Chapter Text
Dean drove home on autopilot, completely dazed by the flood of information. "Am I carrying the prince or princess of the Bratva?" he wondered, swallowing hard as a sharp chill ran down his spine. To everyone else, he'd died at the wedding, and theoretically no one was looking for him, but if they found this child, his hard-won peace would crumble, and he'd have to run for the rest of his life. Looking at his exhausted reflection in the rearview mirror, he squinted. For a split second, he considered packing a bag, leaving in the middle of the night, and raising his baby alone somewhere in the middle of nowhere. But leaving everyone in the dark wouldn't be fair, not to mention Cas would search for him to hell and back, turning the world upside down to find him.
Dean wasn't naive. He knew very well that the alpha knew his every move; he wasn't stupid enough to think he was completely off the radar of such a controlling man. Sooner or later they would discover the pregnancy—his body would betray him—but for now he had to think about it, he needed time to process everything.
“What would Castiel think of having a child?“ he wondered, feeling his own expression soften as he lost himself in memories. He caught himself smiling weakly, remembering him playing with Claire. The ruthless leader suddenly lost all his menacing aura around the little girl. He would be a great father, and his heart ached with a sharp melancholy just admitting it. But he was terrified of the reality of the mafia. He was afraid of his reaction to the imminent danger. If Cas rejected their pup for "security" reasons, demanding that he give up the child, Dean didn't know if he could bear such rejection. His wolf howled in protest at the mere thought. It was their child, damn it. A one percent miracle that survived the hell inside his womb.
Dean's hand instinctively slipped from the steering wheel to his own abdomen. One of the tests showed twelve weeks, and he knew exactly when his son was conceived; it was when they made the connection. The memory of the pain mixed with the absurd pleasure of the teeth tearing his gland still sent shivers down his spine. He would never take away the proof of their love, which was made in such a special and intimate moment.
Even miles away, the alpha seemed ingrained in his pores. Despite the medication that disconnected them, the mark on his neck sometimes burned, throbbing feverishly. In recent nights, he had vivid dreams of Cas, waking up sweating, as if feeling a suffering that wasn't his own, a grief and a fury that stole his breath. Biologically they no longer had an active physical connection, but his soul, in a way, was connected to Cas's. An invisible bond that no science or distance could break.
Dean parked the car and took a deep breath, trying to push his dilemmas to the back of his mind before stepping out into the cold night air. He opened the front door and the tension immediately hit him. He saw Gabriel pacing back and forth in the living room, smelling of nervousness and a sour fear that permeated the furniture; his blond hair was everywhere because he kept running his fingers through it, pulling at the ends in pure panic. The smell of anguish he exuded made Dean's stomach churn. Forgetting his own problems for a moment, Dean walked over to him, worried.
“Did something happen?”
"It's Cas," he sighed deeply. "The son of a bitch freaked out."
Dean froze.
“How did he freak out?”
“He’s more bloodthirsty than usual,” Gabe looked at Winchester, a genuine terror in those honey-colored irises. “He’s killing people from his own council for treason without proof. Lucifer? Even banished and without his hands, he died tortured, and we know very well it was him.” He let out a heavy sigh. “But Lucifer is the least of it, serves that son of a bitch right. The problem is that Cas is starting a war within the Bratva, dividing everyone… and today he completely lost it.” Gabe resumed pacing, running his hand through his messy blond hair. “Benny said he’s hunting down anyone who had any connection to Alastair and killing them with his own hands…” Gabe swallowed hard, stopping in the middle of the rug. “That’s not a problem or a surprise after everything that’s happened, but he’s… much more sadistic.” His jaw tightened. "Benny said he's... eating people, and not in a good way." He grimaced in pure disgust. "The last time he freaked out like this and ate human flesh was when my parents died..." He looked at Dean suggestively. "But this time he's worse, his wolf is hunting for blood and death."
The silent message hit hard: the distance between them was turning Castiel into a completely insane monster.
