Castiel was different. The youngest of his five alpha siblings; Michael, Lucifer, Gabriel, Uriel, and Anael. All five perfect, usual alpha children. All five fell in a perfectly sequenced line, their father leading them. All five with no fault. All five were expected to be someone important; to be able to breed a big family line of even more strong alphas. And then Castiel was born. Castiel Angelis Milton was born at 3 in the morning on a Thursday. Five fingers, five toes, and a cute little button nose, he was a perfect little baby boy. Except he was an omega. The only omega in the family line since the start of the first World War, (The omega aforementioned died due to tuberculosis before the age of 10), he was raised to be sweet, soft, and demure. Never meant to speak his mind; only meant to open his mouth for singing prayers at Sunday Church or for his daily "'Yes, sir' 'No, sir's". That’s, at least, how he was supposed to be, anyways. Always meant to be in the prettiest of dresses and skirts, all wrapped up in a bow like a little present. Panties white and pure, expected to work as a goddamn chastity belt.
But this expectation never lasted.
At age six, Castiel decided he wanted to rough house with the little alpha boys on their church playground. When Bobby Smith and Little Joey Tucker told him that, "‘megas don't do those things, and that he was, "'too pretty to wrestle and will give em’ cooties'", all 4 feet and 45 pounds of little Castiel socked them both right in their little pudgy faces. Mama wasn’t happy about that. Daddy spanked him while hollering about how, "‘little omegas don’t fight, they don’t talk back to alphas’". By age twelve, Castiel would sneak his brother Gabe’s old hand-me-down jeans into the largest pocket of his little pink backpack to school, the hem of the old worn things dragging on the floor when he’d pull them on in the bathroom stall at school. His teachers would always phone his Daddy, and then Cas would be in for it. Daddy would spank him five times on his butt like he was still a baby, telling him that it wasn’t proper for omegas to wear pants. He was bad, and he’d better shape up if he wanted an alpha in the future. By age fifteen, Cas was smoking cancer sticks and doobies in the omegas locker rooms while he was supposed to be in phys ed with all the other slickies.
Age sixteen was the year of sexual exploration. The Devil’s Deed, the naughty tango, the ‘Omega’s wait til’ marriage, Castiel’. When his daddy caught him riding a cock like a bronco in his cutesy pink-walled childhood bedroom-(The owner of said cock was named Danny. Big dick, small brain. Anyways.), Daddy was blowing steam outta his ears. Before you knew it, the boss man was screaming and yelling the ears off of the entire block, the whole town over, and probably some unlucky folks down in Maryland. Before you could spell M-I-S-S-I-S-S-I-P-P-I, Cain Michael Milton had his trusty ol’ shotgun in hands, chasing poor Danny Sanders probably down to New Mexico. Bullets bounced off the sidewalk as the naked teenager sprinted down the street. Must’ve been a sight, some nude eighteen year old boy running through the wealthy, white picket fenced neighborhood of Magnolia Street, at approximately 5:30 pm on a Sunday. Anyways, Cas managed to quickly pull his nighty back on, (to at least preserve some dignity), preparing for a mighty good hollering from his father. That was not a quiet night.
Now, here he was, his nineteenth birthday, dressed in tight leather pants, a red tanktop in which he cut the bottom part of off to show of the soft skin of his wide, baby-mama hips and the red jewel in his navel. That was paired with red lipstick, as well as red pumps. Red was a good color. Red was Castiel’s color. The color of rage and war and blood and passion. Passion. Passion was what was needed for where he was. Times square, surrounded by hundreds of other omegas, a few betas and the odd alpha, screaming with his sweet, raspy voice into the megaphone, preaching for his rights. Preaching that omegas were more than baby-makin’ submissive sex toys. Preaching that he was gonna paint the town with his slick, with his blood. With the blood of alphas who believed they could take advantage of ‘megas, knot em’, rape them, abuse them, just because they were Alphas and everyone else was decidedly not. Castiel preached that he was going to be the sexual, rebellious deviant he was, unashamedly. And that is where this story begins.
June 25th, 1967, Times Square, New York
“What do we want?!”
“When do we want em’?!”
Poised atop of a pile of mannequins, all of which bearing the word ‘ALPHA’ across their chest in violent, red ink, stood little five-foot-two Castiel in all of his angry glory.
“What are we?!”
“And do we need some goddamn dickhead to protect us?!”
“No we don’t!”
