Whose woods these are I think I know
@spnwritingchallenge | @buckybee vs. @winchestre
prompt: Camping
pairings: CainDean
word count: 3359
tags: A/B/O, omega!Dean, alpha!Cain, Dean Winchester, Cain, Sam Winchester, John Winchester, Castiel, Charlie, Dean is a badass, NSFW
warnings: discrimination from unknown characters
miscellaneous: world: humans + shifters. Shifter: human part + animal part. Animal parts have the capital letter // The title is a reference to the poem Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost // Thank you @faeriermaid for beting this
AO3: x
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Dean hasn’t lived in a house since he was eighteen. His home are the woods, up north, his bedroom a little tent. He knows his ways among the trees, and the animals that lives in this forest know him.
Sometimes he spends a few days with the small pack of wolves that stay in the valley just outside the woods, when he doesn’t feel like being human for a while. They always welcome him back, though the alpha mates are a little weary of him. They feel his strength and know they could be overruled, but Dean hasn’t shown any intention of taking their places, so they let him be. It wouldn’t happen with another wolf, but Dean is something else and they understand it.
Mostly, though, Dean spends his days on his two own human legs, carving little figures from wood and wandering around the forest, washing himself in the river that flows a little south, sometimes hunting and fishing for food.
He helps them when the animals needs it, but he doesn’t interfere with the life in the woods much. It’s not really his place. Every couple of weeks he visits the small town that is a little west of the forest, for a real shower and to stack some foods and take care of other occasional business. He sells his little figures to the local tourist shop and buy what he needs with those money; he doesn’t need them for anything else.
He’s made friends with the town doctor, who does his regular check-ups and gives him his regulation pills - he doesn’t like to stuff himself with synthetic hormones, but living in the woods requires that he knows when his heat will hit. He has to take necessary precautions.
The doctor is an awkward but kind guy, smart and with a dry sense of humor, and Dean has taken to spend some time with him when he’s in town. Sometime the local tech-girl come with them, and Dean has a developed a soft spot for the both of them that he doesn’t have for many other people. It’s one of the reason why he’s stuck around this town, after two years of wandering.
That, and the fact that this one is a mixed town, where Wolves and Humans live together, so he’s not looked at much.
It’s not common, though it happens more often in small mountain villages. Big cities are not really welcoming of Wolves - with rare exceptions, like New York or college cities - and they are usually organized in packs. It works for most of them, but not for Dean.
Packs often have a tight hierarchy, with rules about complete submission to the higher circles and harsh punishments for those who don’t respect them. Dean has never liked that, never really got it. He comes back during the holidays, to visits his family, but he doesn’t belong to the pack anymore so the Leaders can’t really ask anything of him. He has the right to enter their territory to see his family; he just has to refrain from doing any crime and he’s good.
John and Sam don’t like pack’s dynamics any more than he does, but Sam wishes to become a lawyer one day, go to college and study, and for that, the financial funds of the pack are needed. It took John and Dean a lot of effort to convince him not to give up his dream and abandon the pack just like Dean had done. Sam had argued that he couldn’t stand to stay in a pack where they treated anyone who wasn’t an Alpha, where they treated Dean, like unworthy, mindless dolls, but Dean counterpointed that if he wanted to change the world through laws and trials, he would have needed a degree, and that meant money. He knew that Sam felt guilty because he himself, like John, was an Alpha - it was the only reason why Dean didn’t stay back with them, really, that he knew Sam wouldn’t have to suffer any of the humiliation and restrictions Dean had experienced - and hated the deference others had toward him, but he just had to be strong a for a little while longer.
Sam comes to stay with him as much as he can, spending weeks or even months during the summer in the woods with Dean, sleeping huddled in Dean’s little tent. He’s met both Cas, the doctor, and Charlie, the tech, and they have all gathered together to watch the stars in Dean’s home some nights.
Sometime even John comes along, but his stays are shorter and more sporadic.
