To You I Belong | SPN | Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader

9 - Misunderstanding

The Men of Letters bunker was full of many wondrous and wacky things. From weapons, to ancient texts, to objects that looked like they'd been pulled right out of a sci-fi movie.

Some were dangerous, plenty were extremely so, and others, Dean wouldn't touch even if he was wearing a lead-lined radioactive safety suit. Screw ten-feet poles.

Sam would say the same about the vast collection of handwritten reports and records the place had, too, but he would be wrong. Dean did, in fact, read on occasion. And it wasn't just in times of researching for cases or when he had the mark.

Sometimes he simply got bored.

It's how he'd stumbled on one particular document regarding mated pairs from another world and learned that not all of Chuck's creations had heats, ruts and knots like they assumed. Although he should've known that without reading it in a file. He always knew there was something funny about the doppelgangers in the Fiat besides the other-Sammy's man-bun.

Douchebuggery aside, somewhere in God's vast universe, there were humans who weren't categorised by secondary gender and thus alpha males who didn't have bulbous muscles at the base of their dicks.

Yup. There was at least one Dean Winchester whose junk was the same width the whole way along, except for the tip. That perv Sinclair, who'd written on the subject the most, had actually drawn a picture of one. Not his, per se, but some random guy's. Dean hoped.

There were also no marks or claims. No soulmate's even. Just straight up male and female pairs, shacking up together, sometimes casual, but when serious, showing off their unions with rings and a piece of paper.

This world and its marriage thing sounded so much simpler in some ways. No marking meant no biting, and no knotting meant you could fuck off once you were done. That had to be convenient for one-night stands.

Who'd complain about that?

But this society had another thing Dean remembered, and it was something that seemed to fit what the past two weeks had been like for him and you.

The honey-days period.

At least, that sounded about right. He wasn't about to reread the file again because the dick pick had scarred him for life.

Whatever the name was, after meeting four weeks prior, that was the stage he was at in his relationship with you, minus the swanky hotel and room service.

Every moment you had been together had been spent well, together. And Dean hadn't had enough.

Was he whipped? Maybe. Obsessed? If that label satisfied Sammy, then sure. But as he looked down at you, lying satiated on top of him, he didn't care, because the word that came to mind for him was happy. And the happiest he'd been in his life to date that he could recall.

He'd slept like a baby last night, and your wake-up call earlier had been awesome. Exactly what he needed after another long hunt away.

His arms wrapped tighter around you, basking in the afterglow of your latest romp in the sheets. Not that they were anywhere nearby. One half had ended up tangled in his ankles, while the other was on the floor.

He nuzzled his chin into your hair. The smell of cinnamon, a touch of apple and a nip of whisky from his lips, reminded him of his favourite dessert, and his mouth twitched. Those movies had gotten it right. If only his stomach wasn't rumbling beneath you like a crazed animal, he might have gone in for a second helping.

He was starving. Wasting away to nothing and needing to do something about it real soon.

"What do you say I make us a big breakfast once we've cleaned up?" he asked. It wouldn't be as fancy as room service, but he'd put in the extra effort for you. He knew how to whip up pancakes, bacon and eggs and would even add some fruit in it for you if it's what you wanted.