Chefs were assholes.
Dean glared at the door to the kitchen, because he didn’t want to go in there, didn’t want to deal with the assholes that Gabe kept in his kitchen. The little beta kept his omegas in the front of house, on blockers he had specially designed so that no one got too excited in the five star restaurant. And it worked well, keeping them away from the vicious tempers of alphas crowding each other’s space and working hard and fast in the kitchen.
But Dean was behind the bar and his beta partner was off sucking Gabe’s dick—and Sammy was gonna get his ass chewed for that later, Dean was sick of their on again off again romance fucking up work—and Dean was left with an impatient bar full of people who were thirsty and one alpha dick who wanted his damn five star burger and truffle fries sans parmesan right the fuck now.
Which meant Dean had to go into the damn kitchen.
But shit, alphas were assholes.
“Suck it up, Winchester,” Jo muttered, leaning over the bar to scoop up the dry martini he’d already made for her table seven. “Zack loses his shit if you keep him waiting, and at least the chefs don’t affect your tip.”
He snarled softly, and she gave him a sympathetic smile before she was gone again, and Dean took a deep breath, then stepped into the kitchen.
It was utter fucking chaos.
Dean blinks at it, trying to sort through the rush of scent—food and pheromones and fury all mixing in a cocktail that makes his stomach growl and his omega whimper.
Danger danger danger.
And something else. Something that smelled like fucking heaven.
What the fuck?
Dean shakes that thought and clears his throat, and the three chefs look up at him. All of them predatory and furious and not for the first time since coming to work at Devil’s Delights, Dean considers that giving four alphas a set of wicked sharp knives and shoving them into a hot, enclosed space is possibly not the best idea Gabe’s ever had.
Even if the food they turn out gets rave reviews and leaves them with a packed house and reservations six months out.
“Get that fucking omega outta here!” Lucifer snarls and one of his sous chefs drops what she’s doing, darting toward Dean to pull him out of the kitchen.
“Get off me,” Dean snaps, because he hates this shit. Even if his omega is pissy and whining and demanding he present because the pheromones in here could knock any omega on his ass, he hates being jerked around by biology and his damn inner submissive.
Besides, he’s not going back out there without some damn truffle fries.
“I need a plate of truffle fries without parmesan. And a five start burger without the egg, add ketchup.” He snaps.
And that stills the remaining motion in the kitchen. The three chefs exchange an amused look and the betas actually look nervous. For a second, Dean wonders what—
The voice is low and gritty, pitched in the dirt and rolled around with thunder and it slams into Dean like a fucking fist to the gut.
“The five-star burger comes as is written,” the voice continues, and he hears something else. A sharp shh-ick. “The fries come as is written. If the customer doesn’t like it, he can leave. I’m not changing it.”
The chef is all messy hair and scruff, long fingers wrapped around the handle of a knife, slicing methodically, not bothering to look up at the omega in his kitchen. The tip of a pink tongue is caught between his lips, his brow furrowed in concentration as he works.
“Uh,” Dean falters, because oh holy shit, alpha.
That smell makes sense. The one that screamed mate when he walked into the kitchen.
And the way he’s working that knife, slicing thing circles of onion makes Dean shift as he stands, pressing his legs together, aware of the warmth in his body.
The first sign of slick that he needs to shut down.
The chef looks up. Finally.
And god he needs to not do that because no one should have eyes that blue, like the entire twilight sky is held in them. Dean shudders and those eyes narrow. His hands lower the knife and he comes around the table. “Take me to the customer, omega,” he murmurs, low in the silence of the still frozen kitchen.
Dean swallows hard and nods once, kind of jerky move of his head.
Licks his lips and the alpha growls low in his throat.
“Omega,” he says, a sharp warning and Dean spins, headed for the kitchen door.
The chef catches him by the nape of the neck, nails pricking deliciously, and Dean yelps, a tiny startled thing he chokes off before it’s fully formed.
And then the alpha is kissing him.
It’s not hard. It’s not fast or rough or hungry. It’s like a gentle probe. A question posed. A curiosity answered. And Dean fucking shudders under it.
The chef smiles when he pulls away. “What is your name?” he whispers.
He nods, and hums it, presses quick to Dean’s lips. “I’m Castiel,” he says.
Oh. The new chef. Gabe’s brother.
“I’m taking you home tonight. I’m cooking for you. And you’re going to tell me what a little omega like you is doing in my kitchen,” he continues, and Dean wants to protest but he can’t. Not when he wants to go with him.
So he just nods.
And Cas smiles, a tight little thing, and shoves out of the kitchen to yell at his dick of a customer, and Dean follows in his wake. Sam is back, his lips red and shiny and just fucked, and his eyes wide as he watches Gabe’s brother go full on alpha asshole. He looks at his brother, startled and Dean shrugs.
Grins, watching because Cas is fucking hot snarling and shoving the pissy customer in his proper place.
Chefs might be assholes, but Dean thinks he’s into that sorta thing.