Those were the days when such assertive and outspoken views about equality were about as taboo as, well, an Omega being treated like an equal. Thousands of other Omegas were hiding behind glass window panes, watching with curious, frightened eyes. If you studied their expressions, you’d see it. The whole purpose of it all. Pride, though it was buried deep, he could feel it in others, too.
“Men, women, children-whereverthe hell you are-stand with me! Let our voices ring across this godforsaken nation!”
Just like that, Castiel felt, for the first time, like he was the one on top. Not his siblings. Not his dad. Him. He wanted the feeling to stay forever. He’d give anything in that moment for it to last. But just as soon as it began, it was torn down in a matter of seconds. As soon as the sleek green and white cop cars pulled up, nearly all his fellow rioters had bolted from the scene. Cowards. This was the big moment-this is what they were fighting for, and they chose to still run?
Then, before he could call after those who were too scared to stand with their people, he was yanked off the pile by a pair of rough callused hands underneath the pits of his arms. “Let go! Let go of me!” He looked around for his brothers-and-sisters in arms, only to find nobody besides Alphas who looked at Castiel as if he were vermin.
“I’ll rip your goddamn knot off, you fucking cunt! Let me go! Put me down!” Castiel screeched, squirming and wriggling, as the faceless police officer flung his small frame over his shoulder. Castiel was used to police. He’s been arrested countless numbers of times before, each time regarding lame terms such as “Public Nudity” or “Assault Against an Officer”, along with the fun stuff like Vandalism or the odd Arson. Anyways, that’s besides the point. The point being was that some dickface knothead alpha was manhandling him like a ragdoll, and not in the sexy way. After about 30 seconds, Castiel was finally being set down on his feet, his heels falling off onto the concrete somewhere along the way, making himself look ridiculously small compared to the alpha in front of him, but that didn’t stop Cassie from puffing out his chest and smirking at the man. The alpha in question was about 6 foot 4 inches tall, had sandy blonde colored hair, little freckles dotting his tanned cheeks, green eyes, along with not quite stubble but not really a beard either (but it was getting there) that Cas wanted to feel rub against his thighs. Hm, wonder how much the guy’s packing. He looked to be about late 30’s(?) with beefy arms and cute pudge peeking through his uniform. Castiel looked down at the man’s chest, searching for a badge. D. Winchester. Hot name. He smelled like leather and cars, sex and sweat. Nice. Finally looking up to meet a certain alpha’s eyes, he spoke confidently.
“Well, howdy, officer. What can I do for ya’?” Cas snarked, raising a brow and biting his plump bottom lip. You see, Castiel knew how to get himself out of sticky (heh) situations.
D. Winchester wasn’t amused. “Kid, what do you think you’re doin’?”, the guy asked, rubbing a large hand over his pretty face. “Nothing much. How about you? Come here often?” He winked, grinning slyly. “Look, sweetheart, I really don’t wanna hav’ta go through the paperwork just to hold you in a cell, alright? So I’ll give you a deal.” He drawled, southern accent peeking through his deep voice. Kansas? Kentucky, maybe? Who the fuck knows. “Well, big boy, I’m not a cheap lay, so unless you’re at least packing something big down there, then I don’t wanna hear it.” Green eyes grew wide. “You propositionin’ me, kid?,” He said, voice rough. “Maybe I am”. Castiel giggled, growling playfully in the back of his throat. “Listen..” “Castiel.” “Cas-Cas-teal, Cas-Okay, listen, Cas, I know a little omega like yourself wants to be a little 'edgy', okay? I get it. But this..this is a little much, okay? This is my deal, Cas. You stop this nonsense, go home, get some beauty sleep, fuckin’ braid your hair, paint your nails, whatever. You stop this-this new world, independent omega bullshit, alright? You go right on home, and stop these riots and rallies or whatever, yes, I know who you are, kid, the whole station around here does; you stop this shit and I won’t call home to your Daddy, and I won’t lock you up. Pretty fair deal, if you ask me, hon.” Castiel stared up at the man, unblinking. He counted to ten, breathing evenly.
1… 2.. 3.. Fuck this.
His mother always told him, “You have issues, Castiel! Omegas are not meant to talk back!”
There was probably a reason for that.
There was definitely a reason for that.
Breathe, Castiel. Don’t do something stupid.
D. Winchester received a nicely prepared knuckle sandwich, served by the one, the only, very omega, Castiel Novak.
And that’s how he ended up in the back of a police cruiser, the driver sporting a brand spankin’ new busted lip.