Chapter Text
When the light hits just right, Dean can almost pretend he’s somewhere else. The white walls of his small bedroom appear endless with the blinding sun pouring through the window. He once heard someone call it ‘the golden hour’, back when people had time to pay attention to such things. It’s the only good part of his day. His surroundings disappear; the rocking chair he loathes to think about, let alone use, the wooden dresser filled with linen shifts, and the sturdy bed bolted to the floor.
In these moments he goes back there, to that little brown house in Sioux Falls. The smell of motor oil and rust, of old books and gunpowder. His brothers’ laughter and Bobby’s crinkled smile. Greasy breakfasts filled with grumbling voices, and Karen’s apple pie on cold evenings. Sammy’s tongue poking out while he reads, curled up on that stained couch. Adam humming to himself, straining to look over the hood of the car Dean is helping fix.
But like all good things in Eden, the memories are flitting.
He blinks and he’s back in this house, trapped inside these walls. They seem to inch closer each time, and Dean finds himself praying for the day they finally crush him.
He sits and waits. Waits and sits. He’s gotten very good at it; Uncle Alastair would be proud. Be still before God and wait patiently for Them. And so he does. There are no TVs here, no books or magazines to pass the time, no stereos or music of any kind, not even a potted plant to keep him company. Though it could be worse, he knows. His daily routine is a blessing, in a way, if only for its simplicity. Dean has heard the stories, whispered tales in the market, when the Angels are safely out of earshot.
Commander Adler doesn’t stand for heresy, and in that too, Dean has been lucky. The Alpha is a pious man of God, and his home reflects the hard-earned values he fought for in the war. A home he now shares with his consecrated Omega, a reward for his years of service and loyalty to Eden.
He wonders what kind of people used to live here, before the raids and the displacements and the executions. It’s a beautiful house; the kind Dean only ever glimpsed through a screen or on those highway billboards that promised a life he often fantasized about. The real suburban dream. Back when a moldy motel room and a five-dollar meal were everything they could afford. He’d never thought he’d be wishing to go back there.
John would say he’s gone soft and perhaps he’d be right. But he doesn’t like to think about his father, so he shuts that door and locks it tight.
Dean kept track, at first, of the days since he was captured. A whole season went by before he realized no one was coming, and after his hormone treatment finally kicked in, messing up his cycle, it was harder to distinguish the passage of time. He let go, like that day in the woods when the masked Angels tore his brothers from his arms.
The bell is his guide and sometimes, his salvation. One. Two. Three tolls coming from the town square’s Red Tower. Dean breathes deeply, the feeling closest to calm washing over him. It’s selfish, he knows, one Omega’s respite is usually another’s doom. He’s already donning his red cloak, anticipating getting to feel the cool night breeze on his face for once, when Jessica barges into his room. She never knocks; she doesn’t need to.
“The birth-mobile is waiting,” she says.
“I’m coming.”
Jessica gives him a wide berth as he walks past, but he hardly notices those things anymore. Dean once thought she’d be an ally, of sorts, but there are no true friends in Eden. Some Betas were given the chance to redeem themselves in the eyes of God, now acting as housekeepers for Commanders. The girl can’t be older than Sammy and that’s probably the only reason she wasn’t sent to a worse place.
One of the first things they teach in the O’ Center is how to move without making a single sound, almost like ghosts haunting the households they inhabit. Dean glides down the first flight of stairs in complete silence and then the second. Castiel is posted at the front door, perfectly rigid, like a statue. The Alpha unnerves him.
“Life be within you,” he says by way of acknowledging Dean’s presence.
“Through Their grace,” Dean answers.
The man nods his head and opens the door for him. He is Commander Adler’s driver and personal guard. He might be an Angel, but there’s no way to be sure.
“Thank you,” he murmurs.
Hands clasped, head bowed, white wings on their heads obscuring their peripheral view; that’s how every Omega moves through Eden. Quiet and graceful in their servitude. The night air feels heavenly against his cheeks after spending the last week cooped up inside, and he sighs gratefully. So close to the observance of The Rite, Commander Adler’s husband prefers that Dean remain indoors. Though no one is above their sacred duty, not even a well-respected Beta as he is, can keep Dean from fulfilling it. A pup is coming and every Omega must be in attendance to witness Their miracle.
Three Omegas are already waiting inside the red van, sitting on the metal benches on each side. The masked Angel that opened the back door for him helps him step inside and mutters something into his radio before slamming it shut behind him. No one says anything, but when Dean sits beside a familiar hunched-over form, slender fingers reach out to lightly squeeze his hand.
