#alphaoc

"Okay. I'll grab two rooms so we don't have to share the bedbugs."

His hand was already on the chrome door handle when Alex said, "One."

He froze, his fingers hooked around the cold latch. "Nope. Not happening. Two rooms." 

"Two rooms means two doors. Two windows. Twice the blind spots," she said flatly. "One room is easier to defend."

He tried for a smirk. Even he didn't buy it. "Yeah, look, lady. I don't do roommates." The ache at the base of his spine gave another warning. Heat crawled up his neck. His shirt clung uncomfortably to the vinyl seat beneath him.

He needed space. Walls. A lock. Distance from the Alpha sitting three feet away.

Alex looked at him. Not at his face. His hands. The sweat at his hairline. The way his shoulders had gone tight. She didn't say anything. The distant hum of traffic filled the silence between them.

"It's Alex," she reminded him. "And one room," she repeated without room for discussion. A pickup rumbled past the motel entrance.

"Whatever." His fingers tightened around the handle until they hurt. Then he let go. Dean looked away first. "But I get the bed by the door." 

By the time the motel door shut behind them, Dean realized it wasn't the room that bothered him. It was knowing he couldn't leave it.

------

The air reeked of bleach and stale smoke. Alex had claimed the small table, laptop open in front of her. Floor plans filled the screen while her fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up security protocols that shouldn't exist outside a government server.

Dean couldn't sit. He paced the cramped walkway, restless energy running hot under his skin. He blamed the case, the psycho billionaire, the impossible compound, the stakes. But it was more than that. The ache wasn't fading. If anything, it was spreading. That wasn't supposed to happen. It never hit this hard, and never this early. Something wasn't right.

"Bloom's property is a smart fortress," Alex said, not looking up. "Facial recognition, pressure plates, thermal grid. No weaknesses."

"So, no kicking in the front door. Got it," Dean grunted, rolling his shoulders again. "What about the good old-fashioned power grid? Cut the lights, we go in dark."

"He's got three redundant power sources. Off-grid. Guards with thermal imaging. And some aren't even human. They can read shadows like daylight." She zoomed in on a schematic. "There's a sewer main that runs under the west wall. Old, probably not on the new security plans. That's our way in."

"Great. A crap-chute express." He stopped pacing and sat heavily on the edge of his bed. A wave of dizziness rolled through him, followed by nausea. He braced his hands on his knees, taking a slow, deep breath. Every breath carried redwood and ozone. It wasn't helping.

Alex finally looked up. She'd noticed the change almost twenty minutes ago. The suppressants were losing the fight. "You okay over there, Winchester?" she asked, her tone neutral. "You look a little green."

"I'm good," he lied, forcing himself to stand.  His duffel bag hit the mattress with a soft thump as he dug through it for painkillers, movements jerky and defensive. The dresser caught his eye. How hard would it be to shove it against the door? Instinct, irrational and clawing. He forced the thought back down.

Turning back to the bed, he reached for his leather jacket and the lumpy pillow without thinking. He started to arrange them before he caught himself. Shame flared hot. He shoved them away as if they'd burned him. This isn't right. My clock's never been off. Never. What the hell is happening?

"Dean." Her voice was quiet but cut through his confusion like a knife. She was on her feet now, arms crossed, gaze steady. "This isn't going to work," she said.

"What? The brilliant sewer plan?" His voice cracked sharp.

"No. You." She stepped closer. "You're falling apart."

The blood drained from Dean's face. He took an involuntary step back. The room suddenly felt a lot smaller. "I don't know what you're talking about," he snarled.

"Stop." The word wasn't loud. Something about her scent changed. "Lying wastes energy you don't have."

His knees tried to bend before he could stop them. Dean locked them hard. The effort sent a shiver up his spine.

For one stupid second, his body tilted toward her. Toward the raw command threading through her voice. Toward the redwood-and-ozone pull of her scent.

No.