"I need to go back to him," he said, automatically placing his hand on his stomach, and Gabe followed the movement with his eyes, raising an eyebrow at the protective instinct. "He's getting lost, Gabe."
“He won't take you back, Cassie is stubborn.”
"But he'll end up killing himself that way!" Dean felt his eyes fill with tears. "He can't die."
He didn't want his son to grow up an orphan, without one of his parents alive; he had been through it and wouldn't let his son go through the same thing.
"I don't know what to do," Gabe sighed in defeat, collapsing onto the sofa.
Dean also had no idea what he could do; it was Cas who decided to break the bond, to kick him out, to undo a connection they had both forged. Going back wasn't just about talking... it had to be something... bigger.
"Tell him about the puppy," his instinct screamed. "No," he thought immediately afterward, as if an annoying little voice were in his head. There had to be another way.
Dean left Gabriel behind and walked heavily up the stairs. The silence of the house seemed overwhelming after that conversation. He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, letting the water heat up until the steam began to fog the glass of the shower stall. He mechanically took off his overalls and stepped under the almost boiling jet. The water hit his tense shoulders hard, washing away the sweat and tension of the day, but it wasn't enough to dissolve the knot that tightened in his throat.
He rested his forehead against the damp tiles and squeezed his eyes shut. The absence of Cas was a physical pain, sharp and constant. It throbbed in his veins, a dull echo in his chest, and a burning tingle in the mark on his neck. Dean's body felt the withdrawal, begging for a touch, for the familiar, intense smell of apple pie. He missed the deep voice murmuring against his skin, the solid weight of Castiel's body behind his in bed, that overwhelming aura of protection. With Cas, he felt that nothing in the universe could touch him. Now, there was only a cold emptiness and the terrifying realization that the man he loved was falling apart, consumed by his own wildest side.
Dean's breath hitched. He lowered his right hand, sliding his fingers until they stopped at the base of his abdomen. He pressed his hand against the warm skin of his stomach, his thumb gently caressing it.
A puppy.
Dean looked down, observing his own hand on his stomach. He thought of ruthless blue eyes and dark hair. It was a piece of Castiel there. The last real link that remained between the two.
"I'll figure something out," Dean whispered hoarsely, his fingers lightly pressing against his own skin in a fierce, protective gesture. "I promise."
He got out of the shower, put on comfortable pajamas, and went downstairs for dinner. Gabe had made macaroni and cheese. He immediately attacked the plate, feeling an overwhelming hunger, the kind that seems to eat your stomach from the inside. Around the table was the usual chaos: Claire was excitedly talking about her school day, gesturing to describe what she had learned about plant life cycles. Sam was disheveled, his shirt stained with baby vomit, and Gabe looked worried, his gaze lost as he drummed his fingers on the table, filling the room with his scent of unease.
When Dean sat down on the couch to watch a movie with Claire after dinner, she ran into the kitchen and made microwave popcorn. The sound of the kernels popping had barely finished when the smell of synthetic, greasy, artificial bacon filled the room. To Dean's sense of smell, it was like a physical blow. His stomach instantly churned, churning in a way he couldn't control. He jumped up and ran out, rushing into the first bathroom he found and throwing up the entire dinner.
Bile burned his throat as he gripped the edge of the sink, his whole body trembling. When he finished and brushed his teeth, trying to control his panting breath, Gabe appeared in the doorway. He didn't seem surprised, just too analytical for Dean's liking.
"Don't you have anything to say to me?" Gabe looked him up and down, crossing his arms.
"No, what would I tell you?" Dean replied too quickly, washing his face with cold water.
"You've been vomiting for days now; if it were an infection, it would have gotten better by now. I've been watching you, Dean. You're irritable, sleeping more hours than usual, refusing coffee..." Gabe stepped forward, narrowing his eyes. "I can tell when the atmosphere in the house changes."
"It's just that this infection is really bad." Dean tried to deflect, but his voice cracked.
Gabe rolled his eyes.
"Your scent is different. It's sweeter and heavier." His nostrils flared, taking in every detail in the air. "By my calculations, you're pregnant."
