Chapter Text
Dean Campbell-Winchester, eldest son of Lord Winchester, woke drenched in sweat and aching all over. For a few minutes he lay shivering and feeling miserable, gathering the strength to reach for the bell pull that would summon a servant to build up the dying fire. Of all the days to fall ill! It was Christmas Eve, and he, Father, Sam, and Adam were supposed to go grouse hunting with Lord Webb and his sons. Lee Webb, the Earl's second son who was about Dean's age, had just returned from his Grand Tour, and Dean had been looking forward to hearing tales of his adventures in exotic lands.
Perhaps if he dosed his morning tea with whiskey when Father wasn't looking, Dean thought desperately, he could stave off this cold until tomorrow. He would gladly miss the interminable Christmas services in the drafty village church with the elderly cleric droning on about duty and gratitude and the "demons of discontent" while the congregation slowly froze in their seats. Yes, he would be ill tomorrow. It was decided.
And then the cramps hit, knife-like pains tearing at his guts. Dean clutched his stomach and groaned. Oh, this was not good. Could it be something he ate yesterday? He stumbled out of bed, shivering harder in the chill winter morning, and hunched over the chamberpot, waiting to see if his stomach would surrender its contents. It didn't seem inclined to do so despite the pains which were growing worse by the second, but from his doubled over position, Dean suddenly noticed something very strange.
He was hard. Being ill was surely the least arousing experience in the world, yet here he was, stiff and engorged like a teased stallion or a stag in… in rut! Could it be?
Dean was sixteen, nearly seventeen, long past the age at which most young alphas presented. Father had even had him examined by a specialist who assured Lord John that there was "nothing wrong with the lad, just a late bloomer, can't force these things, my lord", but despite those placating words, his lordship cast more and more dark glances in his eldest son's direction with every year that passed. An heir who could not produce an heir of his own was as bad as no heir at all.
Dean laughed with giddy relief even as another wave of pain tore through him. At last. At last his father would be proud of him again. But… was it supposed to hurt this much? None of the stories he’d heard from other boys mentioned stabbing pains. Perhaps whatever abnormality had caused his first rut to be delayed by nearly five years was causing it to go wrong still. Perhaps he should ask Father to summon the doctor.
Dean had just made up his mind to ring for help as soon as he could find the will to move when one final detail came to his attention. It wasn’t only sweat soaking his nightshirt and causing it to cling heavily to his skin. There was something else. A thick, viscous fluid coating the backs of his thighs. A slick, oily warmth between his legs. A cloying sweet smell on the air…
Oh. Oh, no.
~o0o~
Three days later, Dean sat in his father's study. He was clean and presentable, but he still felt dirty.
Lord John did not trouble to conceal his disgust and disappointment as he regarded his son. "I suppose it could be worse. I have two more sons, one of whom has already presented alpha, so the line of succession is secure. But this family is still teetering on the brink of a scandal that could ruin us forever. An omega son is bad enough, but my heir ? I am only glad your poor mother isn't alive to see this."
Dean flinched. It's not my fault, he wanted to cry. I didn't choose this. I would never have chosen this. He pressed his lips together and kept silent.
"We have one slim hope," Lord John continued, "and that is for you to marry quickly. It won't be easy. Not many noblemen want a male-wife, but a substantial dowry should sweeten the pot."
Dean couldn't suppress another flinch at the word 'wife'.
"Will you stop cringing like a kicked pup?!" Lord John snapped irritably. "And put your legs together! You sit like an alpha."
Dean bit his tongue and closed his knees.
"You will have to learn a whole new kind of etiquette, and you will have to learn fast. The longer we wait to present you at court, the more people will talk. Thank God you inherited your mother's looks. If we dress you well, they might almost forget that you used to be a man."
Dean held his spine ramrod straight even as he withered inside.