He lunged for the bathroom door. He needed distance. A thick piece of wood. A brass lock. Anything between him and the Alpha standing too close.

"Stay... stay away from me," he grunted. He managed two uneven steps. Then the heat hit. This wasn't the warning anymore. It stole the air clean out of his lungs.

His hand missed the handle. "Son of a—" His legs stopped listening.

Dean hit the wall shoulder-first and slid hard down to the carpet. His breath caught somewhere behind his ribs. "Come on..." 

Fingers scraped uselessly across the peeling wallpaper as he tried to push himself back up. "No."

Get up. Move. Come on. Nothing moved. His arms shook. His legs refused.

He couldn't get up. Then something changed. Every breath felt wrong. Dean had no idea what was happening. 

----

The scent hit her. Alex's breath caught. One breath the room smelled like bleach, stale smoke, and old motel carpet. The next, everything else disappeared beneath Dean. Cinnamon. Heat. Distress. Every instinct she had lunged toward him. 

Mine. Protect. Claim.

Her pulse hammered against her ribs. The six feet of stained carpet between them suddenly felt unbearable. The urge to cross the room was immediate. Cover him. Shield him. Make the panic in his scent stop.

Her nails bit into her palms. Good. Pain helped. Alex locked her knees. She had spent years learning the difference between instinct and choice. She wasn't about to forget it now. 

She dragged a slow, jagged breath instead. One heartbeat. Two. Another slow breath.

The room came back in pieces. The high-pitched, electric buzz of the motel's fluorescent light over the sink. The distant hiss of traffic outside. Dean's ragged breathing from the floor. Cinnamon still hung in the air.

She opened her eyes. Dean was still curled against the baseboard, one hand braced uselessly against the peeling wallpaper. His shoulders shook with every uneven breath. He couldn't look at her. He was trying to make his own body listen.

Something in her chest tightened. He wasn't prey. He wasn't a mate. He was Dean.

She moved before she thought. The deadbolt engaged with a sharp thunk. Snatching the edges of the particle-board dresser, she dug her boots into the thin carpet and shoved. Dust shook loose from the top. The heavy wood scraped across the floor before it wedged across the doorframe. Secure.

Then Alex turned back to Dean.

He was curled against the baseboard, shivering. Struggling to breathe. His eyes weren't focused on anything anymore.

"No, no, please..." The words came out broken, half-coherent, completely swallowed by the fever.

He flinched when she knelt, though she kept her hands away from him. He had made himself smaller, head dipped low, every breath drawing him tighter inward. He wasn't trying to fight her anymore. He was trying to hold himself together. 

"Don't." The plea barely sounded like him. 

Alex stopped. It would be the easiest thing in the world right now. One touch. That was all it would take. He would be safe. Untouchable. The scent still pulled at her, demanding she close the distance. The thought made her sick.

"No!" She resisted out loud, the sharp rejection bouncing off the quiet walls. "Not this. Not here." The pressure in her chest didn't ease. She forced herself completely still.

Dean shivered harder. 

"I'm not going to hurt you, Dean." Her voice came out flat but steady.

She reached for the spare blanket from her bed and laid it over his shoulders. Then she pulled off her Henley, leaving the gray tank top beneath, and laid the shirt on top of the blanket within easy reach.

"Right now, you're a flare in the dark. My shirt will help. Use it."

Dean stared at the piece of clothing for a second. Then his hand reached for it. Alex watched his breathing hitch. His blunt fingers gripped the cotton, dragging it against his chest. He buried his face in it. 

Slowly, the violent shaking eased. His ragged, desperate gasps smoothed out, little by little. The sharp edge of panic softened beneath Alex's redwood and ozone.

Alex rose and crossed to the far side of the room, putting the width of the small room between them. She braced her back against the wall, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. For him. For herself. 

She didn't realize she was shaking until she stopped moving. 

Dean still clutched the shirt like a life jacket. Good. He was still breathing.