“Don't tell Cas!”
Gabe frowned, confused by the desperate plea.
“Why not? That's the perfect reason for him to stop this carnage.”
"Because he'll want me to abort my puppy." His eyes filled with tears; saying it aloud hurt more than just thinking about it. It was like admitting the worst fear of his life. "He'll see the puppy as a risk."
Gabe remained silent for a few moments.
“Perhaps this is the only way to stop him.”
"Gabe, you don't understand!" Dean shouted in despair. "He's crazy, he's not thinking straight... he's eating people! How am I supposed to just walk up to him and say, 'Hey, Cas, we have a baby,' when he barely knows who he is? He'll just freak out even more."
"So what's your plan, genius? To hide this from him forever? To leave my nephew without an alpha father? To go through the pregnancy alone, in hiding, while the man you love destroys everything around you?" He sighed deeply, trying to remain calm. "You must have only started feeling nauseous now because you're away from him."
“I'm going to the doctor to get some medicine... many omegas go through this on their own, it's normal. I'll manage, I always do! I raise him alone, I don't need to…”
"He needs to know, Dean... maybe it's the only thing that can anchor him to reality!" Gabe lost his patience, taking a short step toward Dean. "You're not sure he'll reject the baby, those are just voices in your head! You're projecting your fear onto him. What if you're wrong? What if your pup is the only thing separating my brother from complete darkness?"
"What if I'm right?" Dean retorted, his voice breaking. "What if I tell him and he says we can't have this child? I couldn't bear that, Gabe. I couldn't look him in the eye and see him deciding that our child shouldn't exist. I'd rather carry that weight alone than lose the chance to have this baby."
"You're being irrational, Dean!" Gabe insisted, his voice rising, the scent of an angry, protective omega permeating the bathroom, making the air thick. "It's his son! Do you really think Cas would hurt his own pup?"
Dean didn't answer. His jaw clenched so tightly that his teeth ground. He turned his back to Gabe, brushing past him with a sharp bump on the shoulder, and marched down the hall to his own room.
“Hey! I'm talking to you!” Gabe went after him.
Dean completely ignored him. His movements were robotic and aggressive. He ripped the soft pajama top off with a blind tug, throwing it haphazardly to the floor, and grabbed the worn jeans hanging on the chair. He took off the pajama bottoms and dressed hurriedly. He shoved a dark t-shirt over his head and pulled his old leather jacket from the closet.
"What are you doing?" Gabriel stopped in the doorway of the room, his brow furrowed, his tone of reprimand fading into genuine confusion.
Dean put on his boots without even bothering to tie the laces. He reached for the dresser and grabbed the Impala's keys, his wallet, and his cell phone.
"Oh, no. No, no, no. You're not getting away with this conversation." Gabe took a step forward, blocking the door to the room. "Where do you think you're going at this hour? You just threw up your guts, you're not in your right mind to drive, Dean!"
Dean easily passed Gabe and walked towards the exit.
"Dean, for God's sake, listen to me! We need to decide what to do! You can't just get in the car and disappear! Stop being such a stubborn idiot!" Gabe yelled, chasing after him, almost tripping over his own feet. "Dean! Come back here!"
Dean strode across the room with long, heavy strides, hearing Adam's frightened sobs begin in the background and Sam's confused voice asking what was happening. Dean didn't look back. He turned the front door handle and slammed it shut behind him hard enough to make the windowpanes rattle.
The cold night wind whipped his face as soon as he stepped onto the porch, but he barely felt it. The Impala gleamed in the dim streetlight. Dean unlocked the driver's side door with a trembling hand and threw himself into the worn leather seat.
"Dean! Damn it, get out of that car!" Gabriel ran down the steps, pure frustration leaking from his voice.
Dean turned the key in the ignition and engaged the gear, his foot mercilessly pressing the accelerator. The rear tires screeched on the asphalt, burning rubber and leaving Gabriel behind on the sidewalk, engulfed in the white smoke from the exhaust.
