling amid the farmland and the ash-blighted fields, bordered by scraggly breaks of trees. It's located far enough from town that they passed the firework outlet and farm equipment supply stores several minutes ago. Rylie's Uber driver pulls under a welded, homemade sign that looks as though it's losing the battle against the drifts and then turns onto an unplowed drive, rolling between snowy rows of vehicles in various stages of dismantlement stacked three or four deep. She pops the back door for Rylie without leaving her seat. With a smile and a wave, she executes a slippery U-turn before driving off. It's nearing early happy hour on a weekend, and no doubt she's eager to return to the city for easier fares.

Left alone, Rylie glances over the unassuming three-bay garage, the painted bricks flaking and the square windows hosting cardboard auto parts advertisements. The November wind is stiff, however, the distant sun playing hide-and-seek, and that makes her decision for her. She hurries to pull open the storm door, its glass spotted with ash blown against it during the recent snowfall.

"Hello?" she calls. A bell jingles as she pushes the inside door shut, but the office, though warm, is unoccupied. Face mask crumpled in her fist, she unbuttons her coat and stamps her boots on the mat. Music blaring in the back, along with the cacophony of revving engines and zipping ratchets and metallic banging, is her only answer.

A couple of philodendrons in terracotta pots provide splashes of color between the chairs set out for waiting customers. A water cooler at one end of the room faces off against a Keurig perched on a tiny table at the other. Next to it, a metal tray of K-Cup pods, Lipton tea bags, and paper cups weighs down several crinkled copies of Popular Mechanics. The unfiltered air smells of dust, motor oil, and some kind of lemony cleaner, a not unpleasant mix. It's an innocuous room, worn but clean, finished with plastic-framed posters of hot rods and a display case of model cars.

What she didn't see was Hunter Winchester catch sight of her while her head was down to watch her boots over the threshold as she entered. He dove to the mats and then scrambled on all fours to the exit into the bays. He slipped through the door, stealthily shutting it behind him, and hoped she didn't notice the sudden drop in volume over the wind that whistled in with her.

His dad, immersed in his work, thankfully doesn't notice his sudden appearance. Hunter sits with his back to the door, the epoxied floor stealing the heat from his rear end. Taking comfort in the familiar, mellow sound of his dad singing along to the music, he blinks at his knees. What in the world does he think he's doing? He's twenty-two years old and held down a long-term relationship serious enough to take the next big step. Yet here he is, acting like a prepubescent boy secretly terrified of the aliens known as girls. He panicked and fled the moment he registered the pink hair and the puffy white coat of the woman whose videos he watched for two hours last night, leaving himself no time for proper sleep.

It's not like he didn't know she'd show up. He just didn't know it would be today. Right now. While he's helping fill the current gap in the staff on his rare Saturday off. What's she gonna think to see him here, where he had her car towed without asking her permission first, out of uniform and very obviously at home behind the counter?

She's going to think he's a lying creep.

For no reason, he wheezes a chuckle. Then he clutches his hair in both hands and whimpers.

No reason at all.

Crap.

"What's the matter with you?"

Hunter snaps to attention at the gruff question. He didn't notice the singing stopped. A pair of work boots peek from the cuffs of a dark blue mechanic's jumpsuit, two inches from the toes of his sneaker boots. When he glances up, it's a long way. The physical distance triggers a swoop of mental dissonance. For a fleeting moment, he's a child, admiring how tall and strong and confident his dad is, and hoping to be just like him.

Then Benny Lafitte straightens from under the hood of a Silverado, blue eyes curving into crescents. He points a socket wrench at the narrow, grimy window looking into the front office, past the crooked Venetian blinds. "Shoulda seen it, Dean," he drawls, his raspy voice catching on a snicker. "Pretty girl came in, your boy done bolted."

Hunter scowls at his dad's longtime friend and colleague, who laughs at him some more, shaking his head before ducking back down to work.

"Uh, huh." Tone flat, Dean stares down at his youngest son, obviously restraining himself from making some smartass remark on his namesake's behavior with great effort.

Hunter flushes. He hops to his feet. "Sorry, sir."

After wiping the worst of the grease off his hands with a rag, Dean unhooks a clipboard from next to the window and then gestures at the door with it. "Help or move."