This summer Sam has managed to visit a week only, though, early in July. He’s starting college in the fall, and has to prepare and move his stuff in the campus and part with the few friends he made at home. He’s over excited to start a new life away from the hard and old ways of the pack, and Dean is incredibly happy for him even if he misses his little brother.
Life is good, all in all. Dean has always enjoyed camping, loved the smells and sounds and life of the woods, and here, he can be himself. There’s no one to tell him not to, not even in the town.
It’s a warm, sunny day outside his tent, July slowly giving away to August. Dean stretches, lets his joints pop, rolls around in his bedding for a couple of moments more.
It’s the last hours or so of his heat, not really a danger anymore even if other animals scent him, and he’s hot, sweaty, and tired, but he can’t wait to get out.
During his heats he locks up in his tent, makes sure that scent blockers are all around the perimeter. He could still defend himself from wild animals, but he would be weaker and exhausted and he really doesn’t want to.
So he stays in his little tent, fucking himself with a couple of old toys and eating and sleeping and reading a little and not doing much else. After half a week, he reeks, everything reeks. Both Cas and Charlie have offered a room in their houses for his heats, or to pay an hotel for him to stay, but Dean has always declined. It’s just for a few days and he doesn’t really need it.
He opens the entrance of his little tent and inhales deeply the fresh mountain air, sighing with relief. He grabs his hunting knife, secures it to his tight, and goes out, grinning at the feeling of sunlight on his skin and the light breeze in his sweaty hair.
He makes the short walk to the river, less than twenty minutes away, whistling and humming to himself, reveling in the sensation of muscles working and pure air filling his lungs. It’s so good to use his legs like this after so many days when they have only occasionally pushed against the floor to lift his hips.
There’s a widening in the river’s bed that forms a little pond of calmer water, where Dean is used to splash around. He was wary of it at first, mindful of hidden currents, but the water is as placid as it looks.
When he reaches it, he strips, leaving only his underwear on. He unbounds his knife and puts it over his clothes, where he can still see it clearly, and pushes his shoes behind it.
Then, with a grunt of relief, he lowers himself in the pond.
The water is cool against his body, little waves crashing against him as he moves around. Little spots of sunlight reflect on his face and chest, and he closes his eyes and ducks underwater to wash off the sweat and lingering warmth.
He likes it here, this little place he’s carved for himself in the forest; the woods are deep, full of noises and colors and neverending energy that engulfs him and pulls him along. Nothing is ever still, everything is in constant motion: leaves that shiver in the wind, rain that pounds on the ground, whispers of roars and shrills and other languages he doesn’t know.
When he decided to leave the pack and start to roam, he thought it would have got lonely, after a while, camping all by himself all the time, living in a isolated tent in the woods. But in reality, it hasn’t, yet. His periodical visits to his family and the town may have helped, but the truth is, he’s not alone, doesn’t feel like he is. He’s surrounded by life, blunt and unapologetic and that counts. It counts a lot.
He closes his eyes and rests for a while, leaning on a big rock that emerges from the water. His skin has already darkened a bit since the beginning of summer, freckles standing out on his nose and cheeks and shoulders. He’s never really pale - he lives in the woods all year-long, after all - but winter means warm clothes, furs, more time spent in town when the snow is too high and giving and the animals too hungry to be really safe. Dean could still hold his own, but he always gets a little melancholic in the winter.
He lets the sun soak his skin and the fresh temperature of the water keep the heat down; he’s relaxed, mind clear and thoughts slowed down, but his hearing is still sharp - he can’t see his knife, but knows exactly where it is.
He stays in the pond until his fingers get a bit wrinkled, resting and swimming, pushing his muscles in motion and washing off the tiredness. When he steps out on the shore, he feels much better that he has in days.