Dean turned the first corner without even checking the rearview mirror. The dark city streets began to blur past the windows like a hypnotic blur. He had no destination. No plan. The streetlights flickered rhythmically, illuminating the dark interior of the Impala for fractions of a second. The silence inside the car was deafening. His right hand slid slowly, instinctively landing on his stomach, gripping the fabric of his t-shirt.
The air suddenly felt thin, as if the oxygen had vanished from inside the car. The barrier he had kept erected all day suddenly broke.
The first sob tore at his throat. His vision blurred rapidly, turning the distant lights of the traffic signals into blurs. He blinked frantically, trying to brush the tears away, but it was no use. Tears began to roll hot and heavy down his face, dripping onto the collar of his shirt. And then he collapsed completely onto the steering wheel. His chest rose and fell in desperate gasps for air as he wept. He wept for Cas, for the crushing absence of the alpha's mark throbbing on his neck, for the paralyzing terror of failing his pup, and for the realization that, no matter how fast or in what direction he took, there was nowhere to run.
Dean had no destination; he only needed to ensure the horizon changed. Exhaustion, however, began to weigh on his shoulders. His body ached from the accumulated tension, and his eyes burned from hours of crying and the light from the headlights that occasionally cut through the darkness of the highway.
After a few hours, he stopped at a roadside motel, one of those run-down places where the neon sign flashed a shade of red. He turned off the engine, felt around in the back of his jacket, and pulled out some bills from his wallet, avoiding using his card because he knew Gabe would call Cas and the alpha would track him down. It would be like leaving a trail of bread for the hunter.
The room smelled of cheap cleaning products and accumulated dust. He didn't bother to take off his shoes. He lay down on the hotel bed and closed his eyes. The pillow had a rough texture and the mattress, a spring that insisted on piercing his back, but he didn't care.
Why did his life have to be so complicated? Why didn't he fall in love with a normal man? Why couldn't he have a home, a routine, someone waiting for him for dinner without involving guns and bloodshed? The question echoed in the emptiness of the room, laden with bitter frustration. He imagined a peaceful life, without the constant fear of being hunted or losing the one he loved to violence—but, as he projected this image, he felt a strange emptiness.
Standing there, staring at the peeling, grimy ceiling, the wolf within him growled at the image of that harmless routine. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut: he didn't want a normal life. He abhorred the idea of a normal alpha. He was a Shifter, and normalcy didn't run in his veins. Routine, predictability, and calm would seem like a slow death to someone molded for chaos. Castiel was never a "safe" choice; he was the mirror of the very danger Dean carried locked in his chest. Accepting this brought air back to his lungs, lifting the dead weight from his shoulders. The tears dried. The pain of longing remained, throbbing beneath his skin, but despair had given way to a cold acceptance.
***
He woke up the next morning with an upset stomach, an acidic nausea rising in his throat and forcing him to remain motionless for long minutes until the dizziness passed.
He washed his face with cold water, tried to ignore his own image in the mirror—the deep dark circles under his eyes, the look of someone who hadn't slept in days—and went out. He needed something solid in his stomach, or at least strong coffee.
He stopped at a roadside diner, a grimy place where the smell of grease hung in the air. The first thing he did as he sat down at the counter was take his cell phone out of his pocket. The screen lit up with dozens of notifications. Desperation dripped from each phrase: questions about where he was, orders to return, pleas for him to say what was happening. Dean read three of them, feeling his chest tighten, and then, with a decisive movement, he pressed the side button and turned off the device.
While waiting for his coffee, the atmosphere in the establishment changed. A tall alpha male, with an aura heavy with arrogance, approached the counter where a young waitress was serving customers. He began to corner her with his body, making crude comments, his hand moving up to her shoulder.
Dean saw that and felt an unbearable heat rise through his body. The anger wasn't just social; it was instinctive. It was as if his wolf was bristling, ready to tear the guy's throat out. He pretended to be there only to finish his drink, keeping his eyes down, studying every move of the jerk alpha.
When the man finally turned away from the waitress, laughing loudly as he walked toward the exit, Dean left some crumpled bills on the table and left right behind him, without saying a word.