“Hey,” Of Walker murmurs.
Dean squeezes back. “Hi.”
They make a few stops along the way, the van steadily filling with red cloaks. Omegas have a certain smell here, like sweat and powder and that awful neutralizing soap that burns their skin. It would be too scandalous, too sinful to tempt Alphas with their natural sweetness. So they scrub and rinse until there’s no trace left, other than their clothes, to signify their status.
Dean feels the van slowing, then coming to a complete halt. The engine groans off beneath his feet and he braces himself. An Angel opens the door and Uncle Alastair’s grin greets them.
“Blessed evening, my lovelies,” he says.
“Blessed evening, Uncle Alastair,” they reply in unison, descending one by one.
A row of four red vans is parked in the driveway leading up to the giant Victorian house. The Omegas move as practiced, their feet shuffling quietly along the sidewalk as they get into formation. Once every last one of them is there, the Beta speaks in that nasal voice of his.
“What a joyous occasion! God has seen our labor and deemed it fruitful,” he says as he inspects them, arranging the odd skewed wing and crinkled cloak. “Commander Bevell and her husband have been kind enough to receive us in their home, and I want everyone on their best behavior.” His grey eyes narrow, settling on a trembling form. “That means you, Of Wilson. We don’t need a repeat from last time, do we, my dear?”
The Omega quickly shakes his head, lowering it further. Dean tries not to stare too long, lest Uncle Alastair directs his attention onto him next, but before he looks away, he thinks he glimpses the familiar scar of a gouged-out eye. One of the many appropriate punishments for disrespectful Omegas. If your right eye causes you to sin, pluck it out and cast it from you.
“No, Uncle Alastair.”
“Wonderful,” he says approvingly, clapping his hands together. “As one, my lovelies.”
He blows his long whistle, a short sharp sound, and they begin filing inside. Dean keeps his gaze respectfully downcast when it’s his turn to greet Commander Bevell at the door with a meek, “Blessed evening.” The Alpha barely pays attention to him, but when he makes to follow the others, her hand brushes against his lower back and a chill runs up his spine at the contact. It’s probably nothing, he tells himself, not reacting in the slightest, the woman was simply ushering him to move along.
Dean tries not to hurry his steps down the entryway, feeling the lingering touch like a brand on his skin. Omegas have lost a finger for less than making a scene, on such an important day, who knows, he might even lose his tongue. Though that wouldn’t silence him for good, not in the way he truly craves.
They’re herded through the house by the housekeepers of the Commanders already gathered for the occasion. The Alphas toast with fine spirits and cigars, while their Beta spouses commune to congratulate Mr. Bevell on the new pup that’s on the way. It’s still surreal that these people see nothing wrong with the systematic kidnapping of the children Omegas bleed for to bring into the fucked-up world they’ve created.
At times it feels as though someone’s always watching, listening, even into the privacy of his own mind. Dean quickly glances around, just to make sure no alarm went off at his heretical thoughts. He swallows the feeling when nothing seems amiss. But God is always aware, Uncle Alastair would say, and he shivers.
He finally arrives at a vast and opulent bedroom, belonging to the master of the house, no doubt. The beauty of the room is only interrupted by the wailing Omega being escorted inside by Aunt Abaddon. That could be Dean in a few months, he muses detachedly, unable to tear his eyes away from the scene; moaning and writhing in unfathomable pain, deposited on the bed that’s featured front and center in every single one of his nightmares.
“Your sister needs you!” Uncle Alastair’s voice rings clear above the agonized shrieking. “Of Bevell has been chosen as a sacred vessel and is ready to fulfill her duties to our God and Savior. To all of Eden,” he says, opening his arms wide. At the signal, Dean moves numbly to stand in a semi-circle around the bed. “Let us breathe together.”
“Breathe. Breathe. Breathe,” they chant.
“Let us push together!” Uncle Alastair roars.
“Push. Push. Push!”
Dean knows these smells well, like rotting flowers and dead leaves. Warm shit and blood and something distinctly human underneath. Of an Omega ripping their body apart to squeeze out a head through a tiny hole. He can’t watch, but he’s really not supposed to look away either, they’re here to bear witness after all; Eden’s way of making them complicit. He doesn’t know how long they’ve been saying the words for, but by the time Aunt Abaddon is reaching inside that poor girl, it feels like an eternity has passed.
Soon, the room falls silent, a breath collectively held in expectation. When the cries of a newborn pup don’t immediately follow, worrisome murmurs slowly ripple through the crowd, like tiny waves lapping at a shore. Prayers and lamentations. The Aunts and Uncles spring into action, and the Omegas part like the red sea for them.