He quickly discards his wet boxer and pulls on his short pants, t-shirt, and shoes, fastening again his knife to his tight, and starts the walk back to his little tent. Birds are chirping in earnest now, their songs almost getting lost in the hard and rhythmic sounds made by cicadas. Dean smiles and lets his feet take him back home.
The rest of the day passes lazily. He’s still a little sleepy, so he forgoes hunting and carves a new statuette, slowly, easily. The wood he’s using is dark, with lighter, silver veins running all over its surface. It’s taking the form of a big wolf: Dean’s plan was to make it stand on its paws, tall and firm, but instead Dean’s hands are shaping a sleeping figure, its huge head laying on its claws.
He stares at it for a while once it’s done, flashes of a big, black wolf with silver lightings in its fur passing through his mind. The images are a bit distorted for human standards, colors dulled, but they make perfect sense to Dean.
He sighs, puts the statuette with the others, and goes to sleep.
Next morning he wakes up well rested and comfortable, but with new energies also comes restlessness, and Dean finds himself hitching for a run.
He undresses and steps outside, naked, in the soft, pale light of the dawn.
He shifts smoothly from human to wolf, bones and muscles and ligaments rearranging themselves inside him and then knitting together again. It’s not exactly painful - more like a good, hard stretching, where bodies strain but never break.
It takes a few moments to adjust to the new perspective, always does. He’s lower, longer, more stable on his four paws, and where his vision is less sharp, his sense of smell is much more acute, bombarded by thousand of different scents - every one confirming how alive the forest is, how varied and strong and lively.
He starts a slow trot, enjoying the feeling of little rocks and mud under his claws, and lets his instincts take over step after step a little more. He’s already speeding up after only a few moments, ignoring how his paws protest after so much time spent in a different body. He just pushes forward, deeper and deeper into the woods.
Running is an innate activity for Wolves, something they need to do. Dean has never really grasped how it works, but he knows that Shifters have more energies that either humans or wolves, more burning fuel than they need, and all this fire has to be channeled somewhere - running is the easiest option.
He thrusts his paws against the ground, faster and faster, feeling it giving in slightly under his weight. Wind is rushing in his ears, and he lets everything go, lets his Animal take the reins and lead the way. It’s freeing, not to be human for a while.
The forest welcomes him in its core, brushing against his fur with leaves and sunlight and cooler shadows, while he runs and runs and runs. Other animals observes him from afar and don’t get in the way; they seem to recognize him in both forms, but they stay away from the Wolf. His Animal is pleased by this: they see how strong he is, how dangerous. It’s easier to have his own worth acknowledged among animals than Wolves.
He doesn’t know for how long he keeps going - time is different when his Animal is in control, but the sun is high in the sky when he stops just outside a little clearing, spotted with purple and white flowers and bushes of berries.
His Animal often leads him here, where he can finally rest against a fallen branch, cushioned by moss, panting and still exhilarated by the exertion.
And where the huge, black Wolf with silver lightings often comes to doze under the shadows offered by trees.
He’s already there, today, eyes closed and pose relaxed, big back expanding slowly with every deep breath. He cracks an eye open when Dean stops, rises his muzzle to look at him, but when he sees who Dean is he goes back to rest.
Dean knows who this Wolf’s human is. He asked Cas immediately after he saw him for the first time, worried that he would have been hostile and that Dean would have had to fight him for the right to stay in these woods - Dean is strong, quick, and skilled, but this Wolf looked just as good.
Cas reassured him, telling him about the man who lives up north, alone with his bees. He had used to own a apartment in their town, but after he lost his mate he moved in an isolated little house away, working with honey and flowers and bees. Cas visits him sometimes, and they drink tea surrounded by little buzzing figures. Dean thinks it’s weird, but he lives in a little tent in the woods, so he’s not the one to talk.
It’s enough to know that this man won’t cause him any problem, and they won’t have to fight. It’s actually nice to know another Wolf that loves these woods as much as Dean does.