It's never a good sign when this parent goes monosyllabic. Hunter opens the door but sheepishly scoots out of the way, staying behind it. "It's the Corolla, sir."

It's only a moment, there and then gone again so swiftly that Hunter isn't sure he saw it—a shadow passes across his dad's face, drawing his brows and the corners of his mouth down as he lifts the work orders until he finds the right one.

The moment passes, and he steps through the door. "Ms. . . . Hayes?"

"Yes." Rylie, who took a seat when no one appeared, stands at the swell of noise from the bays and her name. She recognizes the low, rough voice from the phone call earlier in the day. Now she can place it with the tall man who ambles to the computer, the sleeves of his jumpsuit unbuttoned and rolled up, jaw unshaven but brown hair combed and parted with care. "Are you Dean?"

"That's me." He doesn't look at her, tapping at the plastic-protected keyboard, so she does the looking. A generous helping of silver glints from his temples, lines fan from the corners of his eyes, the suspicious crease between his brows seems a permanent fixture. The intensity with which he glares at the screen makes her nervous, keeps her silent.

Sheesh. She pegs him as alpha, presence like that. It fills the entire room, like he's somehow bigger than life. But when he flicks his green eyes her direction and the pheromones register, she realizes that this man is omega.

A bitch male. Whereas she's just a bitch.

Ugly leftovers from ugly people, those phrases. Like breeder. Stock. Whore. They don't define her, and she's darn sure they don't define the omega in front of her either. No wonder that cop last night sounded so holier-than-thou when recommending this place. She can't imagine anyone getting the better of a man like Dean. Heck, he looks capable of walking into a knife fight and being the only one to walk out of it again.

With a nudge, he turns the computer monitor so that it faces her. He speaks with a faintly bored professionalism that does nothing to make her feel at ease. "The first thing to tell you is that your car is not totaled, but it's close. Your insurance is leaning on us hard to write it off, but the choice is yours, not theirs. We can get it running again . . ."

He pulls up photos of the damage to her Corolla and swipes through them, illustrating what's wrong and how it can be repaired and estimated costs. Rylie tries to listen, she really does, but it's not like she knows much about cars. This is all rather depressing, anyway. A week, at the soonest, to regain her mobility and independence, but she refuses to be an even bigger burden on her friends. She agrees to the work he proposes to replace her snapped axle and bent rim—it's either that or prepare to take on another monthly payment for a new car, rerouting funds meant for living expenses to order the plates and registration. He accepts her card while they wait for an ancient printer to cough up the paperwork.

The music from the back is louder than before; Dean left the door ajar. While his back is turned, Rylie taps her thumbs on the countertop along with the pounding rhythms of an old Pantera tune. Thoughts glazing over, she follows the song through powerful, hard-hitting beats and intricate fills.

"You play?"

Caught, she glances up. Dean's watching her hands, flitting around the counter's edge as though it holds cymbals, toms, and snare. She grins. "Vinnie Paul is one of my favorite musicians. I love his unmatched energy and his technical proficiency, especially on double bass drums."

His smirk blossoms into a smile, lighting his entire face. He plops a thin stack of papers onto the counter. "I'm a fan of John Bonham, myself."

"So Zep is more your speed? I could see that. Do you prefer his classic hard rock style or his Latin-influenced grooves?"

"Yes." Dean chuckles, then spins the papers so they're the right way up for her. He plucks a pen out of a drawer. "All right, Ms. Hayes, please sign here. This is your copy of the receipt, and this is a breakdown of parts and labor for your records."

Feeling a bit like she passed a test and unashamedly proud of herself for it, Rylie scans the papers. She signs her name, then speaks up. "Excuse me, is this still a thing?"

Dean leans over. "The free shuttle service? Yeah, sure. You got somewhere you need to be, an appointment, work, back home, we got a driver can take you."

"That's certainly a better deal than Uber," she says happily. Hey. Maybe things are looking up.

"You got it." Dean pushes from the counter, then disappears out the back.

Rylie folds the papers, stuffs them into her purse. This is perfect. With heat coming up, she should get some errands out of the way while she has the chance. She generally doesn't allow anyone near her the whole day before it hits, not even Bela. She can get a jump start on preparations if she can get a ride back into town—

"But not from you!" she blurts as soon as her proposed driver walks in.