And then he sees it, the innocence borne from such brutality, small and feeble in the arms of Aunt Abaddon. Dean knows instantly that even if that pup were to suddenly draw their first breath, it would not matter. Their head is too big for their body, limbs short and stubby. Eden makes children their priority, they preach as much at least, but apparently not every child is worthy of living in God’s Kingdom on Earth. Certainly not one they deem defective.
Shut eyes, purple lips, stillness. They transport him to a distant winter; after John showed up one day with a squealing boy in his arms and informed him, without any sort of explanation, that he was to take care of his half-brother Adam. Dean already had Sammy to worry about, but he didn’t hesitate to take him anyway. It was freezing in the place where they’d been staying, and John had disappeared again. He can’t remember feeling more powerless than when Adam’s skin turned nearly blue, cradled close to his chest, his raspy breaths fading as the hours went on...
A heart-wrenching shriek slices through the memory. Dean snaps his head up to see the disoriented Omega on the bed, fighting futilely against the bruising hands of the two Uncles pinning her down.
“Of Bevell, control yourself.”
“Please, please, at least let me see him,” she says desperately, eyes wide and manic as Aunt Abaddon turns her back to her and starts toward the door. “Let me say goodbye!”
“Of Bevell,” Uncle Alastair warns in that tone that has Dean tensing. “Stop this at once!”
The girl falls back against the sodden sheets in defeat, a sob tearing out from her chest. Uncle Arthur brushes away the hair plastered to her forehead, whispering things in her ear that Dean doubts she’s even listening, as she clings to his arm like it might raise her from perdition.
Let her sink. Let them all fall into oblivion.
A blinding pain shoots up his side and Dean doubles over, grinding his teeth in a silent groan.
“Move it, Of Adler,” Uncle Alastair barks, brandishing the cattle prod like he might zap him again. He’d been too lost in his own head to notice the others already exiting the room, mumbling words meant to comfort their grieving sister as they pass her by. “Of Bevell must repent alone.”
A Commander is never blamed for their bad genes, it is always the Omega’s fault for their sinful nature. Of Bevell will be branded as a Lilith, a mother of demons and the malformed. News of her failure will spread fast and come morning, she will be sent away. Dean takes a good look at her face, feeling a pang of guilt for not even knowing her name.
There are no funeral rites for those God has already abandoned, no mourning period a healthy-looking pup might’ve received. So there’s really no reason for them to dawdle around. Dean catches, in bits and pieces, the chaos the house has fallen into as he makes his way back from where they came from. The housekeepers rush about, removing anything pertaining to the celebration that has come to a grim end.
He remembers the shower they threw for Mr. Bevell, the tears of happiness in his eyes at the sight of so many lavish gifts. His grubby hand on Of Bevell’s rounded belly, talking over her to his Beta friends as if she were no more than an incubator at his disposal. There are no tears now, only a look of revulsion and contempt when Dean comes across him concealed in an alcove, so no one might witness his shame.
“Get it out of my sight,” he hisses, dismissing Aunt Abaddon with a wave of his hand.
Let nothing be wasted. Uncle Alastair once told them that every single thing in Eden is accounted for, everything has its proper place. When something or someone doesn’t fit, they’re not the accommodating kind. The farm pigs will eat the rest.
The night breeze suddenly doesn’t feel as good as it did when he left Commander Adler’s house. That false sense of freedom that it gave him is gone. Even outside he’s still trapped. Eden is within you, my lovelies.
The ride back is a blur, only the sounds of the engine and the occasional sniffle remind Dean that it is happening at all. For some reason, he can’t find it in himself to cry. He should be sad, he is, but more so than that, he’s relieved. It took him a long time to come to that conclusion. After he heard the gunshots in the woods, he knew Sammy was dead. He’d been trying to get back to Dean, throwing punches like John taught them, but a dissident thirteen-year-old Alpha wasn’t a priority for them. The greatest devastation swallowed him for months until all he could feel was relief that at least one of his brothers was taken quickly from this terrible place. Of Bevell’s son, too, is gone. That’s all anybody can pray for.
“Of Adler,” the Angel that opened the door says, announcing they’ve arrived at his stop.
Dean takes the proffered hand to descend the vehicle and already he can see Castiel standing at the gates with that stoic look on his face.
“Blessed evening,” Dean murmurs as he approaches the threshold.
He’s walking down the front garden pathway, when the Alpha clears his throat. “What is it then? Boy or girl.”