That jerk rubbing up against the girl wasn't just another harasser; for Dean, he became the perfect target to unleash all his filth. His wolf wanted to tear something apart.
As if an invisible key had been turned in his mind, the nausea and fatigue vanished, swallowed by a terrifying coldness.
The alpha walked toward a pickup truck parked a few meters ahead, taking the keys from his pocket. Dean moved like a ghost. He noticed a piece of construction material near the diner wall—a piece of rebar—and picked it up.
The sound of metal cutting through the air was muffled by the distant rumble of a truck on the highway. Dean didn't hesitate. He delivered the blow with precision to the base of the alpha's skull. The man collapsed like a sack of potatoes.
There was no one around to see Dean.
Normally, Dean wouldn't have been able to lift the weight. His body was at its limit due to the nausea that had been plaguing his stomach for days. But, seeing the guy passed out on the floor, his inner wolf took over. It was a violent adrenaline rush. A blind, animalistic force that tensed his muscles, simply switching off the exhaustion button.
Dean grabbed the alpha by the arms, dragging the heavy body to the Impala. The effort took a heavy toll on his breath, the nausea from the early morning threatening to return, but he ignored it. He opened the back door of the car, pushed the man inside, and settled him into the seat.
He returned to the driver's seat, his heart pounding. He engaged the gear and accelerated, leaving the diner behind. For the first time in hours, he felt he was in control of everything.
Dean didn't stop to think about the madness of what he was doing. His mind was clouded by a fog of accumulated anger, a toxic mixture of longing for Castiel, frustration with Gabe, and the physical fragility of the pregnancy that insisted on making him nauseous. He stopped at a convenience store on a deserted highway and got out of the car, keeping his head down so as not to be noticed.
He bought a roll of wide adhesive tape, strong nylon rope, and a cheap pocketknife, all paid for with the crumpled bills left in his wallet.
Back in the Impala, the alpha remained motionless in the back seat, his body heavy and slumped. Midway through the drive, the man groaned, beginning to awaken, but Dean didn't hesitate to punch him, knocking him out again.
When he arrived at the hotel, Dean opened the door, and the metallic smell of blood and the stranger's breath reeked of alcohol. Without a hint of hesitation, he pulled the duct tape, tearing off a long piece with his teeth. With quick, firm movements, he taped the tape over the stranger's mouth, securing it with extra turns around the jaw to ensure there would be no screams.
As expected, there was no one else there besides him.
He dragged the man away with ease, thanks to his fully activated Shifter biology, and kicked the door open, pushing the inert body inside, and placed it in an old wooden chair that was leaning against the wall.
Dean pulled the nylon rope, cutting the pieces with his pocketknife. He tied the man's wrists to the back of the chair with the force of the hatred he felt for that alpha and for all the others who acted as if the world were their own personal playground. He wrapped the rope around the man several times, ensuring the knot was so tight it would cut his skin if he tried to move.
When he finished, he recoiled, his hands trembling violently. The room was silent except for the sound of the alpha's ragged breathing as he began to regain consciousness. Dean grabbed the roll of tape and the knife, throwing them onto the dresser, and leaned against the wall. He didn't know exactly what he would do next—whether he would just scare him or make him pay for what he saw in the diner—but there, with the subdued alpha before him, the pressure in his chest seemed to lessen a little.
The alpha let out a muffled sound behind the tape, his eyes wide, his neck tensing as he desperately tried to pull his wrists away from the rope. He was in shock, his face turning purple as he assessed the dirty hotel room and Dean's figure, who stood in the corner, watching every twitch of fear with deadly calm.
"You don't know when to stop, do you?" Dean said in a low voice, almost a whisper. "I saw you at the diner. That way you touched her, that way you thought you owned every place you set foot in just because you were an alpha."
The man in the chair began to fidget, growling from behind the tape. He forced a muffled laugh, his bloodshot eyes trying to intimidate Dean, shrugging as if to say it was all just a bad joke. He tilted his head back, glaring at Dean with aggressive disdain, suggesting that the scrawny omega in front of him wouldn't dare do anything.