Dep. Winchester, dressed way, way down in jeans and a t-shirt under an open flannel, stops short, keys in hand, mismatched eyes pathetically huge. His cheeks are flushed and his dark hair sticks up as though he just pulled himself out of a nap. Like a boy, instead of a clean-cut robocop. Like a round-bellied puppy, rather than a full-grown alpha.

Intentional or not, it's downright diabolical.

She squashes an instinctual desire to reassure an alpha giving off See? I'm perfectly harmless vibes. It comes out as a laugh instead, weak and frustrated and disbelieving. She knows now that she is older than he is; the weird urge to protect a total stranger is that strong. "What the heck? Was this all some sort of scam? I told you before, I'm not getting into a car with you."

He holds up the keys. "It's an F-250, ma'am."

"What?"

"It's not a car, it's a—"

"Never mind! That thing on wheels that goes vroom. Seriously, who cares about semantics that much?" She puts her face in her hands. "What are you even doing here?"

His voice is low and quiet and monotone, as before. "I told you Singer Salvage is run by an omega. Because I was acting in an official capacity, I didn't tell you he is my dad. This is the family business. I help out when I can."

"Wow does that ever sound unethical. Nicely done." She pauses. "Wait—Dean is your dad? But I thought—well, I assumed he was Dean Singer."

"Winchester," he says, and just like that, they're standing on the snowy street in the middle of the night, and she realizes all over again how attractive he is. Not just in looks, but in his calm presence, the fact that he makes no effort to approach her. "Dean Winchester. Bobby Singer is my granddad. This was his place before he passed it down."

Aside from Joseph, who never once showed sexual interest in her, this is the first alpha who doesn't make her want to run and hide or reach for the nearest heavy object. That's gotta mean something, right? That this, he, means something? As Bela pointed out, she could do worse than having a sheriff's deputy on her side, one who is currently staring at her with hopeful trepidation. She suspects that he wouldn't mind if she took the initiative.

Well, shoot. She has a choice to make here. What's it gonna be, Ryles?

"All right." She crosses her arms. "I don't really believe that this is a front for a human trafficking ring or anything. If you're okay with it, with me, I wouldn't turn down that ride. Just—don't call me ma'am. My name is Rylie, okay?"

He brightens the same way his dad does. "Okay. Rylie. Mine is Hunter. It's nice to meet you."

"Uh, huh." She can't drum up the energy for more than that. Just as she knows he's younger, she knows that he is, in fact, interested. Very much so. Anything could happen on this drive; anything could be said. She shouldn't feel as anticipatory about that as she does.

As he leads the way out of the office, holding the door for her, she follows—but her hands curl into fists, hidden by the sleeves of her jacket.

xXx

"I ain't seen the kid that expressive in months. Don't you think it's a little unfair to toss him into the fire the minute he shows signs of life?" Benny asks, leaning on his elbow to peer around the Silverado's lifted hood while tightening the clamps that keep the radiator hose in place. Then, he pauses. His amusement fades. "Huh. I know that look. Somethin' wrong?"

Dean doesn't seem to hear him, watching intently out a window in one of the garage bay doors as the two young people climb into Castiel Winchester's old pickup, procured long ago when Cas decided it was high time he learn to drive and then commandeered years later by his children. Benny waits, eyes narrow, as his friend buries whatever it is he's feeling, not allowing scent triggers to make it through. Man's had a lot of practice at that over the years, to the point that any alpha who doesn't know him as well as Benny does would be getting stonewalled right about now.

But Benny does know him, and knows he's troubled. "Dean?"

Deadpan securely in place, Dean comes awake with, "No, nothing. You gonna keep yapping or you gonna work?"

With a laugh, Benny lets it go. When Dean Winchester decides a topic is closed, it's like prying a gator's jaws open to get him to change his mind.

A/N: Moving right along here. Got one chapter to go before we're caught up...and I am still stuck somewhere in ch5. I'm working on it, though! Everlasting thanks to my beta, St4r Hunter.

I hope you're enjoying this. I worked really hard on it, haha! Won't you please drop a review and let me know?

Thanks!

~ Anne