Dean blinks, surprised the man is making conversation. He’s never done that before. “A boy,” he says, his back still to him. “Stillborn.”
Castiel doesn’t say anything for a beat and Dean thinks that’s the end of that, so he resumes walking.
“May God keep him in Their eternal light.”
“… yes. By Their hand.”
The house is warm, almost suffocatingly so, and a wave of dizziness hits him at the abrupt change in temperature. Maybe The Rite is closer than he thought. Dean wouldn’t be surprised if he found he couldn’t get up tomorrow. He hates to be the one to admit it, but perhaps there’s something to Mr. Adler’s overly cautious methods.
“Dean.”
Dean’s spine straightens, shoulders tensing. His hand flexes over the railing, halting mid-step up the stairs. There’s only one person in this house that calls him by name. Cautiously, he turns around. “Blessed evening, sir,” he says, averting his eyes quickly. “Forgive me. I didn’t see you there, Commander.”
The Alpha gestures toward the hallway. “Do you mind stepping in for a moment?”
He asks as if Dean could possibly say: no, I do mind actually. The man doesn’t wait for a reply anyway, he simply turns on his heels and starts for the study, confident Dean is following right behind. He’s only ever been there once, on the day he arrived here. The room looks exactly the same; an imposing mahogany desk with stacks of papers scattered about that Dean would surely lose both eyes for even attempting to peer into, a leather high-back chair, a wall-to-ceiling bookcase filled with dusty tomes, and a lounging area where he assumes the man spends most of his time in, hiding from his dear husband.
Dean takes a deep breath before stepping inside, reminding himself that Commander Zachariah Adler is not one for petty acts of heresy. He’s seen what those usually entail, ominous bruises and mean-looking bites in all the wrong places. But then, they’ve never been alone like this before, not without Mr. Adler around. Betas are nothing if not dramatically inclined, the pity-party will probably extend until dawn at the Bevells’ house. There’s nothing quite like losing the status a child would’ve brought them.
The man sits behind his desk, and Dean is immediately grateful to have the wooden structure between them. He remains standing, ignoring the empty chair in front of him for fear of being too presumptuous, hands clasped, head bowed in perfect submission, concentrating all his energy on not fidgeting about.
“You can look at me, boy. You’re not in any trouble.”
He would rather not, but he knows a command when he hears it. Lifting his face, he still makes sure to not meet his eyes outright. The Alpha is wearing a grey robe, reclining casually in his chair, more at ease than he’s ever seen him.
“Why don’t you take those off?” The Commander waves vaguely in the air, and Dean’s not exactly sure what ‘those’ mean. He doesn’t know how he ever thought the man would be any different, of course he’s a creep, the religious type always are. “It must be exhausting to wear them all the time.”
His heart beats faster at that. “I-It’s fine, sir. I’m used to it,” Dean says, not proud at the way his voice waivers.
The Alpha arches a brow. “Alright then,” he says, shrugging. Dean wasn’t expecting to get away with that and he releases a breath. “Uriel tells me you’ve been taking your medication this week.”
“Y-yes.”
It’s bad enough when Mr. Adler inquires about these things, but to have an Alpha ask, his Commander no less, is mortifying. Why is the man suddenly concerning himself with Dean’s cycle? Isn’t that why he married a Beta, so he wouldn’t have to manage things at home?
The Commander hums, wringing his hands together atop the desk, leaning in. The sudden interest has Dean aching to shy away. “Uriel and I talked about it, and we both agreed that for the next Rite, you should stop wearing the cleansing soap. You saw what happened to Of Bevell. All these… restrictions aren’t God’s way. An Alpha should feel free to scent an Omega in full bloom, wouldn’t you say?”
“Um…” Dean swallows hard, regretting not having removed the wings when the man suggested. The room feels infinitely hotter now. Omegas are required to report deviancy in the household. As much as they like to believe themselves above everything, Alphas are still bound to Eden, just like the rest of them. But even if he wanted to, he can’t. He’s not stupid enough to trust they would do anything about it. “I think so.”
“Good,” he says, smiling as his eyes not-so-subtly roam his lumpy figure. The red tunic and cloak cover every inch of skin, and yet, they apparently leave room for the imagination to flow freely. Dean shifts his weight from one foot to the other under the scrutiny. When the Alpha has had his fill, he says, “That will be all, Of Adler, you can go to your room. Plenty of rest now.”
“Yes, Commander,” Dean says. “Good-good night, sir.”
“Good night.”
Dean can’t get out of there fast enough.