"What's wrong, little slut?" the alpha murmured, his voice distorted by the tape. "She liked it. Why are you so stressed out? Want some too?"
The provocation was the trigger.
Dean didn't even blink. Without saying a word, he pulled out his pocketknife. The movement was fluid, almost graceful, and he buried the blade in the man's thigh.
The scream that came from behind the tape was one of pure shock. The alpha writhed violently, the chair dragging and scraping on the wooden floor with a shrill squeal. Dean didn't immediately pull out the knife; he twisted it, feeling the resistance of the muscle and the heat of the warm blood gushing onto his fingers.
"Funny," Dean hissed, leaning in until his face was inches from the man's, the scent of the alpha's sweat and fear like an intoxicating perfume to his heightened senses. "You don't seem to be having so much fun right now."
The alpha tried to kick him, but Dean was faster. He ran his hand through the man's hair, forcefully pulling his head back and exposing his neck.
Dean felt a wave of primal ecstasy rise up his spine.
He began the torture with surgical precision, making shallow but extremely painful cuts along the man's chest. He wasn't just wounding; he was dismantling the alpha's arrogance piece by piece. Each time the blade opened a new furrow, Dean closed his eyes for a microsecond, reveling in the guttural sound of agony that came from the alpha's mouth.
He loved every second of it.
"You like to intimidate the weak, don't you?" Dean muttered, tracing the path of a wound on the man's shoulder with the tip of his knife. "Let's see what happens when the scales are reversed."
He pushed the knife tip even deeper, making the alpha shudder, his entire body arching in continuous pain. Dean let out a low laugh, devoid of any joy, but filled with a dark satisfaction.
The alpha in the chair no longer tried to fight; his body was merely a succession of useless spasms. The noise coming from behind the duct tape was a damp, bubbling sound, a mixture of forced air and pooled blood. His eyes were dilated, glazed, following Dean's blade as if it were the last thing he would see on earth.
Dean didn't grant him the mercy of a quick end. He wanted the arrogance, the stench of hubris, drained away drop by drop. He pressed the blade against his neck once more, feeling the skin give way. The alpha tried one last gasp, a desperate protest, but all he managed was a useless gurgle.
With a swift movement, a thrust that came from the depths of his being, Dean plunged the knife in all at once, fusing it into what remained of the man's dignity. The alpha's body jerked, the chair ropes creaking under the force of the final convulsion, and then a heavy, absolute silence fell over the room.
Blood gushed out. It was a spray of vivid red, hot, and viscous blood that hit Dean squarely, splattering his cheeks, his chest, his hands. The metallic smell filled every pore of his skin, invading his nervous system like a powerful drug.
Dean stood there, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in a manic rhythm. A wave of overwhelming relief, an almost obscene pleasure, coursed through every fiber of his being. It wasn't just about the death of that stranger; it was about silencing all the pressure he had been carrying.
He felt the warmth of the blood trickling down, sticking his t-shirt to his skin. Dean brought his hand to his face, spreading the warm liquid across his cheeks. He didn't feel disgust. He felt a distorted fullness.
He stepped away from the body and stared at his reflection in the wall mirror. Dean looked like a monster—his eyes gleaming with savage satisfaction, his face covered in red bruises that looked like war wounds, his breathing finally calm. He looked down at his stomach, running his blood-soaked hand over the fabric of his pants, as if baptizing the child he carried with that brutal victory.
It was done. He wasn't the victim. He was a Shifter, and he had just proven that the darkness didn't devour him; he fed on it.
The only sound in the room now was the rhythmic dripping. Blood trickled from the chair leg, hitting the worn linoleum and forming a dark puddle near Dean's boot. He stood there, listening to the sound, staring at the grimy wall as the adrenaline began to leave his system.
When the peak passed, the bill came due.
His knees buckled for a split second, and he stumbled to the bathroom, gripping the edges of the sink tightly to keep from falling.
