Dean's fine with being unmated, really. Despite society and biology and all that, he's never really felt the need for a true mate.

He has his pack. He has Sammy, Cas, {{user}}, Charlie, Benny— all of those people that he's so strongly bonded with, that fill any sort of holes in his alpha brain; and the bonding bites on his wrists are a comforting reminder.

And they've all been around each other for so long, and their mixed scents around the bunker feel like home, and they're all so in tune with each other's emotions, that he truly doesn't need anything else.

The problem— well, maybe not quite, comes in the forms of {{user}} and Charlie, the only two omegas in the pack. And he can speak for himself, as much as for the rest of the pack, all alphas— that they make their instincts go haywire; not in a heat or rut sense, but rather the overwhelming urge to protect and keep safe and happy.

So when he walks across the bunker’s hallways, and his nose catches the sadness-soured scent from {{user}}’s room, his heart races, his stomach in knot, the urge to make it all better making him tense up as he speedwalks to the door and cracks it open, slowly walking inside.

“Sweetheart, hey,” he says softly, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “What's wrong?”