He moves forward into the clearing, advancing lazily toward the black Wolf, a familiar dance they have been doing for a while now. Dean has come to appreciate him, and always ends up flopping down next to him when he’s there, napping together bathed in the sun. It’s always so peaceful, so calm and quiet. And usually it’s just what Dean needs after a run, unwinding slowly with a light breeze caressing his fur and the warm presence of the black Wolf to keep him company, but some days - some days he still has a little additional energy to burn.
He stops just short of the fallen branch, staring down at the black Wolf, waiting. It takes a bit, but finally the black Wolf opens one eye, idly, and sees him standing there. Dean growls and bares his teeth.
For a moment there’s silence, air tense with aggression, muscle contracted and ready to jump.
Then the big, black Wolf with silver lightings rumbles deep in his chest and drops his head on the ground again. He even covers it with his paws this time.
Dean whines and insistently nudges him with his muzzle, but the black Wolf doesn’t move.
He lays there while Dean pushes and pulls and tries to make him play, peacefully relaxed. It’s not until Dean starts to nip at his tail that he begrudgingly stands up and turns around to face him.
Dean knows from all the other times they fought that the black Wolf is not going to attack until Dean does, so he leaps forward, hitting the Wolf’s shoulder with his own. The black Wolf reacts and snaps his jaws at him, carefully away from his throat.
Dean circles him, fast and precise, leaving tiny little bites all over his back. The black Wolf is not quick enough to catch him every time, but he waits stoically until he can jump on Dean and send the both of them rolling in the grass.
They go on for a while, well matched as they are, but eventually one of them wins, and Dean finds himself with his teeth firmly clamped around the big Wolf’s throat.
The Wolf is relaxed under him, like he was when he was dozing in the sun. Sometimes Dean wonders if the times he wins, it’s because the other lets him, but he knows his own worth; he can beat this Wolf on his own. Besides, the black Wolf is ruthless when they fight, if careful: more than once Dean has come back to his little tent full of scratches and aching bruises.
He carefully releases the hold, giving a lick to where he’s left little dents in the fur, and rolls on his back near the big Wolf. The other just sniffs his ears and then gets up, trotting back to the fallen tree without sparing a glance in Dean’s direction again. He lowers himself on the ground and closes his eyes, apparently shutting off the world.
Dean would roll his eyes, but it’s a little strange to do so when he’s in his Animal’s form. He joins the black Wolf at the fallen branch, finally exhausted and ready to sleep off the aftermaths of his run and fight. Birds are singing and leaves are rustling and clouds are changing forms in the sky and Dean is sated and content.
And if he dozes off a little closer to the black Wolf this time, pressed against his side, nobody complains.
It doesn’t happen often that an Alpha lets an Omega knock him on the ground without making a fuss, but this Wolf never does.
Sleepily, comforted by the warmth of a black fur, with silver lightings that tickle his ear, Dean thinks that maybe he should finally meet the human of the Wolf he’s starting to consider a friend.
A couple of days later he’s knocking on a door in the middle of the woods, still hearing in his ears the buzzing of those operose small creatures that he found before the house.
He’s clutching a wooden statuette in his hand, pointed muzzle digging in his palm.
The man who opens the door is tall, waves of silver hair coming down on his shoulders and piercing blue eyes cutting right into him.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” he asks, and Dean doesn’t know why but he agrees, though it’s the strangest greeting he’s ever heard, and tea tastes only like weird hot water to him.
Later, when they lie together on the grass in the house’s garden, surrounded by flowers and visited by curious bees, the man leads Dean’s eyes to his own with callous, careful fingers on his chin, and says “My name is Cain.”
He says “Would you like to stay tonight?”
Dean smiles and pushes his nose in Cain’s hair, just like he has done with his fur thousand of times before. The man smells of honey, burned wood, grass, a little of blood. It’s a good scent. Dean likes it a lot. Besides, Cain liked his statuette.
Maybe his little tent can survive for a while without him.