His stomach churned again. Not from the carnage in the room—he handled that perfectly well—but from exhaustion. His body was drained, working for two, burning energy too quickly.
His hand trembling, he turned on the tap. Dean rubbed his hands together, watching the bright red fade as it disappeared down the drain. He splashed water on his face repeatedly, washing away all the blood.
He grabbed a rough towel, dried his face and neck, and slowly returned to the room, sitting on the edge of the bed, his green eyes fixed on the disfigured corpse in the center of the room.
There was no guilt.
He felt no pity.
Then, the back of his neck tingled.
Dean's wolf bristled in the back of his mind a second before the air became unbearably heavy. The room's temperature seemed to plummet. A thick, aggressive smell of pie and orange peel swept over the scent of blood, mixed with a smell of blind rage that cut off Dean's oxygen.
His heart pounded violently against his ribs. The mark on his neck throbbed, burning as if an ember had been pressed against his skin. Castiel. He had found him.
Suddenly, the cheap wooden door of the motel shattered into splinters, the jambs leaping like shards as Castiel burst into the room. He didn't look like the man Dean knew; he looked like a specter consumed by his own fury. He was panting, his chest rising and falling with animalistic speed, his bloodshot eyes scanning the room with a thirst for violence that only ceased when they locked onto Dean.
Cas's suit was impeccable as always, adorned with a heavy brown overcoat. His hair was a tangled mess. He looked decades older. The gun in his hand swayed as his gaze traveled from the tortured body to Dean. The alpha let out a low sound, a growl of pure, contained agony, and holstered the weapon behind his back.
"Dean, let's go. Now," he ordered, but his voice lacked the tone of authority; it was broken, hoarse, laden with a desperation Dean had never heard before.
"No." Dean got out of bed.
"What did that guy do to you?" Cas growled.
"Nothing," Dean shrugged indifferently. "He thought he could corner a waitress just because he's an alpha. I showed him what happens when the scales tip."
Castiel blinked, stunned.
"Dean..." He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, trying to anchor himself. "Let's go to the hospital..."
“Of course Gabriel had told him,” Dean thought.
"Why? So your doctors can take my baby away?!" Dean's scream cut through the air in the room. He placed his hand on his stomach. "No one is going to touch me!"
Castiel froze. The silence that followed was dense, heavy, broken only by their labored breathing.
"I would never tell you to abort our child, Dean," Cas's voice came out in a whisper, devoid of any command, laden with vulnerability. "Unless it was your choice."
Dean opened his mouth to say something, but the sound died away.
"What do you want from me?" Dean asked, tears beginning to well up in his eyes.
“Just make sure everything is alright.”
"No." Dean looked at the floor with his arms crossed over his chest.
Castiel approached carefully and cupped Dean's face in his hands—large, calloused hands that trembled. Their eyes met in shock; the green of pain met the blue of despair.
"I'm sorry.” His voice was a broken thread. "I only made you suffer."
“I’m like you, Cas. Death is in my blood. I don’t care about danger. I’m strong. I’m a predator. And I loved every second of it.” He saw the spark of recognition gleam in Cas’s eyes. “With or without you, I’ll continue to take justice into my own hands. And now…” Dean pulled the alpha’s hand, placing it on his own stomach, “…There’s a part of you here. A pup that fought tooth and nail to live.”
Castiel didn't speak. He didn't need to. He lunged forward, grabbing Dean by the waist with a manic urgency, pressing their bodies together. Dean felt the desperate scent of the alpha invade his lungs and surrendered. The kiss was a collision. Cas devoured his mouth, his tongue invading with a possessiveness bordering on violence, and Dean responded with the same hunger.
It was a blood pact. An oath sealed between two monsters in a dirty hotel room.
When the oxygen ran out, they separated, but their foreheads remained joined by a thread of saliva connecting them.
"I will make you the most feared omega in the Bratva, Dean," Cas's voice was a deadly murmur, a promise he intended to fulfill with his life. "You will be my king. The Pakhan. And everyone, without exception, will kneel before you."